Attack Plan Alpha

Blood on the Stars XVI

Jay Allan

Chapter One

Confederation Border Outpost Twelve

Sigma Delaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Commander Jaymes, we’re picking up an energy spike from point number two…the one leading in from Union space.” The junior officer acquitted himself well, making the one report every spacer who’d served on Outpost Twelve had dreaded, but it was beyond his abilities to hide the fear suddenly struggling to take him. He was too young, Jaymes knew, to have any actual remembrance of fighting against Union forces, but he hadn’t made it through the Academy without a good exposure to a century’s history of war between the powers.

The reminder that point two led to Union space seemed a bit unnecessary, as well. It was the entire reason the outpost existed, after all. But nerves made their presence known in all sorts of ways, and Jaymes just hoped his own wouldn’t get in the way. They’d led him astray before, taken him down roads that had almost cost him his career. He knew what he was hearing and seeing just then could cost him much more. It could cost everyone on Twelve their lives.

Jaymes was scared, of course, as scared as the junior officer at the scanner station, and it took just about all the effort he could muster to keep from visibly shaking on the bridge. He managed it, though, if just. He was determined to make amends for his past, to put aside old disgrace and strive to reclaim his place as a proud Confederation officer. Whether he had what it would take remained to be seen.

Very possibly in the moments that lay just ahead.

Outpost Twelve, like every other installation two or fewer transits from Union space, was completely unarmed. Jaymes wondered who had agreed to such a ridiculous treaty provision, and why. Fixed armament on a stationary defensive platform didn’t seem like much of a threat to the peace, but then, he often found himself questioning the ways of diplomacy. His own personal view held that ambassadors and their vast staffs were a lot better at claiming credit for achieving and maintaining peace than actually doing it. It seemed to him, the ends of wars usually resulted from outright victory or defeat, or the sheer exhaustion of the combatants. But he was just an alcoholic—ex-alcoholic—officer dispatched to what had been perceived as a backwater posting and hanging onto his commission mostly because of the Highborn front’s insatiable demand for ships and personnel. Nobody gave a shit what he thought about diplomacy or government policy.

They should all be here, staring into the face of an invasion without a gun on this tub powerful enough to heat up a bowl of soup. The diplomat who agreed to that isn’t here…

“Send an alert to Commodore Simpson…and to Admiral Denisov as well.” As if they haven’t seen this already themselves…

That was just about all Jaymes could do…warn his comrades. The outpost was equipped with one of the most sophisticated scanner suites in Confederation space, and just about all those billions of credits of high tech gear would accomplish was to allow his people to watch their impending demise.

Assuming that is an invasion coming through…

Jaymes had thought Gary Holsten was paranoid or crazy, or something like that when the intelligence chief had first contacted him. The arrival of Andrei Denisov’s fleet, what was left of it, was a noteworthy event, of course, but it spoke more to Jaymes of the escape of the losing faction in that power’s civil war than it did of looming invasion.

He’d started to really get nervous when the ships began to arrive. Friendly vessels, not enemy ships. Denisov’s fleet had been first, of course, but it was quickly followed by a steady stream of various warships cobbled together from every corner of the Confederation. The navy was committed to the war against the Highborn, and almost all its strength was positioned out at Fortress Striker, several dozen transits from Outpost Twelve. But Holsten had found ships to send to the Union front as well, including a number of new vessels, freshly launched and manned by rookie crews. It wasn’t the stuff of great and victorious fleets, but then everything Jaymes had heard suggested the Union was bankrupt and its fleet was battered down to a nub by civil strife and lack of resources.

The fear came more from what Jaymes didn’t know than what he did. Gary Holsten didn’t seem like the type to get overly excited about things, but the flow of naval forces to the system suggested there was reason to fear what was coming. He’d even heard rumors about Highborn forces working with the Union, though he’d discounted them as fear mongering. The front lines in the war with the Highborn were far from the Confederation-Union border, and it seemed a bit far fetched that the enemy had somehow linked up with the Union.

He’d been almost sure of that, convinced his analysis was correct…until a moment later, when hulls started coming through the point.

Strange, mysterious ships that blinked on and off his screens, defying even the efforts of Twelve’s great scanner array to pinpoint their exact locations.

Jaymes felt sick, and he longed to run…or at least to flee the bridge in search of a drink. But he held firm where he was…and he watched as the invasion he’d doubted was possible materialized before his eyes.

*

“It looks like they’ve managed to put up a defense after all.” Carlos Fierra sat in the center of Vengeur’s bridge. His posture, as always, was perfect, the very model of a naval officer. Fierra was old school all the way, and it was his dedication to duty, and to obeying the orders of the legitimate government, that had forged his loyalty to Gaston Villieneuve’s cause. It was just that, the cause, and not the man himself, that fixed his devotion. He didn’t much care for Villieneuve himself, or for the First Citizen’s wanton brutality. The executions and reign of terror that had followed the recapture of Montmirail had sickened him, and he’d been relieved when the fleet had set out so quickly after the restoration of the old regime.

No one responded to his statement. It hadn’t demanded a response, of course, and Union spacers quickly learned how to handle their officers with a degree of care. The navy had a reputation for promoting politically connected officers of limited ability, but that hid the fact that the Union fleet had produced its share of capable commanders over the years. Still, veteran Union spacers, like the one on Fierra’s flagship, developed a sort of sixth sense about when a prompt reply was best, and when silence was the wisest option. And silence was always the default option in such cases.

His fleet was not a force he’d ever imagined leading into the Confederation, and no amount of glory or celebration at victory in the civil war blinded him to its weakness. Vengeur was new, one of the very few battleships to roll out of the Union’s battered and resource-starved shipyards, but overall, the armada he led was a shadow of those that had fought in the last Confederation war. Barely a hundred ships strong, many of its units had been hastily repaired, and some still carried barely patched battle damage. They were old, too, save for perhaps a dozen newer ships, and his OB looked like almost anything but a formation that could credibly invade the Confederation.

Except for the expeditionary force.

The initial sixteen ships sent by the Highborn—and almost everyone now knew the identity of Gaston Villieneuve’s mysterious benefactors by then—had been supplemented by an additional force of twenty-four warships, along with ordnance, and a supply of the precious antimatter the Highborn vessels required to fuel themselves and power their weapons. It was a small force by the standards of the battles rumored to have been fought out on the main front, but it represented almost irresistible power next to the withered and wasted Union navy, and very likely also the scant forces the Confeds had managed to race to their almost undefended border. The ships the Confederation navy had managed to cobble together might have managed to stall Fierra’s larger fleet, buying time, and grinding an invasion down to stalemate. But as unnerving as it was to see more enemy power than he’d expected, he knew the old enemy had no chance to stop the fleet’s new allies.

Fierra didn’t like the Highborn. More accurately, given his limited exposure to them, he didn’t like the idea of them. They were strange, intimidating, and as much as he had always thought of the Confederation as the enemy, part of him wondered if his people shouldn’t be fighting alongside their longtime rivals, against the immensely powerful Highborn. It wasn’t his place to make decisions of state, of course, and he knew his place. Fierra followed orders. He’d fought a civil war rather than support a usurper, and he wasn’t going to change his course now. If the Union government had allied with the Highborn, he would fight alongside them.

Or behind them. From what he’d seen in the battle against the rebels a few months earlier, the forty Highborn ships were in every way the heart of the invasion force, and they would likely do most of the fighting.

He looked at the display, even as the mysterious ships in the vanguard began to open fire, their strange black-speckled blue beams lancing out from what seemed like impossible ranges…and slamming into the Confederation ships positioned around the outpost.

Fierra felt the energy he always did in battle, and relief at the clear and immediate superiority his allies displayed. The sooner the Confederation forces were defeated or driven away, the sooner the fight for the border system would be over…and few, if any, of his people would die there.

Fierra knew well enough from his years in combat that such ease would not continue. The Confeds might be outmatched, caught with most of their strength deployed far away, but he knew them well enough to realize they would fight like wildcats, and they would find a way—any way—to make his people, Highborn allies or no, pay for every system, every frontier planet.

*

“All ships, evasive maneuvers…now!” Colin Simpson shouted out the command, even though he’d issued standing orders to that effect weeks before. Every ship commander in the fleet knew what to do…or they’d damned well better know if they didn’t want to be broken down to spacer third class.

Simpson’s eyes had been fixed on the large screen at the front of the bridge, and despite the numerous reminders and standing orders, he’d been dissatisfied at the speed with which his ragtag collection of ships had responded to the enemy advance. That impatience had flared hot when the first enemy beams lanced out, and a pair of them took one of his cruisers amidships. He wanted to believe some of Northlake’s crew had escaped, but he knew deep down there hadn’t been time before the old ship lost containment and turned for a few seconds into a miniature sun.

“Yes, Commodore.” The steady voice of the tactical officer gave a momentary boost to Simpson’s confidence, but it only lasted a few seconds. Commander Graves was a veteran, just like Simpson himself, but over ninety percent of the officers and spacers in the patchwork force he commanded were as green as they came.

Simpson watched as enemy ships continued to stream through the point. He’d stopped counting at twenty, all of them the strange, flickering contacts he suspected were Highborn ships. No, he knew they were. Simpson was one of the few officers or spacers in his small fleet who’d actually seen action against the Highborn. He owed his command to the battle wounds that had sent him back to the naval hospital on Megara a captain, and seen him returning to duty just when Gary Holsten needed an experienced officer to command the ragtag force he was assembling to garrison the border.

That bit of fortune—whether is had been good or bad was still an open question—had come with a field promotion to flag rank, and the task of turning a bunch of newly-built, and some not quite finished, ships and their green crews into a fighting force. Simpson had questioned his ability to achieve what he’d been tasked to do, but Holsten had responded with the typically practical remark that Simpson was the most capable and qualified candidate available, with almost all the Confederation’s experienced officers out beyond the Badlands and deep in Hegemony space.

Simpson had done what he could, and he felt he had some cause for pride in his raw spacers. But it quickly became apparent that any effort to hold the system would be hopeless. He felt a burst of defiance, and he steeled himself to make a last stand, to fight to the end. But it only lasted a few seconds. Holsten had been utterly clear. He was not to risk his fleet unless he had a significant chance to repel the enemy. If faced with overwhelming force, he was to withdraw to Fleet Base Grimaldi, where the real effort to hold back the enemy would occur. It made sense, of course. The ships he had, meager as they may be for a combat fleet, had been difficult to come by, and they weren’t replaceable. And despite some years of neglect, Grimaldi was a powerful fortress. Whatever chance his ships had against the enemy, it would be fighting alongside the great naval base…hopefully reinforced by whatever additional ships Gary Holsten could find.

Holsten’s words still echoed in her ears…you are all that stands between the enemy and the Core, the Iron Belt, Megara itself.

Still, Simpson had served for years under Admiral Barron, and he shared that officer’s aversion to retreating. If he’d thought his people had any chance—any chance at all—he might have stood and fought. But he knew it wouldn’t be a battle. It would be a massacre.

“Issue fleet withdrawal order, Commander. And get Commander Jaymes on my line.”

He ignored the acknowledgement the officer snapped back, but as soon as he saw the green comm light, he pulled his headset on. “Commander Jaymes, we’re outnumbered and outgunned here. It’s time to pull out. I’ll hold a contingent back as long as possible to retrieve your shuttles, but you’ve got to get your people out of there…now.”

“Yes, Commodore…issuing the withdrawal orders now.”

The comm went silent, and Simpson imagined Jaymes had thrown his headset to the deck in his haste to run down to the escape shuttles. He knew that was unfair. The commander of Outpost Twelve had been nothing but professional in his conduct since Simpson had arrived. Still, the commodore knew all about Jaymes’s past, and his disciplinary record. Simpson didn’t consider himself a martinet by any means, but he’d always taken pride in the service, and he couldn’t help but feel dislike for those who did anything less.

Chapter Two

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“We’ve managed to repair all the vessels on the first list on your screen, Admiral, more or less to full combat status. There have been some supply bottlenecks, but my people have made do with available components. We’ve come up with several coupling adapters that allow us to use Hegemony parts in Confederation ships. The newest of our ships, at least.” A pause. “By repair, I mean we’ve got all systems functional, but not necessarily up to shipyard specs.”

Tyler Barron listened to the report, paying some attention to the specifics, but mostly feeling relief and satisfaction at the voice delivering them. His fleet had received its first significant antimatter shipment, the initial quantity of the priceless substance produced in the Confederation’s brand new planetwide facility. But perhaps even more valuable was something else the supply convoy brought to Striker. Anya Fritz, was perhaps the Confederation’s foremost engineer, but to Tyler Barron, she would always be the presence he longed for aboard his flagship, the miracle worker to whom he credited his victories almost as much as to his tactics and the resolute courage and skill of his crews. There wasn’t a question is his mind Fritz’s wizardry had saved his life and the Confederation cause. The only variable was how many times she’d done it.

“That’s very good news, Fritzie…better than I could have expected.” It was better than he’d expected, a magnificent performance, even for Fritz and her people. But Barron wasn’t sure it would be enough. He had the border well screened, scouts deployed in successive lines back from the enemy’s entry points, to ensure that word would get back to Striker of any advance. But that would only give him something between a day and a half and three days to prepare, and his fleet had limped back from its ill-fated offensive with a lot of damage. Not even the legendary Anya Fritz had been able to get it all repaired, and for all Striker was the strongest fortress ever built, it lacked extensive shipyard facilities, a byproduct of the haste of its construction. That had given Barron and Fritz a choice between conducting what were essentially damage control efforts, patchwork repairs executed without proper equipment…or sending the ships back to the Confederation to actual shipyards there, an action that practically guaranteed any such vessels would be out of action for at least a year, and probably longer.

“Thank you, Admiral. I’m afraid the second list is more problematic. We simply don’t have the resources at Striker to perform major structural repairs, so we’re—you’re—going to have to decide whether to keep those ships here with the fleet, at sub-optimal functionality, or to send them back to available repair facilities.” Fritz’s tone was its usual grim near-monotone. People tended to find the engineer off-putting because of what they perceived as her relentless negativity, but Barron had always found it strangely endearing. Fritz was one of the few people he could count on to always give it to him straight and unfiltered, and he loved her for it. The two had been through hell together, more times than he could readily count, and so far, they’d made it back every time. They wouldn’t have if Anya Fritz hadn’t been at the top of her game in the most desperate of situations, coldly focused on the problems, and on how to deal with them. If that was negativity, Barron would take it every time.

He stared at the screen in front of him. There was a third column, another list, this one of vessels so badly battered he’d had no choice but to send them home. Some damaged ships could still provide a meaningful contribution to the fleet’s combat power. Keeping others in the line would accomplish little more than the murder of their crews. Tyler Barron had asked men and women to make the ultimate sacrifice, so many times it pressed down on his soul like a giant slab of rock. But he’d never knowingly done it when there had been no point, no hope the inevitable deaths would be balanced by a chance of success.

The third column wasn’t a problem, though, at least not one that required his attention. Those ships would return when they did. The situation was out of his hands. But the second list was going to require some careful analysis…and cold decision-making.

“Well, let’s go through this ship by ship, Fritzie. Anything that can stand in the line stays.

You and your people will do what you can here to bring them as close to combat worthy as possible. The others, the ones that can’t hold their place in battle…we’ll send back.” Barron paused. His mind still recounted the number of Highborn ships his fleet had encountered, and he wondered what other forces the enemy had in reserve. He doubted he had enough strength to hold Striker against an all-out attack anyway…and every ship he sent limping back on the long journey to the Iron Belt shipyards cut his numbers even further.

“Let’s start with primaries. We’ve already got a range deficit. Any ships with damaged primary batteries you can’t fix isn’t going to be able to stand in the line, not against the Highborn. So, a battleship’s got to have its main guns…or at least its launch bays in decent shape. If it can’t fire its primaries or put fighter wings into the fight, it’s got no place here.” His eyes scanned the battleships on the list, and he came up with a rough guess that he’d just consigned half the ships in group B to make the long trip back home.

And he was just getting started.

*

“We all underestimated the enemy. For a time, I didn’t even believe the old legends about the Others. But even if we had known, how much more could we have done? Our mistake was not in lack of preparedness to face the Highborn. The grave error that weighs on us was our decision to invade the Confederation. We were fortunate indeed that they overcame their anger and hostility, and recognized the threat the Highborn pose to us all. Would we have behaved as they did?” Akella looked at Chronos. The two were sitting on a large sofa in her quarters, sharing a few stolen moments together. It was getting more and more difficult to make time for such rendezvous.

Chronos had been enormously busy trying to supervise fleet repairs and preparedness, and a number of factors, from the close proximity they all shared on Striker to the fact that Akella’s oldest child, the son she shared with her rival Thantor, was getting old enough to be of concern. The boy was close to his mother, and would never knowingly cause her harm, but an errant comment to his father about Chronos spending time with his mother, could lead to disaster. Chronos had cause enough to be in Akella’s quarters to visit their daughter, of course, but it wouldn’t take much to spark a dangerous curiosity, and while Thantor had relaxed his efforts to challenge Akella since the fleet had returned from the failed reconquest, he was still a significant danger. If he could prove that Number One and Number Eight had continued a permanent and monogamous relationship for years, he would have all the tools he needed to destroy them both and gain control of the Council himself.

“We must change, Akella.” Chronos had been quiet since he’d arrived, clearly preoccupied with his thoughts. “Our action against the Confederation was proper, unavoidable even…at least in keeping with our laws and customs. It is—was—our place to reunite humanity, to bring them under our protection, to show them the way to the future. At least that is what we were taught, what we believed for so long.” A pause. “How different have we been from the Highborn? They would be worshipped, treated as gods…but do we demand that much less, save for semantics? We would have our own systems and laws accepted by all other humans, by force if necessary. Do we expect that much less than worship from the Defekts?” He hesitated again, and this time he looked at her, his eyes locking onto hers. She could see in his stare that he was lost. “We are the same as the enemy we fight. Were we less confident in our superiority? Yes, we based our society on genetic rankings, and justified our actions as nature’s mandate. But there is no argument, whatever you think of the Highborn, that by our old standards, they are our natural rulers. What argument can we make to justify our own resistance that would have been less valid if uttered by those populations we absorbed? How do we call ourselves Masters, and yet resist the Highborn? What battle cry do we have as we fight on, save for hypocrisy?”

Akella stared down at the plush material of the sofa, silent for a moment. She had been plagued by similar thoughts. She’d never been entirely comfortable with Hegemony policy, and she’d been somewhat of an unwilling leader, driven by a sense of duty, but always certain she would have been much happier working quietly in her lab rather than serving as head of state to hundreds of billions of human beings.

“I wish I could say something that would give you solace, Chronos, but I have nothing. I regret now my complicity in allowing the war against the Confederation. I still find it difficult to look Tyler Barron in the eye, to forget that however much he has become our ally, it must be impossible for him to forget his comrades who died fighting us. But we cannot undo what was done, and our choice now, for all the pain and moral difficulties we both feel, is a startlingly simple one. We fight, preserve our freedom, refuse to bow before the Highborn monsters, whether this makes us hypocrites or not…or we sacrifice our future as truly sentient beings, and we bow down to become slaves of a group of genetically engineered creatures.” She paused for a moment. “I choose to fight, for myself, for you…and perhaps most of all, for our children, for the next generation that has not yet had the chance to make the mistakes we have.”

Chronos nodded, and he managed something approaching a smile. “Your point is valid, Akella, as always, and yet, it is still…difficult.”

“I know it is…” She leaned toward Chronos and put her hand on his face. “We will endure, somehow…and we will make what amends we can for past mistakes. We can change our culture, Chronos, make up for past mistakes…but only if we survive this threat.” She hesitated, suddenly looking more uncomfortable. “Chronos…there is one other thing I would discuss with you while you are here. I spoke with Tyler and Andi this morning. They are sending Cassie back to the Confederation with Lita Mareth. To Megara.” Another pause. “They offered to take Ajia and Ragus—and your other children—if we wish it.”

Chronos looked startled. “Do you think that is necessary? It will be…controversial.” Akella knew that was true. No one would argue with her sending the children away from Striker. The Council itself had debated relocating to pull itself back from harm’s way. But for Number One to send her children not to another Hegemony world, but all the way to the Rim, in the custody of Confeds…the blowback on that would be severe. Many would consider it borderline treason, a sign Number One had given up on the Hegemony.

But she didn’t care. Not when the safety of her children was at stake. And she knew if the defense against the expected attack failed, if Striker fell, the rest of the Hegemony would soon follow. There was nowhere she could send the children that was truly safe, but the vast distance to the Confederation capital was the best buffer she could put between them and the enemy.

“I do not care what the Council thinks. Not about this.”

Chronos nodded a few seconds later. “I agree. But what of Thantor? Ragus is his child, after all. Will he approve of such a plan…or will he use it against you?”

Akella felt a vague amusement at Chronos’s effort to hide his jealousy that Thantor of all people had been her first mating partner. It was unbecoming for a Master of his rank to feel that way, of course…but no more so than the strange satisfaction his reaction gave her, the affirmation of his forbidden feelings for her. “I have no intention of asking him, nor am I required to do so.” That much, at least, was true. Akella was the senior ranked of the two, and by Hegemony law, that was all that mattered. Thantor had certain rights to visit Ragus, but Akella’s parental authority was almost absolute.

That didn’t mean her rival wouldn’t use it against her, though. Ragus’s whereabouts could be kept secret for a time, but there was no way she could avoid telling Thantor where she’d sent his son.

“Akella…” She could feel Chronos about to warn her against underestimating Thantor, but he stopped and just looked at her.

She smiled and reached out, putting her hand on his. “I know, Chronos…I know.” She leaned forward and buried her face into his shoulder. They didn’t have much longer. They’d been too careless in recent weeks, and she knew she had to send him away.

In just a few minutes more…

*

“I should be gone already, Tyler. We could lose this war because of my weakness…because I couldn’t pull myself away from you and Cassie.”

“I’m glad you didn’t leave sooner. You needed some rest, after all. Your whole crew did. You can only ask so much of them.” Andi found that somewhat amusing, coming from the officer who had made a career of asking the impossible from himself and his spacers. But she loved him, so she didn’t call him on it.

Andi could see the pain in Tyler’s eyes, too, the fear at her impending departure. She knew how difficult it was for him when she went off into the depths on one adventure or another. She regretted some of the times she’d gone before, the callousness of her hard-driving nature and the pain it had no doubt caused the only man she’d ever loved. He had done the same to her, of course, though no doubt the veneer of duty and orders made it seem different to him. The pain, however, cut just as deeply, something she could have told him quite clearly if hurting him would do anything but increase her own misery.

This time was different. Those words had been used—and misused—countless times, but in the present situation, she believed it utterly. She knew Tyler wasn’t as convinced as she was that some method for defeating the Highborn lay out there, hidden in ancient imperial ruins, but whatever the chance, there was no way she could stay back and fail to pursue it. She was no fleet tactician, at least not by training, but she had seen the Highborn forces in the last battle, and she had some idea what was likely coming toward Striker. Tyler and his spacers would fight fiercely. They had always done that. But she suspected they would lose again, and another retreat might bring the defensive line all the way back to the Confederation border. If she was going to search the Badlands for some way to turn the tide, it couldn’t wait.

Leaving meant saying goodbye again, to Tyler and to Cassie. And ‘goodbye’ in such a context always carried an implicit possibility of finality. She could go, but she couldn’t guarantee she would return.

And, even if she did, she couldn’t be sure Tyler would survive until she got back.

You’re saying goodbye to Cassie anyway, even if you stay…

She and Tyler had resolved to send their daughter back to Megara, to the newly rebuilt Barron estate there, under the care of Lita Mareth, the governess who had virtually raised a young Tyler after his parents died. The thought of being so far from her daughter gutted Andi emotionally, but she had too coldly focused a mind to tell herself anything except that she had to go, for Cassie if for no other reason. Finding a way to save the future for her daughter was her true and unrelenting duty as a mother.

“Look, we could talk about this all night…but Lita and Cassie are leaving in the morning, so let’s just push it all aside for now, and just be a family for tonight. Just the three of us.”

Andi looked over at him and smiled again. “I would love that, Tyler.”

He returned her smile, and he stood up, moving toward the other room, where Cassie was playing. He got about halfway when the comm unit buzzed. He decided to ignore it…but then he saw the red light on top of the unit flashing.

The signal that denoted a Priority One communique.

Chapter Three

CFS Vandengraf

Sigma Tarsus System (One Transit from Outpost Twelve)

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“You did well, Commander…truly. You got all but six of your people out, and considering the situation, that was extraordinary performance. It’s painful to lose anyone, I know that…but there was nothing more you could have done.” The last thing Colin Simpson had expected he’d be doing was trying to bolster Larson Jaymes’s morale. He’d resented the commander of Outpost Twelve before he’d even met the man, his reaction and judgment fixed by a review of the officer’s file. Simpson wanted to believe that people could change, but he’d always found redemption something far more common in theory and fiction than in actual practice.

But, by all accounts, Commander Jaymes had gotten all his people to the landing bay, then he’d personally searched his dying station for any other survivors…before triggering the self-destruct sequence that would prevent any technology or navigational data from falling into enemy hands. After that, by multiple accounts, he’d been the last man to set foot on the final shuttle off the doomed base.

That was exemplary conduct by any standards, and the fact that the officer was so deeply mournful for the half dozen of his people who’d been killed before the evacuation was complete only hardened that realization. Simpson had been in that very position—he was even then, having lost more than fourteen hundred of his own spacers before he’d extricated his fleet from Sigma Delaris—and he sympathized with the officer he was now seeing in a different light than before.

“If we’d been quicker…”

“That’s nonsense, Larson…” Being on a first name basis with Twelve’s commander was a surprise as well. “You did everything you could. I issued the retreat order as soon as we confirmed the enemy force size and composition, and I still lost four ships and a lot of spacers.”

One thousand four hundred seven…

He looked at Jaymes for a moment before he continued. “You have to do your best, and then get on with it. They’ll be another command, more spacers looking to you…” Simpson stopped abruptly. Given Jaymes’s record, another command was far from a certainty. He’d been sent to what had been thought a quiet backwater, and now he’d lost that command.

The hell with that. Anybody wants to blame him for a Highborn-Union fleet overwhelming his unarmed outpost, they can come through me first.

“In fact, forget that next command. You’re needed now. I’m new to commanding a fleet, and I need all the help I can get. Effective immediately, you’re my new aide. I want you on Vandengraf’s bridge. I’ll see you are assigned a workstation.” Simpson regretted the words the instant they slipped out of his mouth. He admired Jaymes’s conduct during the evacuation, but he was far from sure he trusted the officer enough to give him a key role in his own command. His mind flailed around for a way to take the words back, but he simply remained silent while Jaymes nodded his head.

“Thank you, Commodore. I would be honored to serve at your side.

Trapped! Next time, keep your big mouth shut…

“You’ll pick up the flow of things quickly. A combat command is a little different than…”

“Commodore Simpson…” Antonio Graves’s voice was on the comm, and Simpson knew immediately, something was wrong.

His hand slapped down hard on the unit’s small switch. “What is it, Commander?”

“Energy readings, sir…from the point. I can’t be sure yet, but my guess is something is following hot on our heels.”

Simpson heard the words, but it took a few seconds for them to truly take shape in his head. The enemy was invading the Confederation, that much he’d ascertained. They were trying to take advantage of the weak state of the border defenses, so he expected them to move quickly.

But not this quickly…

It took some time for a fleet as large as the enemy force to regroup and reset its formations, not to mention to get its logistics in order.

He stood up abruptly, gesturing for Jaymes to follow as he walked across his small office, toward the door leading to the bridge.

He’d resolved to get his fleet back to Grimaldi, and to set up a defense under the guns of the great station. Now, he wondered if he would even reach the fortress.

*

“If there is any way, Captain, a bit more thrust would be helpful.” Gary Holsten sat in the seat across from Captain Taggart, at the station reserved for the admiral commanding a fleet. There was no fleet, and certainly no admiral. Constellation had been built as a flagship, of course, as any vessel of its size and power would have been, but the superbattleship was less than two weeks out from its premature launch, and crammed in along with the nearly 3,400 members of the vast ship’s crew were close to four hundred engineers and technicians, volunteers from the shipyard staff who were still finishing work on the warship’s systems, even as it hurtled toward a likely combat situation.

Samantha Taggart looked back at him from the captain’s chair, her face a mask hiding her emotions. Holsten figured Taggart thought him crazy, or at least something close to it. He’d confided in her about his concerns for the situation on the border, and the reasons he was rushing her brand new superbattleship forward to a sector than hadn’t seen a battle in more than a decade. It was a coin toss whether she really believed him or not. There was always a certain amount of tension between the intelligence agencies and the military, and that fueled a certain amount of doubt.

“I will see what I can do…Mr. Holsten.” Her tone was hard to dissect, but he was pretty sure she was caught between resenting having a civilian on her bridge acting very much like a superior officer and understanding that the civilian in question had the best understanding of what was happening, and how to deal with it.

What is happening, at least. I’m not so sure I know what to do about it…

Holsten felt ridiculous sitting in a spot designed for a flag officer. He’d been the heir to a great fortune, a libertine of sorts who’d shown less than an ideal amount of restraint in his younger years, a gifted investor and manager of his family’s vast wealth, and a man whose scandal plagued past had morphed from real but exaggerated to almost entirely fake, and a cover for his role as head of Confederation Intelligence. Nowhere in that bizarre and extensive resume had there been a shred of military service, at least not in any formal sense. But Holsten had worked closely with the very best the Confederation had in uniform, and he’d come to understand tactics better than almost anyone could have imagined.

Not that it took a wizard in military theory to understand just how bad it would be if the Union forces, and what were almost certainly their Highborn allies, broke through what was left of the Confederation border defenses and sliced more deeply into its space.

Holsten didn’t pretend to know what the enemy would do if they got past Grimaldi and the patchwork defenses he’d managed to assemble in the past several months, but that mystery was mostly driven by the wide array of almost equally disastrous possibilities. They could lunge for the Iron Belt, seeking to take out the astonishing production engine that was powering the entire Pact. They could move on Megara and the Core, seeking to decapitate the Confederation in a single lightning campaign. Or they could simply turn coreward, toward Dannith and the Badlands frontier, and cut off the lines of communications to Tyler Barron’s fleet.

Holsten didn’t need to know what they’d do. All that mattered was holding the line. He had to stop them at Grimaldi…somehow. And for all his effort, for the powerful intellect he’d tried for so long to hide from almost everyone, even for the tactical lessons he’d learned alongside Tyler Barron and the Confederation’s other gifted officers, from Van Striker to Clint Winters, he had no idea how he was going to see that done.

He’d caught a break when he’d discovered that Colin Simpson had just been released from the fleet hospital on Megara. The officer was a veteran, and one who’d been in the thick of the fighting on the main Highborn front…so much so that he’d barely survived it, and had required two months of intensive hospitalization to return to duty.

Just in time for Holsten to scoop him up with a pair of commodore’s stars, and an impassioned plea about how he was the man for the job.

He’d overstepped his authority, in promoting Simpson, in releasing Constellation from the shipyard early and diverting the massive ship to Grimaldi instead of allowing it to join the fleet out at Striker…in a dozen other ways. Speaker Flandry would back him up, on most of it at least, he was pretty sure of that. He wouldn’t say he liked the veteran politician, and he doubted he was anywhere on Flandry’s list for a quiet dinner with friends, but they’d managed to create a sort of functional partnership, one that had worked surprisingly well.

Flandry knows if the Highborn and Union can break through here, there is nothing to stop them from burying him along with his colleagues in the rubble of the Senate Compound…

Holsten looked at the screen. The large blue oval that signified Fleet Base Grimaldi was behind the massive battlewagon and the three cruisers accompanying it. The transit point to Sigma Tarsus lay ahead. If the flash comm he’d received at Grimaldi was accurate, Colin Simpson and his ships should be on their way back.

And if the tight pain in his gut was equally on point, there was a good chance the invaders weren’t going to let those ships escape, not without making some kind of effort to catch them. Any chance of holding the line at Grimaldi depended on Simpson and his fleet…and that fact made Holsten’s choice for him.

Constellation and its three companions were all he had left to send forward. And this time, he was going along, too. That wasn’t likely to make much difference, but after a lifetime of pulling the strings, something pushed him to be there with the men and women he was sending into the fight.

He wondered if Tyler Barron would be proud of him…or just pissed that he’d snaked a superbattleship that had been bound for his fleet.

*

“We need more thrust. All ships, push to max, beyond even. I want every ship five percent past redline.” Simpson spun his head around, looking from one officer to another, and pausing for a few seconds to stare at the main display. He was angry at himself…furious that he’d allowed the enemy’s close pursuit to take him by surprise. He’d imagined an invasion would be a cumbersome affair, with delays as the enemy consolidated each conquered system, reordered its fleet, and extended its supply lines. And no doubt, that’s what the majority of the enemy vessels were doing at that very moment. But eight Highborn ships had followed his fleet through the point without delay, and now they were opening fire, lashing out with death and destruction from beyond any range Simpson’s ships could match.

He’d almost given the order to turn and fight. His forces would have taken serious losses closing to their own firing ranges, but he faced only a part of the invasion fleet. There was a good chance his people could have overwhelmed and destroyed the Highborn force.

But at what cost?

His losses would have been catastrophic…and the enemy’s main invasion fleet would still be largely intact. No doubt, the enemy commander, whoever he was, would have welcomed such a reckless move…all the more, because the higher thrust of the Highborn might have allowed them to escape at the last moment, blasting his ships the entire way.

No, escape was the only choice, pulling back to Grimaldi and giving battle there. Assuming he could get his ships out before the enemy tore them apart. He put those odds right about fifty-fifty.

“All ships acknowledge, Commodore.” A pause, and then a more somber tone. “Crescent, Alsatia, and Torrent report their reactors are damaged, and they are unable to comply.”

Simpson understood, and he knew those three ships, at least, weren’t going to make it. No one would say that outright, of course, and the charade would be maintained, by him, by the stricken vessels’ captains, by their crews. Everyone would behave as though the three ships would somehow defy mathematics and manage to outrun their pursuers to the point…and temporary safety under Grimaldi’s guns.

But it was all nonsense. There were over nine hundred spacers on those ships, and Simpson knew every one of them was as good as dead. And it was his job to abandon them, to get as many of his ships as possible out of harm’s way and to preserve the fleet as a fighting force. The idea of stopping, of standing and offering battle to save his cripples exerted a pull on him like a black hole. But his ships had to find a way to face the enemy, to keep them from ravaging the heart of the Confederation…whatever the cost.

However many of your spacers you need to leave behind or send to their deaths to do it…

Vandengraf shook hard, and for a few terrible seconds, Simpson thought his flagship would be one of those to fall in the desperate flight toward Grimaldi. But a quick glance at his screens offered at least some relief. Most of the motion had been the vessel’s wild evasive maneuver. The enemy shot had hit, but it had only grazed the hull. Half a dozen sections had lost integrity, and some of his spacers had almost certainly died, but Vandengraf still had full power, and a few seconds later, a wave of acceleration force told him the techs down in engineering had successfully pushed the reactor past its safeties. It was still going to be close, and even more so for some of his older, slower ships, and the worst part was, there was nothing he could do but sit and wait…and see which of his ships escaped.

And which died.

Chapter Four

Highborn Flagship S’Argevon

Imperial System GH9-4307, Planet A1112 (Calpharon)

Year of the Firstborn 390 (328 AC)

“Your request is not an easy one to grant, Phazarax. A consolidated effort to do as you ask will require significant modifications to our tactical plans, changes that will increase the difficulty of operation and likely add substantially to our losses.” Tesserax stared across the small table at his counterpart. The two held different positions, but their missions were, in most parameters at least, parallel. Phazarax’s new request was a possible exception to that, at least depending on how Tesserax defined his approach to duty. “Are you sure of your analysis? Truly sure?”

Phazarax was still for a moment, thoughtful. Then he nodded. “As sure as it is possible to be in such matters, Tesserax. We have applied our most advanced mathematics to the probability analysis, and while it is difficult to be certain our estimates are in all cases accurate, the consistency of the results leaves little overall doubt. The humans have shown a greater ability to resist our conquest than even our most guarded projections predicted. This is likely due to many factors, but the capability of certain members of their leadership caste is beyond question. The Collar has, of course, partially blunted the effects of this resistance, but this is the first time we have ever used the device to control entire populations. We have no idea of what long-term effects widespread Collar control will have on societal development and productivity. It is a device, I would remind you, that was designed to control key specimens, not tens of billions. Yet, normal Church doctrine and other methods have been largely unsuccessful at pacifying occupied populations.”

The head of the Highborn Church in the Colony paused, and Tesserax considered his colleague’s words. As Viceroy of the Colony, Tesserax’s power was absolute, save only for any orders from Ellerax, sent from the capital. But the Church was an odd institution, charged with managing human populations, and it existed, in many ways, outside the normal chain of command. Phazarax was the only Highborn in the Colony who could make a case that he wasn’t subject to Tesserax’s orders…and the viceroy knew it was in his best interests to maintain a good relationship with his ecclesiastical comrade.

“We have long theorized that the empire declined and fell because its own success ultimately denied its people true challenges, the conflict and strife that tends to strengthen human populations. Now, we see that hypothesis verified by actual real samplings. The Rim dwellers, with lesser technology, appear to be even more capable than the Hegemony, a result, in all likelihood, of their positioning farther out along the galactic edge, where conflict has been endemic for several centuries. We must capture that essence, gain control over as many of the leaders and warriors as possible, for future study, at the very least. Once encollared, these heroes of the human populations may aid us in bringing the masses under control. Then, they could lead the vast legions of Thralls our conquest of the old empire will add to the forces on the main front. We are superior to the humans, of course, as gods to them…but both here and on the main front, the greatest portion of our actual military might consists of Thralls, of humans. If we are able to improve on their performance in battle, bring to them to the levels of morale and tenacity that appear to drive the free humans, we will have the chance to vastly increase our combat power.” Phazarax went silent again for a moment, but Tesserax knew he had something else to say.

“Speak freely, my friend. We serve the same cause.”

“I fear that encollaring the general populations have a disastrous long-term effect. If the empire withered over the millennia by a gradual decline in outside stressors, what would happen to an entire population stripped of anything but blind obedience? We need the humans, Tesserax, if we are to achieve victory on the main front. But we need them to retain their strength, not to see it drained away.”

Tesserax leaned back, and he put his hand to his forehead. “Our plan is to attack the human’s great fortress, and to destroy it along with their fleet. If we would do as you suggest…we would have to seek to capture it, if not intact, at least with a significant number of its occupants alive. We would also have to attempt to board and seize their various flagships. Such a change to the battle plan increases our difficulties immensely, and there is still no assurance of just how many of their senior officers we would be able to capture alive. We must be sure it is truly worth the effort and cost.”

Tesserax was doubtful, but Phazarax’s next words struck their mark.

“How much has been gained from Admiral Stockton’s capture, Tesserax? What tactical and strategic value would you place on that?”

The room was silent, the two Highborn alone, as they had been throughout their meeting. Finally, Tesserax made a decision. Phasarax’s last point had struck home. Jake Stockton had proven to be a resource almost beyond valuation.

He didn’t like acknowledging that a mere human had accomplished anything of true importance, but his intellect was too precise to deny the immense effect the fighter wings, and Stockton’s contributions to training and leading them, had exerted on the fleet’s combat power. The interceptors had gutted the enemy’s primary method of attack, and while the human forces showed some signs of fixed weaponry of increased capability, neutering their bomber wings had provided a staggering tactical advantage.

What could Tyler Barron, or Admiral Winters, or so many other of the enemy leaders do for us once encollared?

“I have deep concerns, Phazarax, about the modifications to our tactical plan, but I see the advantages as well. We have relied to date on breaking the humans’ morale to end the conflict, but that has proven more difficult than expected. If we are able to capture a portion of their leadership caste, we can put their abilities to work for us rather than against us. And the morale effect on the humans of not only losing someone like Tyler Barron, but seeing him leading our forces against them, will be devastating. What you ask is costly…but perhaps it is indeed worth further consideration.” Tesserax hesitated, thinking the whole thing through one more time. “Yes, perhaps this does make sense. Take me through all of your analysis, if you would. If I am convinced your conclusions are correct, I will grant your request. We will change our tactical plan.”

Tesserax felt a tiny smile forming on his lips. “We will board the enemy fortress, and their flagships. We will capture the human leaders.”

His eyes narrowed, and his grin took on a sinister appearance.

“We will capture Tyler Barron…”

*

Jake Stockton sat in his quarters, hunched over the small desk, reviewing the order of battle for the coming invasion. The part of him that controlled his actions was focused on finding ways to maximize the strength of the wings to secure victory…to kill more of his true friends and comrades. But the black hopelessness that had engulfed Stockton for so long had receded slightly, and a tentative ray of light trickled through.

His hand reached for a small data storage chip…and dropped it almost immediately. It fell to the floor, and he leaned down to pick it up, putting it back into place before continuing his work.

The small, imprisoned part of his brain that was still Jake Stockton felt something almost unfamiliar. Hope. The data chip hadn’t just fallen…he had dropped it. Intentionally. After more than four years of utter helplessness, he had regained at least a marginal ability to partially control his body. It was limited, certainly, and he’d been hesitant to push too hard, unsure how the controlled portion of his brain would react.

But it didn’t seem the parts of him controlled by the Collar were even aware of what he’d done. And that encouraged him to push harder, to struggle with all the strength he could muster, to take back control of himself. He didn’t dare to imagine he could utterly break the Collar’s hold…but all he needed was the jerk of his hand at the right moment, barely enough to hit the controls and pop open his airlock in flight, or to jump from an exposed catwalk to the hard deck below. Stockton hadn’t let his imagination run to thoughts of escape, or of returning home. But for four years, he had dreamed of escaping his unending nightmare through death, and the idea of ending his pain was as seductive as any vision he’d ever had. He’d lived through scenes of constant horror for the past four years. He just wanted to die.

Still, thoughts of real escape drifted through his mind. He quickly squashed them. There was no going back, no way he could return, even if it had been possible. He was the blackest traitor in Confederation history. He had killed his old comrades, several dozen of them personally, and thousands through his training and leadership of the Highborn wings. Nothing could undo what he’d done…not even death could wash away his crimes. It could only end his pain.

He focused his thoughts, used all the strength he had to move his hand again. He watched as his palm slid across the table, and then seconds later when the controlled part of him moved it back, seemingly unaware that anything had happened.

Stockton had replayed that moment in his cockpit a thousand times. Reg Griffin had come a hair’s breadth from defeating him, from killing him.

Before you killed her…

He could remember the moment, the wild bolts of electrical discharge…the searing pain in his head. The hit on his ship, and the energies it had unleased had damaged his Collar, somehow. In some way the Highborn hadn’t discovered. He wondered what the chances had been, to break, at least to some extent, the device’s hold on him, without doing any detectable damage.

Was it payback, some equalization by fortune for all he had endured? Had some force in the universe taken pity on him…finally granted him a path to the death he’d craved for so long?

Or were thoughts of death selfish? Should he try to do more? Could he?

Return was unthinkable. He couldn’t even imagine looking his friends in the eye. But perhaps he could help them. If he could regain the control he needed by the time the next battle was joined…

He focused again, moving his hand once more, slowly, cautiously. This time he went further. He concentrated on each finger, wiggling them up and down just the slightest bit.

Yes…maybe you can do some good before you die for your crimes. Not full atonement…no, that’s not possible. But something. Maybe you can save lives, help the fleet endure…even to defeat the Highborn…

*

“There was some concern that the humans had acquired sufficient technology to construct vessels of imperial levels of power. This was exacerbated by the presence of a vessel of the imperial Terradonna class in their order of battle. As you all know, the Terradonna class was one of the most powerful vessels in the imperial navy, second in strength only to the purpose-built planetkillers launched during the late stages of the fall. A current human ability to produce such ships would be unprecedented, and of grave concern, however, the lack of any additional units of the class, despite a large number of other, clearly new and more primitive vessels joining the human ranks, suggests this ship—which they seem to call Colossus—is merely an old imperial unit that was found in sufficiently good condition to return to service. As we have responded to this vessel’s existence with our own construction program, we will have no fewer than six Terradonnas of our own in service within just over a year.”

“Thank you, Gelliax. I concur with your conclusions. Would I be correct in stating that with some shifting of priorities, the first of the Terradonnas could be placed into service within a matter of weeks?”

Gelliax looked down at the table for a few seconds, and then back at Tesserax. “That is…possible, Viceroy, perhaps…though it would require virtually halting work on the other vessels of the class, likely delaying their launches by a number of months.”

Tesserax nodded slowly. “I understand that, Gelliax. However, as our planned assault against the human fortress and fleet will begin in a matter of weeks, perhaps two months at most, vessels entering service any later will be of little purpose, at least assuming we are successful and gain the upper hand in the struggle against the humans. The other Terradonnas will be most welcome on the primary front, I am certain, and likely they will undertake the long journey there as soon as they are launched. But I would have the lead vessel with the fleet now, if possible, to match against the humans’ Colossus, to take their greatest weapon out of the main struggle. We have modified our tactical plan, emphasizing the capture of key prisoners, and this is likely to increase the ferocity of combat and partially yield our range advantage. Colossus is a danger to any ship in our fleet, and if there is any possibility to counter that, we must pursue it.”

Gelliax, a Highborn from the tenth class, far below Tesserax’s status as one of the Firstborn, sat in quiet thought. Then he said, “I will have the first Terradonna to the fleet in five weeks, Viceroy, ready for action. Will that be satisfactory?”

Tesserax smiled. “It will indeed be satisfactory, Gelliax. And it will contribute greatly to the success of our revised plan. We will defeat the enemy fleet, take their great fortress, and capture their leaders. Their morale will surely be crushed, and the end cannot long be delayed after that.” Tesserax was silent for a few seconds. “See that veteran Thralls are posted to the vessel. We must achieve maximum combat readiness to engage the human-controlled Terradonna.”

“As you command, Viceroy.” Gelliax looked back across the table. “We have not yet set a name or designation for the vessel. It has merely been referred to as Terradonna-1. Perhaps, if it is to launch so soon, you would care to bestow a name upon it.”

Tesserax sat quietly for a moment. He usually didn’t care about such things, but then a thought found its way into his head, one that might serve him in some way.

“Ellerax. We shall name the vessel Ellerax.”

Tesserax wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to gain by naming the new vessel after the first of the Highborn, but he didn’t see any downside.

Even the gods could benefit from greasing those at higher levels.

Chapter Five

CFS Vandengraf

Sigma Tarsus System (One Transit from Outpost Twelve)

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Damage report…now!” Simpson was on the comm a few seconds after the Highborn beam slammed into Vandengraf. The shot hadn’t been a direct hit, but it had been far more serious than the first glancing blow. The showers of sparks still flying across the bridge told him there had likely been system blowouts throughout the ship…and he could feel that the acceleration had slipped. The engines were still functional, but either they or the reactor that powered them had suffered some kind of damage.

He listened as the engineer snapped off a list of items. It was only a partial report, and Simpson knew his people hadn’t had time to determine the full extent of the damage, but it was bad enough.

His eyes moved to the main display. The point lay just ahead, so close Simpson almost felt as though he could reach out and touch it. That was nonsense, of course, and all the more absurd because the calculations already running in his mind were telling him that last hit had cut Vandengraf’s chances of making it out at least in half.

The casualty reports were becoming worse with each passing moment. He’d lost three ships outright, but the real situation was far worse than that. The enemy didn’t have to obliterate a vessel immediately. They simply had to cripple its ability to run. Any ship without the thrust to reach the point before the enemy could score additional hits would never leave Sigma Tarsus.

His eyes caught the row of green lights on his workstation. His fleet had four ships capable of carrying fighters, two hundred fifty-six craft in total. The lights confirmed that every squadron was on full alert, their ships manned and fully armed. But he hadn’t given a launch order, not yet.

Commanding a pilot to take off would be tantamount to pronouncing a death sentence. There would be no time for the ships to return and land, not before their launch platforms transited. A few veterans might just manage to get back to the point and navigate their way through, but without proper shielding, even the most experienced pilots faced something like ten to one odds against. The chance of a rookie making it through—and more than ninety percent of his pilots had never faced an enemy in battle—was so small, it was hardly worth considering.

He felt Vandengraf lurch again, five times in rapid succession as its engines blasted hard, the vectors of each pulse changing almost randomly. The evasive routine was holding up, and even as his screen lit up with fresh reports of damage from the last hit, his ship dodged another three shots.

The rest of the fleet was less fortunate. Two more ships, a cruiser and an escort had simply vanished, and the list of ships that weren’t going to make it out had grown to ten.

At least ten. Simpson stared at the display, at the point projected right in the center, and then he glanced down at the range figures. The enemy ships were too close, and the rest of his fleet’s desperate flight would take place under the guns of the Highborn.

He tried to estimate how many more ships he would lose before the survivors transited, but the only answer he could come up with was…more. He wondered if he should have turned to fight, if his choice to make a run for it was going to result in disaster. He even considered issuing the order for his ships to engage where they were, to fight it out and maybe save their cripples.

Then, the transit point flared bright, a large energy surge indicating that something was coming through. Grimaldi was on the other side of that point, and Simpson felt an instant of panic, even as he realized there was no way the enemy could have gotten to the fortress yet. Anything coming through had to be friendly.

But what could be coming? He already had every ship to be had within half a dozen transits.

He stared straight ahead, still without an answer, or even an idea…just the certainty that something was about to come through.

*

“Full power to railgun and primaries, as soon as systems reboot!” Holsten hadn’t intended to say anything, and even as the words poured from his mouth, he felt foolish, as a child playing naval captain. But Constellation was an immensely powerful ship, with weapons that outranged everything Commodore Simpson had in the system. Holsten had brought the ship to rescue Simpson’s fleet, the Confederation’s primary force available to defend the border, and even with the superbattleship’s scanners only partially rebooted, it was clear his hunch that the enemy wouldn’t let Simpson escape without a chase had been disturbingly accurate.

He had to do something, at least to distract some of the Highborn ships…and Constellation’s antimatter-powered railgun and sixteen third generation primaries were by far the longest-ranged weapons the Confederation had in the system.

And all eight enemy ships pursuing Simpson’s forces were in range of Constellation.

“Punch up the reactors to full power plus five percent as soon as they’re back online.” Sam Taggart’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but Holsten remained silent, allowing the experienced captain he’d placed in command of Constellation do her job…no doubt better than he could ever manage. He could almost hear her telling him to shut the hell up and stay out of her way, though she’d simply ignored him.

A few seconds later, his mind really processed what she had said.

It had become a fairly common tactic in the navy for ships to push their systems beyond stated safety levels. Tyler Barron had done it so many times, it had become colloquially known as the ‘Barron Maneuver,’ at least among the ships of the line. The fighter squadrons had their own version, named just as matter-of-factly for Jake Stockton, who had been, if anything, even crazier than Barron when it came to demanding everything his equipment could give and then a bit more.

But Barron had never issued the orders on an antimatter-powered ship. Fusion reactors were old technology, in use for more than a century and a half on Megara, longer even than the Confederation had existed as a united polity. The thermonuclear reactions were barely controlled and potentially highly dangerous, but the engineers running them had extensive experience, and the true veterans had a seasoned touch.

Antimatter was an entirely different beast. The new reactors were simpler in many ways. Energy was generated by the simple mechanic of feeding antimatter into the system and combining it with normal matter, capturing the released energy with methods not unlike those employed in fusion systems. But while containment was vital in a nuclear system, safety controls could also scrag a reaction if the magnetic bottle was damaged or showed signs of failing. But the tiniest, microscopic quantities of antimatter escaping containment would almost certainly cause utter disaster.

Which made the idea of pushing the mysterious substance through the containment tubes faster than rated levels allowed seem…well, downright crazy.

But his eyes fixed an instant later on the now-fully restarted main display, and he realized the alternative to such insanity might very well be watching Simpson’s ships gutted as they raced toward the point.

He leaned back in his chair, silent. Sam Taggart was in command, and she knew what she was doing far better than he did. He felt himself bracketed back and forth as Constellation’s engines fired up and the great ship began its evasive routine. The Highborn ships were tight on the heels of Simpson’s fleeing vessels, and that put Constellation, and the enemy ships, in range of each other immediately.

There was no enemy fire coming in, not yet. Holsten wondered if he’d caught the Highborn by surprise, or if they’d simply discounted the importance of a force of only four ships.

That won’t last, not once their scans give them mass figures…

But even those first few seconds were enough. Constellation shuddered a few seconds later as the great railgun fired, and just after, the sixteen particle accelerator beams followed.

Holsten was no gunnery expert, but he knew Constellation’s spacers had limited targeting data, and short navigational histories on the Highborn ships. That made gut instinct all the more crucial…and the superbattleship’s crew proved their skill as the railgun projectile slammed into one Highborn ship, and six of the sixteen primaries struck two others.

Now, that’s some fine shooting!

The accuracy was almost unprecedented for the range, especially against the difficult to target Highborn vessels. But Holsten figured the Confederation forces were due for some luck, and the current time seemed opportune to spend some of it.

He watched as the damage assessments updated on his screen. The railgun shot had been a direct hit, and it had torn open half of the enemy ship’s hull. The vessel wasn’t destroyed—Highborn ships were tough—but it was the closest thing to crippled. That ship, at least, wasn’t going to stop Simpson’s forces from escaping.

The primary beams struck two additional ships, four slamming into the forwardmost of the Highborn vessels. One was close to a direct hit, but the others were glancing shots. Still, the cumulative damage looked serious. The third stricken ship took two beams amidships, solid hits, but nothing critical. Holsten suspected the vessel had suffered significant damage, but a few seconds later, the black speckled blue beam lancing out from its forward turret proved it had at least one weapon system still functional.

It was a successful opening attack, and Constellation continued to move in-system, its course jagged and weaving, its vector changing wildly to evade the enemy fire that had just begun to come its way.

Holsten watched, remaining silent as Taggert snapped out orders to her bridge crew. He’d spent so many years dealing with politicians, he’d come close to despairing for the Confederation’s future. But whenever he’d been close to giving up, fate had put him close near a Tyler Barron or an Andi Lafarge, and helped hold back the hopelessness. The Confederation fleet had seen its share of corruption, and of empty uniforms and bloated egos, but Tyler Barron’s navy was, overall, an extraordinary institution. It had fought almost nonstop for the past twenty years, back to when its current commander was simply a ship’s captain, and Holsten didn’t even dare to guess at what percentage of its spacers over that time had been killed or maimed. The fleet had paid a terrible cost, but in the process, it had become something truly extraordinary, a fearsome weapon, forged in blood. Holsten didn’t know if that would be enough, if the war machine Tyler Barron had created could overcome the fearsome genetically-engineered enemy it faced.

But he was sure of one thing. It would fight to the very end, and if it failed it would not be because it yielded. It would be because it had been utterly destroyed.

Sam Taggart was clearly the kind of officer Barron had helped to create. He’d guessed that when he’d placed her in command of Constellation with by an order that was not entirely legal. But he hadn’t been sure. Not until he’d seen her in action.

Not until he’d had the chance to sit on the superbattleship’s bridge and watch her tear into the Highborn.

He flinched as a pair of Highborn beams ripped by the ship, and he found that he was holding his breath. He exhaled hard as he realized, and he stared silently at the officers all around him, scared almost certainly, but also totally focused on the battle. Constellation’s evasive maneuvers had spared it from hits by either beam. Holsten didn’t want to think about how close those shots had come, but he’d have bet half his fortune they’d been inside three hundred meters, and maybe a damned sight closer than that.

“They’re running, Mr. Holsten.”

Holsten had just begun to realize the Highborn ships were decelerating when Taggart’s report firmed up his realization. For an instant, he wasn’t sure what to do. Then, he realized, she was waiting for instructions from him.

He wasn’t a naval officer. He wasn’t even in the chain of command. But he’d almost singlehandedly assembled Simpson’s fleet and pulled Constellation from the shipyard, placing Taggart in the captain’s chair. Colin Simpson would command the fleet and Grimaldi, and Taggart would continue to skipper Constellation. But he suddenly realized that both of them were going to look to him for guidance, and the idea hit him like an avalanche. He felt the urge to send for Tyler Barron, or for Clint Winters, but as dire as things were rapidly becoming on the old Union front, he still believed the bulk of the enemy forces, and the decisive battle, would come out in Hegemony space.

And that left him in charge, if not in official command.

“Shall we pursue?” He could hear the predator’s snark in Taggart’s question. He wasn’t sure she thought chasing the enemy was the right tactical call, but he didn’t have any doubt what she wanted to do.

“No, Captain…if they’re going to pull back, let them do it. They’ll come and give us a fight soon enough…let’s go and get ready for it. We’ve lost enough ships here.” He could see the damage Simpson’s fleet had suffered, though he imagined the enemy’s withdrawal might give the commodore a chance to save his cripples.

To save the lives of the spacers on those ships.

Holsten wanted that because he’d come to respect and feel for the Confederation’s naval crews in a way he once couldn’t have imagined.

He also wanted it because he knew Simpson would need those ships and spacers at Grimaldi, every one of them. If those men and women were going to die, better it happen in that great fight, the effort to hold the line and protect the heart of the Confederation.

Chapter Six

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“What can we spare? That’s the real question. We’re going to be hard pressed here when the Highborn come, I think we all agree on that. And I doubt anyone here thinks it will be long before they do come. But if Gaston Villieneuve and his new allies overrun Grimaldi, it won’t matter whether we hold here or not. Almost eighty percent of our supplies are coming from the Confederation and the Alliance…and every bit of that will be cut off if the enemy take Grimaldi and move to cut off Dannith and the other frontier ports. Worse, if they’re able to hit the Core and the Iron Belt, we’ll lose the actual production facilities. Our ability to sustain the war effort will be irreparably crippled.” Tyler Barron sat at the head of the large table in Striker’s main conference room. He was speaking to the officers gathered there, a dozen and a half of the top commanders of the Pact powers, trying to be as even handed as he could be. He knew full well, the new threat of an enemy invasion across the Union border was of greater immediate concern to his own people than it was to those from the Hegemony. His former enemies, now turned allies, had seen half their nation occupied, including Calpharon, their capital. If Striker fell, most of the rest of their nation would soon follow. But Barron couldn’t just ignore the threat to the heart of the Confederation.

More than that, he couldn’t completely banish the distraction struggling to pull him from his work. He had the small screen on the table in front of him angled so no one else could see it…at least he thought no one could. It didn’t display fleet manifests of supply figures, or maps of the systems affected by the Union-Highborn offensive. No, it was focused on one small icon, in the very system where Striker was located, the image of a single ship, moving steadily away from the fortress toward one of the transit points.

Pegasus.

Andi was gone…again. She had to go, even Tyler couldn’t argue otherwise this time, but that didn’t dull the pain, or the worry. They’d said their goodbyes just before she’d boarded her trusty old ship, hours after they’d sent Cassie back to Megara, in the care of Lita Mareth and through a wall of sadness that possessed almost physical dimension. Their last night together as a family had been spoiled by the emergency communique that confirmed the threat of invasion from the Union had become an actual attack. Barron had spent most of the night trying to decide what to do, how to aid in the vital defense of Fortress Grimaldi…even as he realized any help he diverted from his own forces would arrive far too late to intervene in what seemed like an impending battle.

And Andi had decided to leave even sooner than she’d planned, right after she’d seen Cassie safely off in the care of her trusted nanny…and the squad of Marines Tyler had sent to guard the child wherever she was. Tyler Barron was surrounded by comrades, officers, spacers, Marines…hundreds of thousands of men and women looking to him every moment, following his orders with fanatical devotion.

But in a way that cut deep to his core, he was alone.

“We can’t spare anything, Tyler. You know that.” Barron had expected resistance to the diversion of forces from Chronos and Akella and the other Hegemony leaders, but Clint Winters’s words startled him. Winters was a Confed officer, even as he was…and it was his home being threatened as much as it was Tyler’s.

“If Grimaldi falls, they could cut us off out here, Clint. They could hit the Iron Belt, or even Megara.” Where I sent Cassie so she could be safe…

“I know that. But those systems are all heavily fortified. They can hold out for a time, even against a heavy attack. If we can’t hold here, what happens? We lose the rest of the Hegemony…and we get pushed back, probably all the way to Dannith, almost back to Grimaldi itself. Anything we send now is going to get there after the fight happens there…and that means those ships will be in the middle of the Badlands when the decisive action takes place, not contributing to either desperate struggle. They’ll reach a Grimaldi that managed to hold out, or a system occupied by the enemy. Either way, they’ll accomplish nothing. If we keep everything we’ve got here, at least we know it will be part of the fight. If we can repel the enemy attack at Striker, and it looks like the Union threat in Confederation space is a prolonged one, we can revisit this, mount a proper relief expedition…and take back Grimaldi if the bastards managed to seize it.”

Barron wanted to argue, mostly because he understood just how crucial Grimaldi was, and just how soft the Confederation’s underbelly would be to an invading fleet if the great fortress fell. Nearly a century of war with the Union had centered on Grimaldi and a small string of fortified stations in adjacent systems, and it had never fallen, not in any meaningful way. If that line was truly pierced, the Highborn would have helped the Union do what they had never managed in four different wars…slicing past the Confederation’s belt of defenses and into the heart of its primary systems. That had only happened once in Confederation history, when the Hegemony had invaded. That had resulted in the conquest and occupation of Megara itself, and brought the Confederation to the brink of utter defeat.

That could never be allowed to happen again.

Barron was far from satisfied with his friend’s assertions, but he knew Winters was right. There was nothing he could do to aid the defense of Grimaldi, not in time. Even trying would reduce his strength at Striker, creating weakness for no offsetting gain.

But how could he leave the few remaining defenders back home to their own devices, especially after he’d stripped the Confederation of almost every military asset that could make it out to Hegemony space?

“I feel your pain, my brother. Indeed, I share it. If the enemy is able to reach the Confederation’s Core, there is little to stop them from advancing to Palatia itself. But we must fight where we can truly defeat our enemy, and that is here.” Vian Tulus was the last one Barron had expected to argue against moving assets back to defend home space. Protecting the capital world was almost a religion to Alliance warriors. They all swore to sacrifice anything to ensure their homeworld was never again enslaved…which is exactly what would happen if the enemy overran the Rim. But Tulus was resolute, and Barron saw not the slightest hint of doubt in his eyes.

“You are our leader, Tyler…in every way that matters. This must be your decision. If you feel the correct move is to dispatch a contingent back to defend Confederation space, then you must do it…and we here, will have to find a way to endure with less.”

Barron had still been looking over at Tulus when Akella spoke. He turned toward the Hegemony leader, and even as he was trying to process what she had said, he saw Chronos sitting next to her, nodding.

The Hegemony leaders, who stood to lose everything if the fight to hold Striker failed, were advising him to consider weakening the forces defending the fortress…and Vian Tulus, with a spiritual imperative to hold Palatia at all costs was recommending against sending forces back to the Rim. It took him by surprise, and for a moment, he just sat quietly, as comprehension slowly did its work.

He understood what it really meant, beyond specific strategic opinions. Whatever their pasts, as strangers, even as enemies, the nations of the Pact had become one unit, its members, the leaders he was fortunate enough to have at his side, forged in the fire, together for one purpose. To defeat the Highborn.

Akella was prepared to lose the rest of the Hegemony if that was the best course for the war to continue. Tulus would leave Palatia naked and unprotected…to commit his ships and warriors to the main fight. Wherever Tyler Barron decreed that struggle would take place. The weight of responsibility was almost unbearable, and he struggled to bear it. He wanted to run, to leave someone else to fill his shoes, but he knew that was one thing he could never do. His long-dead grandfather, the spacers lost in his many campaigns, even his daughter, so recently sent away from Striker…their eyes all stared back at him from the darkness of his mind, encouraging him, making any retreat from his duty unthinkable.

He didn’t know how he could find the strength he would need. He was devastated at Andi’s departure, and terrified about what would happen to her. He missed his daughter, only hours gone from Striker, with a pain that ate through his soul. His cold, realistic view told him his forces would be outmatched, that he didn’t know how to achieve the victory his allies needed, the one they were counting on him to lead them to.

But he felt something else, not quite hope perhaps, but something like it. The Confederation, the Alliance, and the Hegemony were allied as one, the greatest concentration of power and force since the old empire fell. It was almost time to truly put the war machine he had forged to the test. He dreaded the losses, the death, the suffering…but perhaps, just perhaps, if the assembled warriors—his warriors now, all of them—could prevail, they could win the peace they all craved. They could preserve their freedom and defeat a race of would-be gods who would enslave them.

Barron didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want his spacers to die. But if there was a cause worth that kind of sacrifice, this was it. This fight was for nothing less than the future.

He knew what he had to do.

“No ships to the Rim. Not now. That is just what the enemy wants.” Barron knew his conclusion was nothing more than a wager, a bet that the Highborn-Union attack on the Confederation was a diversion, an attempt to convince him to weaken his position at Striker.

He couldn’t be sure of course, but if that had been the enemy’s plan, it had some a hair’s breadth from achieving just that purpose.

But Barron had fought many wars, led invasions, and defended against them, and he’d learned to trust his gut. He was about to bet the future of the Rim, of all free humanity, that the Highborn hadn’t been able to get enough force all the way around the Badlands to sustain a full scale invasion. They might even take out Grimaldi, but it would take a lot of ships to press home with a full-scale invasion.

If he was wrong, Dannith, Megara, the Iron Belt, could all be lost.

And Cassie is on the way back to Megara…

“We stand here…and we hold. At all costs.” The last words came out in a tone so bone-chillingly cold they seemed almost to freeze in the air before him.

“Yes, my brother, we hold. At all costs.” Tulus was the first to repeat Barron’s declaration, and he stood up as he did.

“At all costs.” Clint ‘The Sledgehammer’ Winters was next, and he jumped up to his fleet and challenged Barron for the deepest and coldest tone.

“At all costs.” Akella was next, and Chronos after her, and then one by one, all present stood and repeated Barron’s words, their tones reverent, like a series of sacred oaths.

The Pact was going to fight it out at Striker…and they were going to hold.

They were going to hold, or they were going to die. All of them.

*

“Andi, everything checks out. All systems look…” Vig’s voice trailed off to silence. He paused for a few seconds, and then he asked, “Are you okay, Andi?”

Andi Lafarge was staring out of the small lower deck window, her eyes fixed on the blackness of space. She could see Vasa Denaris, the system’s sun, but Striker, even the large planet it orbited, were invisible to the naked eye.

But Andi saw it nevertheless, in her thoughts if not with her eyes, and she found it hard to look away. Tyler was there, on that massive fortress Pegasus had just left behind. Cassie wasn’t on Striker anymore, she was even farther away. Andi and Tyler had sent their daughter, along with Akella’s children, back to the Confederation.

The Confederation that was itself now under direct attack. Andi wanted desperately to believe her daughter would be safe, but she knew very well that all of their lives depended on defeating the Highborn. That was why she was where she was, why she had done something that had taken every bit of her strength and resolve. She had left Tyler again, entrusted her child to Lita Mareth’s care…and she was leading her small crew once again into the endless void.

She sniffled, as softly as she could, trying to brush her sleeve across her face as nonchalantly as she could as she turned. She had changed in many ways, but there was enough of the old Andi Lafarge to compel her to at least try to keep anyone from seeing her cry.

“That’s good, Vig…not really a surprise, considering.” Anya Fritz had arrived at Striker along with the first antimatter shipments from the Confederation. Andi considered the engineer one of her closest friends, and Fritz had insisted on checking Pegasus out from bow to stern as soon as she heard Andi was leaving. She’d even beat Andi to asking her to do just that, and perhaps more amazingly, she also beat Tyler to it.

“We’re going to find it this time, Andi.”

Andi couldn’t tell if Vig really believed that, or if he was just telling her what she wanted to hear. They were following good data, she was confident of that at least. If this had been one of her normal runs back in the day, she would have been optimistic. But the future of everyone and everything she cared about rode on this voyage, and even if she did manage to succeed, if she didn’t get back soon enough, if Tyler and the fleet were attacked and defeated before she returned, it would be too late, even if she found what she was seeking.

“We’ll find the planet, at least.” Andi didn’t have an exact location, but she had enough navigational data to narrow it down, and she had faith in her ability to sniff out a destination. She still had her Badlands prospector’s nose, and she was damned sure going to use it. But what would she find when she tracked down the planet? Would there be defenses? Would there be enough clues to lead her to what she sought? Planets were extremely large, and it could take years to search one systematically.

That assumed anything had survived the past three and a half centuries. The Cataclysm had left unimaginable devastation in its wake. Even the current civilizations on the Rim had crawled from the ruins. The information she wanted might have been destroyed by imperial fleet units three hundred years before…or by Badlands prospectors much more recently. She, herself, had been at Aquellus, when every installation on that planet had been vaporized by a massive antimatter explosion, one triggered not by old imperial defenses but by Union Sector Nine operatives. As far as she knew, the world she was seeking was the only other place with the data she needed, the twin of the facility on Aquellus. If it had suffered a similar fate that water world, all her efforts, the risks she taken, the Marines who had died on Pintarus…it would all have been for nothing.

“I think you should get some rest, Andi. You’ll want to be sharp when we get to the Badlands.”

Andi just nodded, though she had no intention of taking Vig’s advice. She had work to do, and she could start by going over the navigation information…again. The closer she could get her approach, the more systems she could eliminate from consideration, the faster she could do what she had come to do.

There wasn’t going to be much rest, not for a long while.

Chapter Seven

UWS Casaleon

4,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Union Year 231 (327 AC)

“I am very grateful, Mr. Holsten. The ships of my…fleet…suffered considerably in our fight at Montmirail, and during our subsequent escape.” Andrei Denisov still had a hard time thinking of his ragtag group of refugees as a fleet. He’d picked up a few more stragglers, and his current OB listed forty-two ships, but only three of those were battleships, and the meager fighter wings his trio of capital ships carried had been badly hurt as well. But there was no question his vessels were a lot closer to battleworthy than they’d been when they had first limped across the border. Holsten had diverted supplies and spare parts, and teams of engineers, to the Free Union forces, even as he’d struggled to prepare Fortress Grimaldi and his own patched together force for the coming fight.

“I wish we had more time, Andrei, but I suspect we don’t. If the enemy gives us another week, we might get you some reinforcements for those squadrons. I’ve got some fresh Lightnings on the way, and about a hundred pilots fresh from the Academy.” Holsten’s voice expressed just how much chance he believed they had of getting that week. Not zero, perhaps, but the damned closest thing to it.

Holsten had come to the rescue of Colin Simpson’s fleet, which had included Denisov’s ships as well, and that intervention had saved a lot of ships from almost certain destruction. Now, the remnants of that force, Denisov’s and Simpson’s ships, plus a few more Holsten had managed to scrape up, were positioned all around Grimaldi. The great fortress had served for nearly eighty years as the linchpin of Confederation defenses against the Union. The last thing anyone present had expected was a renewal of that purpose, but the intervention of the Highborn had changed things enormously. The chance to bring the totalitarian Union into a friendlier status with the Confederation had been shattered by the Highborn reinforcements sent to Gaston Villieneuve. Now, those forces were heading toward Grimaldi…and they would likely arrive at any moment.

“We’re in a good position to fight with the fortress…except for the range of the enemy weapons. If they want to take the time, they can pound us from outside our own range. Grimaldi has some heavy guns that can likely match the Highborn beams…” Denisov paused. He’d been about to say, “I remember those,” but he didn’t think references to old battles fought against his current allies served any useful purpose. “But we might need to advance the fleet units…perhaps to just beyond the minefields. Otherwise, we’ll all end up sitting and watching as the enemy trades fire with the fort.”

“That might make sense. You can discuss it with Commodore Simpson.” Holsten’s tone changed, a bit of gallows humor slipping in. “Remember, I don’t know shit about naval tactics, Andrei. My contribution to this fight was illegally diverting everything I could find with a gun on it. When the enemy comes through the point, it’s your show, and Simpson’s.” A few seconds of silence. “And I’m Gary…please, stop Mr. Holstening me to death, my friend.”

“Very well, Gary.” Denisov felt a grin slip onto his lips. The sense of amusement was a passing one, but it was also welcome. He couldn’t remember the last time he had laughed, or even smiled.

Or had cause to.

His world had become a toxic mix of despair and fear, and the words of a friend were a welcome beam of light in the darkness.

It lasted about thirty seconds.

“Admiral, we’re picking up energy readings at the transit point.” Denisov turned his head abruptly, looking at the display. The smile was gone, and his stomach felt as though a giant hand had clenched all around it. The energy spike could be a number of things, but he didn’t have the slightest doubt about the actual cause.

“Gary…”

The response came through the comm before he could get any farther. “We’re reading it here, too, Andrei. Good luck to you, my friend. To all of us.”

The line went dead, and Andrei Denisov took a deep breath, and then he began snapping out orders to his officers.

*

“Take her to the shuttle, Gaston. We’ll want her launched as soon as the fleet has completed the jump.” Percelax looked over at Villieneuve. The Union dictator was far more agreeable since his Collar had been installed. Percelax had understood Tesserax’s directive during the time it had taken to secure control of the Union, and he’d even agreed it had been wise to wait to encollar the Union leader until the civil war was finished. But that hadn’t made it easy to put up with Villieneuve’s arrogance. It had taken considerable control for the Highborn commander to put up with such insufferable insolence from a mere human.

The entire effort had been a stunning success, however, and with only a small force, Percelax had managed to take control of the entire Union. Now, he had opened a new front against the Confederation, thirty transits behind the main battle lines.

The coming fight would be a difficult one, his own small force against whatever amalgam of vessels the Confeds had managed to throw together. But even if he was unable to destroy the great fortress and press forward into the heart of the Confederation, he could still achieve success. The attack was only a diversion, an attempt to draw forces from the main human positions before Tesserax launched the final assault there. Attack Plan Alpha had been carefully developed, and Percelax’s primary part was to instill fear in the enemy, play havoc on their dispositions. Every ship diverted to the new front was one less component of force available to stand against Tesserax’s fleet. Every supply convoy that went to Grimaldi instead of Striker aided the war effort.

But Percelax had his own plans. His attack would serve its stated purpose, simply through its existence. But he wasn’t going to fight the battle like a diversionary force. He was going to hit the humans with everything he had. He couldn’t be sure when he might receive reinforcements, though he suspected with the end of the civil hostilities, at least the Union shipyards would resume operations soon enough. That would add some forces to his fleet, even if additional Highborn forces were delayed or redirected.

If he could break through, if he could destroy the desperate defensive line the Confed had managed to assemble, he could shatter the enemy’s morale, perhaps with even greater effect than Tesserax taking base Striker. If he could win without taking too many losses, he could then move on any number of vital, and undefended, targets. The credit for pacifying the humans would go mostly to Tesserax, of course. He was the viceroy, and the overall commander—and highly placed among the Firstborn as well. But Percelax could ensure his own advancement, and his position in the Highborn command structure, with peripheral glory of his own. If he could defeat the humans at their Grimaldi base, terrify their political leaders, even move on their central worlds, he would gain his own share of the rewards.

He had another plan as well, one he considered a bit of a wildcard, but intriguing in its possibilities.

“The shuttle will launch at the designated time, Gaston. See that the pursuit, and the firing plan, is carried out exactly as specified.”

“Yes, Highborn.” The respect in Villieneuve’s voice was appealing to Percelax. The humility, the recognition that he was but a mere human addressing one of the gods, was a major improvement from his pre-Collar demeanor. Villieneuve was just as imperious with his own subordinates, of course, and that suited Percelax very well. He didn’t care at all about the lower echelon humans. He needed the best the Union forces could give, and while he might have imagined different kinds of motivations stronger than the raw political terror that drove Union spacers, there certainly wasn’t time to change anything before the battle. He had only had a few Collars, and it would likely be years before he could obtain anywhere near the number he would need for the Union fleet personnel. That left him little choice but to rely on their fear of Gaston Villieneuve. He’d gone so far as to instruct Villieneuve not to address him as ‘Highborn’ in the presence of others. The continued illusion of the dictator’s independence and senior position in the new coalition was useful, and as much as Percelax would enjoy making Villieneuve crawl before him in front of his subordinates, it would have to wait until after the battle.

“I will be leaving here in a few moments, Gaston, and returning to my flagship. I am relying on you to execute the plan in my absence.” Percelax wondered if he wouldn’t be better off staying until the shuttle had launched, but a Union warship filled with uncollared humans wasn’t a place he wanted to be during the coming battle.

“You can rely on me, Highborn. I will see it done.”

Percelax turned toward the woman standing silently against the opposite wall. Sandrine Ciara was docile and obedient, so much more agreeable than she had been. She owed Percelax a great debt. The Highborn didn’t know, or much care, about the specifics of Union torture methods, but he suspected he had saved the defeated Ciara from a horrific and slow death. Now she would do as he wished, but not out of gratitude. Ciara was the first recipient of the experimental second generation Collar, a much small version of the device, designed to elude detection.

It had still been in first stage testing, but he’d requested a prototype before he’d left for the Union. He’d been told to expect a forty percent chance of a fatal reaction to the still-experimental device, but he’d had no other use for Ciara, so he’d made that bet…and it had paid off.

Sandrine Ciara would escape from the fleet, and she would go to the Confeds, beg for sanctuary. He found it difficult to imagine the humans would stupid enough to take her in. She had no apparent usefulness now that her bid for power had been crushed. But his analysis of human thought told him there was roughly a fifty percent chance Ciara would not only be granted some type of sanctuary, but she would manage to get to a place where she could cause disruption and damage to the Confeds…eventually. That was a gamble worth taking, especially when all he was risking was an otherwise worthless human and one brand new Collar.

“See to it, Gaston…and see that your fleet performs well. The enemy has a small force, but the fortress is a substantial construct, and per your records, the weapons of its main batteries are close to matching even those of our Highborn vessels in range. It is time for the vengeance you have so long sought, Gaston. I want you close to Admiral Fierra at all times. Allow him to direct the fleet’s attack tactically, but he is not to communicate with the enemy under any circumstances. Is that understood?” Ideally, Fierra would have been encollared as well, but Percelax had an extreme shortage of the precious devices, and he’d been compelled to use them all to ensure the Union authorities he’d left behind would remain loyal. He’d had only the one unit he’d used on Ciara…and he’d considered Admiral Fierra far too vital to the coming attack to risk his life needlessly on untested hardware.

“As you command, Highborn.”

Percelax turned and walked slowly away, smiling at Villieneuve’s pleasantly obsequious demeanor as he headed down the corridor toward his shuttle.

*

“All units, prepare to advance on my command. We’re going to push forward at one ten percent. All engineering teams on full alert.” Simpson sat on Vandengraf’s bridge, staring forward at the main display. Sam Taggart had offered him Constellation as a flagship, but he’d declined. He had a superstitious streak he’d never been able to shake, a common enough trait among spacers, and Vandengraf had gotten him back from Outpost Twelve. Abandoning the trusty ship didn’t seem quite right. Constellation was by far the most powerful unit in the fleet, save only for Grimaldi itself, but Sam Taggart had handled her vessel well, and he didn’t think she needed the fleet commander breathing down her neck.

“All ships acknowledge, Commodore. The fleet is waiting for your signal.” Simpson was still trying to get used to having Larson Jaymes relaying his commands. Simpson had never been the sort to take on ‘projects’ or to make himself a mentor to those in need, but something told him Jaymes deserved a second chance. The ill-fated commander of Outpost Twelve had acquitted himself flawlessly in that hopeless battle, and while his career reverses had been self-inflicted, he seemed committed to redemption.

Simpson’s eyes flashed across the bridge to another station. Antonio Graves was still his senior aide as far as he was concerned, despite the fact that Jaymes had about six month’s seniority. He had decided to give Simpson his second chance, but he’d also instructed Graves to watch his counterpart like a hawk, and to take over if he deemed it necessary.

Simpson took a deep breath and leaned back. He felt the urge to call someone, to report his intentions. But Gary Holsten wasn’t a naval officer, a fact the spymaster had made abundantly clear when he’d confirmed in no uncertain terms that Simpson was in sole and uncontested command of the entire operation…the fleet, Grimaldi, everything.

He can tell me that, but I’m not sure he has the authority to put me in command. That wasn’t terribly relevant, of course. With his—equally quasi-legal—promotion to commodore, Simpson was the highest-ranking officer on the scene. Grimaldi rated a single star flag officer in command, but it had been some years since any commodore had sat in the fortress’s command center. The onetime vortex of Confederation military activity had endured a decade of irrelevance, during which it had lost some of its squadrons, most of its veteran crew, and become a lower level command assignment.

It had also slipped to a much lower priority level for updates and repairs. Simpson wouldn’t say the fortress was obsolete, and its main guns had been replaced three years before—thank God!—but despite its size, it had become, in many ways, a second-class facility.

Perfect for a second-class commander, a glorified ship captain with a questionable set of stars on his shoulders and a damned near impossible task…

A single mission. To stop the enemy invasion of the Confederation.

Simpson had been nearly frantic in his quarters when he’d first gotten the alert. But he quickly pulled himself together. He wasn’t sure if he’d truly gotten hold of himself, or in some grim and morose fashion, he’d simply accepted his fate. Then he decided it didn’t matter. He had enough to think about with the battle about to begin, and his mind grasped for inspiration, for ideas. He’d been halfway to the bridge when it had come to him.

He couldn’t move his ships forward too soon. If he did that, the enemy would halt outside his range and blast his entire fleet to scrap. He needed Grimaldi’s longer-ranged guns to counter the Highborn weaponry. But if he stayed where he was, lined up around the fort, the enemy would form a line and engage in a duel with Grimaldi, while his ships sat useless and out of range.

He couldn’t allow that. The only chance his people had was to hit the enemy hard, with everything they had at the same time. Everything. And that meant driving his ships forward, just as the enemy moved into range. It would be costly, dangerous, but the fleet would be moving just as the enemy was engaging a fresh Grimaldi. By the time the fortress started taking serious damage, his line would be in range…and every ship he had would open up.

There was no elegance to his plan, at least not past the attempt to convince the enemy his fleet would remain in line in front of the fort…until every ship made a mad dash forward. Then it would be a toe to toe slugfest, a vicious brawl…and he’d given one further fleetwide order that would be difficult for some ships to obey.

Every ship was to target the Highborn. The Union fleet was far from inconsequential, but without their far more advanced allies, Simpson knew they could never mount a real invasion of the Confederation. They might even take Grimaldi, destroy the great fortress, a goal that had eluded them for three-quarters of a century. They might annihilate his fleet. But they would never get through with a force powerful enough to advance much farther.

And preventing an invasion, stopping the enemy in or near the Krakus system, would be a victory…even if it cost every ship he had, and Fortress Grimaldi.

Survival would be nice, a pleasant outcome of the battle. But stopping the enemy, gutting their forces enough so they couldn’t press forward, was all that really mattered.

Chapter Eight

Free Trader Pegasus

Alfaris Bootes System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“No, I don’t think so. Beta Zonaris has the right number of planets, but the orbital data is off…by a lot. I know we can’t be sure everything we’ve got is entirely accurate, but there are too many inconsistencies there. Let’s drop it from the list.” Andi knew she was moving a bit quickly in eliminating possible systems from the shrinking number she considered possible destinations. The data from the imperial capital had been hastily assembled from the spotty information that had remained after the old intelligence headquarters building had collapsed, and the corresponding data on Badlands systems was even worse, mostly drawn from an informal database that had been updated and shared by the loose brotherhood of Badland prospectors. Andi could get defensive in her own right when anyone denigrated her former profession, but that didn’t stop her from acknowledging that a lot of her peers had been little more than liars and pirates.

A lot of them.

“I agree, Andi. I wouldn’t say it’s a hundred percent, but probably ninety-five. Given our time constraints, I think we need to focus on higher probability prospects.”

Andi looked up from the flat screen on the table and glanced over at Vig. She had a tendency to take things on herself, to assume no one could do a better job—or one nearly as good—but she reminded herself that Vig had become one hell of a navigator in his years on Pegasus. And her own mind was far from clear. Her personal worries, the fear for her loved ones, ate at her constantly…and she couldn’t be sure it wasn’t affecting her incisiveness.

Bottom line…listen to Vig. Take him seriously. He can help…

“You’re right, Vig. On that vein, let’s cut Talus Vellus and Gamma Allantra. They’re a little closer to matches, but still outside the mean. We’ve got at least a dozen systems that are more likely matches, and together, I’d put the odds that our target is one of those twelve or fourteen well north of ninety percent. I’ll take nine chances in ten, anytime.” She also remembered being on the wrong side of ninety-ten probabilities before, but she didn’t let herself think of that. She didn’t have time, and her best bet was to go with the numbers.

“Okay, then we take the refined list, and we come up with the quickest path through, right?”

Andi nodded. “Telus Zakaris is the bug in that. It’s at least three extra jumps to get there from anywhere on our course plot. We’d save a lot of time if we dropped it out.” Andi stared at the starmap. She could speed things up considerably by removing that single system…but she couldn’t come up with another reason to scratch it. It matched all the search parameters, just like the other systems.

It’s one out of twelve, even one out of the seven or eight likeliest. That’s maybe a twelve percent chance, max…and you’ll save at least two weeks…

The thought was a seductive one, but Telus Zakaris was located near the beginning of the range of systems, and her progressive search would lead Pegasus farther and farther away. It would be the second, maybe third system they search…otherwise, she’d spend close a month going through the others, and if none of them panned out, another two weeks to get back to Telus Zakaris.

It’s a gamble. You’ve taken them before, more times than you can probably remember…

But something was different this time. She wasn’t sure if it was some nugget of data in the scant records she had on the troublesome system, or just the immense stakes riding on her mission. She’d struggled for wealth before, even for her own personal survival, but this time she was striving for more than that. For Tyler, for Cassie…for everything she knew and cared about.

“Telus stays in, Vig. I don’t think we should skip any significant possibilities. Not now.”

You’re being comprehensive, but the lost days could just as easily be the difference between getting back in time…or arriving too late.

Vig was right, but so was she. There was little advantage to thinking too much about it further or worrying yet again about what to would mean if she was late. Andi had never been one to discount the prospect of failure, but she was doing her best to do just that. She simply couldn’t fail. She couldn’t fail Tyler and Cassie. No matter what it took.

“We’ll hit Telus third. Maybe Lex can squeeze some extra push from the engines and shave some hours off that travel time…”

*

“It’s close, Vig. Damned close.” Andi was staring at the data scrolling down her screen, checking the planet types and orbital positions. The information she had from the imperial capital was detailed but also incomplete, and however much analysis she and her people put into their search, guesswork was going to play a role. She still had some doubts lingering, even as she checked off boxes in her mind.

“We’re getting the probe data in now. There are definitely some kind of ruins on planet four. It’s got to be something imperial. Readings suggest fairly extensive constructions. If this was fifteen years ago, we’d be all over this place, Andi.”

Andi felt a brief flash of amusement at Vig’s reference to their time as true Badlands prospectors. She’d been fresh from the slums of the Gut in those days, focused with laser sharp intensity on the acquisition of wealth. She’d have gone down to the planet below them with both guns drawn, ready to tear through those ruins—and anybody who tried to get in her way—but now, her cheerful recollection faded almost immediately, swamped by one overriding fact.

The base they were looking for was supposed to be on the third planet, not the fourth. The ruins her people had found might be an incredible find, stuffed full of artifacts worth billions of credits. But she hadn’t come for scraps of old electronics or bits and pieces of imperial history, however valuable they may be. She had come for the secret to defeating the Highborn…and that was going to be on a third planet, not a fourth.

“Mark it in the logbooks, Vig. If we survive this war, we’ll send somebody back to check this out.” That wouldn’t be her, though. She’d already promised herself, if she got the chance for quiet and peace with Tyler and Cassie, nothing short of the need to save the Rim again would drag her from it.

“Done.” Vig was silent for a few seconds, then he added, “I remember how excited I would have been at something like this…and now I barely care. I guess we’re getting old, Andi…”

“Old…or maybe we’re just growing up. There was a time nothing seemed more important to me than finding some piece of an old circuit board, something we could sell back on Dannith.” She remembered those days, and the emotions that drove her. But she couldn’t really remember how it really felt.

She remembered the Gut, too, the misery, the constant struggle to survive, to find something to eat…and on a good day, something that wouldn’t turn a rodent sick. But she knew those recollections were partial and incomplete as well. She understood what it was like to be hungry, crawling through the garbage, eyes peering in every direction for another vagrant ready to kill or a few scraps of food. But it was sanitized now, like she was thinking of someone else, not herself.

She’d come so far from those days, gained so much…and unless she succeeded in her current mission, she could lose it all.

No, I’m not going to fail…

The Highborn were immensely powerful, a nightmare produced by humanity, that now threatened to enslave their creators. Her rational mind told her there was no way, that she was on a fool’s errand, that the fight against so powerful an enemy was without hope.

Then she told her rational mind to go to hell.

She was a cold realist, and she had been since her days of squalor and misery. Andi had seen enough of the universe’s dark side, the seething underbelly of human civilization to inflame her cynicism to the very depths of her soul.

But now she relied on hope, on her belief in her own determination and ability. She told herself she had accomplished other ‘impossible’ missions, that she had come improbably far from her wretched beginnings. She told herself her crew were veterans, the best at what they did.

But in the end, it came down to one thing, utterly at odds with her usual approach to things.

She would succeed because she had to, because failure was unthinkable.

Because she had to help save those she loved, and the comrades and friends she had acquired in her wild and almost unimaginable life.

You’ve come all this way from the Gut. There has to be some purpose to that. It won’t end here, fighting these genetic monsters. It can’t…

She sucked in a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling hard.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, Vig. Planet three’s a barren desert, no signs it was ever inhabited.” She knew that wasn’t conclusive, that the imperials could very well have chosen a desolate world to construct a base of the sort she sought. But there wasn’t time to be sure. She didn’t have the resources to comb an entire planet for some underground base. She had to go with her gut.

And her gut was telling her to press on. What she had come for wasn’t in Alfaris Bootes.

It was out there somewhere…farther along on the trail she was pursuing.

She leaned down over the comm unit. “Vig, we’re setting a course for transit point three. We’ve got three jumps to reach Telus Zakaris. Let’s see what we can do to sharpen our vectors and cut down on that travel time.”

Chapter Nine

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Do you mind if I sit with you for a moment?” Akella stood outside the doorway leading to the small lounge. Tyler Barron sat alone on a small chair, looking out through the hyper-polycarbonate window, at the blackness of the Vasa Denaris system, and the pinpricks of light speckled majestically across. The room had been intended for general use, but Barron had taken a liking to it, and now most of his comrades and officers shied away, not wanting to disturb his solitude. The admiral had been working relentlessly, a man obsessed with preparing to meet the Highborn, and to defeat them and send them back to the coreward reaches from whence they had come. But in his few moments away from work, he’d been morosely depressed, and the exhaustion from maintaining his warrior’s persona in the face of such desperate danger had eaten away at what was left of the man.

“Of course, Akella…how often does anyone say ‘no’ to you?” Barron turned his body partially to the side and looked over at the Hegemony leader. Barron had gone into the alliance with the Hegemony as reluctantly as any of his spacers, perhaps more so. The officers and crew of his ships had suffered terribly in the war against the Hegemony, but their pain had been limited to personal suffering, and the loss of friends and comrades. Tyler Barron carried all of it with him, the ghosts of millions who’d died serving under his command, the dead on worlds like Megara, where his efforts to defend them had failed, the names of ships gone, reduced to glowing plasma with all the men and women who’d served them aboard. He’d hated Akella and her people. He hadn’t even realized how fiery hot his rage had been, not until he’d learned to let it go.

Now, he realized he counted her as one of his closest friends. That was both a relief and a misery. However much his former enemies had become vital allies, revealed themselves to be human beings, both good and bad, part of him would always drown in self-hatred for his friendship with those who had killed so many of his spacers.

Akella walked across the room and sat in the chair next to Barron. “Tyler…I just wanted to check on you, see how you are holding up. How you are really holding up.”

Barron opened his mouth, ready to repeat the bottled response he gave everyone who asked him that question. But something stopped him. Akella was perhaps the only person on Striker he could actually talk to about such things. Atara was his closest and oldest friend, a sister to him in every way that mattered. But she was one of his spacers, too, and she had a right to draw strength from him, not to listen to him whine about his own weakness. The same applied to Clint Winters, Vian Tulus…even Chronos and Ilius, his Hegemony comrades. He was the effective commander in chief of all the Pact’s military, even if that had never been made entirely official. Everybody looked to him for strength, and giving it to them cost him more than they could ever imagine.

“It’s…difficult. If Andi was still here, and Cassie…” Barron knew Andi’s mission was a vital one, even if he was less sure than she that there was some secret weapon that would defeat the Highborn. And he didn’t really want Cassie anywhere near Striker, not when the most terrible battle of his life was likely to begin at any moment. But he still missed them terribly, and he worried about them every conscious moment.

“I would like to say I understand—and I do to an extent…” Akella had sent her own children back to Megara along with Cassie. Barron suspected that had been even more difficult for her in some ways than sending Cassie had been for him. His daughter was going home, at least. Akella was entrusting her son and daughter to allies who had been enemies not that long ago. “I miss my children already, though I’m sure like you, I want them nowhere near what is coming.”

“Perhaps you and the Council should prepare to evacuate as well.” Barron paused. He liked to think of himself as a confident man, but the truth was, if he’d been making a wager, he probably would have bet against himself. “Things are liable to get…sticky here. Even on Striker.” Especially on Striker. There was no potential Highborn attack plan Barron could imagine that didn’t center on knocking out the great fortress.

“I am going to put the Council in extended recess, and allow its members to leave as soon as they can prepare. Close to half of them are from planets still in our possession, at least for the moment, so they’ll have some place to go.”

Barron nodded as she spoke, but he kept the first thought that came into his mind to himself. She’ll be able to breath more easily with the Council out of session and dispersed.

So will you…now if you could just find someplace to send the Senate…

Barron suppressed a smile at his thoughts. The Senate was always a wildcard, but they were far away, and the Hegemony Council was still right there on Striker.

“And what about you, Akella? Where will you go?” Barron had only sketchy information on the Hegemony leader’s history. He was aware she hadn’t been born on Calpharon, but he knew nothing about her birth world. Save only that it was located in the region of Hegemony currently occupied by the Highborn.

“I am not leaving.” Her words were a surprise, at first, but less so as Barron considered them, alongside all he’d come to know of Akella’s character. Still, her intention to stay concerned him.

“I appreciate your courage, Akella…but perhaps you should reconsider. You are, after all, the closest thing the Hegemony has to a head of state. If things go…poorly…here, you will be needed…”

“If things go poorly here, it’s all over, Tyler. You know that as well as I do. The Hegemony will be finished, the remaining systems occupied within a matter of months. The Kriegeri garrisons will put up a hell of a fight, but they will eventually be overwhelmed. Or the enemy will tire of their resistance and bombard the stubbornly held worlds to oblivion. The Confederation and the Alliance will fight on, of course, as will whatever remnants remain of Hegemonic forces…but if we cannot hold them here, there is little chance of doing so in six months or a year somewhere else, when we are much weaker, far more desperate.”

Barron had long been impressed by Akella’s grasp of military realities, despite her almost complete lack of formal education in the area or experience in battle.

“Maybe you should pull back to Confederation space, prepare…just in case we need a Hegemony government in exile.” Barron had seen Megara fall, watched as the remnants of the Confederation government had continued to function in an alternate location. But that had been different. The fleet had been pushed back almost on top of its supply sources. The capital had fallen to the Hegemony, but the Confederation forces had remained strong and well-supported. If his fleet lost at Striker, they would never again be as strong as they were at that moment. It would be a defeated and demoralized force that retreated back across the Badlands.

And it’s very possible we’ll have enemy forces behind us as well…

Barron had tried not to think too much about what was happening around Fortress Grimaldi, mostly because there was nothing he could do about it. But if his forces were defeated at Striker, the situation looked grim, any way he shuffled the details in his head. Even if Grimaldi managed somehow to hold on.

“That would serve no purpose, Tyler…and you know it. Chronos and the fleet—or anyone else in command if Chronos…isn’t there—will fight at your side whether they receive orders from some political authority or not. A Council in exile would be an exercise in ego and self-importance, and whatever my faults have been in those areas, both are in low ebb right now. I have no desire to outlive the Hegemony, nor to watch as our few survivors continue a hopeless struggle. And I certainly don’t want to sit on some Confederation planet and listen to Thantor and his allies prattle on endlessly, no doubt about how the entire Highborn invasion was my fault. If I do not reconstitute the Council, I can spare you his machinations, at least.”

“I would be honored to have you here, Akella…though I still think you should go, leave the battle zone.” Barron had always respected true courage, and he’d seen far too little of it in the political personages who ran the governments of the various nations. He’d found the Hegemony’s system of genetic ratings troublesome, and also unreliable. He didn’t have to look any farther than Thantor, allegedly the second most perfect human known, to see that.

But the system, unfair misguided, well-intentioned, whatever description one chose to assign to it, had scored a direct hit with Akella. Barron truly liked his friend…and he respected the hell out of her as an ally.

He just hoped he was able to find some way to come through, to hold the line and push back the Highborn. To save the Rim, for Andi and Cassie, for himself…and for the men and women like Akella, those he’d been privileged to know in his violent and tumultuous career.

Those who deserved a future free from slavery to a self-designated group of would-be gods.

And dammit, I’m going to get that done…somehow…

*

“Bryan…your people haven’t seen much action in this war, not yet at least.” Barron had seen Confederation Marines in action, and he knew just how good they were. But the fight against the Highborn had taken place mostly in space, and the desperate ground defenses to hold worlds abandoned by the fleet had so far been fought by Hegemony Kriegeri.

Barron knew that could change, that it would change if the defense of Striker failed. There was nothing defensible behind the great fortress, not until Dannith itself. And that was Confederation space.

But for the moment, he had another idea in mind for Rogan’s Marines.

“No, Admiral, not yet. But I can promise you we’re ready, whenever you need us.” Bryan Rogan had been with Barron in one way or another since he’d commanded the contingent of Marines aboard Dauntless. The old Dauntless.

The Marine hadn’t been in a serious battle for six years, but Barron could still see clearly that Rogan still had his thousand-meter stare. The fighting on Megara and some of the other Confederation worlds during the Hegemony War had been some of the fiercest he’d ever seen, with casualty rates so high, it didn’t seem possible formations could take such abuse and stay in the fight. Barron was no stranger to war and strife, but he’d never seen anything quite like the looks in the eyes of the survivors from those battles, and Bryan Rogan stood at the head of that list.

“Well, I don’t have any planetary invasions to assign to you yet, but I was thinking maybe we could give your people something else to do. This is going to be a huge fight, Bryan, maybe the biggest—and most important—we’ve ever seen. We’ve got Anya Fritz back, and she’s whipped the engineering teams into a frenzy, but still…any extra help will make a huge difference. What do you think of pairing off your squads with the damage control teams? They’re not engineers, but that doesn’t mean they can’t help. If they can clear wreckage, help move equipment…they just might aid the tech teams in repairing damage that much quicker. And getting a gun back online, or a reactor powered up that much sooner could make the difference…”

“Of course, Admiral. The Marines are always here for you…you know that. I’ve got close to a hundred thousand total in the fleet. About ten thousand of those are here on Striker, and the rest are in troop transports or in small detachments on the warships. I could transfer the units on the troopships, allocate them to bolster the contingents on the various ships. Like you said, an extra hundred sets of hands on a battleship might just keep the thing in the line a little longer.”

“That’s perfect, Bryan. Do it. Transfer as many as you can…” Barron had been about to add, “And prepare any troopships with Marines still aboard to leave the system.” He didn’t want his ground troops sitting helplessly in lightly armed and armored transports when they could serve no purpose.

But maybe the ships can…

“Get them all off the transports, Bryan. Cram more of them on Striker if you have to. Speak to Commander Cavelton. She’ll find billets for the Marines you bring aboard.”

Rogan stood up, and he saluted. “I’ll see it done, Admiral. If the Marines don’t have any place fighting for you, we’ll help fix things.” Barron could hear conflicting tones in Rogan’s voice, the Marine’s unyielding loyalty and commitment to duty struggling with his sense that carrying around tools and equipment for a bunch of engineers was far from an ideal posting for the Confederation’s grim and dedicated ground forces.

Barron was going to say something, try to reassure Rogan there was no dishonor in the duty that lay ahead for his people. But he just remained silent. Nothing he said would make his old comrade feel better…and nothing was exactly all he had to say to ensure that General Bryan Rogan followed his orders to the letter.

Barron waited until Rogan was gone, and then he reached down to the small comm unit on the table and tapped at its controls. “Atara…Bryan Rogan is going to reassign the Marines on the transport flotilla and put them all on Striker and the ships of the fleet to back up Anya Fritz’s people. Once he’s got that done, I want you to reassign the naval crews as well. I want those ships empty. Completely empty.”

“Understood, Admiral.” Barron wasn’t sure whether Atara had already figured out just what he had in mind, or if she was just being herself and acting like she did. Either way, she sounded damned confident.

“Very well. And, Atara…one more thing. Find Anya Fritz and send her down here as quickly as you can.” Barron did have a plan for the transports, but it was going to take Anya Fritz’s wizardry to put it into action.

Chapter Ten

CFS Constellation

225,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Launch all squadrons.” Sam Taggart looked around Constellation’s bridge, trying to see through the bravado, to get a read on the true state of her crew’s morale. She was fortunate to have some veterans on the newly launched superbattleship, but she had plenty of freshly minted officers as well, newbs who’d never faced any enemy in battle, much less the dreaded Highborn.

“Yes, Captain. Launch operations underway.” Isaac Johnson at least sounded resolute. Her tactical officer was still a lieutenant, which seemed odd to her at a time when promotions were flying wildly around any spacers with combat experience against the Hegemony. Johnson’s billet rated a commander, and his experience did too. Taggart had no idea why the insignia hadn’t come with the assignment—things like that sometimes just fell between the cracks—but if Constellation made it through the current fight, she was damned sure going to see the oversight was corrected.

“Very well, Lieutenant. Maintain evasive maneuvers, but hold baseline velocity until the wings are launched.” Constellation was gyrating wildly, its vector and thrust changing every half second to ten seconds in a sequence that lay somewhere between exquisitely complex mathematics and pure randomness. The superbattleship was still out of range, at least outside what she believed was the extent of the Highborn targeting envelope, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Other than the base itself, she commanded the strongest ship in the fleet, and she knew whatever chance there was to hold Grimaldi, it would require one hell of a performance from Constellation, and from the giant battlewagon’s mix of veterans and raw spacers.

“Yes, Captain.”

Taggart didn’t like the idea of holding back on acceleration, not until her own guns were in range. Constellation mounted some powerful weaponry, and again, aside from the fortress itself, she outranged everything the Confederation had.

But that still left at least a thirty-thousand-kilometer belt where her ship would be a target before she was able to open fire.

“Flight control estimates four more minutes to complete launch.”

Taggart almost ordered maximum acceleration again, but once more, she held back. Unleashing the engines would complicate the actual launch operations to an extent, but it was the state of the deployed fighter wings that concerned her the most. Launching from an accelerating base ship was problematic. The differing intrinsic velocities of the fighters greatly complicated the process of getting the strike force into formation. Taggart was taking a wild enough chance, assuming the Highborn had no fighters of their own in the battle. All her ships were outfitted as bombers, and she knew if she was wrong, if enemy interceptors appeared and tore her squadrons to bits, she would blame herself…even though Commodore Simpson had given the same orders to the entire fleet.

She watched the chronometer, counting down silently to herself. If she’d timed everything correctly, she’d have the fighters launched and the engines back at full about three minutes before she entered the enemy’s range. Then, depending on the exact evasive maneuvers Constellation engaged—and to a certain extent, that was a choice the AI would make—her vessel would endure approximately four minutes of unanswered fire. That would be worse than usual. Constellation was clearly a choice target, one that could expect a lot of attention from the enemy.

Four minutes…then, if we can get through in any kind of shape, at least it will be a two-sided affair.

Sam Taggart stared coldly at the main display.

Then we’ll get this show started…and we’ll see who really has the stones to fight to the end…

*

“Grimaldi has opened fire, Commodore.”

Vandengraf shook hard, the old battleship shuddering from the Highborn beam. The hit hadn’t been dead on, but it had been close enough. Simpson was already reviewing damage reports. They were extensive enough, but he let out a loud sigh of relief when he confirmed that both the reactor and the primaries were still functional. His flagship was about a minute from entering its own firing range, and whatever lay ahead in the battle that had raged already for several hours, it was going to feel good at least to be able to strike back.

For his battleship to strike. The bomber squadrons had already done their part. Simpson had watched, breathless for close to an hour as the neatly ordered formations moved forward. He’d waited the entire time for Highborn interceptors to launch. The ships his fleet faced didn’t match the known specs for enemy carriers—they were too small—but that was far from a guarantee. The Union ships allied to the Highborn had launched a patchwork group of interceptors, but he’d relied on Andrei Denisov’s outnumbered squadrons to take them on. Even if a few got past Denisov’s people, the Union craft were outdated, their designs changed little since the last Union-Confederation war. They weren’t a serious threat, not in small numbers. But if he spotted Highborn interceptors, his bombers, including over five hundred from the squadrons that had still remained based at Grimaldi, were as good as finished.

He’d thought about holding back a fighter reserve, but he’d decided against it. Aside from Grimaldi’s main guns and the magnificent Constellation, the fighters were the heart of his force. And they’d repaid his confidence, and they had hit the enemy hard.

The attack force had paid a heavy price for that success. Even without their own fighters, Highborn ships carried sophisticated point defense systems, and launching a bombing run against them was never without cost. But his squadrons had dealt out more than they had taken. Four Highborn ships had been destroyed outright, and a dozen more had suffered varying degrees of damage.

Now, it was time for his battleline—or what passed for it—to advance and finish things. He’d timed his advance well, and his heavy ships were coming into range just at the point the enemy was entering Grimaldi’s secondary fire zone.

Simpson had studied tactics at the Academy. He had served under Tyler Barron’s command, witnessed the subtlety of the master’s strategies. But he knew a dirty, bare-knuckled brawl when he saw one…and that’s what lay before his people. There were no fancy maneuvers, no trickery or ruses. His people would just fight. They would kill their enemies—and be killed by them—and the battle would continue until one side had suffered enough.

Or was wiped out.

Simpson’s eyes darted to the end of the display. Constellation had opened fire. The superbattleship had the longest range of any ship in the fleet, and she carried the heaviest armament. Simpson knew Holsten had diverted the behemoth from a planned deployment to the coreward front, and he was grateful. He wasn’t sure his people had a real chance to hold Grimaldi, but he was pretty damned certain that likelihood would be zero without Constellation.

Another Highborn ship exploded, the victim of Constellation’s repeated volleys. The superbattleship not only carried heavier, longer-ranged weaponry, but her antimatter-powered reactors allowed her batteries to recharge quickly and fire again.

The great vessel’s power carried its dangers, too, and he could see half a dozen Highborn ships targeting Constellation, bracketing the massive ship with fire. Sam Taggart was a damned skilled captain, and her evasive maneuvers made her ship a difficult target. But mathematics was ultimately invincible in battle, whether as an ally or an enemy. If the enemy fired enough shots, they would score hits…and if they struck the great ship enough times, they would destroy it.

The black speckled blue Highborn beams lanced all around the Confederation’s newest mobile fortress…and finally one struck home, followed almost immediately by another.

Simpson stared, waiting for Taggart to send him her damage report. He couldn’t tell from the display how badly the two hits had hurt Constellation, but a few seconds later, the big ship fired again. Its railgun was silent, and only twelve of the sixteen primary beams lanced out. Simpson winced, but then he saw that those shots found one of the superbattleship’s tormentors. The Highborn ship shuddered, and its guns went silent.

Simpson could feel his hands clenched in fists, as he simultaneously congratulated Taggart and worried about her and her ship. He’d only been able to watch, to hope for the best, but now he saw the range display drop, and the numbers turned from red to green.

Vandengraf was in range.

He stared across the bridge, his eyes boring into the tactical station with almost physical force.

“All batteries…open fire.”

*

“Let’s go…I want every bit of thrust we can get. We’ve got old ships, and damaged ones…but we’re a match for Villieneuve’s forces.” Denisov almost added “one on one,” but he’d held it back at the last minute. Villieneuve’s fleet had been decimated in the civil war, and he owed his victory in every way that mattered to the Highborn. But after the disastrous fight at Montmirail, Denisov’s once stronger force was weaker even than the tattered remnants of Villieneuve’s Union fleet, and his people faced a mismatch of something like three to one.

“All units confirm, Admiral.” The aide’s voice was stern, almost harsh with its defiance. Denisov was stunned at the endurance of his people, at their steadfast commitment. They didn’t have a choice, of course, little but a death sentence awaited them back home…but human beings could only take so much, and his people had been to hell and back.

Now, he was going to take them into fires of hell once again.

He could see his fighters returning, and he had every intention of rearming the battered formations and sending them out again immediately. There was no gain in holding anything back. If the Confederation could hold, his people would have the hope of sanctuary, even of an ally that might one day help them reclaim their homes. But if the enemy broke through Grimaldi…

“Advise returning wings they will have to land while we are engaged. All ships are to link with their platforms’ nav computers before coming in for final approach.” Denisov had never been a fighter pilot, but he’d commanded them long enough to understand just how difficult it was to approach a ship moving under heavy acceleration, one sustaining enemy fire and weaving every which way as its thrust vectors jerked around randomly, trying to foil the enemy targeting computers. Such landings would be utterly impossible without a solid link to the platform’s nav system, but even then, this one was going to be difficult. His squadrons, already savaged in their desperate attack on the enemy, would take more losses landing…and if luck truly ran against Denisov and his tattered force, one or more of the crashing fighters would take out a landing bay, even damage one of his precious few battleships, just as they were in the thick of combat.

“All wings acknowledge, Admiral.”

They acknowledge…but how many of them will get back and land safely…

He didn’t have an answer, not even a reasonable guess. And he didn’t have time to try and come up with one.

He stared straight ahead, doing all he could to put the fighters out of his mind. It was almost time. His ships had endured some Highborn fire, but those deadly vessels were focusing mostly on Grimaldi and the Confed ships approaching them. Villieneuve’s ships were dead ahead, and they would open fire soon…but they wouldn’t be in range a second sooner than Denisov’s ships. The killing would begin in just a moment, but at least it would be a two-sided affair.

Denisov had spent some portion of his time comparing the prospect of torture at Gaston Villieneuve’s hands to slavery under the Highborn. It was a pointless analysis, if only because he would never allow himself to come to either pass. Death in battle, even in defeat, was far preferable. He’d made his choice…and he suspected his spacers had as well. He didn’t like the idea of diminishing the morale of his men and women, but he wondered how steadfast they would be if surrender had been a realistic alternative.

The fighter wings had done well enough, though they’d suffered for it, but the ships of his fleet were grossly inferior to those of their allies, and certainly the Highborn contingent of their enemies. Denisov hadn’t even considered joining Commodore Simpson’s tactic of focusing all fire on the Highborn ships. His old and battered vessels simply didn’t have the firepower to contribute in any meaningful way to that desperate fight. What they could do, could try at least, was to tear into Gaston Villieneuve’s Union ships, to keep them occupied so they couldn’t move against Grimaldi or Simpson’s heavily engaged fleet.

His people couldn’t win, not as outnumbered as they were, but just maybe they could hold Villieneuve long enough for the Confeds to push back the Highborn. He had no idea if that was even possible, or what the chances were…but he knew it was the only possible road to victory. And his people would play their part, do all they could.

There was one other advantage as well, one that struck Denisov at his core. He’d destroyed Gaston Villieneuve’s flagship once before, but the crafty dictator had escaped destruction. The current battle offered a rematch of sorts, another chance to strike, to reach Villieneuve’s ship and to kill the bastard once and for all.

Denisov would face his death with a smile, if he could send Gaston Villieneuve to hell ahead of him.

Chapter Eleven

Free Trader Pegasus

Hexarus Veti System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Lex, how do the engines and the reactor look?” Andi had almost gone down to engineering herself, but something controlled her pointless impulsiveness. She wasn’t sure if it was age, experience, a clear view of just how capable her people were—or a combination of all those things—but a little voice inside told her she could add absolutely nothing to Lex’s read on the system statuses by standing next to him and staring at the reactor shell or the metal tubes of the engine casing. She’d been a decent amateur engineer when she’d had no choice, but Lex was one of the best out there. Not quite an Anya Fritz, perhaps, but just about the closest thing any ragtag crew of Badlands prospectors had ever managed to add to the team.

“Everything looks good, Andi. I’d say we could push a little harder, but there’s always risk to that. Maybe we should stay where we are and hold something back in case we run into an emergency.”

Andi heard Lex’s words, and she agreed with them. Save for one fact.

They were already in an emergency. Not the usual kind Pegasus had faced, enemies chasing the small vessel, or desperate attempts to flee from some cataclysm. No, Andi’s ship had left the emergency behind this time, and as her mind drifted across the lightyears back to Striker, she imagined what might be happening at the base even then. Had the Highborn attacked yet? Was there a terrible battle underway even as she sat on Pegasus’s bridge? Had the fight ended already?

And the questions she struggled not to ask herself. Was the war already lost? Was Tyler dead, obliterated with the ruins of Dauntless, even as she raced to try to save him, and so many billions of others on the Rim?

“Push us up, Lex…as much as you think you can sustain without too much risk.” ‘Too much’ was a vague term, one that left a considerable amount to Lex Righter’s judgment. There weren’t many people in all of human inhabited space Andi Lafarge trusted with more than the slightest leeway, but her battle-tested engineer was one of them. “It’s a risk, I know, but it’s also a risk if we let ourselves get slowed down. We don’t know how much time we’ve got, Lex, but we know it isn’t much.”

“I’ll manage things down here, Andi. I think I can push us up to 108, maybe 109…as long as I keep a close eye on things.” A pause. “If you get a chance, can you have someone bring down my bedroll, and a couple sandwiches. I think I’ll camp out down here tonight.”

Andi felt a twinge of guilt at consigning her engineer to sleeping on the floor in Pegasus’s claustrophobia-inducing engineering section, but not too much. All her people had a stake in saving the Rim, and while she knew she was sometimes pointlessly hard driven, there was no false pride pushing her now. Just the burning need to save the people she loved.

“I’ll bring it all down myself, Lex.” A pause. “And thanks…I just feel like every hour we can save is crucial right now.” She knew she didn’t have to explain…Lex understood. But it made her feel better.

She closed the comm line, and she looked up again at the main display. Pegasus was heading toward Telus Zakaris, about halfway there. Andi had come close to scratching the system from her list a couple times, not because it didn’t meet the required parameters, but because of the distance from the other prospects. It was costing a lot of time to go there, time her friends and comrades might not have…and that was driving her to accept greater risks. And driving the ship’s systems past their limits was a risk, even with Lex Righter sleeping right next to the reactor.

She hesitated, faced a moment of doubt, and for perhaps half a minute she hung on the precipice of ordering Pegasus back toward the shorter route, the one that excluded Telus Zakaris. Then she felt her head moving, shaking back and forth, as one word forced its way to the forefront of her thoughts.

No.

She wasn’t going to bypass Telus Zakaris. She’d tried like hell to scratch the system from her list, but it had met every requirement. The odds weren’t exactly strong that it was the one she sought, if only because a dozen others had met all the same conditions. But they were high enough that she had to go, even if it took longer. Even if she had to push Pegasus a bit harder.

“You’ve got the con, Vig. I’m going down to engineering for a few.” She wanted to talk to Lex face to face. She wanted to get a read on whether 108 was really the best he could do with a reasonable safety factor…or if she could nudge him up to one ten.

She stood up, turning and walking back toward the ladder. She had a few stops to make on the way to the cramped and winding engineering spaces. The bedrolls were in the main storage locker…and she had to stop at the galley as well. If Lex could camp out down there to try and minimize the risks and keep them all safe, the least she could do was see that he did it on a full stomach.

And while no one thought of food preparation as one of her key skills, Andi Lafarge made a mean sandwich.

*

“What the hell…” Vig was leaning over his workstation, his eyes fixed on the small scanner screen. His words had been meant only for himself, but Andi had been halfway up the ladder from the lower deck, and her hearing had always been sharp.

“What is it, Vig?” She pulled herself the rest of the way up the ladder in one herculean lunge, an effort, she noted wistfully, that would have hurt less in her younger days. She half-jogged onto the bridge itself, and Vig turned to face her after a noticeable delay.

“Sorry, Andi…we’re picking up something from the point. Number four, the farthest one.” Transit point four was neither Pegasus’s entry point into the system, nor its planned exit. But the last thing Andi had expected to find so far out in the fringes of the long-dead Badlands was another ship.

Or a group of ships.

Her eyes darted to the main display, her mind working on the data even as Vig answered her question.

“We’re getting readings…definite activity at point four. It’s far out for any real data, but my guess is, we’re looking at multiple ships.”

Andi had reached that conclusion an instant before Vig, and even as he continued his report, she was bent over her chair, tapping the comm controls. “Lex…shut everything down now. Bring us to silent running.” Andi had never known where that phrase had originated, or how it had come to describe spaceships seeking to evade detection. Motion, material, energy emissions…a number of factors went into a vessel’s detectability, but sound wasn’t one of them. Her people could have thrown a party and banged all night on drums, and it wouldn’t have made the slightest difference as to whether Pegasus popped up on some scanner screen.

She didn’t have time to ponder the possibilities though, not just then.

“I’m in engineering now, Andi…shutting engines down, cutting reactor to minimal power levels.”

Of course, you’re down there…you’re always down there…

The engineer had barely left the lower section since Andi had ordered the reactor up to 100%.

One of the advantages a warship like Dauntless had over a vessel like Pegasus was a large enough crew to work in shifts. Andi’s vessel didn’t have—and couldn’t carry—enough spacers to cover stations around the clock. But Lex Righter was a workaholic almost as insane as she was, and he practically lived in the tight confines of Pegasus’s engineering spaces, even when he wasn’t trying to keep the power core from burning out.

Andi stared at the main display as a series of small symbols appeared and disappeared…and then reappeared. It was strange, but it also had a familiar look. It could have been just the range, and the fact that Pegasus was far out, and her active scanners were offline.

But it also looked a lot like the strange phenomenon that surrounded Highborn ships, the effects of the mysterious Sigma-9 radiation on scanner beams.

Highborn…all the way out here?

It seemed impossible, and certainly unexpected. And then it made total sense. Her blood ran cold.

This is how they’re getting to the Union.

Andi had known, of course, that the Highborn were somehow getting ships and supplies to Union space, but as much as that had been inarguable fact, it hadn’t seemed entirely real. Not until that moment.

She felt a fog of confusion. What should she do? The location of the enemy’s communications line to the Union seemed strategically important information, crucial even. Should she turn back, get the word to Tyler?

Or should she press on, try to finish what she had started, search for the lost imperial weapon to defeat the Highborn? That was a mission that had just gotten vastly more difficult…and dangerous. She’d imagined all sorts of problems she might encounter, but trying to sneak around some Highborn task force had been nowhere on that list.

As she had a day before, she came close to ordering Vig to bring Pegasus around, to make a run back to the transit point they’d come through thirty hours before, and to slip away from the Highborn force. But she remained silent. She wished she could get a message to Tyler, but she wasn’t going to turn around and bring it back herself. Not when it would serve no useful purpose. There was nothing Tyler could do, even if he was warned. He couldn’t dispatch forces from Striker’s defense, certainly not for some longshot effort to block the Highborn supply line to the Union. Even if he could consider it—which he couldn’t—Andi didn’t have any real data on the strength of the enemy convoys, or what course they were following, either before or after Hexarus Veti. All she knew was a single convoy had entered that system. Even the enemy’s destination, the Union she supposed, was her own conjecture, even if it was highly likely.

No, I can’t turn back, not now…

She wasn’t going to give up on Telus Zakaris. Her reasons were based on hard analysis, but also on more than that. She just had a feeling…and such things had rarely led her astray in her long and chaotic career. Her detour to that troublesome system was going to take even longer than she had thought. For all her efforts to push her ship to its limits, all she could do just then was to sit, dead, like a hole in space…for as long as it took the Highborn to move through the system and transit out.

She felt the tension growing, fear of the enemy, of possible detection…and even more, about the hours—days—she was likely to lose.

None of that mattered, though. She was going to find out how the empire had expelled the Highborn, and she was going to bring that secret back…along with the new information on the enemy’s lines of communication. She was going to do it all.

Unless the Highborn spotted Pegasus…

Chapter Twelve

Highborn Flagship S’Argevon

Imperial System GH3-2307 (Beta Telvara System)

Year of the Firstborn 390 (328 AC)

“All units report ready to advance, Viceroy. The fleet awaits your orders.”

Tesserax stood in front of his chair in the center of S’Argevon’s command center. The Grand Fleet of the Colony, as he had designated his immense force, was indeed ready. He had known that even before he’d requested confirmation, but there was always a place for show in war, especially when the vast majority of the combatants were mere humans. The Thralls were controlled by their Collars, and that made them reliable. But Tesserax was confident that strong morale, and a belief in victory, would extract the greatest effort from his hundreds of thousands of warriors.

“What of Ellerax?” The newly arrived warship was by far the largest in his fleet, and the first of the imperial Terradonna class vessels he’d commissioned to face off against the sole ship of the same class in the human fleet. Its mission was starkly simple, at least in the coming battle, where it would be the only such vessel in the Highborn fleet. Move directly toward its counterpart…and engage in a fight to the death. Ellerax would either prevail, or if it was defeated, before its destruction, it would occupy its adversary and keep that great ship out of the battle. That was all Tesserax needed. He had the strength to prevail, and the only thing the humans had that truly scared him was the old imperial ship. The fight would be a bloody one, especially with the plan to board several enemy units and capture their senior commanders, but with the human-controlled Terradonna—Colossus, they call it—locked in a deadly duel away from the rest of the action, any doubts he might have had were satisfied. Even if Ellerax lost its epic duel, it would leave its adversary badly damaged…just as the next Highborn vessels of the class came into service.

The ship’s name was a glaringly obvious attempt to gain favor with its namesake, Ellerax, number one of the Firstborn, leader of the Highborn. Ellerax would realize that immediately, of course…but Tesserax had become aware enough of the way his comrades’—and his—egos worked, and he was pretty sure the exercise would accomplish some portion of its goal despite the undisguisable clarity of its intentions.

“Ellerax reports all system fully-functional, Viceroy. They await the command to engage engines and set out with the fleet.”

Tesserax sat silently for a moment. He wasn’t surprised at the report that Ellerax was ready, that the great ship was free of malfunctions, but he was a bit relieved. He’d rushed the completion of the giant vessel, and a major part of that time savings had been gained by truncating the battery of tests that would normally have preceded a move to fully-operational status. The Highborn were meticulous creatures, with the mental and intellectual capability to minimize mistakes in anything they did, but most of the actual construction had been done by Thralls, and despite extensive training and close supervision, humans were just…well, humans.

He’d almost postponed the offensive, awaited the completion of the other Terradonna-class vessels. But the pacification of the humans had already taken too long. There were many reasons to accelerate the process, to complete the conquest as quickly as possible. News from the primary front was troublesome, but there was also opportunity in that. If Tesserax could consolidate control over the Rim and bring his vast fleet—along with the higher order of Thralls the Rim was expected to produce—to that fight, he would be second only to Ellerax himself…a giant, even among the Firstborn.

A god among the gods…and the master of the formerly free humans. He could feel the power, the position, the sense of standing at the very highest level. Where he belonged.

It was time to seize what was his.

“The fleet will advance at 10g thrust.”

*

Stockton sat in his fighter for a few seconds. More importantly, it was several seconds longer than he normally would have remained in the cockpit after landing. He’d been working constantly, putting all his effort into taking control of his actions. He’d become a bit more daring, extending the time periods from half a second to four or five. He was excited at every twitch, every response of his muscles to his focused thoughts after four years of unending frustration, but he was also terrified the part of him still controlled by his malfunctioning Collar would become aware of what was happening. Whatever damage had been done to the Collar, it had so far gone undetected. But if his controlled psyche was to report a possible problem, it would almost certainly result in a more aggressive examination.

And his chance at escape, to help his comrades somehow in the coming fight—and to finally to secure the death for which he’d long prayed—would slip away in an instant.

Stockton had been through four years of relentless hell, and the thought of losing whatever chance fortune had finally granted him at defiance horrified him more than any enemy he had ever faced, any battle he had fought.

He wanted to stay where he was, exert all his efforts to keep his body in place, but he knew he couldn’t. He wasn’t sure whether his Collar-controlled side was even aware that there was a part of his old self still surviving. Clearly, it remembered his training, his tactics. It knew who Reg Griffin had been, and the weaknesses of Confederation fighter formations. But did it recall old emotions? Loyalty, friendship? Love?

He stopped all his efforts, yielded full control back to his controlled persona. He couldn’t risk discovery. He had to continue to explore the extent of his newfound ability to control his actions and motions, but he also had to hold back. He wanted to be sure he could do what he would have to do when the battle against Fortress Striker began, but he knew he couldn’t push that hard. He would go into that fight with intentions, with plans…but without any certainty any of it would work.

Stockton had always been a maverick of sorts, but part of that reputation had come from his swagger, the utter confidence he had always exuded. Much of that had been fake, of course. Jake Stockton felt fear like any man. He had also thought his tactics through and through, considering them from every angle, and practicing his maneuvers again and again until they were perfect. The image of the godlike pilot who pulled remarkable moves from thin air was largely a construct, one that had been very useful, but not one he’d taken into battle.

Until now. You can’t properly prepare. You just have to believe you can do it…

That would have been easier if only confidence had been required. But he was also relying on the Collar’s malfunction, on how far it would allow him to go.

He was walking down the corridor, and for a moment he felt a slight panic. His controlled self was going a different way, not taking the usual route back to his quarters. Had he pushed too far? Had he exposed the Collar malfunction?

His near-panic lasted perhaps thirty seconds, until he saw himself walking through the doorway into the equipment storage area. He moved toward the Thrall sitting at the workstation there, and he could hear himself speaking. He saw his hands extending, placing his helmet on the table.

His eyes and ears answered his question at almost the same instant, and his panic quickly faded. There was a small crack in the helmet, and he was requesting a replacement.

He felt almost nauseous, without being able to actually feel nauseous. If he’d been responsible for moving his body just then, he suspected his legs would have wobbled, even given out on him. But his alter ego seemed utterly unaware. He could see the door, and then the wall in the corridor, as he began walking down in the old familiar direction…toward his quarters.

He felt thankful, grateful for whatever bit of fortune had once again begun to shine dimly on him. He’d endured more than he could have imagined, suffered with an intensity he wouldn’t have thought possible. The prospect of helping his comrades, of repaying them for some of the cataclysmic harm he had caused them, was all important to him now, the only thing he cared about. Save for one.

Revenge. He wanted his vengeance against the Highborn, and the need to strike out at those who had compelled him to do as he had done consumed him. It was like a blue flame in the icy depths of space, searing hot and bitter cold all at once.

But if he came this close to a chance to end his misery, to help his friends and claim his vengeance, and lost it…it would destroy him.

It would destroy him utterly.

*

“Our plans are well set in motion, Phazarax. Even now, we stand a single jump from the climactic fight, from the operation that will secure our control of all human space, from the former Hegemony to the reaches of the Far Rim. The fleet will jump into the system and form up quickly. I have conducted several exercises, and we have developed the most efficient plan for getting ships through the point and into battle order. I believe the humans will be surprised at how quickly our fleet forms up. That will be an excellent distraction. They will likely be occupied with launching their fighter squadrons and waiting for us to advance. But the fleet will remain just inside the jump point. We will bait them, see if they can be goaded into moving their ships forward, away from their fortress. Whether they do or not, we will launch our own fighter wings. However, this time, they will be armed with the upgraded weapons systems. The enemy have managed to maintain the upper hand in most of the small craft actions, despite our having Jake Stockton commanding our own wings. But now, Stockton and his pilots will have a decisive edge in weaponry, which will be all the more effective for the fact that it will be a surprise.”

“Your plans appear flawless, Tesserax. I see no weakness, no point that even begs for review. Surely, the operation will be a great success, and the final pacification of the humans cannot now be long delayed. The head of the Colony Church paused for a moment, clearly concerned about something, even as he gushed praise for the plan. “What are the loss projections for the boarding operations?”

Tesserax understood his comrade’s concerns. The effort to capture key human personnel had been his request, and for all the humans’ inferiorities, the prospect of closing with boarding ships, especially on their heavy units and their giant fortress, was a daunting one.

But Tesserax only smiled. “You needn’t worry, Phazarax. Losses will no doubt be heavy. We both know the Rim humans have a seemingly natural inclination for war, and it behooves us not to underestimate them, lesser creatures that they are. But our attack plan has been carefully developed, and I have issued some special ordnance to a chosen group of Stockton’s wings. One thousand fighters will not participate in the battle with the human squadrons. They will have another purpose, one that will serve our attempts well, and open the door for our soldiers to board…and seize the cream of the human command structure. Some of their top officers will die fighting, no doubt, but the boarding teams will have stun beams as well, along with strict orders to take captives whenever possible.

“One hopes a decisive victory in the coming fight will be enough to shatter their morale, but if we are also able to secure a reasonable number of their top leaders, a swift victory is assured. Seeing their heroes employed against them will be crushing to whatever spirit remains to continue fighting, and the trove of tactical and strategic secrets we will obtain is beyond simple valuation. Victory is victory, of course, but the thought of an encollared Tyler Barron leading our fleet toward the heart of the Rim is quite extraordinary. It is hard to imagine the effect this would have on any humans who continued to resist. Any remnants of their forces would dissipate, and all of the Rim would be ours.”

“That is indeed a pleasant thought, Phazarax. The Collar is an extremely useful device, one that will continue to serve us well. Though, if we are able to secure the chance to encollar Admiral Barron, that will exceed even my wildest expectations. He does not seem the sort to surrender, but perhaps our forces will have the chance to stun him and bring him back.” Tesserax sat and smiled for a moment. Tyler Barron had caused him considerable difficulty, and part of him raged at a mere human standing in his way. But his intellect saw Barron as an interesting case study, and a hopeful sign of the utility the Rim dwellers would provide when deployed to the main front.

And there was satisfaction in the thought of an encollared Tyler Barron, serving the Highborn dutifully, as he had once opposed them. There was an elegance to it all…the human most responsible for the intolerable defiance against Highborn rule turned into the tool to bring about the final capitulation and enslavement of his people.

Tesserax stood silently, a smile slipping onto his normally grim face.

Chapter Thirteen

CFS Vandengraf

160,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“I want the squadrons rearmed and launched again…now! What I don’t want are excuses.” Simpson’s voice was hard edged, the stress of battle fueling his urgency, and the immense pressure with which he was driving his spacers. He’d gotten a litany of excuses as to why the remaining fighters weren’t back out again. They were all legitimate—damaged bays, mother ships locked in the fury of battle, battered fighters that had barely made it back—but he didn’t care. Grimaldi had to hold…and that meant the battle raging around him would be one to the death.

There would be victory, or there would be annihilation. He wouldn’t do any favors to his spacers by accepting their excuses, no matter how valid they were. Pushing them to the brink, beyond all the bounds of reason, was the only way to save their lives.

Some of their lives, at least.

“Flight control advises ten minutes until launch operations commence, Commodore.”

“Six minutes, Lieutenant. By God, if we’re still sitting here in ten minutes with those fighters in their cradles, I’ll go down to the launch bay myself…and then everyone down there will really have something to be afraid of!” Simpson could barely recognize himself, the thing he’d become, a relentless automaton, devoid of human feeling, of understanding. There was only the battle, and nothing else. All that mattered was victory, holding Fortress Grimaldi whatever the cost. Perhaps, if he survived, if his people could prevail, his humanity would return to him. Just then, he didn’t have time for it.

He barely heard the officer’s tepid response, and then his relaying of the command. He could hardly recognize himself, and he imagined he seemed like a man possessed to the officers used to working around him. He’d been in desperate fights before, but other than the recent close call during the retreat back to Grimaldi, he’d never commanded in one. He’d always imagined the stress Tyler Barron or Clint Winters felt, but as he sat there on Vandengraf’s bridge, he realized he hadn’t even come close. He felt as though his entire body was in a vice, and every breath was an effort, and even more of one to try to hide his uncertainty and fear.

The battleship lurched hard side to side, challenging even the iron sturdiness of his space-hardened gut. He told himself the evasive routines were the only reason any of his people were still alive, and he knew that was nothing but the hard truth. But it didn’t quiet his roiled insides.

The air smelled of burnt machinery and caustic chemicals. Vandengraf had taken two hits, one of them fairly serious. The battleship was still in the fight, but Simpson wasn’t certain how much more the vessel could take before dropping out of the battle line…or worse.

He heard the sound of the batteries firing, the higher-pitched tone of the secondaries, their laser power lancing out in place of the disabled primaries. The particle accelerators packed a heavier punch, but Vandengraf was close to the enemy now, and the larger number of laser cannon offset the generally lower strength of each individual turret.

The close range was aiding in targeting as well, but the Sigma-9 radiation pulses from the Highborn ships were still wreaking havoc with the Confederation targeting systems. Simpson had enough force to defeat the enemy…assuming his ships could score a sufficient number of hits. So far, they were lagging what they needed.

He glanced over toward the main display, checking the time. As he did, the ship shuddered hard. Another hit.

The bridge lights flickered, but they remained on, and damage reports began to pour through his headset. Two more secondary batteries were down, and any hope of getting the primaries back online this side of a spacedock was gone. But the reactors were both still north of seventy percent, and, after what seemed like a torturous delay, he got the update he’d been waiting for. There was damage to the launch bays…but they were both still operable.

The screen showed less than forty seconds until his six-minute time limit expired. He’d been utterly clear, but he was well aware his words, however imperiously spoken, did not alter reality. He suspected that when a commander began to believe anything was possible simply because he had ordered it, he’d gone over to a bad place, allowed ego and arrogance to consume him.

Simpson was there, not yet, at least. He didn’t believe his orders made it possible to launch the ships faster…he just knew if his people didn’t get those squadrons back out there, the chances of any of them surviving the battle dropped precipitously.

For a few seconds, he wavered, unsure whether his flight crews would get the fighters back out—uncertain even if they did if it would be enough. His eyes moved toward the status display, checking the system reports. His flagship was badly battered, and he could almost see his sweating damage control teams crawling through the bowels of the ship, desperately struggling to keep the vessel in the fight.

But the launch bays are still open…

A few seconds later, he felt something under his feet, a familiar sensation, distant vibrations. Fighters blasting down the launch tubes. He looked up at the display and saw the first squadrons forming up, the losses they had already suffered startlingly evident in the holes in their formations.

But they were launching. They were ready to head back at the enemy again, to fight until the battle was won.

A good fifteen seconds before his deadline.

*

Constellation shuddered hard, and even as Sam Taggart pulled on her headset and snapped out a demand for a damage report, her mind filled with dark and foreboding expectations. The power of Highborn weaponry was no longer a mystery, even if the way those baffling blue beams worked remained as much a riddle as ever. Visions of reactor damage, radiation leaks, huge sections of her ship torn open, hundreds of her spacers incinerated or cast out into the frigid void…all those images and more consumed her inner vision. But the response to the hit was both quicker than she’d expected, and the reality less dire.

“We’ve got considerable damage, Captain, but all main systems remain functional. We’ve got two power network breaches, but I think we can have those back online in fifteen minutes. Meanwhile, you’ve got at least eighty percent on the engines power, and the primaries are still functional.”

The chief engineer’s words sounded like the answer to a prayer, but even as she sat there, listening to the final words, she came to understand just how tough the new Excalibur-class ships truly were. The Confederation’s best and brightest had taken the very cream of the lessons of two decades of almost nonstop war and combined them with Hegemony technology—and a few things gleaned from the Highborn themselves—and created a class of ships that likely wouldn’t have appeared for a century or more in other circumstances. They weren’t a match to the ships of the ancient imperial navy, of course, but they were a hell of a lot closer than anything the Rim had seen in over three centuries.

“Very well, Commander. Recheck those primaries…and the transmission lines leading to them. We need as much firepower as we can get.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Taggart leaned back and let out a deep sigh. She was relieved, but even as she remained silent, her eyes still focused on the comm unit, she was realizing that her ship was still in good shape, still in the line and pounding away at the enemy, despite the direct hit that had overcome her evasion routines.

The battle was raging, and perhaps against all odds, the Confederation fleet was holding its own. Constellation was a big part of that, and Grimaldi was another. The rest of Commodore Simpson’s ships were mostly old and outdated. They were fighting hard, too, but they didn’t have to power to stand off against Highborn ships. Not really. They were doing some harm to the enemy, but they were paying a far higher price in damage and in lives lost. A dozen and a half of the ships in the makeshift fleet were gone already…but the enemy was suffering heavily as well, and almost thirty percent of the Highborn hulls had been destroyed, or they were floating in space, crippled or nearly so. It was better than she could have hoped…but she knew the fight was far from over. Victory would rest upon just how many losses the enemy was willing to sustain. If they pressed on, fought to the bitter end, Taggart’s experience and calculations—and her gut as well—told her they could probably destroy Simpson’s fleet and take down Fortress Grimaldi. That would leave the Confederation border wide open…but it would also leave the Highborn too weak to mount a real invasion.

At least until they get more ships out here. They got these this far, so it’s a fair bet there are more on the way…

And I don’t know where we’re going to find more ships anytime soon…even with Gary Holsten stealing every half-finished vessel he could lay his hands on…

Her eyes caught a flash on the display, a pair of Constellation’s primaries taking one of the Highborn cruisers directly amidships. She could see the hit was a solid one, almost certainly extremely damaging, but she was still surprised when the target simply vanished.

She felt her hands clench tightly, a surge of satisfaction at her gunners’ achievement.

Then she saw another hit, Vandengraf this time. It was the third hit the flagship had taken in just a few minutes, and Taggart could see from the jerky movement on her display that the vessel was badly damaged. She muttered to herself, a series of almost silent curses that would have befitted the rugged third class spacers on the lower decks more than a senior Confederation captain. Taggart was generally friendly and mild mannered, well-liked by most of those with whom she’d served. But she had a mouth that would make a Marine sergeant major turn ten shades of red.

She’d been relieved at first when Simpson had decided to remain on his creaky old battleship. She didn’t relish the idea of serving as the fleet commander’s flag captain. Constellation was a huge jump up for her, but her previous commands, a destroyer and a light cruiser, had been her own. She wasn’t sure how well she would have done as the commodore’s glorified aide.

Now she regretted those thoughts, and she wished she’d fought harder to convince Simpson to fly his flag on Constellation where it belonged. The superbattleship was vastly sturdier and more powerful than Vandengraf. If the fleet lost its commander, the only officer present with the experience to even make even an effort at leading a force so large, they were all in for trouble. Gary Holsten was an amazingly accomplished organizer, and he’d almost singlehandedly put together the defense against the invasion. But he was the first to acknowledge he had no real military experience.

And the thought of commanding the entire fleet instead of just Constellation scared the hell out of Taggart.

“Come on, old girl…hang in there…” She muttered softly to herself, watching as Simpson’s damaged vessel remained where it was, in the line of battle, and still firing at least some of its guns. She didn’t know how many more hits Vandengraf could take, but she was sure of one thing.

There was nothing she could do except let loose all the death and destruction Constellation could spew forth. There was no way to prevent the enemy from inflicting damage…no way, except blasting the bastards to the seven hells of space…before they did the same to her and her comrades.

And that was just what she was going to do.

*

Gary Holsten sat quietly, trying to stay out of the way as the officers and spacers who actually ran Grimaldi struggled to keep the fortress in the fight. The fort’s massive guns outranged anything the Confederation’s mobile vessels could carry, and their reach was just about equal with that of the Highborn weaponry. That was a problem, since Grimaldi’s small repositioning jets lacked the capability for anything but a meager routine of evasive maneuvers. The station’s immense armor belts allowed it to withstand anything a Union ship—the enemy it had been constructed to face—might throw at it, but the enormously powerful Highborn guns were a different matter entirely.

Grimaldi had taken more than a dozen solid hits, and whole sections of the fortress hung at hideous angles, little remaining but twisted wreckage. The station’s systems were dispersed, a design intended to ensure its combat capacity endured even if any large area was destroyed. The fort had suffered massive damage, and casualties that likely numbered into the thousands, but it was still roughly fifty percent combat effective.

That meant it was still in the fight.

Holsten felt useless, helpless. He fought back against the repeated urges to do something, mostly because he knew there was nothing he could do. Nothing useful, at least. He’d done his part, all he had to offer, really. He’d assembled the fleet, drawn forces from every corner of the Confederation and dispatched them to the border, usually without the formality of valid Senate authorization. He would catch hell for it all, he realized, when he finally got back to Megara. At least he would if he was able to turn back the enemy invasion, or at least blunt it. While the threat of the Highborn advancing on the Core loomed heavily over the Senate, he knew they wouldn’t interfere. Fear was an incredibly useful tool, and its only weakness was the speed at which its effects faded once it was gone. The terrified Senators who had silently allowed him to do what he had done, would howl for his blood once the enemy was driven back.

That didn’t really matter, he realized.

It didn’t matter because he couldn’t quite find the words or thoughts to express how little he gave a shit. He spent a few seconds, perhaps a minute, letting his mind wander back to Megara, to the swamp that governed the Confederation and how he might handle it…but the battle soon wretched his attention back.

He could hear the officers on the bridge speaking, and he realized some of that had been directed at him. Grimaldi had just finished refitting its surviving fighters, and it was launching a second strike. The first one had been enormously costly, with casualty rates north of twenty percent. That was a lot of dead pilots…and perhaps some still floating in space, betting to themselves whether their survival gear would sustain them long enough to have any real hope of rescue.

But there had been no consideration of holding back the battered and exhausted pilots. Every spacer in the fleet, and on Grimaldi, was giving his all, putting everything on the line to hold the breach, to keep the Highborn from pushing through into the heart of the Confederation. Holsten knew if five pilots returned from the hundreds launching, Colin Simpson would order them back out, and if one of those came back, he would take his lone fighter out again, just as quickly as the base’s crew could refuel and rearm it.

And if Simpson didn’t give the order, Holsten would, however illegal that would be.

Holsten had seen desperate battles, and he’d watched Tyler Barron’s career with wonder and awe as the admiral brought his people—some of them at least—back from one hopeless fight after another. But if Simpson’s forces, and Grimaldi, didn’t hold, or at least if they didn’t take the enemy fleet down with them, the Confederation would be laid bare.

In non-official military parlance, the battle then raging all around was quite simply one the Confeds couldn’t afford to lose.

So, Gary Holsten, no one’s idea of a dewy-eyed optimist, resolved simply that they would win.

Somehow.

Chapter Fourteen

Free Trader Pegasus

Hexarus Veti System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“I think we’re clear, Andi. It’s been almost twenty hours since the last contact…and longer since we picked up anything farther back in the system.”

Andi listened to Vig’s words, and she understood. Her second in command knew as well as she did how little time they likely had. Their mission was desperate and dangerous, and in more retrospective moments, she realized it was somewhat of a longshot as well. But one thing was certain. If they were too late, even total success would be failure. Her purpose was to get back in time to save the Rim, not to arrive to see a destroyed fleet and an enemy moving unimpeded through the Confederation and beyond. She wasn’t sure what she would find if she was able to track down the empire’s mysterious old weapon against the Highborn, but she was damned sure it wasn’t something she and her people would be able to employ on their own.

Still, it would serve no purpose to fire up the reactor, blast the engines…and draw an arrow right from any hiding enemy ship or Highborn probe to Pegasus. The enemy was very far from anywhere they’d expect to encounter Pact forces, and they had a lot of systems to cross to reach Union space. That suggested they might not leave scouts behind, that they might disregard concern for the lines of communications, deeming them unlikely to be threatened.

But that was only what Andi liked to call a wild guess.

She might fire up Pegasus and continue on her previous course, and perhaps even find what she sought. Or, she would send up a signal flare to any enemy ships remaining in the system. Even the smallest Highborn scout was more than a match for Pegasus. Andi would match her ship against any out there in her class, but Pegasus wasn’t a warship, and her tech, for all its leading edge status for a free trader, didn’t come close to matching that of the Highborn.

She had killed one Highborn ship, but that had been a perfect ambush, a one of a kind situation, and for all she wanted to claim the credit, she still rated most of it as luck. If an enemy ship caught her people out in the open, it wouldn’t even be a fight. It would be an execution.

Still…you don’t have any choice. You’ve got to press on…

She knew her thoughts were nothing but the truth, but her insides tensed at the thought of giving the order…even as the words came out of her mouth.

“Lex, bring the reactor up, as quickly as possible…without pushing things too hard.” Andi was the type to take wild risks, but only when they offered some gain. Crash starting the reactor would do nothing for her people except shave twenty minutes off their schedule. And as short as she was on time, she didn’t think less than half an hour would matter much in the end.

And if there are Highborn still here, a normal start is enough for them to find us. Then, the end will come quickly enough…

“Alright, Andi. Ten minutes, maybe twelve to full output. I didn’t shut the reaction down completely, just cut the flow of reaction mass to bare minimum. The shielding hid that, I’m sure, and not having the reactor stone cold makes a ramp up much quicker.”

Andi heard the unspoken words in her engineer’s report. I wanted to have power quickly, in case we were detected. Lex felt the same way she did. If either of them was going to die, they were damned well going to do it fighting.

Andi managed a quick smile, something unexpected given the situation. She’d always respected defiance and raw stubbornness, perhaps over all things.

“Do it, Lex. Active scanners first…then power up the engines.” A thorough scan of the system was probably the closest thing she could find to useless. Even if she detected a hidden enemy vessel, the active scan would reveal Pegasus’s presence and location as well. And the chance of finding a Highborn ship that was trying to hide was still pretty damned poor…in which case, all her active scanners would do is reveal Pegasus to the still-hidden enemy.

But the engines were going to light up her ship’s location in a few minutes anyway, and Andi wanted to know as well as she could what lay out there. It was unlikely it would do any real good, but she’d made her decision.

She sat quietly, waiting as Lex amped up the reactor. She could hear the soft whine, the sound of Pegasus’s power system coming back to life. She waited, her eyes fixed on the screen, even as she the active scanners began sending out their beams.

There was no sign of enemy activity, not yet. Of course, there wouldn’t have been any yet, even if there was a massive Highborn war fleet out there. Lightspeed was still a prison of sorts, and while the transit points allowed rapid interstellar travel, in the endless depths of normal space, communications and scanning moved no faster than the photons that carried them.

The enemy, if there were any enemy forces remaining in the system, were at least a light hour away. That meant, if they detected Pegasus it wouldn’t even happen for an hour. And it would take another hour for Andi’s active scanners to report any response underway.

She leaned back and sighed softly. There was no reason to wait. Further delay wouldn’t do anything to help her people. “Lex…as soon as the engines are ready, lets continue on our course. Full thrust.”

*

Telus Zakaris.

The one system on her list of potential sites for the base she sought that lay apart from the others. Three full transits, completely out of the way from everywhere else Andi’s data sent her, and three back once her people had surveyed the system.

Not just three transits…but a near encounter with a Highborn task force, one from which her people appeared to have escaped unnoticed, even if the knots in her gut were still untying themselves.

It is good you know how they are moving ships to Union space. Tyler will want to know that.

Though what Tyler Barron could do about it, with the Pact’s forces tied down at Striker and Grimaldi, she didn’t know.

None of that mattered, not then. Pointless, soul-wrenching worry wouldn’t help her complete her mission. It wouldn’t help anyone.

Now it was time to explore the system, to match off its characteristics with those she sought…and then to head back and resume her exploratory course. Looking out for Highborn along the way this time…

Unless Telus Zakaris was the place they were seeking. So far, it matched every parameter.

“Let’s up the power on the active scans, Vig. The more we can pull in from a distance, the quicker we can move through the checklist.” She’d almost added, “and get out of here,” but she’d held it back. There was something inside her, in the back of her mind telling her Telus Zakaris was her destination.

“Pushing to maximum…data stream on the display.”

Andi looked up at the main screen on Pegasus’s bridge. The number of planets, the attributes of the primary, even the twin asteroid belts between planetary bodies two and three, and six and seven…so far everything matched the descriptions her people had found on Pintarus.

Andi leaned down over the comm unit. “Ellia, can you come up here?” There was nothing the Hegemony Master could see that Andi couldn’t, but she wanted verification. If she brought Pegasus down on the target planet, if she squandered days, more likely weeks, scouring it surface, and it turned out Telus Zakaris wasn’t the system she’d come to find…well, she didn’t know how much time she had, but she was damned sure she didn’t have any to waste.

“Let’s target the planet, Vig. I want updated mass numbers, diameter readings…and as soon as we get close enough, let’s launch a probe to do an atmospheric sampling as well.” One of the odd bits of information her people had found included a complete breakdown of the composition of the planet’s atmosphere. Andi didn’t know what kind of nightmares had engulfed the system during the Cataclysm, but she was well aware that some forms of high yield weaponry could change such planetary characteristics. Still, it was a starting place.

“Andi…” Andi could see Ellia’s head popping up on the ladder just outside the bridge.

“Come take a look at all this, will you? Looks dead on to me so far, but I’d love some back up.”

Ellia pulled herself up through the opening into the floor, and then she walked onto Pegasus’s compact bridge. The third chair in the room was vacant, as it often was, but the Hegemony Master walked up just behind Andi and stood there, staring at the main display. She was silent for perhaps thirty seconds, and then she said, “I have to agree, Andi. So far every reading is a direct match, or at least close enough.” A few more seconds passed. “Maybe this is what we’re looking for.”

“Maybe.” Andi’s voice was doubtful, but that was reflexive more than anything, her normal cynicism asserting itself. She was actually about eighty percent of the way to believing just what Ellia had suggested.

Telus Zakaris was the system they had been seeking.

“We can scour the system, Andi, check off a few more items, but I think we’ve got enough to justify a closer look at the target planet.”

Andi could feel herself shaking her head, another almost involuntary response, but her words struck out in the opposite direction. “Yes,” she said, turning around to face her friend. “Yes, that is what we’re going to do.” She spun around, her eyes settling on the bridge’s second station. “Vig, plot us a speed course to the planet. Bring us into high orbit.”

“Maybe we’ll get lucky…maybe this is it.” Ellia sounded more confident than she had just a moment earlier.

Andi sat silently, looking at the display. Part of her didn’t want to believe in luck, the part born into squalor and despair, the woman could barely remember a mother who’d struggled, and finally died, to protect her. She’d seen the worst humanity had to offer, and she believed far more in the dark side of people than the light. But she was enough of a realist to acknowledge that she wouldn’t have survived, much less gained great wealth, met Tyler, and had the succession of true friends she’d had without fortune’s favor.

Perhaps it was time to believe in luck…at least a little.

“Yes, Ellia…maybe this is it.”

*

“Almost an exact match on physical characteristics. Some variation on the atmospherics, but a few centuries alone could account for that, aside from the fact that the place looks like it was bombarded pretty heavily during the Cataclysm.” Ellia was sitting in the bridge’s third chair this time, her face pressed against the scope. “There is definitely some radiation. They got hit with a good number of nukes…but not an annihilation level bombardment. I’m guessing something else was in play as well, mass drivers or railguns. No sign of life, of course, but there are some significant ruins. I’m guessing there were survivors, at least for a while. Whether they fled to somewhere less badly hit…or they died out here, I couldn’t guess.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Andi knew the words were cold. People had lived on the planet below, hundreds of millions of them if not billions. They had been men and women, fathers and mothers, sons and daughters…and they had all suffered unimaginable misery. Death had come for them, for the lives they had led. Those who’d survived the longest were rewarded by more suffering, and by watching their loved ones die. But Andi looked on with a clinical frame of mind. She’d scoured the Badlands, seen more dead planets than she could ever purge from her mind. The empire’s dead in the Cataclysm—at least a trillion, she guessed—haunted her, at least when she allowed them to get to her. But she didn’t have time for the imagined wails of the dead. She was there to save living humans, the descendants of those who’d survived mankind’s unimaginable nightmare. It would do no one any good to sit there feeling sorry for people three centuries dead. “The population centers look to be in the right places, too. At least as far as I can piece these clusters of ruins together.”

“I agree, Andi.” Ellia’s tone didn’t suggest whether her agreement extended to the irrelevancy of the suffering the planet’s people had endured, or simply that the remnants of cities were roughly where they should be. Andi knew her ability to turn her blood cold, to retreat into a purely analytical view of things, often unnerved her friends. Her logic was flawless, but her ability to put aside pity and compassion to pursue her goals sometimes came as a bit of a shock to her, much less those around her.

But dead was dead, and three hundred years or more dead was really dead. Andi’s thoughts just then were for those still alive, for the remnants of humanity fighting for survival and freedom.

They were all that mattered.

“Vig, bring us down. Let’s do a series of low passes, say fifteen kilometers up. Ellia, you know what we’re looking for as well as I do.” There should be a city, at the convergence of three rivers.” Rivers that could have dried up in the bombardments or shifted to new courses.

There were still a hundred things that could go wrong, but if they were in the right system, just maybe she would find what she had come for.

She leaned back in her chair as Pegasus skipped along the planet’s upper atmosphere, and then shuddered as the engines fired, controlling the vessel’s rate of descent.

Andi still didn’t know if she’d truly found the planet she was seeking…but if her newly appreciated luck was with her, she just might find out in the next few hours.

Chapter Fifteen

CFS Constellation

60,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“It’s fine, Doc. There are others who need your help more than I do.” Sam Taggart looked down at her arm, the bloodstained sleeve torn open to reveal the dressing Doc Stanhope had just put in place. The bleeding had been pretty bad—and it still hurt like hell—but she meant every word she uttered. Constellation—even the ship’s well-protected bridge—had officers and spacers far more badly hurt than the ship’s captain.

“Are you sure, Captain?”

“I’m sure, damn you…don’t you have anyone else wounded on this ship to harass?” She knew she shouldn’t let her frustration and fear come out as anger against Stanhope, but that didn’t stop her from adding, “Now…get the hell out of here!”

The doctor nodded abruptly and turned to move toward a number of officers lying along the outside wall of the bridge. He didn’t seem unduly troubled by Taggart’s outburst. He was used to her language, and the rough edges she brought with her skill and experience. She knew that much…and she knew that despite the invective liable to pour out of her mouth at the slightest provocation, her people had come to think of her fondly. Constellation had become a happy ship in the short time its crew had been together, or at least it had been until it had been plunged into hell twenty hours earlier.

The battle had been raging almost without pause for nearly a day. Both fleets had suffered crippling losses, and yet they were still locked in desperate combat. Grimaldi was a twisted wreck, entire sections blasted to scrap, or torn off from the main structure entirely. The fort was still in the fight, though. Perhaps ten percent of its guns were still operational…including one of the big mounts, which continued to lash out, occasionally striking a Highborn ship and inflicting massive damage.

Constellation was damaged, too, but the superbattleship was now the strongest unit in the fleet, its still-functional weaponry outclassing what little remained of Grimaldi’s once fearsome armament.

Taggart turned, trying not to wince as her motion tugged at her arm. The last thing she wanted was to catch Stanhope’s attention again and bring the doctor back to poke at her while she was trying to run her ship.

Sam Taggart had lobbied hard for her bid to the Naval Academy, and she’d endured four years of near poverty, surrounded by the rich and privileged scions of the great naval families. She might be in command of one of the most powerful ships in space now, but it still made her uncomfortable for the ship’s chief surgeon to be wrapping a bandage around her cut arm while some unknown number of her spacers were writhing in agony, struggling to survive desperate wounds and radiation sickness.

“Admiral…Vandengraf…”

The officer’s words reached her just as her own eyes fixed on the flagship. The old battleship had taken yet another hit, and its portside guns that had remained in action fell silent. The ship was spewing out great spouts of instantly-freezing fluids and atmosphere, and it was clear she was wracked with secondary explosions.

“Get me Commodore Simpson!” Her right hand slapped down hard on ger armrest, sending a wave of pain up her arm and a wave of almost silent curses from her lips. She gritted her teeth as pulled her headset on with her left hand.

“On your line, Captain.”

“Commodore…”

“I hope this is important, Captain. I’m a little busy over here.” Taggart could hear the tension and fatigue in Simpson’s voice, but even more upsetting was the sound of explosions and the panicked shouts in the background.

“Commodore, you have to transfer your flag.”

“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.

“You are not alone, Tyler.” Clint Winters stepped up and put his hand on Barron’s shoulder. “We have your back.”

Barron turned and looked at Winters. The Confederation’s other fleet admiral had long been his number two, a role the man known as ‘the Sledgehammer’ always accepted without the slightest sign of resentment or jealousy. “Thank you, Clint, but I’m fine. Really, I am.”

“Tyler…I have come to trust you in ways I couldn’t have imagined. Indeed, I entrusted my children to you. But I cannot believe you in this. You have to be exhausted, beyond that even. And this fight will be too important. You will serve us all better if you are awake and alert when the time comes. That will be of far greater value than a few extra hours of routine tasks.”

Barron was about to answer Akella when Chronos spoke.

“Akella is correct. You have to get some rest, my friend. Call this a mutiny if you want, but we are all in agreement. A nap, at least, if not a full night’s sleep. You’re not alone here. We’re all with you. And we can keep watch for a few hours while…”

Chronos stopped abruptly as the comm unit buzzed.

“What is it?” Barron snapped into the small unit, clearly annoyed at being disturbed. But that only lasted a few seconds.

“We’re getting energy readings from transit point number one. Massive energy readings. The AI assigns a probability of eighty-four percent a major fleet is coming through.”

The room was silent for a moment, a shroud of gloom quickly descending. Finally, Barron spoke, surprising himself with the cold strength in his tone.

“Thank you all for your concern. It means more than you can know…and I count all of you as my friends.” A pause, just a few seconds. “But I’m afraid that nap will have to wait.” Or it will be a permanent one…

Barron nodded once to all his companions, certain they understood the deep emotion behind the simple gesture. Then, his voice even firmer, almost the sound of pure determination, he said, “We’ve all got places to be, jobs to do. Good luck, to all of you…and I pray we are able to gather all together again when this is finished.”

He didn’t believe he would ever be in a room again with all those present, but it would serve no purpose to share such dark thoughts.

He reached down and tapped the comm unit. “Commander, this is Admiral Barron. Fortress Striker and the Grand Fleet will come to full alert. All units to battlestations.”

Chapter Seventeen

CFS Constellation

60,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Commodore on the bridge!” Sam Taggart snapped out the announcement as Simpson emerged from the door of the lift and stepped out onto Constellation’s control deck. The superbattleship remained in the fight, still powerful, though she had taken her share of damage. The bridge floor was strewn in several places with mangled debris, and the air carried a caustic twinge of smoke and chemical residue that irritated eyes and lungs alike.

There was one more thing not clearly evident to those less familiar with the ship than Taggart. Four of the bridge stations were manned by replacements, backups ordered to man the positions to replace spacers who were now in sickbay…or dead.

“Thank you, Captain…but I think we can dispense with formalities now. Run your ship.” Simpson paused for a few seconds, and then he added, “I seem to be down a pair of aides right now. Perhaps you can lend me one of your officers.”

“I can lend you me, Commodore. Constellation’s crew knows what they’re doing…and we’re pretty much in the line now, pounding away. All I could do is distract them, and I daresay, I can be more help right now as your aide.”

“Thank you, Captain. I’m glad to have you.” Simpson walked across the bridge to the vacant flag officer’s station. He stared at the plush black leather chair, looking as though he felt somewhat uncomfortable at the prospect of sitting there. Vandengraf had been built to serve as a flagship back in its day as well, but the admiral’s station on the old battleship didn’t compare to the large and luxurious setup on the Confederation’s newest mobile fortress.

Simpson turned abruptly and sat down. The middle of a desperate fight was no time to sit and stare at a chair, however uncomfortably opulent it might be. “Are we plugged into the fleetnet, Captain?”

“Yes, sir. Command com line at your station.” Taggart gestured toward the side of the chair. Simpson looked down, his eyes landing on the headset slipped inside a custom cradle. The designers of the Excalibur-class had forgotten nothing, however trivial.

Hopefully, I won’t get their magnificent creation blasted to atoms…

He reached down and pulled out the headset, pulling it on and flipping the switch to active. He had accepted Taggart’s offer to serve as his aide, but he intended to handle as much as he could on his own. Whatever his new host said, running a vessel like the gargantuan Constellation was one hell of a job, no matter how well its crew functioned.

“Grimaldi, status report.” He was staring down at the triple screen setup at the station, his hands moving even as he spoke, pulling up the latest info on the fortress. He could see the place was in bad shape, at least half of its great bulk torn and twisted, whole sections clearly dead…as very likely were any crew members who’d been caught there. But Grimaldi still had operable guns, and they were firing away, raking the Highborn ships attacking the station. Both sides were dishing out damage, but Simpson wasn’t one to fool himself. Grimaldi had done well, destroyed a number of enemy vessels, but the old station had simply been too neglected for too long. Its guns were mostly old, nearly a generation out of date, and it was showing in the exchange with the highly advanced Highborn vessels.

Simpson listened as the officer on the other end of the line—the fourth in command over on Grimaldi if he remembered his chain of command properly—basically confirmed his conclusion. The big station would continue to fight, but it was going to lose. The Highborn were going to achieve what the Union had failed to do for decades…destroy the Confederation’s great border fortress.

Simpson’s eyes moved over the other two screens. The situation with the rest of the fleet was no better, and in many ways, a good deal worse. Vandengraf was out of action, limping away with almost none of its weapons still operational. He wished the best to Jaymes and the spacers he’d left behind, and he figured they had a chance, at least, of escaping. But the old ship was out of the fight.

His other battleships were barely better off, and in a very short time, perhaps only minutes, his battleline would consist of Constellation alone.

It won’t be long after that. She’s a tough ship, the best we’ve got…but there’s a limit to what even she can take…

He looked out at the reports on the enemy formations. Denisov was working miracles in holding off Villieneuve’s superior forces, but his small fleet, too, was almost at its limit. Fewer than half his ships were still in the line, the others destroyed or limping back from the fight with their weapons arrays obliterated. If the Highborn didn’t finish off the rest of his own forces in the next hour, he’d have Villieneuve’s survivors on his flank, too.

He sucked in a deep breath, wondering if there’d been any point in transferring the flag. There wasn’t much he could do except watch his people fight to the end…and end that was rapidly approaching.

If we’d only had more strength…just some extra force. The battle was close, but he just didn’t have enough strength…

There was no gain in thoughts like that. He had what he had, and it wasn’t going to be enough. The only thing left to consider was whether his forces had hurt the enemy enough to prevent them from pressing on with an invasion deeper into Confederation space. He figured it was a coin toss, which could have been a lot worse…but then that only applied until more Highborn ships arrived in the theater, an eventuality he considered inevitable. Had his people bought a month with their lives? Six months? Would their sacrifices matter at all?

He tried to fight off the darkness, the misery of failure, but all he could feel was the shadow of death, growing darker, consuming all his spacers.

“Commodore…we’re picking up energy readings from the transit point…”

Simpson felt as though the universe was laughing at him, rejoicing in his despair. The thought of enemy reinforcements not only eliminated any miniscule chance his people had of surviving the battle…it stripped away even that month, or six months. If Highborn reserves were already arriving, the enemy could move on the Confederation’s heart in a matter of days.

“On my screen…” His voice was morose, his ability to hide his emotions gone.

But something was wrong. His screen centered on a transit point, but not the one through which the Highborn had come.

It was the one leading directly back toward the Iron Belt and the Core. The one most of his fleet had come through. He’d assumed Taggart’s report had been about Highborn reinforcements.

But it looked like Confederation ships were on the way!

He felt a burst of excitement, but also confusion. It didn’t seem possible.

How…what ships were left there to send?

*

“Mr. Holsten…we’ve got two ships transiting in. Friendlies.”

Holsten had been staring at the deck, but he looked up, his face a mask of surprise. “Confederation ships?”

“Confirmed, sir. I doublechecked the beacons. Big bastards, too.”

Holsten was stunned. He’d scoured the Confederation’s ports and shipyards for anything that could carry a gun hot enough to join the fight. What could be coming now?

Perhaps more of a mystery, who could have sent the new force? Holsten was at Grimaldi, and Tyler Barron, Clint Winters, and every other flag officer of note was out at Striker. It didn’t make any sense.

“Scanner data updating, sir. They appear to be Excalibur-class vessels.” A short silence. “Confirmed, sir. Two Excalibur-class superbattleships have transited into the system.”

Holsten felt as though he’d been slapped from one side and then back from the other. Understanding dawned, to a point. He’d almost ordered the third and fourth Excalibur-class vessels to join Constellation, but the ships weren’t complete enough, and he’d had no idea where he could find crews for them on short notice. Someone had taken those ships out of their docks, unfinished and partially operational, and sent them forward.

But who?

And where the hell had they found trained spacers to man them?

Holsten shook his head abruptly, trying to pull his attention back to the battle. He had no real place in the chain of command, but every eye in Grimaldi’s control enter was focused on him.

“Contact Commodore Simpson. Advise him to take command of the reinforcements…and get them into the line immediately.” Holsten didn’t know how effective the new ships would be. Almost certainly, they lacked fully operational status on at least some of their systems. But whatever they had would be helpful just then. Holsten was no master of space combat tactics, but he’d seen that the battle was being lost. Simpson’s fleet had acquitted itself well, better perhaps than he’d had a right to expect, but it just hadn’t had the strength to repel the Highborn.

Until now…

Two Excalibur-class monsters carried a lot of power, even if they were unfinished. Just maybe, they could make the difference. Whoever had sent those ships to Grimaldi may have saved the battle.

Saved the Confederation.

But who? Holsten had a sharp mind, one experienced in deciphering such mysteries. But he had nothing.

He glanced down at the small workstation screen in front of him. The two ships were on his map, each depicted by a large blue oval. There was a name in small print next to each. He squinted, struggling to read the text, and when he did, it confirmed his suspicions. Starfire and Argo…the third and fourth ships of the Excalibur class. Someone had indeed ordered those ships to launch, in whatever condition they were in. But he still didn’t know how they’d been crewed.

The two new arrivals pushed forward, their antimatter-powered drives blasting them at close to 50g. For a few moments, nothing else changed. But then he saw it, the Highborn reaction. The enemy had sparred with Constellation, battled the huge ship with great ferocity, but they hadn’t managed to bring her down. The superbattleship was damaged—badly damaged—but she was still in the fight. And now, two of her twins, a bit less functional perhaps, but powerful nevertheless, were moving forward.

The Highborn line was shifting, a contingent of their surviving vessels moving to face Starfire and Argo. For a moment, it looked like they were prepared to fight the two monster ships, but then Constellation reacted to the reduced enemy pressure. Simpson brought his new flagship around, taking the repositioning enemy vessels in flank. The fight, already a monstrous and bloody struggle reached a new level of mindless savagery. Confederation ships, regardless of damage, pushed against the enemy, the morale of the spacers revived by the reserves even then moving up to firing range. The Highborn were fighting just as desperately, and no small number of the Confed ships were raked by deadly fire and destroyed.

Casualties mounted, moving from heavy to almost unimaginable. But just as it seemed the Confederation fleet’s scattered survivors could endure no more, the two superbattleships reached the line and opened fire.

The vessels didn’t have their full weapons arrays online, but they did have their railguns, and the massive weapons lanced out with unexpected accuracy, each striking an enemy amidships.

The Highborn vessels had been damaged already, and within seconds of each other, both stricken ships vanished in the fury of antimatter annihilation. Nothing but scattered superhot plasma and hard radiation remained.

Holsten felt his body tense, his hands clenching tightly as he watched the Highborn ships destroyed…and then, no more than a few moments later, he saw the first movement along the battered enemy line.

They were retreating. The Highborn were retreating!

His eyes scanned the large main display. It was true. All across the line, enemy ships were decelerating, or outright blasting back toward the transit point. Even Villieneuve’s Union ships, which had seemed just minutes from finishing off Denisov’s Free Union fleet, were breaking off.

It was a miracle…or something doing a damned good impression of one. But it was still a mystery to Holsten. Until the comm officer spoke.

“Mr. Holsten…I’ve got an Emmit Flandry on your line.”

Understanding hit Holsten like a hammer, and right behind it, surprise. He tapped the comm to open the line.

“Speaker Flandry?”

“Yes, Gary…and I think we can dispense with formalities. You probably violated at least a hundred laws rounding up this fleet you’ve got here, but success is a panacea of sorts, is it not? I had to decide whether to come up here and order you arrested…or do whatever the hell I could to help you hold the line. And since I have no real desire to become a slave of the Highborn, the choice was easier than it sounds.”

“You very well may have saved the day, Emmit.” The politician had saved the day, there was no question about that. But ‘may have’ was as far as Holsten could force himself to go. “I’d ask how, but I imagine the Speaker of the Senate has no small number of tools to get what he wants. But where the hell did you find the crews?”

“Those ships have skeleton crews, Gary. It’s a damned good thing the Highborn blinked, because damage control on those vessels would be for shit. There’s not a fighter in either ship’s bays, nor any flight crew at all. And the stations that are active are manned by every retired fossil I could dig up. You’ve got veterans of the Second and Third Union Wars on that ship, as well as faculty from the Academy and every experienced spacer we could find. The biggest surprise was how quickly they all agreed. I suspected I’d get some resistance from 70 and 80-year-old spacers to being recalled to duty and climbing aboard brand new ships to plunge into battle, but in the end, I could barely restrain them.”

Holsten felt a smile forming on his face. The Confederation was an anomaly, the closest thing mankind knew to a free nation, despite its many faults. But there was no question in his mind the navy, the incredible organization forged by war and sacrifice, was its pride.

“Well done, Emmit…well done. You are a tribute to your office, and a hero of the Confederation.” They were words Gary Holsten had never expected to say to any politician, especially not one so corrupt and intertwined in the establishment as the Confederation Speaker.

But he said them without reservation or regret. It had taken all he’d had, all the officers and spacers of the fleet had to give—and an assist from Emmit Flandry—but Grimaldi had held once again. It was a brief respite, he knew, and the Highborn would be back, as soon as they could bring sufficient reinforcements around their extended and difficult line of communications.

But time was what he needed just then, time for Tyler Barron to focus on the defense of Striker…without worrying about enemy forces moving on his rear. Time to squeeze whatever production he could from overtaxed shipyards.

Holsten turned and looked over toward the comm station. “Commander, I want to send a communique at once…to Admiral Barron via the Pipe.”

Chapter Eighteen

Highborn Flagship S’Argevon

Imperial System KWH-311 (One Transit from Fortress Striker)

Year of the Firstborn 390 (328 AC)

Stockton stood next to his fighter, watching as Thrall pilots moved up and down the launch bay prepping their own craft. The fleet would begin transiting in less than thirty minutes, and the carriers were positioned in the lead, along with the flagship, the only Highborn heavy unit that had been retrofitted to carry small craft. Stockton’s orders were explicit and clear. His wings were to launch the instant their platforms had powered back up after transit.

The fact that Tesserax had placed his flagship—and himself—so far forward in the formation testified to the importance of the operation. The Highborn viceroy was determined to end the war, at least in every substantive sense, in the fight that was about to begin, and he was even accepting heavier risk on himself to do it.

Stockton had his own plans, though he was still uncertain if he would be able to carry them out. He’d gradually pushed himself farther, becoming more and more daring about how much control he exerted. He wondered about the part of his mind controlled by the Collar, and if he could seize full power over himself, relegate the enslaved Jake Stockton to the mental prison that had contained him for so long. But he didn’t know how to even try that. He was aware of the Collar, and of the other part of him, but only in a tenuous way. He had no idea how the device worked, or how to direct his thoughts against the Thrall part of him.

So, he’d been as careful as he could, making sure never to do anything likely to alert his controlled side. He embraced the thin rays of hope he might finally be able to strike a blow against his tormentors and help his former comrades, those he’d betrayed so horribly, to make their stand.

He had no such aspirations for himself, and his only concern for his survival was that he endure long enough to strike what blows he could, damage the Highborn attack…and perhaps contribute in some way to a Confederation victory. His colleagues would likely never know what he had done for them, but he saw fairness in that. He doubted they had any idea just how badly he had hurt them over the past four years either, and the probability that they mourned him as dead rather than cursed him as a traitor was one of the few things that had enabled him to keep his sanity in captivity. At least some portion of it.

“Commander Stockton.” The voice was coming from behind him, but that imperious tone was instantly recognizable. Tesserax was one of the Firstborn, and the highest ranked Highborn in the Colony. He was the viceroy in absolute command of every system from the coreward end of the Hegemony to the Far Rim, those the Highborn had occupied, and those that remained to be conquered. It was almost extraordinary for him to be standing in the launch bay speaking to a mere human, even one who was tasked with commanding the almost twenty thousand fighters in the fleet.

“Yes, Highborn.” Stockton felt a flash of gratitude that his Collar-influenced side was still mostly in control. If he’d been directing all of his own actions, he would have had to address Tesserax in reverent tones and drop prone. It was bad enough having to watch and hear himself do all that, but if he’d been compelled to issue the mental commands himself, he wasn’t sure he could have.

“You know this mission is of the utmost importance. We have gathered the strength to crush the human forces, and at last gain control over the entire Rim. You know your duty, what you must do…save for one thing.”

Stockton had only been half listening, at least his free side had been. Even that had been difficult to endure, but suddenly, his focus was total. There was something going on, something new. He wasn’t sure how much Tesserax was going to say, but he was listening to every syllable.

“The one thousand ships designated Force Black…they are fighters drawn from your ranks, but they are under independent command. They have a very specific mission, and you will do all that is necessary to protect them and provide cover until they complete their operation. You do not need to know more than that…just understand that those ships are your primary responsibility, even more than leading the wings against the enemy squadrons. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Highborn,” his controlled side replied obediently. Deeper in his psyche, in the mental prison where the part of him that was still Jake Stockton had been trapped for almost five years, another response formed.

Shove it up your ass, Highborn…

Tesserax stood, as he always did, allowing Stockton to remain prone for a few seconds longer. Then the Highborn turned and walked away, leaving the two versions of Jake Stockton to their tasks. For one, that was to ready the wings, and prepare for the launch.

And for the other, it was to analyze what he had just heard, to speculate on what Force Black could be…and to decide whether to hold his moment of defiance for the primary battle, or to try to do something sooner. What was the greater danger? This new Force Black…or twenty thousand fighters with upgraded arms closing on his own precious squadrons?

*

“There are over one hundred carriers through, Admiral, and they’re launching already. More are coming through the point. We’ve got lead wings blasting forward at heavy acceleration levels. It’s too late to transfer. It would be too dangerous for you to be out there in a shuttle. You’ll have to stay on Striker and command from there. That makes the most sense anyway. This isn’t a normal fight. The fortress is the center of our defense.” Atara Travis’s voice spoke volumes to Barron, and it offered insight into everything she really felt. She did think it was too dangerous for him to try to get back to Dauntless, and she truly thought Striker was the proper place for him to plant his flag.

But she didn’t like being cut off from him, left on Dauntless without him, not one bit. Barron understood. He felt the same way on all counts…with the added jab that not being on his ship felt somehow disloyal. He’d long resented the current Dauntless on some level, viewed it mostly for what it was not, the previous ship to bear the name. The old Dauntless had been his first love, and his first major command. But she was long gone. Just as he’d become used to his Hegemony allies, somewhere along the line, he’d adapted to the vessel that had served as his flagship for almost twelve years.

Now, he was going to fight the greatest battle of his life, and he wouldn’t do it from his chair, his place on Dauntless’s bridge. And Atara Travis wouldn’t be at his side.

“You’re right, Atara. I will remain here for now. You’ve got command of the central division, don’t forget. At least you’ll be able to focus on your ships without me snapping out orders and distracting you.”

“That’s true, Admiral. Maybe I’ll actually manage to get some work done.” Barron could almost see Atara’s smile, and as the image slowly faded in his head, he wondered if he would see her again in person. He didn’t know what was going to happen in the fight that was about to begin, but one thing was absolutely certain. Not everyone there was going to make it through, not by a longshot.

“Give Reg Griffin the launch order, Atara…and take care of your ships. And yourself.”

“I will, Admiral. And you do the same.”

Barron sat for a moment after the line went dead, and then he turned and looked up at the immense screen along the wall of Striker’s main control room. It was four or five times the size of the one on Dauntless, and it displayed a schematic of the entire battle area…including the Highborn squadrons already heading toward his fleet.

A lot of squadrons.

There were more fighters than he’d expected, more than the enemy had launched in any single strike before. Maybe they had just managed to get all their wings out quickly…but the steady stream of carriers still coming through the point splashed cold water on that notion. The answer was obvious, but some part of Barron tried to resist the inevitable conclusion.

The total Highborn fighter force was even larger than he’d thought.

There must be ten thousand fighters out there already, and they’re still launching…

He’d already given the order for Reg Griffin to get her own wings launched. He’d expected them to be outnumbered, but not so badly, and as he stared at the additional waves of fighters launching from newly arrived enemy carriers, he was almost mesmerized.

Reg will do her job, just like you will, and all your people. But the cost…

His eyes darted all around, trying somehow to assess the immense amount of information displayed on the main screen in an instant. The Highborn fighters were coming on in their usual formation. That at least was good. No new tactics, nothing unexpected other than their numbers.

Except…

There was a group of fighters in the lead, far ahead of the bulk of the enemy formation. They were spread out in a dispersed pattern, extending over an area far larger than normal. Perhaps it was just some kind of advance guard, maybe one prepared to accept higher losses for some tactical gain.

But Barron’s stomach was telling him something else, something darker. The only problem was, he had no idea what it was.

*

Stockton watched his hands shifting back and forth, moving the fighter’s controls and directing its flight. He didn’t interfere. He hardly even allowed himself any thoughts. It was almost time, time to do what he’d dreamed of for years. What he’d planned and worked for.

To strike back.

He was nervous about Force Black, terribly concerned about what diabolical scheme Tesserax had conceived. But he’d decided to follow through on his original plan. He would wait until the fighter wings were about to engage…and he would do all he could to sabotage the Highborn wings. To help his old friends against the massive force moving toward them.

He looked at the readings on his small screen. The fleet deployed ahead was the largest he’d ever seen, save only for the one following his fighters in. The Confederation, all the powers of the Pact, had massed their might for one final showdown. It was awe inspiring, and it filled him with a ray of hope…before he recalled just how immense the Highborn fleet was.

Win or lose, Stockton was certain his surviving comrades would fight on, but he also knew if they failed to repel the Highborn at Striker, the war was as good as over. This was the fight, the one that could determine the future of humanity for millennia to come, even forever. It was the struggle he’d been born to fight, the culmination of a lifetime at war. And he was sitting in an enemy ship, leading enemy forces.

The universe had a vindictive and bizarre sense of humor.

His eyes moved to his small screen. He could see fighters launching from the Pact ships, forming up and moving out in waves. He saw Reg Griffin’s teachings in the maneuvers, her impetuosity to push forward with what she had, meet the invader as far out from the fleet as possible. Her people were going to be outnumbered from the start…and through the entire battle. Stockton knew how many ships the Highborn had once all the carriers had transited, and he didn’t see any way his old comrades could prevail, or even survive.

No way except the one he’d harbored in the small section of his brain that was still his. He didn’t know if it would work, if he could gain enough control over himself to do what he had to do…or if Reg Griffin would do as he hoped she would. He’d thought about the plan almost endlessly, but now that the time had almost come, he was besieged by doubts.

Can it really work? Will it make enough difference?

He didn’t have answers, none save a very practical one he relied on as his ship ripped through space toward the fleet, toward destiny.

It has to work…

*

“Admiral, we’re picking up some kinds of launches from that forward group of fighters.”

Barron’s head snapped around, not to the aide’s position, but to the display, his eyes zeroing in on the line of tiny dots representing the Highborn vanguard. The forward formation was moving at an angle, trying to evade Reg Griffin’s approaching wings, even as the bulk of the Highborn force moved to engage the Pact wings.

Some kind of bombers?

That seemed the likeliest thought, but the fighters’ profiles weren’t much different from the interceptors. They were carrying something, perhaps, but not heavy missiles or torpedoes.

What then?

He was about to order Griffin to intercept the force, but then he held the orders back. Griffin’s fighters were about to be engaged by a massive wave of enemy interceptors, far more craft even than he’d dared to expect. His strike force commander was going to have her hands full just trying to face the ships coming at her. If Barron ordered her to chase down the thousand enemy ships in the lead, she would expose her flank to the main force…and she still wouldn’t catch the Highborn ships in time.

Besides, we can handle a thousand bombers…

“Fortress Striker and surrounding ships…all units activate full point defense arrays.”

“Yes, Admiral…forwarding your order to all stations.” Barron hadn’t formally appointed Doug Vinson as his aide. He had just fallen into the role from his position as Striker’s senior comm officer. But the commander had done all Barron could have hoped and more to fill the unfillable void left by Atara’s absence. He promised himself if both he and Vinson survived, he would see that the officer was promoted and added to his permanent staff.

“All point defense turrets fully operational, Admiral. Defense plan Beta-2 in operation.”

“Very well, Commander. Barron looked at the clouds of small contacts moving out from the enemy fighters. There was something strange about them, very strange. They were already extended over a large frontage, and they were spreading out further as they approached Striker and the fleet. It looked almost as though they would cover the entire frontage of the fleet. It didn’t make sense. Almost all military tactics relied on concentration of force. Even if those objects were missiles packed full of antimatter, they lacked the formation density to ensure some number of them would penetrate the defensive envelope.

But they were coming on, continuing to extend their frontage.

Barron didn’t know what that meant, but he was sure it wasn’t good. His mind compared the point defense output his force could produce and the number of incoming—what, projectiles? His defenses should be able to take out all the incoming contacts once they got a little closer. But no amount of analysis could push aside his edginess, and he knew with profound certainty, he wasn’t going to shoot down all those objects.

What the hell are those things?

Chapter Nineteen

Free Trader Pegasus

Telus Zakaris III

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Anything?” Andi was standing beside Pegasus, in front of a small folding table holding a comm unit and several other pieces of equipment. Her people had been on Telus Zakaris III for almost a week, and this was their fifth landing zone.

“Maybe.” Ellia didn’t look up from the handheld tablet as she answered. She was clearly distracted by something she was seeing.

Andi was grateful for even a hint her friend had found something. Four other touchdown points had yielded nothing. She’d almost been ready to give up, to backtrack and pick up her trail to the next system. But she’d told herself she had to be patient. A planet was a big place, and this one had been badly damaged by all it had suffered during the Cataclysm. Her people were looking for geographic features, but such landmarks were harder to spot on a world where mountains had come crashing down and seas had dried up. That didn’t make the search impossible, but it damned sure made it difficult.

“Well?” Andi had given Ellia a moment to finish what she was doing, but patience had never been her strongest trait.

“I think I’ve got something, Andi. The data we’ve got mentioned a number of mines near the base, a series of shafts dug into a compressed carbon field. Gemstones, Andi…rare gemstones. The geological features mentioned are quite rare…and there seems to be something quite similar here.”

“I appreciate that, Ellia, but we’re not here to bring back a load of diamonds, no matter how…”

“No…the descriptions of the mines were very specific. I think maybe they served as a cover for the base in imperial times.” Ellia extended her arm, holding the tablet so Andi could see it. “Look, we’re on top of a compressed carbon field now…and I’m picking up some echoes on the deep scans. There’s something under us, some network of shafts or carved out caverns. Some of those could be the mines mentioned in the files, Andi. Others could be sections of the former surface that are now buried underground. It’s far from certain, but combined with all the other factors that brought us here, it would be pretty coincidental if there was no relation.

Andi’s nature was skeptical, and she had to suppress her instinct to scoff at Ellia’s conjecture. But the Hegemony Master was right. They’d narrowed their search to fewer than two dozen systems, and the chance of another possessing a similar area of highly compressed carbon in just the right place seemed vanishingly remote.

It was a mathematical case, at least, that they were indeed on the planet they’d been searching for. It still didn’t feel like anything decisive, but Andi had always played the numerical odds.

She’d relied on her instincts, too, but this time her gut was silent. It had never much believed much in coincidence, however.

“Okay, well we’ve got a pretty fair amount of information about what to look for in the area and the like. We haven’t found the two rivers yet…” Andi turned and looked out over the blasted ground extending all around Pegasus’s landing zone. “…but they could have been dried up by whatever hit this planet. That ground looks like it might have been a riverbed. Let’s see if we can come up with some kind of estimate on where the rivers were three centuries ago, something a little better than a wild guess.”

“Already on it, Andi. The AI’s running an analysis on the data we’ve got and updating it with every new batch downloaded from the scanners. We should have something by tomorrow.”

“We don’t have time to waste, Ellia.”

“I know, Andi, but this carbon is very dense. It’s going to take some time to complete a thorough scan.”

Andi knew Ellia was right, but she was still edgy. There was something about the planet, a foreboding that ate away at her. She knew the importance of the mission, but she still felt the urge to order everyone aboard Pegasus and blast off, putting as much distance as possible between her ship and Telus Zakaris III.

“Lex!” Andi turned her head toward the engineer. He’d been standing just to the rear of the ship, checking out the engine cone.

“Yes, Andi, what is it?” He stepped around the end of the ship and jogged over toward where Andi and Ellia were standing.

“Lex, we need more scanner power. We’ve got to get through this compressed carbon field and check for any kind of underground base, or the remains of one.”

“I’ve got the reactor on low power…I could fire it up, but it will keep us from doing a lot of maintenance. Pegasus seems fine, but I always like to take advantage of being in an atmosphere to check out some exterior features without having to suit up. I know we’re in a hurry, but do you really think a few hours matters that much?”

Andi didn’t answer, not right away. She didn’t think a few hours were likely to matter, not when her people were on a mission that would take weeks, months even. But she wanted to get off Telus Zakaris III was quickly as possible. There wasn’t any logic to it, nothing she could express in words. But she’d been on a good number of dead imperial planets, and this one felt somehow…haunted.

“Do it, Lex. I know you won’t be able to service the ship as well, but she’ll get us back home anyway. She’s a tough old girl.” Andi suspected her people were wondering why she was so edgy. She’d have told them, if she’d been able to explain it.

She was beginning to believe the planet was the one they had sought, though she didn’t know if it would provide what they had come for. Regardless, success or not, she had a troubling feeling the ravaged, haunted world would extract a price from her, from her people.

“Let’s do all we can to find what we came for and get the hell out of here.” She exchanged glances with Lex and Ellia, but she pulled her eyes away from each after a few seconds. She tried not to shiver at the chill she felt in her spine…but she failed, and her entire body quivered in the light breeze.

*

Andi stared as her people raced around, setting up the drilling apparatus at the spot Ellia had designated. She had reviewed her friend’s analysis, and she’d agreed with every conclusion. Almost certainly, Telus Zakaris III was the planet they’d all come to find. They couldn’t be absolutely sure until and unless they found what they had come for, but she’d upped her mental assessment to north of ninety percent.

Even if they were on the right planet, that didn’t guarantee what they had come to find had survived the Cataclysm and the intervening centuries…but the data they’d gathered so far was cause for optimism.

Still, Andi was troubled, and she couldn’t shake the dark feeling. The planet had a macabre feel, certainly. Any place where millions had lived that was now totally dead was bound to carry its share of gloom. But Andi had been to more than a dozen major planets in the Badlands, and she’d never been particularly troubled by the haunted nature of them.

Until now.

She walked up toward the drilling site. “We almost ready to start?” Andi had been the force driving them all forward, the one who’d been most insistent on coming to Telus Zakaris. Now, she was fighting the urge to order all the equipment packed up so they could get the hell off the planet as quickly as possible.

“About ten minutes, Andi. But if we have to go too deep, we’re going to have to figure out a way to get down there. We can set up a winch to bring us to about a thousand meters, but any more than that’s going to be a problem.”

“Well, let’s see what happens. The scanning data suggests a few areas that could be what we’re looking for are lot closer to the surface that a thousand meters. If they’re all a bust, we’ll figure out what to do next.

Andi knew what she really wanted to do…but that was impossible. Whatever dangers, imagined or otherwise, that awaited them on Telus Zakaris, they were no greater hazards than defeat at the hands of the Highborn. Andi knew people responded to choices and dangers differently, but if it came down to death in some forgotten tunnel in the Badlands, or life as a slave of the Highborn, her choice was clear. No danger, no hazard, cold and real, or fuzzy and dreamlike, was enough to drive her away. Not while there was a chance of finding what they’d come for.

“The first likely spot is about two hundred down. We’d be through normal ground in less than half an hour, but once we hit that compressed carbon, our drilling rate is going to drop hard. Maybe six hours to get down two hundred? Seven?” Ellia sounded almost apologetic, as though it was somehow her fault the material under the drilling site was dense and difficult to penetrate.

“Let’s just do the best we can. I’d say we could draw more power from the ship, but if we burn out that drill, then we’ve really got a problem.”

Ellia just nodded. Andi cursed herself silently for not including spares for the large drill…even though she knew she’d already packed Pegasus about as full as she could. There just hadn’t been space for everything they might need.

Andi stared at the ground, and she looked up at her people moving all around. She had six Marines, the survivors from her last expedition, reinforced with three fresh additions…all experienced veterans. She hadn’t even had the urge to argue with Tyler when he insisted she take them again. She couldn’t argue they hadn’t saved her ass on Pintarus. None of her people would have made it out of there without the Marines’ firepower.

There was no guarantee they wouldn’t face another fight like that on Telus Zakaris III. “Ellia, I want everybody armed…and I mean at all times. Is that understood? She glanced down at the Hegemony Master’s waist, to her belt and the empty holster at its side.

“Sure, Andi. I just figured the Marines…”

“We needed everybody at Pintarus, and I see no reason to expect things to be easier here. I want three of the Marines on duty during drilling…and I want them all here, fully combat-equipped, when we’re ready to break through into any of the chambers shown on the scan. We’re not taking any chances, Ellia. I want everybody on the alert. These old imperial bases are dangerous, and we know very little about this planet, about what was here other than this base. But I can tell you from personal experience—and we all saw it on Pintarus—old imperial defense systems are durable. So, wherever you left your pistol, humor me and go get it now…and grab one of the assault rifles from the rack while you’re at it.” Andi herself had a rifle slung across her back and a pistol holstered on each side.

She couldn’t guarantee none of her people would die on Telus Zakaris III, in fact, if she was honest with herself, she expected casualties. But she could make damned sure none of those happened because she hadn’t been ready.

Ready for whatever the hell was down there.

Chapter Twenty

250,000 Kilometers from Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Reg Griffin took a deep breath, grateful she was alone in her cockpit. She could feel the clammy, warm sweat under her flightsuit…and the droplets sliding down the side of her face from her dampened hairline. She was a veteran, but she was scared to death. She wouldn’t admit that to any of her people, but she couldn’t deny herself the truth. She’d barely made it back from the last battle, plucked from the cold depths of space at the last moment by her rescuers. She could still feel death’s icy grip on her spine, and as hard as she tried, she couldn’t purge the darkness from her thoughts.

She’d given her people a rousing speech moments before, tinkered with their formations until they were perfect, reviewed the scans and the fleet disposition. She’d done everything she could possibly do to prepare her people for what lay ahead, to get them ready for the ordeal they faced.

But it wasn’t going to be enough.

Her wings were outnumbered, that much was certain. The exact math was still a guess, as enemy ships continued to pour through the transit point and launch additional squadrons. Two to one, at least, she’d guessed, and maybe worse. She’d has fifteen hundred of her ships outfitted as bombers, giving her a strike capability against Highborn line ships, but she’d just sent the comm back to flight control. Stara Sinclair had agreed completely with her decision to refit those ships as interceptors and launch them as soon as possible.

Wasting time in the middle of a battle outfitting and reoutfitting ships was never a good thing. She needed those fighters, certainly, but she was far from sure it wouldn’t be too late by the time they finally launched. Assuming they didn’t get stuck in blasted launch bays once the battleships got into the fight.

Her force was large, just over seven thousand interceptors, stretched out in a pair of lines close to thirty thousand kilometers long. The Highborn ships were in a comparable formation, though theirs was much denser…save for the ships out in front and off to the starboard side. She’d reported those wings to Admiral Barron, who’d already known about them, of course. Those birds were clearly trying to avoid meeting up with hers, and she was far from sure she could even intercept them if she tried. But she’d been ready to have a go at it until Barron called her off.

She’d almost argued, but she quickly realized the admiral was right. Whatever those ships were, whatever they were going to do, she had at best one chance in four of effectively intercepting them, and even if she succeeded, she would expose her wings to a flank attack by the enemy squadrons that already so badly outnumbered them.

No, whatever those ships were, the base and the battleships would have to handle them. Reg Griffin and her people had their hands full.

Her comm unit buzzed, and she tapped the small control, piping the message into her headset. But it wasn’t verbal. It wasn’t from any of her wing or division commanders.

She reached down, tapping at her scanner controls, trying to trace the communications beam. Her fingers moved over the small keypad, and her eyes locked on the screen, searching.

Then she froze.

The beam hadn’t come from any of her ships, nor from the fleet positioned behind her squadrons. It was a broad beam transmission aimed directly toward her entire strike force…and it had come from the enemy formation.

Not just the enemy wings, but from the very ship she’d pegged as her old adversary, the pilot she’d decided was the primary mover behind the proficiency of the Highborn squadrons.

The pilot who had come a micron from killing her in the last fight.

It’s a trick. It has to be a trick…

Her fingers moved over the keys, feeding the transmission into the AI. It looked like some kind of mathematics, highly complex and almost indecipherable. For a few seconds, she was utterly confused. Then she realized.

These are evasion routines…

She shook her head, but as she continued to review the equations, she became more and more convinced. She’d developed the routines for her own wings, but these were incredibly detailed, and far more complex.

She felt a flash of excitement. If her people knew the enemy routines, they could adjust for them. Their hit rates would go off the charts. It might even be enough to offset the hopeless numerical deficit they faced. She reached out, ready to direct the AI to download the routines into her targeting computer.

She stopped dead.

Wait…this is a trick. It has to be…

She rechecked the line on the comm beam. The ship that had sent the message was the one flown by the pilot she’d fought before, she was almost sure of it.

It was a trick, some kind of effort to disrupt her pilots’ targeting. That was all it could be.

It’s not going to work…and this time, I am going to kill you…

She narrowed her eyes, focusing on the single fighter as she pushed her thrust up toward maximum.

Her last battle with the mysterious Highborn pilot had been close, but it had been a defeat, one that had almost claimed her.

This time she was going to turn the tables. She was going to send her adversary straight to hell.

*

Stockton shook his head abruptly. The moves, the routines, the smooth vector changes. Stockton knew fighter combat like no other human being ever had, and he fancied he could identify a pilot by the style of his or her flight.

It can’t be her. She’s dead…

He saw Reg Griffin in the ship in the center of his monitor, an image as clear as if she was sitting in the cockpit on his lap. But it couldn’t be her. Reg Griffin wasn’t out there. She was dead. He’d killed her, just as he had so many of his old pilots.

Still, he couldn’t shake the thought, and his initial analysis quickly became enhanced by intuition. He was sure it was her, somehow, just as he was certain it couldn’t be.

His mind raced. He’d planned for months, waited for the moment when he could finally lash out against his captors and help his old comrades. He still couldn’t make sense of what he thought of Reg, of the ship on which his eyes were focused, but it didn’t matter who was in that ship, not really. All that mattered was that the Pact squadrons used what he had sent them. He wasn’t sure it would be enough to overcome the numerical superiority of the Highborn, but it was a big edge, and it would save many of his old pilots’ lives. He owed them at least that much.

It had taken everything he had to wretch control of his body from the Collar, but when he had done it, the change was complete. Or so it seemed. He’d prayed silently for just those brief moments, for the time he needed to send the transmission. But he was still in control as he sat there, moments later, waiting to see if the carefully calculated communication beam had been picked up by any of the Highborn ships. His targeting had been meticulously plotted, intended to reach only the Pact forces, but he couldn’t be sure…and he had no idea what to expect if any of the Highborn realized what he had done.

He didn’t care that much. For perhaps the first time in battle, he wasn’t afraid. At least not for himself. He was ready for death, he’d been ready for it for years…but he wanted to live long enough to know his message had been received and implemented, that it would do some good.

That before he died, one last time Jake Stockton would help lead his people into battle, even if none of them ever knew what he had done. He didn’t need them to know…nothing could truly make up for what he’d done the past five years anyway. But providing some aid at least would ease his final moments.

But the Pact wings were coming on exactly as they had been. The changes from implementing the routines wouldn’t be very noticeable yet, but there would be something. There wasn’t.

He understood.

They think it’s a trick. Of course, why wouldn’t they?

He felt the hope he’d fought so hard to gather slipping away. If he couldn’t find some way to convince his old comrades the information he’d sent them was legitimate, he was going to watch them fly into an apocalypse. They knew they were outnumbered, but they weren’t prepared for the upgraded weaponry the Highborn fighters mounted.

He had to find a way—some way—to convince them. But he had no idea how.

*

Chronos sat on the bridge of his flagship, silent, almost like a stone statue. He’d said his goodbyes to Akella, and though he’d tried to disguise them—pointlessly, he knew, at least to one of Akella’s intellect—he’d been sure to say all he’d needed to say. Just in case.

Chronos wasn’t one to expect death in battle, but he knew the math behind the fight just beginning, and also the desperate need for the fleet to hold…somehow. Whatever the cost. The battle would be bloody, and it would be a struggle to the end. Thousands would die. Hundreds of thousands.

If he was one of them, at least he’d said his piece to her, told her what she meant to him.

The whole thing had seemed strange, unnatural, somehow wrong. Chronos knew that was only his upbringing, the cultural constraints place on Hegemony Masters that still held considerable sway over him. Recreational sexual relationships were perfectly acceptable, as long as no extended emotional attachments developed. The Hegemony’s leaders were expected to mate with multiple partners, to do their part to nurture the upper reaches of the gene pool. Chronos had four children in total, a reasonable if unspectacular number, but Akella only had two. The Hegemony’s Number One had endured considerable criticism for her lack of effort in making additional matches, and while her relationship with Chronos had only begun late in her fertile period, it would be easy for her rivals to blame her lack of children on her feelings for Chronos. He had come to question the Hegemony’s social mores, though he also knew he’d lost his objectivity in the matter. He still believed in the imperative to continue to improve the genetic quality of humanity…but he loved Akella, too.

“Commander Chronos, Commander Ilius is on your line.”

Chronos reached down and tapped at the comm controls. “Ilius, old friend. Are your forces ready?” Chronos was leading just over half the Hegemony’s remaining vessels, and Ilius, his longtime comrade, was in command of the rest, off on the far starboard flank.

“Yes, Chronos…we’re ready.” Ilius could be a grim old warrior at times, but his tone was the very sound of stoic dedication to duty. “I just wanted to check in with you. We have fought together many times. You have ever been my commander, but you are also my friend. Fight well, Chronos, Number Eight of the Hegemony…and make it through this deadly battle. You have much to live for. Your time has not yet come.”

Chronos felt a sudden tension, a concern at the fatalism in his friend’s tone. Ilius wasn’t a member of the Council, but he was among the top thousand in genetic ranking, a man of thought as well as of war. But he didn’t expect to survive the coming fight, Chronos could tell that much.

“Ilius…” He paused, trying to think of what to say, but he didn’t have any great wisdom to offer, only friendship. “We have served together for many years, my friend. You are a tribute to the Hegemony. We will fight this battle together, as we have so many before…and we will both see its end.”

He’d come up with the words he’d needed, but there was only one problem.

He didn’t believe any of them.

*

“Two minutes to point defense perimeter, Admiral. All arrays report ready. We’re tracking the incoming contacts, and we’ve got full data on the fleetnet.”

Barron nodded, though he didn’t respond to Vinson’s report. He was too focused on the display, and on the line of dispersed projectiles heading toward Striker and the fleet. Something was wrong, he was sure of it. If the enemy had some new kind of weapon, there would be more of them. The Highborn had to know that once his fleet’s point defense batteries opened up, they were going to sweep a lot of—whatever those things were—away.

Barron took a deep breath and held it. If his military career had taught him anything, it was just how long two minutes could be in certain circumstances. The enemy very likely had a good idea of the range of his point defense arrays. Were those projectiles going to engage in some kind of wild evasive maneuvering? Were they antimatter missiles with some way he didn’t understand to get to his ships, or perhaps to Striker? The fortress was enormously powerful, mounted with a staggering number of immensely heavy weapons. But its evasion capability was severely limited. It wasn’t exactly a fixed target, but it wasn’t a ship that could move and shimmy a hundred ways to make itself a tough target. Striker was huge and heavily armored, but it wouldn’t take many multi-terawatt antimatter bombs to take it out.

His eyes flashed up, toward the top of the screen. Down to one minute…

He breathed deeply again, struggling to retain his countenance, to be the unyielding commander, the officer without doubt, without fear. His people deserved nothing less from him.

He was about to turn and snap out an order to Vinson, but something caught his eye, and he stopped dead. The incoming projectiles were vanishing.

No, not vanishing…

They were detonating. Not in the massive, almost unimaginable fury he’d been expecting, but relatively modest explosions…far too distant from his ships to cause any damage at all.

He didn’t understand. It didn’t make sense. Why would the Highborn commit so many fighters to such a pointless display? What was he missing?

He wondered, for about twenty seconds. Then his eyes and ears answered the question for him, his own recognition of what was happening on the screen coming in at a dead tie with Vinson’s report.

“Sigma-9 radiation, Admiral. A dense cloud of it, all along our line…heading toward the fleet at high velocity.”

Barron was still confused, at least somewhat. But then the main display—and every screen in the control room—went dark. Sigma-9 emissions made Highborn ships difficult to target…and now an immensely larger spread of the mysterious radiation was heading right for his fleet…blocking his scanning net completely.

Barron opened his mouth to shout out orders…but he had nothing, no idea what to do.

None at all.

Chapter Twenty-One

Fleet Base Grimaldi

Krakus System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“I don’t know what to say, Emmit. You were the last one I expected to arrive with reinforcements.” Holsten paused for an instant. “It took a lot of faith to pull those ships out of the yards so quickly.” Holsten wasn’t an expert on naval tactics or ship construction, but he’d considered doing just what Flandry had done when he’d commandeered Constellation, and the lecture from the yard supervisor on all the almost finished systems that could fail on the other two ships had dissuaded him.

He was vaguely troubled at feeling less daring than the politician with whom he’d both sparred and cooperated.

“You managed to get that out without saying, ‘how did any politician manage to do that?’ Indeed, you spoke very diplomatically, almost like…one of us.” Flandry smiled, coming close to a laugh but holding back. The battle was over, and Grimaldi had held, but the base was a wreck, and so was the fleet positioned around it. Thousands had died, and as soon as the enemy was able to assemble a new force, they’d almost certainly be back. It didn’t take a flag-ranked logistics officer to determine that the next defense would be a hell of a lot weaker than the one that had just barely repelled the first invasion. Given time, some of the fleet damage might be repaired, but getting Grimaldi back to more than a fraction of its former combat power was going to take years.

“Well, I do have some idea how to behave.” A pause. “especially when I’m truly grateful, which I am.”

Flandry extended his hand. “You don’t like me much, Gary, I know that.” The politician put his hand up as Holsten looked like he might argue. “No, really, it’s okay. I don’t much like you either. At least we’ve wrestled with each other for a long time. But I don’t want to be a Highborn slave any more than I suspect you do, and against all odds, we seem to make something of a good team. I’d say the same about Admiral Barron. I like him even less than I do you, but I wouldn’t have anyone else out there at Striker.”

Holsten smiled and he grasped Flandry’s hand as the Speaker lowered it again. “So, not friends exactly, but allies of necessity? I can live with that.”

“So can I.” The two men shook hands vigorously. “So, is the situation here as bad as it looks to me? I know you’re not a navy man, and we will definitely want Commodore—I mean Admiral—Simpson’s thoughts, but for the moment, I suspect your sense of these things is sharper than mine.”

The last of Holsten’s smile vanished. “Well, as you said, I’m no expert, but I’d have to say the fleet is mostly floating wreckage, and if anything, Grimaldi is worse. We pushed them back, and they were in just as bad shape…so, I guess what happens next will depend on how long it is before the Highborn receive reinforcements. Between my intelligence assets and Admiral Denisov, I can state fairly equivocally that the Union is unlikely to substantially reinforce their own fleet. They might manage some repairs, but that’s all. And that won’t be enough for a renewed offensive.” Holsten took a breath. “But it won’t take a massive Highborn force to slice through here, not with the fleet and Grimaldi in the shape they’re in. Constellation took significant damage, as well, though I’d say she’s still combat worthy. The two new ships didn’t take a lot of hits, but then they weren’t really completed either. It’s a damned good thing the enemy retreated, because either of those could have suffered any number of critical failures if their systems had been really tested. We’ll have to find a way to get them closer to finished while they’re here. That won’t be easy without a shipyard, but we’ll need them a hell of a lot more stable by the next battle. They’ll have to do more than scare off the enemy…they’ll be in the middle of one hell of a fight.”

“You’re sure there will be a next battle?” Flandry looked at Holsten. “I mean soon?”

“I don’t know anything about how the Highborn are getting ships and supplies to the Union, but they’ve got to be doing a wide sweep around the outer edge of the Badlands. That’s a long trip, but their ships are faster than ours, too. Considering the density of our deployment at Striker, there is a massive force multiplier in play here. A force that is almost irrelevant to the fighting out there could be decisive here, and even threaten the Core. My guess is, they thought what they’d sent would be enough, and it probably would have been if you hadn’t brought Starfire and Argo. I suspect they’d planned to take Grimaldi, and then bring fresh forces up to invade the Confederation. If that’s the case, those reserves are already on the way, probably close. Possibly even already in Union space. Based on what Denisov was able to tell me, I’d say we can be pretty sure we’ve got at least a month…perhaps as much as four or five.”

“A month?” Flandry sounded horrified. “I was thinking a year, hopefully longer.”

Holsten shook his head. “I seriously doubt we’ve got a year, Emmit. I don’t think it would take that long for them to send forces if they left their space now. But the Highborn are pretty relentless. I find it very hard to believe they didn’t have reserves on the way even as they launched the attack here. I’m hoping to get that four months, but I’m not sure I would bet on it.”

“What are we going to do? We might get a couple newly built cruisers up here, but there’s nothing else strong enough to make a difference. We’ve got the next eight of the Excalibur-class, of course, but they’re nothing but partial skeletons now. It would be a miracle if any of them could be ready in less than two years.

Holsten sighed, feeling as though the answer forming in his mind would sound very much like something Tyler Barron would have said. “Well, Emmit, I guess we dig up what we can, arm some freighters and the like…and we do what we can to repair as much of this…” he gestured to both sides with his arms. “…and we fight, as we always do, with whatever we’ve got.”

Emmit Flandry looked back, nodding, but also looking stunned…and very much like he was going to throw up.

*

“Escort it into…” Holsten looked down at the screen. He didn’t want to admit how skilled he’d become at reading military displays, but finding a place on Grimaldi that could handle a landing was easier said than done. “…delta bay.” The base’s landing bays were mostly opened spaces full of twisted wreckage and burnt out debris. The station had managed to land its fighters—the ones that made it back—but Holsten still wasn’t sure just how that had happened. He’d been stunned at the levels of damage when he’d toured the flight decks, and a shuttle like the one coming in was going to be harder to land than a Lightning.

“Yes, sir.” Holsten had tried to get the station’s officers to stop calling him, ‘sir.’ He wasn’t a military officer, after all, and technically not even in their chain of command. But everyone had come to accept him as the de facto commander on the scene. Even Commodore, now Admiral, Simpson, the unquestioned military superior present, deferred to the intelligence chief.

Perhaps it made more sense in this instance. The shuttle coming in was damaged, a Union model that had apparently escaped from the enemy fleet in the late stages of the battle. It had blasted out into the deep system and had been on the way back when its engine had finally given up the ghost.

A pair of Lightnings had grappled the thing and decelerated enough to land with it in tow, but it wasn’t the prospect of the cumbersome cluster of ships navigating the wounded bay that most troubled Holsten.

It was the voice on the comm he’d received. The one that claimed to be Sandrine Ciara. Gary Holsten hadn’t trusted the Union rebel when she’d been in charge on Montmirail and negotiating an alliance with the Confederation. He damned sure didn’t trust her now. He knew Gaston Villieneuve well enough that he’d been certain the rebel leader would have found her way to an unpleasant death already…and her presence was deeply disturbing. He’d almost ordered the fighter patrol to open fire and blast the small ship, but he’d decided that would be a bad idea in front of Andrei Denisov’s people. The Free Union forces had been weak before the battle, and they’d fought like demons through the engagement, enduring heavy losses. But Holsten knew his people needed every ship they had, and every bit of effort from each spacer in the fleet.

Besides, he was curious to see what she had to say. Most likely, assuming it wasn’t a trap of some kind, she was just seeking sanctuary. It seemed improbable that she’d managed to survive this long and escape from Villieneuve, and even more of a stretch to imagine she’d done it carrying any kind of useful intel. But Holsten had always stressed to his operatives the importance of completely analyzing any situation. Anything Ciara had seen could be useful, especially any hints that could derived about additional Highborn forces already in Union space or expected.

“I’m going down to the landing bay.” Holsten stood up, feeling strange for announcing his intentions. He still clung to the position that he was an advisor only, but it was becoming more and more difficult to ignore the fact that the spacers on Grimaldi were clearly looking to him for leadership.

He stepped onto one of the lift cars and tapped the code for the bay onto the small keypad. The audio control circuits were out, but he was fairly certain the elevator shafts leading to the bay were still functional, even though a good portion of Grimaldi’s network of lifts and intrastation cars was damaged, with collapsed shafts and power outages making certain areas of the vast fortress almost completely inaccessible. Of course, many of those areas were twisted and shattered debris now, ripped open to the vacuum of space and unusable.

And some still hold the bodies of the spacers who’d been stuck there, trapped and unable to escape.

He sighed softly, taking advantage of a few seconds alone to drop the veneer of strength and optimism he’d tried so desperately to maintain in front of the others. Grimaldi and the fleet had held, and that was good. But Holsten knew the respite they had gained would be a short one…and possibly very short. His desperation was clear, even in what he was doing just then, going down to meet Sandrine Ciara’s shuttle. He didn’t expect she could offer any real help, but he couldn’t afford not to see what she had to say.

His suspicions were still strong, but he could feel them slipping away slowly. He knew he was trying to convince himself she was a useful ally, in spite of his instincts. It was weakness, he knew, his utter lack of any idea what to do to get ready for the next attack. That didn’t make it any likelier Ciara could offer real help, but it did give Holsten a crutch to lean upon, a ray of hope to hold back the darkness…and in spite of himself, against all his instincts and efforts, he allowed himself to believe Sandrine Ciara just might have some kind of useful intelligence, some way to aid the effort to face the enemy when they returned.

And in the deepest recesses of his mind he could hear a voice, his own, distant and soft…calling him a damned fool.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“I want the AI working on this, now! Change frequencies, increase pulse modulation…we need those scanners back online.” Tyler Barron was standing in front of his chair, waving his arms as he spoke. He usually remained calmer, more circumspect in action, but he’d been taken by surprise. He’d imagined the enemy projectiles were super-powerful warheads, perhaps with some kind of system to compromise his point defense. He’d been worried, about the barrage, terribly worried.

But he’d never guessed at the true purpose of the thousand small missiles.

They weren’t weapons at all, at least not in the context of inflicting direct damage onto his ships. No, not a single explosion had rocked Striker or any of the more than a thousand vessels in the fleet. The projectiles hadn’t even closed all the way to the base and fleet before they detonated.

They had just blinded Barron’s force.

“It looks like the entire line is affected, Admiral. We’re still getting reports from the far end of the formation, but it appears to have hit everyone.”

“Full evasive routines, all ships. Now!” Barron didn’t know what was coming behind the dense cloud that blanketed his scanners, but he knew, whatever it was, it was going to be bad.

He looked up at the display. The initial static pattern had faded. The scanners were actually fully functional. The Sigma-9 radiation had only truly blinded his fleet for a few seconds. The sensor suite had recovered, more or less, and he could once again see his ships lined up around the fortress.

What he couldn’t see was the enemy, nor Reg Griffin’s wings, nor any of the small scoutships he had sent forward to monitor the enemy’s approach. The long radiation cloud acted almost as a shade pulled down over a window. Barron’s scanners worked, but they couldn’t detect a vessel of the enemy fleet. Nothing. The wall of radiation blocked his beams cold.

“All units acknowledge. Evasive routines underway.”

Barron nodded as the officer spoke, but his eyes were fixed on the display, on the long line of small dots representing his ships, and the hazy black cloud lying in front of the fleet.

“All ships…adjust positions. Maneuver thirty thousand kilometers up in the Y plane.” Barron didn’t like moving his ships that far from Striker, but leaving them blind was a worse option. He had no idea how long the radiation cloud would disrupt his scans, but the thing was finite in size. If his people could get to a position giving them a straight vector over the cloud, they should be able to get at least some scanner readings.

Unfortunately, Striker was stuck where it was. The fortress wasn’t a mobile unit, not by any conventional standards. It did have some positioning engines, designed mostly to allow it to engage its own minimal evasion routines. Without that ability, the station would be blown to bits in minutes by any major assault. The distances in space made targeting somewhat difficult, but it was the unpredictability of a target’s precise location at any instant that really made it tough. A totally fixed and motionless target reduced the whole exercise to mathematics, and even the most complicated firing solutions were simple exercises for computers and AIs.

“All units confirm, Admiral. Repositioning underway.”

Barron nodded, but even as he saw his ships altering their thrust vectors on the display, he realized it was going to take too long. The enemy would know he’d respond as he had—and the radiation cloud was moving toward his fleet anyway. It wouldn’t be long after his vessels got a look around it that it would pass through them anyway. Once the radiation was behind his fleet, it might be an obstacle to an orderly retreat, but it wouldn’t affect the battle anymore.

No, whatever the hell is coming is in that cloud, or right behind us, and it’s going to be here in…

He paused, running some quick calculations in his head, and then checking them through the computer.

Eighteen minutes.

Whatever threat was coming for his people, they had less than twenty minutes before it arrived. And Barron had no idea what it would be.

None at all.

*

“Okay…you all know why we’re here, and what’s at stake. You’ve done the training, the exercises, put in the hours. This is what it was all for. This is your time. Make every shot count. The fleet’s counting on us, everyone we left behind, back in Confederation space, too. You all can do this…I believe in you. Admiral Stockton would be gratified to see you, how you have endured and fought in his absence. Somewhere he is watching, and he is bursting with pride. So, don’t let him down. Let’s do the work!”

Reg tapped her controls, adjusting her fighter’s vector slightly. Her eyes darted over to the long-range scanner for about the tenth time in the last few minutes. She’d wondered what the projectiles the enemy advance guard had launched had been, and now she knew. They’ve cut off the fleet’s scans…

She couldn’t see a ship of the fleet, nor even a hint of the massive bulk of Fortress Striker. She saw the utility in the enemy’s plan, but it seemed early to her.

Why wouldn’t they wait until their own ships were closer?

She’d been asking herself that same question since the enemy missiles had detonated. Suddenly, an answer appeared.

That radiation might block their own scans as badly as ours.

The thought just popped into her head, and she realized for all the concern over countering the enemy’s Sigma-9 pulses, the blanket assumption had always been that the Highborn scanners could see through that bizarre radiation. But perhaps they couldn’t. That would reduce the usefulness of a screen of the blocking radiation.

So, why go to the trouble of blocking the fleet’s scans at this range, especially if you can’t target either…

Then she saw something. Contacts, a cluster of ships coming from the far end of the line. A lot of ships.

Was it some kind of attack, some effort to take the fleet in flank? It still didn’t make any sense. The Highborn wouldn’t be able to fire until they’d penetrated the radiation cloud. All they would do was surrender their own range advantage and burst in on the fleet at point blank range. And once they were through the cloud, Striker and the fleet could target them, too.

Reg glanced back at her main screen. She was less than two minutes from entering launch range for her missiles. But she couldn’t yank her attention from whatever was heading toward Striker and the fleet.

She felt the urge to pull her people back, lead them against the new contacts, but it didn’t take more than a few seconds for her to do preliminary calculations in her head and determine that wasn’t an option. Her wings were heading toward the enemy at substantial velocity. It would take at least twenty minutes to decelerate to a stop, and longer to build thrust back toward the contacts.

And whatever she was seeing on her screen was going to reach the fleet in less than even that twenty minutes. There was nothing she could do, but she maintained her focus anyway, watching as the scans provided more information. She’d assumed the vessels were warships of some kind, but the data coming in didn’t support that.

They look like some kind of transports…

She felt a second urge, one calling again for her to break off, to blast to a place where she could bypass the cloud and get a signal to Admiral Barron. But that, too, would take too long. Longer than she had, and longer than it was going to take whatever those ships were to reach Striker.

She sucked in a deep breath, and she turned her attention back to the fight about to begin. It was all she could do, the way she could contribute the most to the fleet’s efforts.

She moved her fingers, flipping a series of switches, arming her two ship-to-ship missiles. She’d always sought to make the best use of the heavy weapons, and she’d trained her people to do the same. But it had never been as important as it was just then, facing the massive enemy force bearing down on her wings. Her people had to score every hit they could.

But she feared even that would be far too little.

*

“Dammit, Reg…use that routine. You’ll take them by surprise. Your pilots will kill thousands in the first few minutes.” Stockton’s hands were clenched in tight fists, and his body shook with frustration. For five years, he’d longed for the ability to control his thoughts, his distress, to shake his body. But now that he could do it, there was only misery. He’d come up with the best possible way to help his people against the attacking Highborn fighters, and he’d actually pulled it off, regained control of his body and sent out the message exactly as he’d planned.

But no one out there believed it was legitimate. That made sense, of course, but Stockton hadn’t spent a lot of time worrying about that, not when he’d been far from sure he’d even be able to send the message. There hadn’t been any purpose in worrying about whether the Confeds and their allies out there would trust it. He’d expected them to mistrust it…but he’d hoped they would at least analyze it, check it out. It was real, completely accurate, and it was the key to giving them all a chance in the battle about to commence. He’d prayed that they would realize that…while there was still time.

“C’mon, Reg…” He still didn’t completely believe Reg Griffin was alive, not with any degree of confidence. But the pilot he’d been tracking, the one he was almost sure was the overall strike force commander, flew just like Griffin. So much so, it was eerie. He’d taken to calling that pilot, ‘Reg,’ even as his mind rebelled against any potentially false hope she could somehow still be alive.

Still, that’s the leader…that’s the one you have to convince…

He was more certain of that than he was of any hope-inspired notion that his old protégé was still alive.

He looked down at his comm unit. He’d taken a wild chance transmitting the routines. If he sent another communique, or engaged in an ongoing discussion, he was begging to be caught. He was deep in the middle of the Highborn formation. If any of the Highborn ordered his death, it would come quickly. He was the best pilot in the fleet, but even Jake Stockton couldn’t defeat a hundred adversaries, or a thousand.

He didn’t care about death…but he needed to survive long enough to convince his old comrades to use the weapon he had given them.

Let me reach them, somehow…and then you can take me…

He tapped out a code on the small keypad. Somehow, he still remembered the Pact frequencies and access codes.

Assuming they’re still functional…

He took a deep breath, and he activated the unit.

“Pact strike force commander—Reg?—this is Raptor. I repeat, this is Jake Stockton. I am the one who transmitted the codes to you. They are accurate. You must use them.”

He leaned back in his seat, and he could feel the tension in every centimeter of his body.

“I repeat, this is Jake Stockton calling Pact commander…”

*

Reg heard the words echoing in her headset. She moved her hand almost instinctively to block the transmission, but something stopped her. The transmission continued, the voice at the other end repeating its message.

It was impossible. It just couldn’t be. Jake Stockton was five years dead. It was some kind of trick, some hideous, evil deception. The Highborn was trying to deceive her with her lost friend’s name, and his voice.

And the sound in her headset did sound a lot like Jake Stockton.

She felt her fists clenching as she stared down at her screen. The enemy knew Stockton’s name, of course, and it wasn’t hard to believe they had numerous intercepts capturing his voice giving various orders during dogfights. Still, she’d found the evasion routine data seductive the instant she’d received it, even as she’d told herself it was a trick. Her people were so outnumbered there weren’t many things that would make a difference. A cracked version of the enemy evasive routines was one of them.

Your needing it doesn’t make it legitimate…and the fact that you miss your friend and have never needed him more doesn’t make that Jake Stockton on that line.

She told herself to ignore it, to tap the unit and shut it down. But then she did the least useful thing she could imagine. She responded.

“I don’t know who this is, but Jake Stockton is dead. You got the better last time we fought, but now I’m going to blast you straight to hell.” There was venom in her voice, fueled by determination and anger, but also by the pain she felt as the wounds of Stockton’s death were torn open again.

She angled her throttle, even as she told herself she was being foolish, letting her rage take charge. She’d always intended to seek out her old adversary, to finish things once and for all. But if she raced too far ahead of her fighters, she would end up swarmed by a hundred Highborn ships before she even got to her target.

That realization was nothing but pure truth…but she ignored it anyway.

She slapped her hand down on the comm, activating the command line. “Dirk, Olya…take over command of the wings. Take them in like we planned.” She heard the beginnings of responses, of protest from her two comrades, but she dropped her hand over the controls again, cutting the line. An instant later, the indicator light came on, Federov and Timmons calling her. She ignored them. She had something to do, and nothing—not fear, not good sense, not even duty—was going to stop her.

“Get ready, you miserable piece of garbage…because it’s time for you to die.”

Her eyes narrowed, and she blasted her ship forward at full thrust…right into the heart of the enemy formation.

*

“That ship is not to be attacked…is that understood? That one is mine.” It felt strange to be issuing orders to Highborn formations. He’d done it for almost five years, of course, but that had always been beyond his control. Even when he’d launched into the current fight, he’d still been trapped in his mental prison, waiting for the moment to make his attempt to escape and regain control.

He’d done that, and since then he’d been more concerned about trying to send Highborn secrets to his old comrades than leading the wings under his command. But his entreaties to Griffin had failed. She hadn’t believed him. His words had only served to infuriate her, to goad her into a wildly reckless attempt to reach his location, to resume the duel they’d fought over multiple battles.

Stockton felt something he’d almost forgotten, at least he had for a passing moment. Happiness. The realization that Griffin had somehow survived their last exchange, that he hadn’t killed his old friend, sent a burst of joy through his body. But it quickly faded, replaced by apprehension, even near panic. Griffin was coming after him, heading through a gauntlet of Highborn ships to reach his own. He wasn’t going to fight her. If he couldn’t convince her he was trying to help, he would let her kill him. That would be an escape from his personal hell, and from the guilt that ate away at him every waking second, but if he couldn’t convince her to use the data he’d sent, thousands more of her pilots—his pilots—were going to die.

Calling off the Highborn squadrons was a start—though it was also an action almost certain to attract notice…and an eventual realization that he had escaped his Collar’s control. He’d worry about that later. First, he had to figure out how to convince Griffin he was truly Jake Stockton. He suspected she might have found a way to get through the Highborn squadrons even without his help. He thought that was possible, because he thought he just might be able to do it, and Griffin was almost as good as he was.

Almost. There was enough of the old Jake Stockton left to limit his acceptance at that.

But she’d never get out. Once she destroyed his ship, she would become the primary target for thousands of Thrall-pilots. Not even Reg Griffin could escape from that deadly cauldron.

“Reg…this is Jake Stockton. You thought I was dead, but I was captured. The Highborn had been using me for years now, controlling my mind and forcing me to train their squadrons. You fought me in those other battles, at least the controlled version of me.” He stopped, realizing how ridiculous the whole thing sounded. He wouldn’t have believed it. Why should he expect her to?

She didn’t answer. She got control over herself. She let herself go when she answered before.

He didn’t know if she was even still listening, but he had to believe she was. Stockton had never been one to place much trust in baseless hope, but it was all he had left.

“Reg, it’s Jake. Those routines I sent you are real. If you don’t believe me, test them out on one squadron…please.” And do it soon…when these comms get intercepted and analyzed, the fleet will change the evasion plan…

“Reg…remember when we first met? I mean really met…and talked? We sat up in the officer’s club, late, talking about old times, and telling a few…embellished…stories. I told you about when Dirk Timmons and I were seniors at the Academy, how we stole two fighters and fought our own wargame to see who was best. How we slipped out and then back again…and how we managed to get back into base. How we convinced one of the computer techs to erase the records, how we updated the fuel manifests…how we covered all of our tracks. And how we got caught anyway, because I left my boots in the ready room?”

Stockton paused a moment, thinking back over what felt like a century. He’d never told that story to anyone except Kyle Jamison and Reg…and Jamison was almost fifteen years dead.

“It is me, Reg…it is truly me. And I’m trying to help you.”

He started at the comm unit, feeling as helpless as he had in five years as a Highborn Thrall.

Please, Reg…please…

*

“Point defense batteries, open fire!” Even as he snapped out the command, Barron knew it was too late. The enemy had planned their attack perfectly, and the ships now moving toward Striker had been deep inside the cloud, utterly undetectable until seconds before.

Barron’s first thought was that the vessels were some kind of large attack craft, but as he watched them approach the station, he could see that they were lightly armed…if they were armed at all.

Fire ships? Suicide craft?

The thoughts raced through his mind, each one closely followed by his rejection of it. If the enemy craft carried some kind of explosives, they wouldn’t be decelerating as they were. There weren’t trying to ram the fortress, or close at maximum possible velocity to detonate any warheads they carried. It almost looked like they were going to…

Barron watched as Striker’s hundreds of point defense guns opened up, verifying his realization that the enemy was already inside the primary targeting envelope. The defensive arrays took down some of the ships, but far fewer than Barron needed them to.

My God…those are troop transports. They’re going to…

He turned and hit the comm unit. “General Rogan, bring your Marines to full alert at once. Prepare to repel boarders!”

He turned toward the comm station, even as Rogan’s acknowledgement rattled in his headset. “Orders to all fleet units,” he snapped. “Prepare to defend against boarding actions.”

It didn’t make any sense. Barron had seen ships boarded before, but usually small craft, pirates and similar vessels. Why would the Highborn want to land troops? They could have done as much damage or more if those ship were crammed full of antimatter…

Barron looked up as the main control room doors opened up and twenty Marines poured in, moving around, taking position on both sides of the vast open area. Barron wasn’t sure how Rogan had gotten any of his people there so quickly. The grim looking Marines were still pulling on bits of body armor, but they were fully armed, and they all looked ready for a fight.

Barron was still stunned by what was happening…but the radiation cloud was moving past Striker, and in just a few minutes, he expected to have scanner contact with the enemy fleet again. He had a battle in space to fight, and he’d have to trust Bryan Rogan to handle whatever happened in the fortress’s corridors and compartments.

He was unsettled, distracted…but there was no one he’d rather have had in command of the defenses.

I just hope the Marines on the other ships can handle this…

Chapter Twenty-Three

Free Trader Pegasus

Telus Zakaris III

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Andi pushed against the smooth rock of the freshly-drilled shaft, trying to keep herself centered as the winch lowered slowly toward the bottom. It wasn’t the most comfortable trip, certainly, and it would have been near torture for anyone more claustrophobic than Andi, but it was workable. Barely. And that was the best she could hope for.

She’d tried to push back against the black thoughts that had been plaguing her. She missed Tyler and Cassie, and worse, she was worried to death about them. She was scared to her core about what would happen to everyone she knew. She’d always had a dark side—no one who’d come from the violence and squalor of the Gut could get entirely away from that—but now she fought to keep it at bay. She had a job to do, and the safety of those very people she was so worried about depended in many ways on her successfully completing it.

She’d decided she didn’t need the oxygen tank Lex had tried to give her, but now she was regretting it. The stale, hot air rising up the shaft was making her throat hurt and her eyes tear. It wasn’t toxic, at least not significantly so, but she would have killed for a breath of cool, fresh air just about then.

She could hear sounds coming from below her, and a few second later, her boots hit the hard stone floor at the bottom of the shaft. She’d set the speed on the winch herself, and as the pain shot up her legs, she wished she’d have been a bit less impatient. She stumbled a step or two, and then she reached across her chest and waist, unhooking herself from the harness.

“Andi…come over here now. We’ve found something. Something amazing.”

She turned and raced toward Ellia. The Hegemony Master was standing about six meters away, and she was gesturing toward one end of the cavern.

The cave was massive, and Andi could immediately see the ruins of ancient imperial buildings. The planet had been bombarded from space, by huge mass drivers or directed meteors, two imperial capabilities that still eluded the Rim’s technology. There had been massive tremors and entire geological features had been obliterated or transformed. Andi realized that everything she was seeing had once been on the surface. The location matched the clues they had well enough to spark her hopes, and now that she could see the actual ruins, a burst of excitement took her.

She walked toward Ellia, looking all around as she did. The cavern was dark, lit only by the portable lighting her people had brought down. Save for an eerie glow coming from an opening in the rock wall…the one to which her friend was pointing.

“What did you find?”

“I think we may have found what we’re looking for, Andi. And more than that, maybe.”

Andi had been reluctant to send Ellia and her people down first. She’d always been a ‘lead from the front’ sort. But she’d been up to her neck in analyzing scanner data on the rest of the planet, trying to decide where to go next, assuming the current location turned out to be as much a waste of time as the others had been.

Which didn’t seem to be the case, considering the excitement in Ellia’s voice.

“More? What do you mean?”

“Andi…you spent a lot of time out here, explored a lot of old imperial ruins, right?”

“My share…certainly. Why?”

“Did you ever find an old imperial AI that was still operational?”

“AI? I’m not sure what you mean. We definitely ran into a few defense systems that were still partially operational. But no, not a full-blown AI. Why?” Andi could see Ellia was excited about whatever it was she had found.

“I think this building…” She gestured toward the opening with the eerie light. “…was the sector base for the imperial intelligence service. Most of it is a wreck, but we may have gotten lucky. The AI in there is still operational…at least partly. A lot of its databases are damaged or destroyed, but it’s still got a lot of information, Andi, on the struggle against the Highborn…and a lot of imperial history, too. It’s an amazing discovery. I can’t overstate the importance of what we’ve found here.”

“The only important thing right now is to find a way to defeat the Highborn. Nothing else really matters.” Andi had always had an interest in knowledge for its own sake. That was one thing that set her apart from the other Badlands prospectors, who were mostly rough and tumble sorts interested only in finding bits and pieces of tech they could sell. Andi had always been able to match her greed against any other prospector’s, at least in her younger days, but she’d at least appreciated the information her people uncovered for its own sake.

She might have still felt that way, been more intrigued by the prospect of filling in some blanks about Rim history, if the situation had been less dire. But she was a warrior first, and defeating the enemy was all she cared about at that moment. She’d always found the ability of academic sorts to lose themselves in knowledge for its own sake, despite the threats and dangers lurking around them, a bit curious.

She turned around and looked back the way she had come. Vig was climbing out of the harness just as her eyes landed on him. “Vig, send a message up. We’ve got some kind of computer system, and that means we need Sy down here now.” Ellia was probably the most educated member of her crew, but Sy Merrick was a master at handling computers and AIs, an accomplished programmer and hacker, and the best bet they had to truly figure out any partially functional imperial system.

“You got it, Andi.”

She turned and looked at Ellia. So, let’s go take a look at whatever it is you’ve found.”

*

“My designation is A217-380PRM. I am a level seven dedicated intelligence unit.” The High Imperial accent of the machine’s voice made it slightly difficult to understand.

Andi stood stone still, staring at the machine in front of her with pure shock. Ellia hadn’t overestimated what she had found. The system was by far the best-preserved bit of imperial tech she’d ever seen, save perhaps for Colossus. But even the great battleship’s computing systems had been entirely replaced by Hegemony and Confederation units.

“What is your purpose?” Andi had always imagined finding a still-functional AI one day, but the fact that she had to fumble for what to say to it, confirmed that she’d never really believed it would happen.

“I have served multiple functions, but primarily, I am a data collating and retrieval unit. My purpose is to act in a custodial manner with my assigned data files. Unfortunately, many of my storage units have been damaged, so irreparably so.”

“What data do you possess?”

“I have active files on multiple intelligence operations, as well as a broad overview of imperial history.”

“What do you know of the Highborn?” Andi kept looking behind her, waiting for Sy to arrive. Her friend was good, but she’d never seen anything like the unit they had found. Andi was asking questions, slowly moving toward what she really wanted. She kept expecting the unit to refuse, for some security protocols to assert themselves, but the computer continued to answer her questions.

Maybe the security protocols were damaged…that would be a lucky break.

“The Highborn were the result of an ill-fated scientific experiment. While the program was not authorized by imperial authorities, its initial purpose was to halt the decline in the empire’s economic, intellectual, and physical conditions. Unfortunately, the beings known as the ‘Highborn’ quickly rebelled against human authority, and the struggle to defeat them ultimately hastened the decline already in progress.”

“What happened to the Highborn?”

“They were defeated and driven from imperial space. This operation took a number of years, and the damage done to an already weakened empire proved to be fatal. The final collapse began four years after the expulsion of the Highborn, and it continued unabated. Unfortunately, this world lost all contact with other Imperial systems after the final fighting here, and as such, my own data on the empire ends with the battles fought here.”

Andi found herself intrigued, part of her wishing she had time to listen to the machine lecture about imperial history. But she didn’t have that time. She didn’t have any time.

“How were the Highborn driven out of the empire?”

“Numerous conventional battles were fought, however the Highborn were able to gain control over a significant plurality of imperial naval strength, not enough to gain control, but sufficient to ward off efforts to defeat them. Something of a stalemate resulted. This remained the case for a number of years, until Project Nigrum Mortem was initiated.”

“Nigrum Mortem?” Andi knew an engineered virus had been employed, but this was the first she’d heard a name attached to it. “What was that?”

“The Nigrum Mortem virus was an engineered organism created specifically for the purpose of destroying the Highborn. It was created by a team researching seized documentation on the program that created the Highborn themselves. The microorganism specifically targets certain modifications in genetic material. The virus is harmless to unmodified humans, who act as carriers once infected but suffer no ill effects.”

“And to the Highborn?”

“The Nigrum Mortem virus has a one hundred percent mortality rate against all infected Highborn. There is a latency period after infection, but once the disease become active, death is inevitable, and by all accounts, extremely painful.”

Andi had been hopeful she was on the trail of a weapon that could turn the tide against the enemy. But one hundred percent mortality? That was beyond her wildest expectations. “One hundred percent?”

“Yes. The virus is extremely contagious. In all reported instances of infection within a group of Highborn, the virus proved without exception to be fatal.”

“Are there any remaining live samples of the virus?”

“No, not according to any information I possess. A large percentage of the imperial population became carriers, but secondary contagion rates are below one percent in non-augmented human subjects. It is unlikely that any descendants of imperial survivors would still carry the organism, and without a human host, the virus dies within a matter of weeks. Of course, this analysis is based on my own dataset, which is limited. I possess no information on the status of the balance of the empire following the attacks that ultimately rendered this planet lifeless.”

Andi shook her head. She hadn’t really expected to find a vial of the stuff sitting on a table somewhere, but if she’d come so far only to return empty handed…

“We need the virus. The Highborn have returned.” She didn’t know what such an appeal would achieve with the AI. The unit was obviously damaged, but equally without a doubt, it remained the most highly functional imperial computer system she’d ever seen. And she was desperate.

“My data banks contain 97.8% of the process for creating the organism. Unfortunately, the balance of the formula has been lost. The base unit is the common influenza virus. It should be possible to recreate the missing steps with a moderate amount of experimentation.”

Andi felt her stomach tense, just as Sy Merrick stepped into the room. It was good news, Andi realized, another step closer to a superweapon against the Highborn. But each effort she made seemed only to lead to another. And she was running out of time.

“Sy, we’ve got to take this AI with us. Somehow. We need the unit and all the still-functional data banks…and we’ll need to connect it to Pegasus’s power supply. We’ll empty out the hold…that should give us enough room. I know this is a big job, Sy, but if anybody here can do it, it’s you. I’ll send up for Lex, too. I know the two of you can handle this. I know it, old friend.”

She didn’t know it, not even close. But she needed the best Sy could give and discouraging her friend didn’t seem the right way to go.

“I’ll try, Andi. I’ll try…” Andi chose to ignore the doubt choking Sy’s words.

Chapter Twenty-Four

110,000 Kilometers from Fortress Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Reg sat and stared at her comm unit, as though it had some power to wash away her confusion, to provide clarity where there was only torment and uncertainty. She’d hardly been listening to her enemy’s taunts…but the story about the Academy wretched her focus from her controls and almost tore the breath from her body.

Who could know that? How could the Highborn possibly know about that story?

It had to be Stockton out there…but she still found it almost impossible to believe. She’d spoken at his memorial service, mourned him dead for five years, torn a bloody swath of vengeance for his death through the ranks of the Highborn wings.

Now, she faced the possibility that Stockton was still alive, and even harder to imagine, that he’d been helping the enemy all this time? No, that can’t be…

But it was true, and she knew it. She’d seen the Collars taken from the bodies of Thralls. The Pact didn’t have a lot of enemy equipment to study, and almost none in working order, but the idea that the Highborn were able to control the thoughts and enforce the obedience of enslaved humans had become more or less accepted as fact. Reg hadn’t had too hard a time believing that in abstract, but as she sat there, she realized she’d never thought of it in specific terms…and never involving anyone like Jake Stockton. He’d been her hero even before he’d been her mentor. He was the legend of the fighter corps, one of the Confederation’s greatest heroes. The idea that he could be compelled to serve the enemy sickened her.

“Admiral Stockton…” She found it difficult even to speak his name. She’d ached for his loss, missed his presence every time she’d climbed into her fighter. “…how…”

“There is no time for that now, Reg. Those routines I sent you, they’re real. And there’s no telling how long it will be before the Highborn realize what happened and change them. You have to lead your people in, now.”

Even as Stockton spoke, she saw how deep inside the enemy formation he was. She believed him, though she still couldn’t quite reconcile with it all, but now she realized how unlikely it was that he could escape. He’d sent too many communications to her ship. Someone on the enemy side was bound to notice what was going on.

That only made her own duty that much more urgent.

“Jake…”

“Go, Reg. I left you in charge of the wings…don’t let me down. I’ll be fine. Just do what you have to do.”

She heard his words, and she knew she didn’t have a choice. But his statement that he would be ‘fine’ was just about the worst lie she’d ever heard.

“All wings, download program C-7 into your targeting computers.”

Her comm was almost silent. She’d just ordered thousands of pilots to take action, and every one of them knew just what that entailed.

“Reg, are you sure…those routines…” Dirk Timmons was the first to answer directly, and he did so on a private line.

“Dirk…you’re just going to have to believe me. Those routines are real. Jake is still alive. He’s the one who sent them. I know I sound crazy, but you have to accept what I’m telling you.”

Silence. Then, simply, “Okay, Reg.”

Reg glanced down at the screen. She couldn’t go to Stockton’s aid—and from his tone, it was clear he didn’t expect any help, or even want it—but she couldn’t leave him out there. Timmons was one of Stockton’s closest friends, an obvious choice to send to his aid…but he was almost on the far side of the formation, out of position to reach Stockton in time.

Her eyes stopped abruptly. Olya Federov was closer…

She tapped the comm controls, opening a direct line to Federov. “Olya, listen to me. This is going to sound crazy, but Jake is alive. He’s out there, and he’s the one who sent us the enemy nav data. We’ve got to help him, and I can’t do it…I’ve got to take the wings in. You’re even closer than I am…” She paused. She was sending a pilot with even more experience and seniority than she had on a desperate mission to save a man everyone knew was dead. She knew it was the right move, but she found it difficult to actually speak the words.

Federov saved her the trouble of forcing through the rest of it.

“I’m on it, Reg. You worry about the main force…I’ll go get Jake.” Reg wasn’t sure if Federov really believed Stockton was out there, but she’d served with him since she’d been a member of the famed Blue Squadron under his command.

The only member of that legendary formation who was still alive, save perhaps Stockton himself.

Olya Federov would have charged into hell for a one percent chance Stockton was alive and in trouble. Reg felt a strange sense of relief, a calm that seemed misplaced in the midst of war and death and the whirlwind of emotions stirred at the possibility that Stockton had been alive these past five years.

She knew what she had to do. Her hand moved down, her fingers punching at her controls, feeding the routines into the targeting system. The she tapped the comm and said, “Alright, all units…get those routines in place and let’s go blast these bastards to hell!”

*

“Seb, you’ve got everything from red section starboard. That’s about eight thousand total strength. We’re getting hit in at least fifty spots, so you’re going to have to stay alert, and move your forces around.” Bryan Rogan stood next to his second-in-command. Both the veteran Marine general, and his longtime comrade were clad in full body armor, and each of them carried heavy assault rifles. The fighting was already raging in at least a dozen sections of the great fortress, and Rogan could only guess at the numbers of troops the enemy had managed to push into Striker’s outer corridors and compartments.

“I’ve got it, General.” Sebastien Carruthers was the virtual image of the stereotypical Marine grunt, rough and unpolished, the very image of ‘blood and guts.’ But Rogan knew that was mostly illusion. Carruthers had come from a moderately well off Iron Belt family, and he’d gone directly from a private school into the Marine Academy. He’d never served a day in the Corps other than as an officer. He was extremely intelligent, educated, able to interact with the highest levels of Confederation society…but in battle he was almost indistinguishable from the hardest core grunt recruited out of some miserable slum and forged in battle. Rogan had trouble looking at his number two, and his friend, without seeing an illusory half-chewed cigar hanging from his mouth. “We’ll hold…whatever it takes.” The words summed up the essence of Sebastien Carruthers, and Rogan believed them completely.

“You’re damned right, old friend. I don’t know why these bastards want to try to take Striker, but we’re going to teach them better than to mess with the Marines!”

Rogan nodded once, a combination of a salute, best wishes—and though he didn’t like the idea, very possibly farewell—and he turned and set off down the long corridor. He had a pair of Marines with him, bodyguards of a sort, and present only because Tyler Barron had expressly ordered them to be. He was behind what passed for battle lines, but of course there were enemy troopships landing all over Striker, and it was almost impossible to guess from where the next threats would come. A force of invading Highborn troops could blast their way in almost anywhere.

Rogan and his escorts stepped in the lift, and he reached out and tapped the controls. He had Marines fighting in a dozen places, and he intended to check on them all. But first, he was going to the control room. He was going to check in with the forces he’d sent there and make sure they were ready for anything that might happen. Striker’s control room was deep inside the hull, safe for the moment from any enemy incursions. But Rogan didn’t know how many Highborn troops he’d have to face, and if there was one job he never took for granted, one duty he considered utterly sacred, it was protecting Tyler Barron.

If the enemy wanted to get to Striker’s control room and threaten the admiral…they would have to go right through General Bryan Rogan first.

*

Stockton tapped his thrusters, pushing his ship forward, in the general direction of the Pact fleet. He felt strange, almost uncertain what to do next. He’d reached Reg Griffin, convinced her to use the data he’d sent. He’d done all he could do to help his friends and comrades, those he’d betrayed so terribly over the last five years.

He felt urges, old ones, pushing him to make a run back toward the fleet, to escape from the Highborn and return to where he belonged. It was the old survival instinct that had served him so well, in his many battles and in somehow enduring his captivity and enslavement. But it was misplaced, a part of his past that no longer served him. There was a longing to go back, but he knew it was impossible. Even if he could escape the Highborn formation, which seemed unlikely at best, the hard truth was, he didn’t belong there anymore. It wasn’t his home, not anymore. The enemy had taken that from him, perhaps the worst thing they had done to him. He wasn’t the man he was, and even if his old friends could somehow forgive his treason against them, he knew he never could. He’d always had an immense will to live, a driving force that had pushed him through one nightmare after another. But now, his conscious mind, his intellect, fought against it. Death offered the only path to release, to peace. Life held only more torment and misery.

Better to die here. You’ve done all you could do, helped every way you can. It is time. This is the end…

He took a deep breath, and his mind filled with images. Kyle Jamison, his old friend, more even than a brother, gone so long now that Stockton’s memories of his face had begun to fade. Admiral Barron, the officer—the man—Stockton respected above all others. The man you let down so badly. Reg, Dirk Timmons…all the others he’d served with, both those still alive, and those who’d been lost in the endless years of war. Stockton was sad, filled with self-loathing, unwilling to make an excuse for himself, to acknowledge that he’d had no control over what he’d done. But he felt something in his remembrances, and bittersweet emotions flooded into his thoughts.

And Stara Sinclair. He could see her face in front of his, almost as though she was there, her pale blue eyes meeting his. He reached out to touch her cheek, but his hand moved through only open air. Stara was gone to him, just as all the others. He still loved her—she was the only woman he’d ever loved—but he couldn’t face her again, even if there had been some way to escape. Jake Stockton’s overpowering need to survive, the iron will that had saved him a hundred times was finally almost gone…and he knew what he had to do.

One last battle…one last way you can help them, even if just a little…

He gripped the throttle tightly and he took a deep and full breath. The Highborn would discover what he’d done eventually, very soon probably, but Stockton wasn’t going to wait. He wasn’t going to sit there, quiet, hiding in plain sight. No, if it was finally time for him to take a stand, to strike. If it was time for him to die, he was going to do it as he had lived.

In blood and fire.

Alright, you bastards…lets see how long it takes you to beat me…

His eyes narrowed on the nearest Highborn fighter, and he adjusted his vectors, angling toward it…as his fingers moved toward the firing stud.

*

“Bring us forward, Commander. It’s time for Colossus to earn its keep.” Sonya Eaton sat in her position in the center of the massive vessel’s bridge. She’d been hugely intimidated by the power of her ship, at the enormity of its crew, at the still half-mysterious nature of its modified imperial tech, but she realized as she stared forward, she had adapted. It wouldn’t be entirely accurate to say she was calm as her giant battleship moved into the fight, but she was settled, focused.

“Yes, Commodore.”

She was afraid, too, of course. Only a stone or a lump of clay could face the battle just beginning and feel no fear. But she was ready for the battle. She would fight for the Confederation, for her home, for her comrades…and for those who were no longer there. Her sister, Sara. She’d always felt a bit of resentment toward her older sister’s success, at feeling as though she’d lived in the elder Eaton’s shadow. As she sat there, she longed to be back in the shade cast from Sara’s brilliant career, to spend just a few moments with her sister, to hear her voice, or even to sit silently together. But that was impossible. All that was left was to claim vengeance, to pour her sadness and grief into pure, unfiltered, stone-cold rage.

“All weapons stations, I want one last diagnostic. We’re going to fire every gun the instant we get into range, and I don’t want any…” She stopped abruptly. Something new had just moved onto the main display.

What the hell is that?

But she knew almost instantly. She knew with a cold certainty…even if it was impossible.

“Active scans now…I want all the data we can get on that contact.”

The silence on the bridge told Sonya the others had all seen it, too…and they had all reached the same conclusion. The icon on the screen was large, and while it was red like all the other Highborn forces, in every other way it matched a single other symbol on the display.

The large blue circle that represented Colossus.

No, it can’t be…

“I want those scanners checked and rechecked, Commander. Now!” But it wasn’t a scanner malfunction. Sonya knew with a cold certainty exactly what she was looking at.

It’s a twin of Colossus…

She’d been focused, cold and ready for battle, but now she felt almost punch drunk. She struggled to cope with the wild thoughts and fears swimming in her head, while maintaining the cool exterior she owed her spacers.

She wrestled with the surprise, with the unexpected threat looming before her people. Colossus had been one of the Pact’s few true advantages. Had the enemy found another ancient imperial ship? Worse, perhaps, had they been able to build their own? Eaton’s uncertainty began to fade as the scanner data continued to flow in. The metals in the hull, the ship’s exterior systems…they were far newer than Colossus’s. The Highborn hadn’t found that thing, she decided, with something close to certainty.

They had built it.

The thought was a dark one, somber and chilling. If the enemy could build one such behemoth, they could build more. The idea of facing a phalanx of Colossus-sized ships almost sapped her hard-fought courage, but she told herself that was tomorrow’s problem. As she stared at the display, there was a single Highborn ship of the class, just one of the monster ships present, save only for her own Colossus.

She took a breath and held it for a few seconds. She was still lost, still trying to center herself…but she was gaining more control. She knew what she had to do. She knew with cold certainty.

“Vector adjustment…full thrust. All weapon stations on full alert.” She stared across the bridge toward the tactical officer’s station, returning the gaze of her still-stunned subordinate. “Now, Commander. Bring us right at that thing…full speed.”

Chapter Twenty-Five

Free Trader Pegasus

Telus Zakaris III

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Easy with that…this is sensitive equipment.” Sy Merrick had never worked on something as exquisitely sophisticated as the imperial computing unit, and her insides had been held in a vice with every connection she’d undone, and every part she’d disassembled. The whole thing was a gamble, she knew, a massive bet that she and Lex would somehow be able to reassemble the thing…and that it would work once they powered it up again. A hundred things could go wrong, but she guessed that was an improvement over the thousand problems she’d expected when she’d first begun.

“The shaft is too narrow, Sy.” Her brother’s voice echoed with frustration, and most of all, with worry. They all knew they’d found something extraordinary, and if they managed to wreck it trying to get it out…

“It’s not too narrow…you just have to be careful.” She spoke into the small comm unit clipped to her collar. She’d been shouting down to Vig, but she was almost halfway to the surface, too far to simply yell anymore.

She’d disassembled the AI as much as she’d dared, but it was still a tight fit, despite the fact that Andi had ordered the drill to make three more passes, widening the shaft considerably from its initial diameter.

“Tight is putting it mildly. The next time you take a computer apart to move it, pay attention to the space you’ve got to get it through.”

She didn’t answer. There was no point. Vig was just letting off steam. She knew her brother well enough to recognize when he was just giving her a hard time just for the sake of it.

She was harnessed in just above the net containing the final pieces of the AI. If she’d taken it apart just right, if the somewhat rough trip up the shaft hadn’t damaged anything, if she and Lex could hook the thing into Pegasus’s power grid without burning either it or the ship’s electrical system out…just maybe she could get the thing working again. They’d made copies of the all the formulas and procedures, just in case, but Sy’s gut told her they weren’t going to recreate the Nigrum Mortem virus without the machine’s active help. Not in time, at least.

She could see the light above. The surface was less than twenty meters farther up. She glanced back down, checking one more time to see that the lines hadn’t tangled. The fewer times the sensitive equipment she had in tow hit the walls of the shaft, the better.

Another minute or two went by and then her head popped out into the speckled late afternoon sunlight. She scrambled up and waved to the pair of Marines standing around the edge of the shaft. “Come on, let’s get this stuff up,” she said, rubbing her leg where she’d bashed it against the wall. It was just a bruise, but it hurt like hell.

She watched as the Marines pulled the net out of the shaft and set it onto the ground next to it. They moved to opposite sides, reaching out to pick it up again, but Sy put her hand up, gesturing for them to stop. She was going to take everything out where the package sat and carry each piece individually onto Pegasus. Andi wanted to lift off as soon as possible, but Sy had convinced her it would be easier to reassemble the AI, the main components of it at least, before liftoff. And by easier, she’d meant just a little less impossible.

She turned and looked up at the two Marines. “Okay, help me get this netting off. And be careful…this is delicate stuff.” Sy had nothing but respect for the Confederation’s Marines, and the six Tyler Barron had sent with the expedition were veterans in every sense of the word. But as dedicated and courageous as they were, and as fierce in battle, handling fragile items wasn’t their strongest pursuit.

And one clumsy move, one broken piece of electronics, could make the difference between recreating the weapon the empire used to defeat the Highborn…and a failure to achieve that end that saw every Confederation spacer and Marine dying in a losing fight.

She walked over toward the two warriors. “Here, let’s start on this end…”

*

“I sent the Marines up, Andi. They’re helping Sy and Lex get the AI loaded onto Pegasus. We’re going to have to leave most of the equipment behind to get the thing into the bay. She pulled every data unit she wasn’t sure was totally fried. They’re sophisticated imperial models, tight and compact…but there are still a lot of them. If even half of this data is accessible, I can’t imagine what secrets this thing holds.” Vig Merrick turned and looked back at the ruins along the edge of the cavern. “This is an amazing find, Andi. We have to send someone back here when we can…who knows what could be retrieved here?”

“Probably a lot.” There had been a time a find like the current one would have filled Andi with pure energy. But all she wanted to do just then was get the hell out of the cavern and back to the ship. If the Highborn were defeated and her life returned to a normal level of chaos, she probably would send an expedition back. But she looked out over the underground ruins, and she knew in her heart, it was the last time she would stand in such a place. She was done digging through old wreckage, searching for bits and pieces of humanity’s lost past. She would always support such efforts, but she promised herself, if she ever got the chance, she would be content with a quiet life with Tyler and Cassie.

“Alright, that’s everything.” Andi had just put a few bits of equipment into her pack, but most of it she was just leaving behind. She’d seen Vig scoop up some old computer chips and the like, and she’d almost gotten a laugh out of it. Her friend had more money already than he could ever spend. But old habits died hard. They had in her, very hard. But they were dead. Her days as a Badlands prospector would end in a few hours, when Pegasus launched…and she doubted she would ever look back. “Ross, Sellia…are you both…”

A loud crack shattered the near silence of the cavern. Then five or ten more, in rapid succession. Andi’s combat reflexes acted on their own, throwing her to the ground. Vig’s were sharp, too, but just a bit slower than Andi’s.

Too slow.

Andi heard the sound of her friend landing next to her, a loud thud, a clumsier move than she would have expected from Vig. She’d pulled her rifle out, and she opened fire, shooting blindly, in the direction the shots had come from.

I knew we’d run into trouble here…

She’d had a bad feeling since Pegasus had landed, but there was no satisfaction in being proven right, not this time. She’d run into partially functional imperial security bots before, and she’d always made it out.

Though not all her people did…

She fired again, her weapon set on semi-automatic as her eyes scanned for a hint of her target’s location. She could see fire coming from a mound of cover off to the right, near where she’d last seen Ross Tarnan. But something else was wrong. Her rifle was the only one firing from her position.

“Vig, come on…lay down some fire. I think there’s only one of…”

She turned her head slightly and saw Vig lying next to her. His rifle was about half a meter away on the ground. He wasn’t moving.

She pushed against his body, and he rolled over onto his back, his arms splayed out to the side and his eyes wide open…and lifeless.

Andi’s insides clenched, almost like a fist. She felt something purely elemental, a fury that almost tore her apart. She cursed, spewing out a series of foul remarks that would have made a veteran freight spacer blush. Then she opened fire again, switching to full auto and spraying the area in front of her.

She tapped the small comm unit on her collar. “Ross, keep that thing pinned. I’m going to make a move on it.”

Andi ignored the wild protestations coming through her earpiece. Ross was shouting for her to stay in cover, begging her not to do anything foolish, as were the Marines, who’d no doubt been dispatched with orders from Admiral Barron to keep an eye on her. But they were all too late.

Andi was already up, prone behind a small pile of debris. Her eyes focused on a spot, the source of the enemy fire. She was almost sure there was only one bot back there…and from the rate of fire, it was only partially functional. Imperial security units were tough, but Andi had taken down more than one in her days in the Badlands.

And this one was going down.

She was filled with pure rage, driven even harder by the pain of loss growing quickly inside her. She forgot about everything for a moment, the mission, the rest of the crew, her own survival. None of it mattered, not then. Her anger had turned her into a monster, unstoppable, desperate, starved for vengeance.

Some part of her mind cried out that the bot was just a machine, that it had only followed its programming, that destroying it wouldn’t bring Vig back. It wouldn’t do any good at all.

But Andi wouldn’t live in a universe where the thing that killed Vig continued to exist.

She stumbled forward, staying as low as she could, leaping behind another pile of masonry and bits of twisted metal. She slammed in a new clip, and she emptied it, hosing the entire area around the bot with fire, even as the Marines began moving as well, trying to push ahead and toward her.

The security unit responded to the threat, and she could hear projectiles slamming into the mound of debris as she reloaded. But then, the two Marines opened fire, and the bot turned to face the newest threat.

Andi saw her chance. She slung her rifle over her shoulder, and she pulled a pair of grenades from her belt. She leaned down, grabbing the pin in each with her teeth and pulling them off.

She raced forward, counting down and using the focus to hold back the wild storm churning in her head. Some part of her knew revenge against a machine was pointless, but she didn’t care. Destroying the thing that killed Vig was all she could do, however useless it might be. And she needed to do something.

She held a grenade in each hand as she raced forward, gritting her teeth against the enemy fire she knew could come at any instant. But then she saw the bot, positioned behind two piles of wreckage. Her arms moved, one after the other, hurling the grenades forward, and continuing the countdown as she dove to the ground.

Three…two…one…

The two weapons exploded in rapid succession, sounding almost like a single extended blast.

Andi didn’t know if the grenades would be enough, but she wasn’t going to take any chances. She had already leapt back up to her feet, and as her rifle came around into her hands, she opened fire again, racing forward, and firing right into the enemy unit, now less than five meters away. The bot was down, and it looked completely destroyed, but she reloaded anyway, and she emptied the new clip into the thing.

Then she just stood there, silent, unmoving, hearing her people calling to her, but only as a muddled background noise.

One of the Marines moved up toward the twisted remains of the bot, checking to make sure it was dead. Andi was standing there, right next to him. She didn’t turn, didn’t seem to notice his presence. The bot was torn to pieces, completely destroyed. But suddenly, Andi reached behind her and pulled another clip from her belt. She slammed it in place and opened fire, tearing into the bot’s remains from less than a meter away, shredding the battered wreckage into tiny shards of metal. Her fury served no purpose, and her duty called to her, pulling her away. She had a ship full of people depending on her, and she had found what she had come for, a way to truly fight the Highborn. She knew what she had to do. She just wasn’t sure where she’d find the strength.

She turned and walked toward her original position, wanting to look away from Vig’s body, but being complete unable. Her eyes were drawn to her dead friend, and she walked up next to him and dropped to her knees. She looked down at him. Vig…

She sucked in a raspy breath and she reached out and put her hand on his face, gently closing his eyes. She struggled to retain her control, hanging on a precipice, trying to hold off despair for a few seconds longer. “Get him into the harness and take him back to the ship.”

Ross Tarnan moved up behind her and knelt down. “He’s dead, Andi. Perhaps we should…”

“Get him up there!” she roared, her voice something between an angry shout and the growl of a predatory beast. “We’re not leaving him here!”

She leapt to her feet. “Get him back to the ship. Now! I’ll be right there.” She stood for a moment, struggling to hold back her emotions, even as they pushed past her defenses, taking control. “Go,” she said one more time. Then she turned and walked out beyond the flickering light of the portable lamp and into the gray darkness of the cavern…just as the tears came.

Chapter Twenty-Six

120,000 Kilometers from Fortress Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Reg stared at her screen, laughing maniacally as she watched her fighters slam into their adversaries, cutting deep swaths in the enemy formations. Any doubts she’d had about Stockton’s data being legitimate were gone. Her people had obliterated four thousand Highborn fighters in less than twenty minutes. Still, she realized even that carnage didn’t come close to equalizing the fight, and she knew the enemy would break off soon and make a run for it before her people could do enough damage to truly even the odds. When they rearmed and relaunched, they would be using modified evasion routines, and the fight would be a straight up one again. But she was determined to enjoy it while it lasted.

Watching the one-sided fight served another purpose as well. It took her mind off Jake Stockton, off the worries that Olya Federov wouldn’t get to him on time, that she would discover he’d been alive the last five years she’d mourned him dead…only to watch him actually killed before he could make his way back.

There was something else, too, a strange unsettling feeling about those five years, about where Stockton had been, and what he had done. Reg knew about the Collar. She knew anything her old commander had done had been purely involuntary, but the suffering her people had endured facing the Highborn wings weighed on her. The enemy forces had been, until the current battle, inexplicably well-trained and led, and that remained a heavy weight. The thought of Jake Stockton’s talent and experience used to benefit the Highborn was hard to accept. She was happy to know that her old friend was still alive…but she didn’t quite know how she would face him, how they could move past all that had happened.

Her fingers tightened on the firing stud, and her lasers lanced out again, taking yet another enemy ship almost dead on and blasting it to bits. The data Stockton sent was not only real, it was highly detailed. A few of the Highborn fighters were adding their own maneuvers onto the fixed routines, but the vast majority were relying only on the preprogrammed jigs and jogs, and the targeting computers in the Pact fighters were now compensating for those, producing hit ratios beyond anything Reg Griffin had ever seen.

An old phrase came to mind, something her grandfather had often said, referring to his own days during the First Union War. It was a ‘turkey shoot,’ though she wasn’t sure what exactly what a ‘turkey’ was, even though she understood what the phrase meant.

She fired yet again, and scored another hit, her tenth. One thing was certain…a lot of her pilots would earn their status as aces that day.

She looked down at the screen, and her eyes caught movement, the enemy fighters changing their courses…and with them their evasion programs. Stockton had given her people an enormous advantage, but it was a fleeting one.

One she intended to exploit to the maximum while there was still time.

“Harder…hit them harder, all of you. Before they pull out. We’re going to have to go back and refuel ourselves soon, and I want every second we’ve got used fully.” She was shouting into the comm, even as her own hands tensed on her controls, her body taken by the frantic need to track and destroy as many Highborn fighters as possible.

Her eyes kept darting to the display, to Stockton’s ship—and she was sure now that it was Jake Stockton out there—and to the hundreds of Highborn fighters all around him. Olya Federov’s elite wing was blasting their way in, but the enemy ships where still closer. She told herself Federov would make it in time, that she would get Stockton out of there.

Then she had a brief flash in her head, a thought she immediately regretted, that she struggled to forget had even slipped into her mind…the idea that perhaps it might be better if Federov didn’t get there in time, if Stockton perished in the fight, if his legend endured without this latest chapter of collaboration, forced or not.

She hated herself for even thinking that, but she couldn’t fight off the resentment, the anger at the damage Stockton had done to her wings—his wings—and then a sudden realization hit.

Stockton isn’t planning to escape…he just wanted to help us, and then he is going to let the Highborn destroy him.

Her mind filled with thoughts counter to the first one. She wanted her friend back…and he wasn’t even going to defend himself.

Her eyes darted back to the screen. Come on, Olya…you’ve got to get there.

Stockton needed to be rescued…because he wasn’t even going to try to save himself…and as much as Reg struggled with all that had happened, she was absolutely sure of one thing.

She didn’t want to watch Jake Stockton die.

*

Gunfire ripped down the narrow corridor, turning the passageway into an impassable nightmare. Bryan Rogan looked out over the dozen or so Marines posted in the forward position, trading fire with the boarders. His people were on the defensive, trying to hold back the enemy troops who’d poured aboard the station. Rogan had just brought up reserves, a full company, or at least what was left of one. That brought the total defenders in the section to around one hundred…with something between seven hundred and one thousand enemy troopers attacking.

Rogan had spent much of his career aboard ships, and the concept of fighting in such confined spaces was something he grasped well. But he’d never seen a battle of the scope of the one now unfolding, nowhere but on the surface of a planet. The situation in Striker’s vast network of corridors and compartments was fluid, confusing, with his forces holding in some places and falling back in others, even as more enemy soldiers flooded in from the hundreds of landing craft attached to the fortress’s exterior.

The Highborn infantry were blasting their way through the hull, even moving around the station’s exterior in environmental suits, forcing their way through in hundreds of locations. Rogan and his senior commanders had struggled to establish some kind of perimeter that made sense, but every time they’d achieved a level of stabilization, new enemy forces came through in a previously quiet sector. The battle had become a running fight, and Rogan had been forced to reposition many of his units, refining his focus to the vital areas of the stations…the reactors, the main weapons systems, the launch bays.

And the command center. The invaders were trying to drive on the control room from multiple directions, and Rogan had begun to understand one aspect of the enemy’s operation.

They wanted to disrupt the command and control staff. They wanted to kill Tyler Barron and the fleet’s other senior officers.

Never…not on my watch.

Rogan was pressed against the metal of the corridor, just back from the forward positions. One of the Marines came crawling back from the edge of the fighting, clearly wounded. The fire was fairly heavy, even so far back, but Rogan dropped down and grabbed the man. He helped the wounded Marine back to the end of the corridor, and around the corner, out of the main firing line. Then he knelt down, trying to get a look at the stricken Marine’s wounds.

“Medic,” he shouted, his head spinning back and forth as no one responded. He tapped the comm unit on his chest and he said, “I’m at position 231-14A. The Marines down here need a medic…now!”

“I’m sorry, General, but all medical staff are deployed to combat positions already.”

Rogan cursed under his breath, not sure whether the officer on the other end of the line heard him or not. And not caring either.

“Get someone down here, as soon as anyone is available.” He cut the line, and he tugged at the wounded man’s armor, unhooking the breastplate and shoving it aside. Rogan was a hardened Marine, a veteran of dozens of battles…but what he saw under the Marine’s armor came a hair’s breadth from making him sick.

The wounded Marine had taken a shot just under his chest armor, and above the heavy padding that protected his legs. No, not one shot…three, at least. His chest was covered in blood, as were Rogan’s hands, as they frantically moved over the wounded man, trying to find the wounds, to stop the bleeding. The general had a hundred places he had to be, thousands of Marines fighting from one end of Striker to the other, but he couldn’t pull himself away. He wouldn’t leave the stricken man without care.

Even after he’d realized there was no hope.

The Marine, who’d fought under his orders, who’d pulled himself out of the line after he’d been hit—a man he was frantically trying to save—was going to die, no matter what he did.

He cursed the lack of medics, vowed to break whoever was responsible for these Marines fighting with no medical support. But he knew that was just frustration, a desperate attempt to deal with the hell erupting all around him. There simply weren’t enough medics. That was no one’s fault. He hadn’t expected his Marines to face direct combat…much less to fend off a massive boarding force in a hundred different locations.

His hands were still on the Marine’s chest, but he realized the blood that had been pulsing out with each heartbeat had stopped. The raspy sounds of breathing, each seemingly more choked with fluid than the last, had gone silent.

Rogan put his blood-soaked fingers to the Marine’s throat, checking for a pulse he knew wasn’t there. The Marine, the private who’d received his last care from none other than the Corps’ commandant, was dead.

Rogan had seen thousands die, endured all kinds of hell and misery in the wars of the past twenty years. But the death he’d just witnessed, the one he’d been so powerless to prevent, struck him hard, slipping past all his defenses. He had to get up, to get to the next position, to return to the command post and check on the battle’s overall status. But he didn’t have the strength, at least not in that passing moment. He just sat where he was, looking down at the dead Marine, wondering who would mourn for him. Did he have parents, brothers and sisters? A wife, a girlfriend? Where were they? Were they sitting home, blissfully unaware that their loved one had spent his final moments crawling down a cold hall in pain, as his lifeblood poured out onto the hard deck?

Rogan knelt there, his hands clenched into angry fists, and he held back the shout he longed to let loose. He wanted to get up, to run somewhere, someplace where there were no dying and broken men and women, someplace that knew peace.

But after all he’d seen in the last two decades, he no longer believed that place existed. It was a fantasy, and for him and for all his comrades, there was only reality, the unending hell of war and death.

He stood up, willing himself to go on, to move to the next group of his Marines fighting the deadly battle. To protect Striker, and Tyler Barron…whatever it took.

Those words drove him on, echoing in his head. It was his life, his purpose, all that mattered.

Whatever it took.

*

“We’ve got boarders, Admiral, but I think we’ve got them penned down in three spots. We’d probably have them wiped out by now if you hadn’t hogged Bryan Rogan for Striker.” It wasn’t a joke, not exactly, but it had just enough lightness in it to fend off the grim situation for a few precious seconds. Atara Travis was aboard Dauntless, and it cut at Barron a little each time he spoke with her. Dauntless was his flagship, his home in many ways. He’d been caught on Striker by circumstance, and he knew that was probably where be belonged during the battle anyway…but part of him ached for his usual place on the battleship’s bridge.

“That’s good news, Atara. We’re getting mixed reports from the rest of the fleet. Most of the line ships are holding their own.” Barron gave thanks for about the tenth time that he’d decided to assign Rogan’s Marines to Striker and to the ships of the fleet to back up the damage control teams. The engineers were going to be on their own once the big ships got into the fight, but having two or three times the normal Marine complement on many of his ships was coming in handy.

“How about Striker?” Atara sounded concerned.

She has every reason to be concerned…

The fight on the fortress had been a bloodbath. There was no question Striker had been the enemy’s primary target and estimates from the parts of the station where combat was heaviest suggested at least fifty thousand enemy soldiers had boarded. Fighting was fierce in at least two dozen places, and Bryan Rogan had been brutally honest in his reports, coming close—but not quite all the way—to admitting he wasn’t sure his people could hold the station.

“We’ve got it under control.” Why even try to fool her? You know she knows you’re lying.

“That’s good news.” Her voice was flat. Barron was as adept at seeing through her tone as she was his…and there was no doubt Atara Travis was well aware the fight for Striker was a desperate one.

“Atara…if we lose fleetcom here, I need you to take over. We can’t have the fleet disintegrating into separate components in the middle of the fight. Clint Winters and Chronos and Vian can work together without me, but they might need a little help.”

“I understand, Tyler. I’ll do what I can…and I’ll remind them of what you’d want. But do what you can to stay on the net, okay? I’ve seen your job up close for too long to want it, even for a few minutes.”

“You’ve got it, Atara. Take care of yourself over there.”

“You too, Tyler. We’ll both get through this one.” She slipped past his radar for once, and he was completely unsure whether she believed that or not.

*

“What is happening, Viceroy?” Phazarax stood next to Tesserax, watching as the Highborn fighter wings were being annihilated.

“Clearly, the enemy has gained access to our evasion routines.” It was the only possibility, though Tesserax had no idea how the humans had obtained such precious data.

Tesserax had expected his squadrons to take heavier casualties than their opponents, even with their numerical and technological advantages, but the one-sided affair unfolding before his eyes was a complete surprise. The viceroy tapped the side of his headset. “Issue withdrawal orders to the strike force. They are to return to their carriers and rearm for a renewed assault.” He glanced at Phazarax for a moment, and then he added, “I want new evasion routines developed…now. Do not use any preexisting files, neither in full nor in part…is that understood?”

“Yes, Viceroy. Understood.” The Thrall-commander’s words of obedience couldn’t hide the questions in his tone. Tesserax wasn’t surprised the human hadn’t yet determined the source of the strike force’s unexpected rout. The Highborn had run numerous calculations in his head, analyzed the scanner data, reviewed dozens of the attack runs executed by the human fighters. He was not speculating that the enemy had the strike force’s evasion routines. He had determined it as a fact. He couldn’t—and didn’t—expect mere humans to be able to match his analytical capacity.

“This is a setback, but not one of any real consequence. The purpose of our squadrons was served the moment they launched. The humans were compelled to outfit all their own craft for anti-fighter operations, thus preventing them from being utilized against our battle line ships. We will almost certainly take additional losses as the wings retreat, but they will relaunch soon enough, with new routines. The humans will be compelled to keep their entire force outfitted for anti-fighter operations, and as such, little is altered from our plan. The Sigma-9 attack blinded the enemy base and heavy ships, just as intended. Our troopships have successfully boarded the enemy fortress and approximately twenty of their heaviest vessels. Ellerax is moving to engage the human Terradonna, and once our fighters launch and reengage the enemy squadrons, the battle line can implement the final stage of the battle and finish things. That will give our boarding parties time to secure prisoners.”

“Your logic is flawless, Tesserax. Between the destruction of the human fleet and the capture of a number of their top leaders, there can be little doubt a rapid and widespread collapse in morale with follow. This senseless slaughter can cease, and the humans can take their place as our children. They will excel under our guidance, and they will learn to worship us. There will be continued resistance, of course, but our indoctrination efforts will control this, and our supervised breeding programs will weed out those prone to defiance in future generations. In twenty years, the heart of human society will accept their place in the natural order. In sixty, there will be little recollection of any other time, any other way of life save under our supervision and direction.”

Tesserax nodded. He agreed with his colleague, but unlike Phazarax, tasked with running the Church in the Colony, and as such compelled to work with the humans on an ongoing basis, Tesserax looked anxiously to the day when he could return home in triumph. He would leave the troublesome humans of the Rim and its environs behind the instant he had the opportunity. He vastly preferred the broken and obedient Thralls to the difficult and untamed Rimdwellers.

Something else was occupying his thoughts. How had the humans obtained the evasion routines? He’d already doublechecked all steps in the fighter prep sequence. The routines were downloaded through secure physical connections. There were no signals to be intercepted, even if the humans had the capability to pick up and decode secure Highborn transmissions. But they’d gotten the data somehow.

He tapped his headset again. “Commander…I want full data on Commander Stockton’s activities since launch…his maneuvers, communications, analysis of energy expenditure in his ship. Everything. And I want it now!”

“Yes, Viceroy. At once.”

Tesserax didn’t know how Stockton could have betrayed the Highborn, not with his Collar implanted. But he’d eliminated every other apparent possibility. Had Stockton found a way to escape the Collar’s control? Had the device malfunctioned in some way?

He didn’t know, but he was going to find out.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

CFS Toriador

En Route to Planet Megara

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“The Highborn believed I might have useful information. They intended to implant one of those terrible things…Collars, they call them…in me and force me to help them.”

“And why again didn’t they just do that? If they thought you had some kind of useful information, it seems to me they would simply have implanted the device and compelled you to cooperate. That is how the Collars work, is it not?” Gary Holsten didn’t trust Ciara…he didn’t trust her as far as he could throw her. Actually, he trusted her a good deal less than that. Her story made a strange sort of sense, but he didn’t believe any of it. Ciara was Gaston Villieneuve’s bitter enemy, and he knew enough about the Union dictator to be certain he would never forgive her attempt to seize power from him. And Villieneuve was allied with the Highborn…which made it difficult to imagine a scenario where Ciara would be trying to help them of her own free will. Holsten had ordered her thoroughly searched, though he’d seen enough of the Collars on enemy bodies to realize they were quite easy to spot.

“As I said, Mr. Holsten, the Highborn operating in Union space were a small expeditionary force. They had a very small supply of the devices. They implanted one in Villieneuve…so he is no longer their ally, he is their slave. They used the rest on key members of the government. They believed I was worth keeping alive for the time being, but I was clearly not their top priority. Honestly, I can’t tell you any more than that. I wasn’t exactly taken into their confidence.”

Sandrine Ciara was very convincing. Every answer made sense, and there was just enough emotion in her speech to make it all sound very genuine. But Gary Holsten had run Confederation Intelligence for twenty years, and he’d dealt endlessly with the Confederation Senate. In both those roles, he’d interacted with the galaxy’s most accomplished and skilled liars, and he fancied himself difficult to fool. Still, he had no idea what to make of Ciara.

She’d be in a cell if he had his way. A comfortable one, perhaps, but definitely some type of confinement. And she certainly wouldn’t be on the way to Megara. Her freedom, and the fact that Toriador was currently en route to the Confederation capital, were both the work of Emmit Flandry. The Speaker had shown impressive initiative in his efforts to bring fresh reserves to the front, and Holsten had been enormously grateful. But the Speaker had reverted to his pompous political side, no doubt convinced by his own ego that he could turn Ciara into some kind of useful ally. Flandry had insisted on taking the deposed Union leader to Megara immediately.

Holsten had almost refused, but he’d held back. His partnership with Flandry had produced dividends…and almost certainly had saved Grimaldi. He was reluctant to slip back into an adversarial relationship with the politician, at least so quickly. He didn’t like backing down—it had never been his best thing—but he remained silent.

Perhaps the worst result was the need to go along. There was no compelling reason for him to remain at the base. He didn’t offer any militarily significant skill, either to the repair efforts or to any renewed combat at Grimaldi, but he still felt the urge to stay there, to stand with the officers and spacers he’d assembled…and to a certain extent, led in battle.

But he couldn’t allow Sandrine Ciara to go back to Megara with Flandry without going himself. He couldn’t imagine a scenario where Ciara was working with Villieneuve, and hence the Highborn, but he didn’t trust her intentions. And he didn’t quite buy her escape story. He’d stepped aside and allowed Flandry to do as he pleased…but he was damned sure going along every step of the way.

He was going to figure out exactly what was going on. Somehow.

*

“You did an outstanding job, Larson…truly. I’d all but given up on her, and on you and Antonio. It’s a miracle she made it through the battle. She’s going to need a lot of repairs, but when she’s back in the line, I’d like you to be on the bridge…as her permanent captain.” Colin Simpson was still getting used to his position as commodore—no, he reminded himself, Gary Holsten had given him the two stars of a junior admiral before he’d left for Megara. The promotion wasn’t official, really, or at least it wouldn’t have been if Emmit Flandry, the Speaker of the Confederation Senate hadn’t confirmed it. The whole thing was still a bit unconventional, and probably not entirely legal, but Simpson didn’t imagine anyone was going to take on both the head of Confederation Intelligence and the senior member of the Senate.

Larson Jaymes was clearly shocked at what he’d just heard. The naval officer had endured a troubled history, and no small part of that had been self-inflicted. His drinking and substance abuse had never resulted in an outright catastrophe aboard any of his ships, nor the death of any comrades. That was the only reason he’d been thrown off the promotion track and shunted off to a backwater posting instead of being court martialed and thrown out of the service. Simpson understood Jaymes’s surprise. He’d been distrustful of the disgraced officer at first, and he was sure that had shown through his weak efforts to hide it. But Jaymes had brought the desperately wounded Vandengraf through the final stages of the battle, with over eighty percent of her crew still at their stations. It had been an amazing performance, and one that had turned the uncertainty and caution the ship’s spacers had for their new CO into the foundation of respect and a growing level of trust.

“Admiral…I don’t know what to say. Thank you, sir.” Jaymes stood sharply at attention, so precise in his motions, it almost made Simpson’s eyes hurt.

“At ease, Larson. I’d call you Commander Jaymes, but that’s a bit out of date, I think.” He handed Jaymes a small box. “So, maybe we’ll go with Captain Jaymes.”

“Sir…I don’t…I mean, I…”

“Relax, Larson. You earned this.” Simpson knew Jaymes had never expected to rise beyond the rank of commander, nor to get the command of a line battleship, even if it was an old one. The officer was clearly rattled, uncertain what to say.

“There is such a thing as redemption, Larson…and you have earned it. I’ll be counting on you when the enemy returns.” Simpson didn’t insult the intelligence of his officers by suggesting anything but grim certainty the Highborn would be back. “Meanwhile, go and tell your crew. I suspect they’ll be happy for you. You did bring them through hell, more or less.” Simpson smiled. “And your commission documents are somewhat of a collector’s item, just as mine are. Signed by the intelligence chief and no less than the Speaker of the Senate…though Gary Holsten promised me we’d both get a set executed by Admiral Barron, too, as soon as the admiral is available.” Simpson paused. He’d been so focused on holding Grimaldi, and in trying to get the battered fortress ready for the coming rematch, he hadn’t thought much about that other fort so far away…and the rest of the fleet posted there, ready for a battle that would make the one Simpson’s people had just fought look like a schoolyard brawl.

The two men were silent for a moment, Simpson’s mind, at least, out at Striker with Admiral Barron and the main fleet. Finally, Jaymes spoke, his voice soft, thoughtful. “Do you think there is any way, Admiral…any way we can hold again when the enemy returns?”

Simpson wanted to answer Jaymes, but he didn’t want to lie. So, he just sighed softly and said, “We’ll just have to see, Larson.”

*

“Andrei, thank you for coming. I wanted to speak with you for a few minutes. Can I offer you anything? Something to drink?”

“No thank you, Gary. Your aide just found me. I was intrigued by what you wanted to talk about so discreetly you didn’t want to use the ship’s comm system. I suspect I have a good guess.”

“Please, sit at least.” Holsten gestured toward the room’s small sofa. “Yes, I suspect my questions will come as no surprise to you. So, I won’t waste any time. What do you think of Sandrine Ciara? Specifically, do you trust her?”

“Trust her? No, certainly not…but I never really did. Our…alliance…was one of necessity, and my willingness to support her government was based on my judgment that she would represent a significant improvement over Gaston Villieneuve. Still, her fortunes have certainly changed in recent months. I would say be cautious of any overtures she makes in terms of her desire simply to help. She is a survivor, and I am sure she has an agenda. She is almost certainly pursuing what she believes is her likeliest path back to power and control.”

Holsten nodded. Denisov’s comments were about what he’d expected. “I certainly don’t trust her either…but do you think she is sufficiently aligned with our interests at present to support some reasonable temporary facsimile? And if so, do you think it is likely she can offer any real help in the current struggle?”

Denisov was silent for a moment, clearly thinking about what Holsten had asked him. “I honestly don’t know, Gary. I mean, I can see, as you can, that she seems to have no options save working with us. But whether she is simply trying to gain any support she can, or whether she really has some useful intelligence on the enemy, I can’t say. She is not ignorant of military matters, but I don’t believe she has any particular knowledge or abilities that would be of help in that area. She may well have overheard some items of value, though I’m inclined to doubt the Highborn would have been careless enough to allow her to hear anything truly vital. In fact, I’m a little troubled by the notion of how she escaped. You know ship operations, at least to a degree. There might have been chaos on a damaged vessel during the battle, and I can believe she escaped from her quarters or cell…but getting to the bay and getting out in a shuttle in the middle of all that seems pretty extraordinary to me. Still, I have no other explanations to offer.”

“She doesn’t have one of the Collars the Highborn use to control people…and I can’t imagine she would willingly cooperate with them, at least not now that she’s made good her escape. Still, I have a bad feeling about this.” Holsten paused, his mind full of thoughts, some of them quite dark. He’d considered the possibility of having one of his agents simply assassinate Ciara. That would be a dangerous plan, and if his involvement was revealed, the fallout would be horrendous. But that wasn’t why he rejected it. It was a discussion he’d had with Tyler Barron some time before that stayed his hand. The two had discussed just how dark a path one could take in pursuit of victory without becoming worse that whatever enemy one was fighting.

Holsten was no saint, certainly…but he wasn’t ready to order an illegal assassination without any hard evidence the target was a threat, not yet at least. But he was going to keep a close eye on Ciara…and he was going to find out the whole truth about her ‘escape,’ and just what agenda she was pursuing.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

150,000 Kilometers from Fortress Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Stockton sat quietly in his cockpit, watching as the Highborn wings broke off from the battle. All save the ones near his position.

He’d enjoyed watching his comrades tear apart the Highborn formations, and they’d inflicted losses on the enemy that exceeded his greatest hopes. He’d done irreparable harm to his people over the past five years, but he’d repaid them for some of that. He had done all he could…and now he was ready to die.

Part of him was, at least. The will to survive had always been Stockton’s most indomitable feature, a force that had pulled him through more than one ‘hopeless’ situation. But the lack of hope now went far beyond enemy ships and the unlikelihood of fighting his way out. There was no way he could return to his people, not after all that had happened…and he couldn’t risk allowing himself to fall back into Highborn hands. They might simply execute him, but more likely they would simply repair his Collar and take full control over him again. That he could never allow. He’d done enough damage to his comrades. Never again would he become the enemy’s slave.

He saw the masses of fighters heading back to the Highborn carriers, and the five hundred or so ships around him very clearly not following the rest of the formation. Stockton had known he couldn’t fool Tesserax for long, that the Highborn would realize what had happened. But as he saw the ships around him shifting into position, moving to englobe him and cut off any escape, he felt something unexpected.

Fear. And even more powerful, that old will, the refusal to accept death, even though it was the thing he had most craved for five years.

He’d intended to simply stay where he was, to wait for the Highborn ships to come after him…and that was still his plan. But his hand made its way to the throttle anyway, and he found himself wrestling with himself.

There was no chance to escape. He was too far back, surrounded by too many Highborn fighters. But he could die fighting. It seemed a compromise of sorts between the sides of him wrestling with each other, the grim part of him that knew there could be no return, and the part that wanted to survive at all costs. They were opposites, diametrically opposed. But there was one area of common ground.

Killing Highborn.

You’re only killing Thralls, other humans enslaved as you were…

It was an unpleasant thought, but one he shoved aside. The Thralls weren’t like him. They’d been raised to serve the Highborn, and they’d been loyal to their would-be gods even before they’d received their Collars. He wondered how many would rebel if they were suddenly freed from the control of the devices, how many would join with their fellow humans from the Rim, and how many would mindlessly obey the only masters they had ever known.

He didn’t want to know. It didn’t matter who was in those ships. They were fighting for the Highborn, and that was something Jake Stockton would never do again.

Something he could never accept.

He tightened his hand on the controls and fired up the engines. It was time to die…almost. But first he had some enemies to kill…

*

“All batteries, open fire!”

The range was still long, even for the great guns on Colossus, but Sonya knew how important it was to get in the first shot. The battle looked very much like one between two equals, but she knew that wasn’t the case. Colossus had been hastily repaired after the last battle, but it took the sunniest optimism—and a little self-delusion—to call her command fully-operational. Her counterpart, on the other hand, seemed not only to be in perfect condition, it looked very much like it was brand new. No three-hundred-year old systems patched together, no half-assed combinations of imperial and Rim tech, no partially repaired battle damage.

She watched as her scanners began to display the results of the first barrage. It was a gamble, she knew, to fire from such long range, a show of blind faith in her gunners. She sat tensely, waiting to see if it paid off.

The Highborn ship was immense. She knew Colossus was no less so, but it was a very different thing staring out at something so enormous coming at you.

At least it doesn’t seem to have that Sigma-9 radiation system.

It appeared Colossus’s twin had been built to straight imperial standards, which apparently lacked the scanner-disrupting power of the Highborn vessels. Eaton had always assumed that had been an imperial system, but she realized she’d never had any real reason to believe that. The Highborn tech was close to the old imperial standards, but of course there was no fixed ‘imperial’ tech. The empire’s high point had been some time before the Cataclysm, so in some ways the Highborn were close to the old imperial standards, and in others they were ahead…or at least on par with the earlier, higher levels.

They didn’t have time to integrate the Sigma-9 shielding…

That had to be it. Of course…it’s amazing enough that they were able to build this thing in just five years.

They’ll build more, too, and they’ll add the Sigma-9 emitters and whatever else they’ve got into them.

She felt a cold chill. Even if her people managed to take out the enemy behemoth, and that was still a big ‘if,’ first shot notwithstanding, the Highborn would have more of them coming, and probably soon. She’d never even thought of Colossus as something other than a one of a kind vessel. The idea of a Highborn battleline bristling with the monsters terrified her.

“Three hits, Commodore! Two of them directly amidships!”

She’d lost herself in her thoughts for a moment, but she wrenched her mind back as her tactical officer’s words reached her.

Colossus had fired over one hundred weapons, but the range was extreme, and she knew when she’d given the order to shoot that any hit at all would take some luck. But three!

“Well done, gunnery. Now, keep it up. We got the first shot, but they’ll be coming back at us any second. Maintain fire…and let’s blast that thing to bits.”

She’d barely finished when the Highborn vessel did return her fire with its own massive broadside. Flashes of light flew all around on the screen…and then a single one hit dead center, sending a rumbling vibration through Colossus’s control room.

Three to one…so far so good. But we’re just getting started…

*

Olya Federov watched on her scanner as Jake Stockton dueled with over a hundred Highborn fighters. Her old squad leader—and friend—flew one of the enemy ships, too, of course, and he did so with a skill and proficiency no enslaved Highborn Thrall could hope to match.

But 100-1 was, well, 100-1. And that hundred enemy ships constituted only a portion of the force surrounding him. Not even Jake Stockton could survive those odds. Soon, Stockton would have two hundred opponents, and then three hundred.

Federov checked the range, and her thrust levels. She was accelerating as much as she dared, but if she pushed any harder, she’d simply zip by Stockton, along with the entire wing she’d brought with her. She needed to get there, but then she needed to match velocity with the dogfighting ships…and show the fighters attacking Stockton just what a truly veteran Confederation wing could do.

If we get there in time…

Federov had a reputation for being cold, and she’d long heard whispered phrases about ice water in her veins and the like. She did tend toward a grim outlook at times—no one who’d been through the fights she had could be any different—but she was mostly shy, a bit socially awkward. Fighter pilots tended to be gregarious sorts, and Federov had tended to avoid the raucous late night festivities in the officer’s clubs. Most of the Federov, the ‘ice queen’ stories derived from mistaking shyness for coldness. Much later, she’d adopted the reputation, made it her own. She’d found it useful, especially as she came to command more and more pilots. Olya Federov, callsign Lynx, the cold-blooded assassin behind a Lightning’s controls, had become a legend of sorts. Less so than Stockton, of course, but still a profound force in the wings. Her years as one of the informal but wildly famous ‘Four Horsemen’ had cemented her place in fighter corps history.

But her fondest memories were of her days in Blue Squadron, with Stockton as the unit’s leader, and thirteen other pilots, all gifted, all talented.

And now, all dead. All except her and Stockton. And she wasn’t about to leave herself completely alone in that group.

“All squadrons, open fire. Now!” She followed up her order by squeezing her own finger and letting loose with a blast from her lasers. Her ships were too far out. Any hit at such a distance would be a miracle, and the lasers would be so attenuated the best they were likely to do was fade the paint a little. But just maybe they could get the attention of the enemy fighters, pull some of them off Stockton before…

She stopped her thought there. No, I’m not going to let you die, Jake, whatever you’ve done.

She fired again, and she counted down the last moments before she was close enough to do some actual harm.

*

“Shut those emergency doors, now!” Seb Carruthers had peered around the edge of the bulkhead, but a burst of enemy fire sent him jerking his head back, unsure for an instant if he’d managed to do so while it was still attached.

His Marines had the enemy pinned down in half a dozen locations, the situations there at least close to under control. But everywhere else, all hell was breaking loose. He’d tried desperately to hold the extreme starboard launch bay, but the enemy had just been too strong. He had no real idea how many Marines he had lost in that sector and the adjoining ones, but it was at least a thousand. The enemy had paid a heavy price, too, but they outnumbered his people badly, and he’d been forced to order a pullback despite the ferocity his people had shown.

He was about to repeat the order when he heard a hissing sound followed by a loud clang, as the blast doors shut down, sealing off the bay, and possibly any Marines who were still trapped there. It was a stopgap measure, one that could buy a little time and nothing more. The heavy doors were proof against normal fire, but he didn’t doubt for a second the boarders had heavy explosives. He could pick a new defensive position, gain a few minutes to get his people in place, but that was all. And when the blast doors came down, the enemy would still outnumber his defenders…and they would be that much closer to the reactors and the control center, objectives he knew they could not be allowed to reach.

“Alright, let’s go. Captain Stilton, I want your people in section 2304-A2. There are three corridors leading deeper into the station through there, and they all need to be held.” A pause. “I suspect I don’t need to say this, but I will. They need to be held at all costs.”

“Yes, Colonel.” The officer nodded as he spoke, wincing as he did. Carruthers hadn’t noticed the captain had taken a hit across the back of the neck. The projectile had only grazed him, but the damned thing looked like it hurt.

“Go, Captain. And remember, you’ve got a cross corridor about fifty meters back if you need to shift your forces to a trouble spot.” Carruthers’s tone softened a bit, and he waved for Stilton to go.

He turned toward another officer. “Lieutenant, where is Captain Elliot?” He knew the answer before he heard it.

“He’s dead, Colonel.” The officer gestured toward the blast doors. “Back in the bay.”

The colonel almost asked if the lieutenant was sure, but he stopped himself. If Elliot was still alive and now trapped in the midst of the enemy because of his order to close the doors, Carruthers didn’t want to know.

“That makes Company C yours, Lieutenant. We’ve got the corridors coming out of here covered. We should be able to hold.” For a while. “But there are some large conduits leading into the bay from here, and from the reactors. We can take a chance the enemy will try to get around us that way. Get your people into those service tubes. You should have complete station schematics. Anywhere big enough to get a soldier through, or even a drone, I want it covered…and I want it held. Is that understood?” He’d almost said, ‘at all costs again,’ be he’d held it back. His people knew what was at stake.

“Yes, Colonel!”

Carruthers turned his eyes toward the next officer, and then he heard something, noise reverberating through the blast doors. The enemy was on the other side, and that meant he was running out of time.

“Carlson, take your people to…”

*

“General Rogan is falling back again, Admiral. His Marines are forming a defensive line around Reactor Three.”

Barron heard the report, the latest in what seemed like an unending barrage of disasters. Striker was still in the fight, but the enemy soldiers pushing through its corridors had cut off at least three major batteries. Barron had no idea what had happened to the gunners and crew caught in those sections, but the silence of the guns didn’t seem like a good sign.

Striker had lost twenty percent of its fighter capacity as well, and two more bays were threatened. He’d almost ordered those areas evacuated to shorten the Marines’ defensive cordon, but the station’s wings were almost back from their first engagement, and he needed the flight decks to land them and get them back out. The fighter battle had gone remarkably well, and while Barron knew that would not be repeated in the next dogfight, he was grateful for anything that went better than expected. So far, the lopsided engagement between the strike forces was the only thing in that category.

Barron hadn’t even looked at the Marines’ casualty figures. He knew what they had to look like, if only from how much of the station’s real estate Rogan and Carruthers had yielded up to the enemy. Neither of the Marine officers were the type to pull back from a fight, and the fact that they had been retreating steadily suggested just how badly they were outnumbered.

He’d been relieved at least that the fighter losses had been lighter than expected, especially considering how much damage the wings had inflicted on their counterparts. But that just meant Striker had to accommodate more returning fighters than Barron had expected. That was in every way a good thing…every way but one.

He’d be landing close to eight hundred of those fighters within a hundred meters of the front lines of the battle to hold the station. It would a massive stroke of luck if he could get the ships all in and the pilots and flight crews out of there before the enemy pushed into the bays themselves…and a bigger one if his crews were actually able to refit the squadrons and get them back out in time.

“Admiral…” It was Anya Fritz’s voice. Barron had long kept an open line to his engineer in battle, though this time Fritz was handling damage control on Striker and not on the smaller Dauntless. It was a gargantuan job, but Barron knew there was no one on the Rim—hell, in the whole damned galaxy—that could handle it better than Fritz.

“What is it, Fritzie?” Barron knew his engineer never called with anything unimportant, certainly not in the middle of a fight.

“Admiral…I want to shut down reactor four. The fighting is just too close. If we’re not careful, we could lose containment, and that would mean…”

Fritz didn’t finish, but she didn’t have to. Striker was a vast construction, but if one of its hybrid fusion-antimatter reactors lost the magnetic bottles containing the antimatter and thermonuclear reactions for even a nanosecond, vast sections of the fortress—if not the whole thing—would be vaporized.

“What will we lose, Fritzie?” Barron would have known the answer to that question on Dauntless, but Striker was not only enormous, it was fighting its first battle. He didn’t have the same feel for its systems and power consumption.

“I can nudge the other units up five percent with a decent margin of safety, at least for now. We won’t be able to keep everything firing at full, but if I shut down the point defense grid, I can probably keep the rest of it going.”

Barron didn’t like it. The enemy fighters bad been soundly defeated in the first exchange, but their numbers would eventually tell. Still, it would be some time before they could rearm and relaunch, and the fight to hold Striker was going on as he sat there.

And Anya Fritz wouldn’t be asking to shut down a reactor if the battle raging through Striker’s compartments and corridors wasn’t right outside its damned door.

“Do it, Fritzie.” Barron glanced up at the display for a few seconds, trying to keep track of the rest of the battle while he dealt with the fight aboard Striker. It was too much, and he knew that…but there was no choice. “Flush the antimatter, Fritzie…and spike the reactor. Then pull your people out.” He hated the idea of basically destroying the reactor, but he didn’t know what had prompted the Highborn to try to board Striker and a number of the fleet’s battleships. He didn’t doubt for a second they’d send their slaves, their Thralls, to sabotage reactors, however, to launch suicide missions to destroy the fortress and the battleships formed up around it from within.

“Yes, Admiral. I was going to suggest that. We’ll need about five minutes. Hopefully the Marines can hold that long.” The doubt in her tone hit Barron like a punch to the gut. Anya Fritz wasn’t easily shaken up, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind she was worried.

Just do what you have to do, Fritzie…we’ll get you the time you need.” He cut the line, and he turned toward Vinson’s station. “Commander, get General Rogan on my line. Now.”

Barron knew the Marines were hard pressed everywhere…and he had no idea what units the general could get to reactor four…but he was painfully aware of what would happen if Fritz and her people didn’t get the time they needed.

“On your line, Admiral.”

“Bryan…I need you to get some reserves to reactor four. Right away…”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Free Trader Pegasus

Telus Zakaris III

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“It’s working, Andi. I’m not sure how, but it’s working.” Sy’s voice was soft, her sadness evident in every word. Vig had been one of Andi’s closest friends, but he’d been Sy’s brother. The two friends had been working around the clock, driven as much by the need to keep busy as by their realization of how important their mission still was.

Andi hadn’t really believed she would find the secret to defeating the Highborn without paying any cost. She’d been on too many expeditions, seen too many of her comrades claimed in the pursuit of ancient imperial artifacts. Tyler’s fleet had paid an almost unimaginable cost in the war so far, and she couldn’t even begin to guess what was happening on all those occupied Hegemony planets. It had been a near certainty her people would be called on the make more sacrifices.

But she hadn’t expected it to be Vig.

Vig had been her friend, someone he’d considered as her own brother. She’d always been able to count on him, and any time she’d needed him, he’d been there.

Now, he was gone.

“That’s good, Sy. Not that I doubted you for a second.” Andi was trying to do exactly what she knew Sy was doing…go about normal business and pretend that nothing was wrong. That Vig wasn’t dead, lying in Pegasus’s medpod in the cargo hold. Andi had resisted moving it out there, but she’d found herself almost falling apart every time she walked across the lower deck and seen it in Pegasus’s tiny infirmary. And as crushed as she was at her friend’s loss, she had work to do. If she failed, not only would Vig’s death have been for nothing, but she could very likely lose Tyler and Cassie, as well, and everyone and everything that meant anything to her. She felt vaguely guilty at her ability to focus on the work at hand, but she did it anyway.

“First, let’s get the thing to analyze the virus engineering data. It might have lost a few of the processes, but it might be able to help fill in some of those gaps. The thing’s probably got more computing power than the Primary System on Megara.”

“I’ve already got it working on that. It’s remarkably functional, but we have to remember, it does have some damage to its core. We’re going to have to double check everything it does just to be sure it’s not malfunctioning in any way.”

“The main system at Striker should be able to manage that. We’re not talking about matching this thing’s capability, just more or less checking it’s math, right?”

“More or less.” Andi got the impression from Sy’s tone she would have been amused at that last comment…if a cloud of sadness and pain hadn’t enveloped them both.

“We were almost out of there, Sy…” Andi cursed herself immediately for backsliding, for speaking of Vig’s death.

“Andi, Vig was my brother, and I loved him. I’ll mourn him in one way or another for the rest of my life. But you need to stop blaming yourself. He was young when he first came to Pegasus, I know that…though not all that much younger than you were. But that was a long time ago. He was his own man, Andi, and a veteran Badlands prospector among other things. He knew the risks every time he headed out here…and if he’d known what was going to happen this time, it wouldn’t have delayed him for a second. He lived the life he wanted to live, and he’d never have been able to do that without you. We have to let him go, at least for now. We have to make certain his death was in a good cause, that he helped to save others. The real tragedy would be if he died for nothing.”

Andi shook a little, struggling again to hold back tears that were pushing to escape. “You’re right, Sy, I know that. But Vig…” Her voice was shaky, but she didn’t cry. Not quite.

The two sat silently for a moment. Then, Sy spoke, clearly trying to change the subject. “I’ve been looking through the data banks as I hooked them up. This thing has all kinds of imperial history stored on it…far more than we’ve ever known.”

Andi looked at Sy, completely aware of what her friend was doing. But she went along with it. She ached for Vig, but honestly, between her friend’s death, her fear for Tyler, and the open wound of missing her daughter, she just couldn’t take any more darkness. She needed something else to think about, something to do.

“Let’s take a look at everything it’s got on the Highborn first. We’re trying to recreate the virus, but anything about how it was used, or any other ways the imperials fought against them, would be useful, too.”

“I think there’s a fair amount about all that.” Sy looked up at her friend. “If you help me, I think we could get through most of it in a few hours.”

Andi managed something vaguely resembling a smile. Sy was full of shit, at least about needing Andi’s help. Every one of Ellia’s people would be more useful at combing through ancient data banks. But she was grateful for the lifeline her friend had thrown to her, for the distraction she so desperately needed.

*

“Humanity didn’t originate in the empire.” The words were still a shock to Andi, even though she’d helped to uncover that particular bit of data. Even in her younger days, amid the misery of the Gut, she’d always looked on the lost empire as man’s origin. But the histories she and Sy had found were clear that wasn’t the case.

“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 at 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.

The implications of that were unpleasant, certainly. Stockton had immense knowledge about the organization and training of the Highborn fighter corps. He was also, without question, the foremost pilot in or near the Rim. He would be a valuable asset to his old comrades…if he was able to return to his former role.

That was the question Tesserax couldn’t answer. Humans were by nature illogical. He could imagine the difficulty inherent in Stockton’s reintegration after all that had happened. The analytical argument was beyond question. He was an invaluable asset. But would his old pilots follow him as they once had? That was more a question of inferior species behavior than it was one of cold analysis.

There was another question in his mind. Was Stockton truly free of the Collar? Tesserax had no specific knowledge of a previous instance of Collar failure. Was the device implanted in Stockton dead…or was it simply damaged? Might it reassert control? Even a reasonable threat of such an instance would make it impossible for the Rimdwellers to place him back in command of their wings.

And what were the potential complications of Collar failure? The device was heavily integrated with the subject’s central nervous system. No Collar had ever been removed to Tesserax’s knowledge, not without killing the host. Could Stockton live for an extended period with the device inoperative but still attached to his spinal cord and brain? Or would it slowly kill him?

Tesserax didn’t have those answers…but he knew the surest route to solving the current problem was destroying Stockton’s ship immediately. The training the Confederation pilot had provided could be replicated, and his tactics could be used against his former comrades…with or without him at the head of the wings. The only important matter just then was to ensure the Confeds didn’t get Stockton back.

“Division Seventeen is to close at maximum possible thrust.”

Chapter Thirty-One

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Break off, Lynx. Get your people the hell out of here now.” Jake Stockton had fallen almost subconsciously into the use of the old call signs. The practice of assigning such designations to pilots had faded somewhat with the massive expansion of the fighter corps, but Stockton and Olya Federov were both old school.

Stockton’s hands were moving over his controls, almost in a blur. He was flying his ship in a wild pattern, struggling to evade the dozen ships on his tail. He’d just jerked his throttle hard to port, and he’d used the positioning thrusters to turn his ship almost one hundred eight degrees, opening up on the two closest pursuers and blasting both to atoms. He felt a rush, the usual satisfaction at the kill. The feeling was almost intoxicating, one he hadn’t experienced in five years. The Collar had controlled his actions, forced him to fight against his own people, but he’d never experienced pleasure in it.

That was one small mercy.

“It’s not happening, Raptor. We’ll figure out what happened, work through it…but if you don’t come back with me, all you’re going to achieve is getting half the pilots in this wing killed. Now, break off, and head back to Dauntless…before this new wave of enemy ships gets here.”

Stockton had seen the formation launch from the newly arrived carriers. He’d already known the Highborn were aware of his defection—that was why the ships around him were attacking—but seeing three hundred more fighters heading toward him told him just how furious Tesserax had to be.

He smiled as he thought of the Highborn commander, a twisted grin that, in every way except words themselves, said ‘eat shit.’

“Lynx, forget about me. You shouldn’t even know I’m out here. I did all I could…I don’t have anything left to offer. Just let me go…”

Stockton knew even as he spoke how futile his words were. Of all the pilots in the fleet, Federov was probably the least likely to give up on him. The last two Blue Squadron pilots have to stick together…

It was a pleasant thought, and for an instant he wanted to do as she said, to turn toward the fleet. But there was no way back. He had no right to expect his people to take him back, forgive him for all he had done. He’d never forgive himself. Worse, perhaps, the Collar was still implanted in his spine. It seemed to be deactivated, but he couldn’t be sure. If he was back on Dauntless, or anywhere in the fleet, what would happen if the device took control again? Would he sabotage a ship, shoot one of his comrades? No…he couldn’t take the chance.

But if he didn’t do as Federov asked, she wouldn’t leave. Neither would her pilots. They just might best the force currently chasing after him, though that was still a big question mark, but even if they managed it, they’d never be able to face the fresh wave of incoming ships.

He had to end the fight. He had to stop their rescue attempt. Words wouldn’t do it. Nothing he said would wear Federov down, he knew that. She would only leave if there was no longer a reason to stay.

He knew how to do that. All he had to do was loosen his grip on the throttle…and then close his eyes and wait. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds, maybe a minute. Then, one of his pursuers would realize he was on a fixed course and blast his ship to plasma. His long nightmare would finally be over.

He looked down at his hand, still moving wildly. He’d planned this moment for years, longed for the release death would provide from the hell he’d endured. But Jake Stockton’s self-preservation instinct was like a force of nature. It was almost impossible for him to just give up.

His eyes moved to the screen, just in time to see two of Federov’s ships destroyed. His stubbornness, his inability to yield, was costing his old comrades dearly. He couldn’t let that happen. The immovable force of his will to fight met the irresistible force of saving his old comrades.

He sighed softly, and his hand loosened its grip, letting go of the throttle.

Letting go of everything.

*

Tyler Barron sat in the center of Striker’s vast control center. His eyes were fixed on the display, on the fleet formations, as his battleline moved forward to meet the enemy’s. His thoughts were on the lower decks of the great station, however, with Bryan Rogan and his Marines. The Highborn boarders had hit dozens of ships, but the force that attacked Striker was by far the largest. Rogan had almost fifteen thousand Marines on the station, many of them the accidental bounty of Barron’s plan to assign them to repair duties. That had been a lucky break, but it was becoming clear it wasn’t likely to be enough.

The Highborn troops outnumbered the Marines by a significant margin. Barron didn’t have any reliable numbers, but he’d pieced together reports from Rogan and Carruthers, and it added up to at least fifty thousand enemy shock troops. Barron had faith in his Marines, but he was far from sure they could hold against a force that size. Worst of all, perhaps, they had lost most of the inherent advantage of defending. There were dozens of locations on the base they had to hold—bays, weapons, reactors, the central data center—and the enemy could pick and choose their targets. Without knowing why they had come—to disrupt the station, as a suicide attack to destroy it, to assassinate key figures in the Pact command structure—it was impossible to predict where they would focus the greatest concentration of their forces.

“Admiral, we’re getting multiple reports from battleships on the line. Most have contained the boarding parties, and the others are close to doing so. Thirty-one ships in total have been boarded, but it appears Striker was the target of the vast majority of the enemy forces.”

Of course, cut off the head. They want to take out the command staff.

They want to kill me.

Barron wondered if he should be particularly afraid or angry, but the whole thing seemed coldly analytical to him. He would be no less dead if a Highborn soldier shot him in his chair than if an enemy beam ripped into the control center and fried him to ashes. He was not beyond fear, but he’d seen so many desperate fights, escaped so many close calls, he’d come to deal with it in a cold and detached way. He didn’t want to die, but he’d learned to put concerns about it out of his mind. He would fight with all the skill and ability he had, and he and his spacers would prevail…or death would finally find him.

“Send a communique to Admiral Winters. He is to assume overall command if Striker is knocked off the fleetnet, or…disrupted in any other way.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

“And advise Admiral Travis to be prepared to assist Admiral Winters.”

He knew he should have made the call to Atara himself. But he couldn’t. It would sound too much like goodbye.

Barron looked down at the station maps on his small display. He could see where Bryan Rogan was planning the last stand. The Marine hadn’t called it quite that, of course, but Barron knew enough about combat to see it for what it was. If the enemy breached that line, scattered groups of Marines might stage a few running firefights, but they wouldn’t be able to keep the enemy from reaching the control center.

“Lieutenant…” Barron shouted out to one of the Marines on duty, standing at attention along the far wall.

“Admiral, sir!”

“Open the weapons lockers, Lieutenant. I want all control center personnel fully armed.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Barron didn’t know if Rogan could hold back the enemy, and he didn’t know what would happen if the Highborn broke through and reached the control room. He just knew what damned sure wasn’t going to happen.

His command staff weren’t going to sit passively by while the enemy killed them. No, sir…if the Highborns’ Thralls wanted the control center, they were going to have to fight for every damned millimeter of it.

*

“Shift engineering team D to the deck fourteen junction. We need power to the forward weapons, and we’re down to one functioning feed.” Sonya Eaton was snapping out orders, surprising herself with her focus and the cold, demanding tone of her voice. She’d always been the quieter of the two Eaton sisters, the one who’d struggled a bit more with the responsibilities of command. But no more.

There are no Eaton sisters anymore…it’s just you, and you’ve got a job to do…

Sonya had expected a difficult battle, a bitter and costly fight. But the idea of fighting a twin of Colossus had never entered her mind. She’d come into the battle certain her own ship was the strongest unit on either side, save for Striker itself. Now, she was staring at a virtual reflection, and her people were locked in desperate battle with a ship that had everything they had.

And it’s all newer…

Colossus had never been 100% functional, at least not up to its old imperial standards. Hegemony and then Confederation technology had simply not been up to repairing every age-withered system. The Highborn ship appeared to be fully operational, a virtual clone of what Colossus had likely been, centuries before, right out of the shipyard. And Eaton’s ship still carried damage from the last fight, with hasty patches holding some systems together.

The duel between the two great ships appeared even at first glance, but Eaton knew her ship, and her crew, were outmatched. That was an inescapable fact, but it wasn’t one she was going to let defeat her. Colossus was going to win the fight. It was going to take down its enemy…whatever it took.

“Commodore, engineering reports fraying in reactor nine’s shielding.”

“More power to the magnetic field. Bring life support functions down to minimal sustenance levels in secondary areas of the ship. Reduce lighting ten percent shipwide.” Sonya didn’t have exact figures on power production and consumption, but with Colossus at battlestations, even the vast array of reactors powering the great vessel were overtaxed. She couldn’t lose any of the reactors…but thermonuclear reactions were dangerous things to handle. If the shielding continued to deteriorate, she’d lose the reactor entirely…and that would shut down a section of the weapons array. All she could do was cut back on non-essential power expenditures and hope her people down on the lower decks could keep things functioning.

A shout made its way around the bridge, as one of Colossus’s main batteries scored a hit. The enemy ship was as large and powerful as her own, but they two combatants had closed steadily on each other, and at short range, even the most immense vessels showed their wounds. The scanner displayed small, fizzy lines extending from the ship, eruptions of air and debris billowing out from the stricken areas. She felt her own burst of excitement, tempered somewhat by her realization that the battle was far from over. Her casualties had been light so far, but she knew that wouldn’t last.

Almost in answer, the ship lurched, and her screen flooded with preliminary damage reports. The Highborn had answered her hit with one of their own.

She stared at the data coming in, the list of newly battered systems. It looked bad enough, but maybe not quite as critical as she’d feared at first. At least the reactors were all still functional, and Colossus’s main weapons remained operational, minus a handful of battered turrets.

“I want reactor output pushed to the max…all but number nine. Let’s see if we can shave a few seconds off those recharging sequences…”

*

“They’re pushing toward the control center, Seb. I’m setting up a defensive line from sections C-3 to E-7, trying to keep them back. I need you to cover the engineering spaces. The fighters should be launching in twenty minutes or so…and then you can pull back from delta and gamma bays. We’ll have to figure out what to do when those ships get back, but right now we don’t have the strength to hold everywhere.”

“I’ve got it, General. You worry about the command center. I’ll start pulling out the second the last of those Lightnings takes off.” A pause. “If we shut down reactor six, I can shorten my line quite a bit, maybe even throw together some kind of fire brigade to serve as a reserve force.”

“I’ll check with the admiral, see if he can do without the power.”

“We probably can’t hold it anyway, at least not for more than an hour. If that. If we pull back now, we might be able to strengthen our positions at other threatened points.”

“Get your plan ready…but don’t start withdrawing until I get the admiral’s okay.” Rogan cut the line, and he turned to the small cluster of officers standing behind him. “You all have your assigned places. Get your Marines in position…and grab all the cover you can get. If the enemy gets past us here, we’ll be fighting in the control room. Now, go!”

Rogan tapped his comm until, activating his direct line to Barron.

“Bryan, what’s your status?”

“My people are pulling back, setting up a defensive position around the control center. The enemy seems to be targeting your position, sir. We’re going to try to hold them here, but…” Rogan paused. Failing Tyler Barron wasn’t in his lexicon, but lying to the admiral wasn’t either.

“But you don’t know if you can hold. Do your best, Bryan.”

“Admiral…I’d like to pull back from reactor six. It’s a bulge in our lines, and we can rationalize our positions better if we don’t have to defend it.” A short pause. “All our reserves are committed, sir. If I can at least pull a few units back, I’ll have something to plug any holes. Or Seb Carruthers will.” Rogan wasn’t moving from where he was until the control center was secure.

“Alright, Bryan. It’ll take ten minutes to shut the thing down and flush the antimatter, but then I’ll pull back the engineers. Maybe fifteen minutes total, and then you can withdraw and bring your Marines back to the new defense line.”

“Thank you, Admiral.”

Rogan turned and he looked behind him. There were about twenty Marines lined up, weapons ready. They were disheveled, and several had haphazardly dressed flesh wounds, but every one of them was grim and ready to get back into the fight.

He tapped his comm again. “Alright, Seb…you’ve got to hold reactor six for fifteen minutes. Once it’s down and the engineers have pulled out, you are to execute a fighting withdrawal back to Line Black.” Rogan had been second guessing the designation since he’d first uttered the foreboding title, but he couldn’t argue it was damned appropriate. If the enemy pushed through his forces in any of those sectors, there was no place to mount another organized defense. The battle would move into the heart of the station, and his Marines would be split into a dozen divided factions, defending different vital locations.

He felt the urge to run down and join the forces there…but he was already in an even more important spot. If the enemy took the control center, they’d have the station…and they’d have Admiral Barron, too. And Bryan Rogan wasn’t going to allow that, whatever it took.

Whatever it took.

*

“The ship is secure, your Supremacy.” The warrior was disorderly, his hair a wild mess, his uniform torn and stained with blood in several places. But he beamed with pride as he faced his ruler. “My blade has even tasted blood this day. Palatian honor shines as the sun itself.”

Vian Tulus looked down at the officer. Intellectually, he knew the fact that his people were fighting aboard their own ships to maintain control was not a good thing. But like the soldier before him, he felt exhilarated. He regretted only that his position had not permitted him to race down to the lower decks and plunge into the battle himself.

“You have indeed brought honor up on yourself, Commander, along with all of your warriors. You will find me grateful when this great struggle has ended.”

The warrior bowed his head solemnly, holding it until Tulus spoke again.

“Go now, see to your warriors and your wounded…and bring them my words of praise and pride.”

The warrior stood, snapping to attention and pausing for a few seconds before he turned and left the bridge.

Vian Tulus turned to the main display, checking the range to the enemy. His contingent had been fortunate so far. Save for the vicious fighting aboard the vessels that had been boarded, his ships had mostly escaped the enemy’s attacks. There was fortune in that, Tulus knew, but shame as well. The Highborn had learned that the Alliance vessels were the least dangerous of the Pact’s armament, their ranges the shortest and the strength of their weapons the lowest. Palatian lore had often excused backward technology as a point of warrior’s pride, instilling in the more sophisticated weaponry of their neighbors some hint of cowardice, some dishonor in overreliance on equipment and machinery. Tulus had come far from his early days, far enough to realize the absurdity of such thoughts. Victory was victory, and defeat meant death and slavery. And Palatian technological levels were at best some arbitrary assignment of ‘appropriate’ for a true warrior to employ. Palatians had directed their weapons on enemies with less sophisticated weaponry many times without assigning any of the enhanced levels of glory they claimed for themselves.

“All ships are to open fire the instant we enter range. I want gunners constantly updating firing solutions. This is the greatest battle any of us have fought. Every shot is vital.”

The Hegemony and Confederation battlelines were already engaged in combat with the Highborn…and Colossus was locked in a death struggle with its twin, the Highborns’ newest weapon. It tore at Tulus’s soul to watch the struggle but not yet to be engaged. His fighters had joined the initial dogfight, of course, but his Palatian ancestors screamed to him from the dark recesses of his mind, howling for the might of the Alliance fleet to plunge into the maelstrom, to fight, and if need be die, alongside its allies.

The Imperator’s insides were tight, his muscles flexed with tension as he watched the distance readings drop. A few of his ships were taking fire as he watched the screen, but his forces were still mostly being ignored. Tulus knew this was simple tactical logic, but it was also a slap in the face…and he would make sure the Highborn paid for besmirching Palatian honor.

The numbers ticked down, and Tulus turned toward his senior aide. “All ships…open fire.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Federov’s ears echoed with the drumbeat of her heart. Her face was wet with perspiration, and her body was rigid, her fingers pale white from squeezing the throttle has tightly as possible. She was blasting her fighter at full power—beyond full power, even, since she’d flipped off her safety controls—toward Jake Stockton. His responses to her communications had concerned her, but it was seeing his ship cease its wild evasive maneuvers and go into a straight-line course that had pushed her into panic mode.

She knew what he was doing, and she could hardly believe it. Jake Stockton had been a hard taskmaster, a wild and occasionally boastful pilot, and a bit of a carouser in his younger days…but one thing she’d never seen him do—ever—was give up.

Until just then.

A dozen Highborn ships were chasing Stockton, and as soon as they realized he was traveling on a dead straight course, they’d adjust their targeting to take him down. Federov was struggling with her own feelings on all that had happened, sympathy for her old comrade dueling with natural anger over the harm Stockton’s captivity had caused…but it was clear to her, at that moment even more than it had been before, she didn’t want to watch him die.

She knew in her heart, and the in the coldly analytical part of her mind, that Jake Stockton had not willingly aided the enemy in any way. Indeed, he’d placed himself in jeopardy by transmitting the evasion routines. Now, he was going to kill himself to atone for his sins.

Sins that were not truly his.

Federov couldn’t allow that to happen, she couldn’t let Stockton die. But she wasn’t sure she could do anything about it. She’d tried to convince him to come back, begged him, but she knew more than almost anyone just how stubborn he could be. The most urgent task was to take out the fighters close enough to attack Stockton’s helpless ship…but there were close to a dozen of them, and that was a lot to handle, even for ‘Lynx’ Federov.

She’d tried to reach him, to convince him to resume his evasive maneuvers, and to return back to base with her wing. But he’d been silent, and his ship was moving forward on a dead straight vector. A first-year cadet could have picked him off with eyes closed.

She blasted her ship forward, plunging into the cluster of Highborn fighters closest to Stockton, firing her lasers like a woman possessed. She took down one, two…a third. She was spewing death into the enemy formations, but no matter how many ships she obliterated, it seemed three or four took its place.

Her wing was fully engaged as well, but she had pushed farther forward, and she was alone facing the enemy ships closest to Stockton. She fired again and again…four ships destroyed. Five.

Six.

“Dammit, Raptor…cut the shit, and let’s get out of here. Before you get us both killed!”

She tightened her fingers on the firing stud, even as she spoke.

Seven.

*

“All ships, maintain maximum fire.” Atara Travis sat at her usual station, snapping out commands. She knew she should have switched over to the flag position, but she couldn’t bring herself to do it. That was Tyler’s chair, dammit, and she could command just as well from her own usual seat.

“All units acknowledge, Admiral.”

Atara nodded, a gesture as much to herself as the officer at the comm station. Technically, she commanded nothing more than she had before, but this time, Barron wasn’t sitting a few meters away. Atara had always been confident and capable, a stone-cold leader whatever the situation. But she felt naked and alone without Barron there. She could handle her duties alone, she didn’t have any doubt about that. But she was still uncomfortable, and she realized with some surprise just how rattled she was by a change in the normal dynamic.

Pointless orders are a symptom of that…

There had been no need, of course, to order her ships to maintain fire. The fleet was deep in the flames of hell, locked in mortal combat with the Highborn invaders. Every ship was under standing orders to fire everything they had, and there wasn’t a ship commander in the fleet who wouldn’t be blasting away even without orders to do so. Still, she was startled at how little there sometimes was for a commander to do in the middle of a fight. Sure, there were times she would be pulled in a hundred directions, when crises would fly in from every angle. But a large part of commanding in a desperate fight was sitting and watching…and trusting her captains and crews to do the jobs they’d been trained to do.

It was difficult, tense in a way she suspected would be difficult to describe to someone who hadn’t experienced it…and it bore down on her with greater weight without Barron present on the bridge. Her duties as the admiral’s aide filled those otherwise quiet and tension-filled moments, and without her longtime comrade sitting there, she had to endure the maddening nothingness of sitting silently and waiting.

Her eyes saw four enemy ships approaching. The ship classes were unfamiliar, but the mass and energy readings strongly suggested they were battleships of some kind.

That’s a lot of firepower.

She almost spat out a new series of commands, but she held back. Her people on Dauntless knew how to fight the ship. She’d set the evasion routines, the guns were firing at full, and the damage control teams were ready for anything that came. There was nothing to do again, nothing except watch and wait.

At least the fighting on the ship had almost ended. There were a few holdouts among the boarders, pockets of resistance remaining in a few non-vital areas of the ship. But the primary threat had ended. None of the ship’s major systems had been damaged, and any danger of the enemy reaching some vital spot or taking control of the ship had ended.

Now, it was time for Dauntless to face the enemies outside its hull. Atara had faith in the ship’s crew, but the vessels coming at her were big, and Highborn battleships didn’t carry fighters like Confederation ones did. That meant more reactors and more guns for the same mass.

Atara wasn’t intimidated by that in a one on one matchup. She’d scoff even at two to one, her pride and confidence powering her defiance. But four to one was trouble.

Her mind raced, searching for something, anything, more she could do. But there was nothing. Dauntless was ready, her people were ready.

She looked ahead as the battleship’s primaries lanced out, the particle accelerators taking one of the approaching Highborn vessels amidships. It was a solid hit, and the screen lit up with preliminary damage assessments. She watched the data scrolling, the strange combination of actual scanner readings enhanced by the AI’s best guess about the target’s condition. Atara didn’t rely much on such things—she’d seen far too many mistakes in that kind of estimate. But she was willing to bet the hit had knocked out at least some systems on the enemy ship, and that was a good start.

She looked down, doublechecking Dauntless’s evasion routines, and then her eyes moved back to the main display…just in time to catch the next volley. Another hit on the same ship. She felt a rush of excitement at the marksmanship of her gunners, and then as no fewer than five enemy shots ripped by, all within a kilometer of Dauntless, and all barely evaded by the ship’s wild navigational gymnastics.

But the enemy ships were closing fast, and Dauntless’s luck ran out a few seconds later with the sixth enemy barrage. No fewer than three of the blue and black-speckled beams struck the vessel’s hull. Atara was thrown forward, hard into the harness holding her in her seat. She felt a sharp pain, and the breath was forced from her lungs.

She sucked in a deep, raspy breath as she leaned back against her chair. She was okay. She’d have one hell of a bruise, she knew, when she took her uniform off, but no major injuries. At worst a fractured rib…and Atara Travis had never let anything like that deter her from her duty. Not in the middle of a fight.

She looked down at the damage reports. The grim list of casualties and damaged systems was far more accurate than the guesswork about an enemy ship thousands of kilometers away. One of the reactors was down to half strength, and the gamma fighter bay was a nightmarish wreck, out of control fires raging, and two full squadrons of refitting Lightnings a total loss.

But the primaries were still online. The great particle accelerator batteries were much more durable than they’d been in the old days. She watched the power gauge moving up and then turning green as a full charge was achieved.

Then, she gritted her teeth and uttered another needless command.

“Fire,” she said, her voice cold and grim.

*

“Captain…Dauntless is being attacked by four Highborn battleships.”

Cliff Wellington was already staring at the screen, seeing the same thing the aide was reporting. The battle was raging over a line half a million kilometers long, but the fiercest fighting was right in the center, and the flagship was in the heart of the maelstrom.

“Vector adjustment, Commander. Bring us in on a line toward those ships.” Wellington’s voice was cold, decisive. He was violating orders, to a point at least. He had a preset course, and a list of targets, but Excalibur was also the closest ship to Dauntless. At least the closest one with enough firepower to make a difference.

“Yes, Captain.”

Wellington winced as the display showed another two hits slamming into the fleet flagship. Dauntless was still in the fight, still pounding away at her enemies…but it looked like the battleship’s primaries were offline. That didn’t matter as much as it would have at longer range. The battlelines were close to each other, and the larger number of secondaries put out almost as much total destructive force as the big particle accelerators, at least from under seventy thousand kilometers. That point was emphasized as three of Dauntless’s laser cannons slammed into the forward Highborn ship…and the stricken vessel vanished in a vast explosion.

That’s one down…

Wellington was felt a little better. Dauntless had lowered the odds. But the flagship wasn’t going to last much longer by herself.

She won’t have to…

“All batteries…I want firing solutions on the ships attacking Dauntless. All turrets ready to fire on my command.”

Wellington watched as Excalibur closed on the enemy vessels. The ships had been focused on Dauntless, but now one peeled away, directing its fire on the approaching superbattleship. The first shots went wide, missing by several kilometers, and Wellington reworked the evasion routines in his mind, tapping at his workstation to make a few adjustments. He liked the think it was more than just a series of guesses about where the next enemy fire would come in, but he couldn’t be sure.

Not until the Highborn fired again.

He felt the tension, each second passing slowly as he waited for the Highborn to fire again. It wore on him, twisted his stomach into knots…but still, he didn’t give the order for his own ship to open up.

Not yet…patience. We’re going right down their throats…

His eyes were fixed on the display, watching as a second enemy ship adjusted its vector. Two of the three ships that had been battling Dauntless were now targeting Excalibur. A shudder and a series of sparks along the far wall of the bridge told him that one of the Highborn had scored a hit. He glanced quickly at the monitor, confirming his gut reaction. There had been damage, but nothing significant.

Still, he didn’t give the command.

Flashes of light whipped by on the display, the full fire of two Highborn battleships. Half a dozen shots missed entirely, but not all of them. Excalibur lurched hard, and Wellington’s display flooded with fresh damage reports. His eyes darted down, ignoring casualty updates and references to anything except the reactors and the weapons arrays. The superbattleship still packed almost its entire punch.

Wellington let out a deep breath of relief, but it didn’t relax him at all. He was pushing his luck and he knew it. The superbattleship was the cream of the Confederation fleet, but the Highborn ships were enormously powerful. They could hurt even Wellington’s massive vessel. They could destroy it.

Still, he closed, holding his fire.

He was counting down softly, under his breath. Another two great energy lances from the Highborn ripped by, one missing by less than fifty meters, close enough to fry some scanner dishes on the outer hull.

Still, he waited another ten seconds.

Then: “All guns…open fire.”

The batteries of the Confederation’s greatest scratch-built warship opened up and spat death before them. The massive spinal mount railgun sent its thousand-kilogram projectile tearing through space at almost 0.1c. It struck one of the enemy battleships near the stern, carrying off close to a quarter of the vessel, and sending the rest into a wild spiral.

The sixteen particle accelerators, the full barrage from the four quad mounts blasted forth, no fewer than six of the deadly beams slamming into the other enemy vessel. The target hung there in space, holed in half a dozen spots and drifting along its previous course, dead, lifeless.

“Vector change, bring us around on that last Highborn ship.”

Wellington stared out at the display, at the indications of the carnage he and his people—and their immense ship—had just unleased, and he smiled.

“And get me a line to Admiral Travis.”

*

“I’m not leaving, Raptor, no matter what comes at us here.”

Stockton sat and listened to Olya Federov on the comm, and he felt as though the world was closing in on him. She was one of his oldest friends, one of the Confederation’s greatest pilots…and she was going to die in front of him, trying to protect him. From himself.

He’d tried to convince himself she was bluffing, that she’d give up and pull her wing out, head back to the mother ships. But he knew her too well. She was a lot of things, but at the very top of that list, Olya Federov was stubborn.

She’ll never break off…unless I’m dead…

But she’d gunned down every ship that had come close to him.

He looked down at his controls, at the reactor flow valve. Highborn fighters had multiple levels of safety controls, but he figured he could get around those, push his reactor until it overloaded. He would meet his end in the heart of a miniature star that lasted for perhaps a few seconds.

And then Olya and her people will break off…before the rest of those Highborn ships get here…

He’d been prepared to die for a long time. Still, it was hard for him to give up. He’d intended to die fighting, to take down as many Highborn fighters as he could before they finally overwhelmed him. It had taken all he had to yield enough to drop his evasive routines, to leave himself open and helpless.

Could he really flip a switch, and just kill himself? It went against every fiber of his being, every trait that made him the relentless fighter he’d always been. It was the only way to save Federov and her pilots, though.

Almost the only way…

Stockton almost heard the thought inside him, the voice deep within telling him there was another way. He could go back with her. He could go home.

No, that’s not possible, not after all that’s happened.

He tried to imagine facing them all, Federov, Reg Griffin, Tyler Barron. Stara…

It seemed impossible.

But the voice remained. Coward!

How could he go back? There were some nightmares from which it was impossible to return. But the thought kept at him. He was weak, unwilling to face those he had harmed, those who had loved and respected him. He was running away, fleeing from his fate. The unstoppable Raptor, Jake Stockton, the fearless warrior…running to death to avoid facing the consequences of his actions.

Federov’s voice was there, too, begging him, screaming at him, pounding away without the knowledge that she had an ally inside his own psyche.

“Jake…Jake…” For an instant, he thought Federov was at him once again. But the voice was different. Familiar.

“Jake, please…please listen to Olya…” The words were heavy, mixed with the sound of tears.

Stara…

He moved his hand toward the comm, his finger hovering over the switch. But he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t seen Stara in five years, hadn’t heard the sound of her voice. She was gone to him, he knew that. There was no way to get back to where they had been. But any contact was something.

He could see her in his mind, her face in front of him, almost as though she was there. He wanted to see her, to touch her, to feel her arms around him again. No, it’s not possible…

The sound of her words, her tears, beat at him like the waves on a rugged shoreline.

His eyes moved to the screen, checking the status of the battle. His nearest pursuers were gone. Somehow, Federov had destroyed them all, despite the superior Highborn weaponry. She was risking her life, and the lives of her pilots…even though she knew what he had done.

Stockton felt as though his head was about to explode. He didn’t know what to do.

And then, suddenly, he did. He reached out and grabbed the throttle. There was no joy in the prospect of returning home, no hope he could reclaim his old life. But he couldn’t give up, couldn’t ignore Stara’s pleas that he return.

He couldn’t hurt her more than he already had.

Perhaps he could do some good. His pilots would never follow him again…he couldn’t imagine any way they would. But he had considerable knowledge of Highborn equipment and tactics. It would be far from redemption, but just maybe he still had something to offer the war effort. Something to atone in part of the harm he had caused.

He pushed the throttle forward, turning it to starboard, altering his vector back toward the fleet. The Confederation fleet. His fleet.

He reached down and tapped the comm unit.

“Stara, Olya…I’m coming home…”

*

Colossus shuddered again, as a pair of heavy beams from its twin slammed into it dead center. Sonya had cycled her ship’s evasion routines deftly, but such efforts only bought time, not eliminated the likelihood of being hit. Her people had scored no fewer than a dozen direct hits on their opponent, and the two rattling Colossus so hard were only the seventh and eight the enemy had managed in return.

The distance had closed steadily, and the two behemoths were blasting away at each other from what could only be called point blank range…or something a step closer than that.

Sonya watched the damage reports flood her screen. A hundred systems were affected, and at least two more of her heavy guns had been knocked out. Her ship had taken enough punishment to obliterate any other vessel in the fleet, even an Excalibur-class superbattleship, and Colossus had given out even more than it had endured. But the two combatants were still locked in a desperate battle to the end.

Sonya had no way of knowing for sure, but she had come to believe that the Highborn had built their version of Colossus from scratch…to full imperial standards. That meant her people had faced an uneven fight from the start.

Colossus had outfought it’s enemy, at least to an extent, but as Sonya looked up at the damage stats for her own ship, and the assessments—guesses!—for its opponent, her gut told her the fight was dead even.

She stared for a moment at the display, and at the small workstation screens right in front of her. She had to do something. If the two ships kept pounding away at each other the way they were, either one could prevail. The enemy ship had done enough damage already to the Pact battle plan simply by taking Colossus out of the line, occupying the Confederation’s strongest ship in a one on one duel that left the rest of the forces in the system fighting what had almost become a separate battle.

That was a victory for the Highborn, even if their monster ship lost the fight between the giants. If they destroyed Colossus…

Sonya was well aware her ship was one of a kind…for the Confederation. But if the Highborn had constructed one such vessel, they could build more. She had to win the current fight…and she had to get Colossus through it as something other than a floating wreck.

“All gunnery stations…focus all fire on the highlighted sections.” As she spoke, her fingers moved over the controls, almost in a blur. The schematic of the enemy ship appeared on the main display, with a cluster of small glowing dots about two thirds of the way to the stern. That was Colossus’s most vulnerable spot, at least to her own analysis, and the combination of training, experience, and intuition driving her.

“Yes, Commodore…” There was a bit of hesitation in her aide’s voice. She understood. It was hard enough to target enemy vessels at all, with the wild gyrations and evasive maneuvers…but aiming at specific sections of a ship was almost unheard of. But her people were the best…and Colossus was close to the enemy.

And getting closer.

“I want every gun on this ship pounding away at those spots. Maximum fire…and tell engineering I need all they can coax out of the reactors. Push them all to overload, if necessary.” But the risk…

Damn the risk! We need that power, and we need it now!

She stared straight ahead, hardly moving as Colossus took yet another hit, and a shower of sparks erupted on the far side of the bridge. The fight she was in would be to the death, and if only one ship was going to survive…it damned sure wasn’t going to be that Highborn piece of shit.

*

“Admiral, with your permission, we’d like to set up a series of barricades along the avenues of entry onto the control deck.” Bryan Rogan had run in and out of the room half a dozen times, juggling directing the defensive efforts in the vicinity with returning to inspect the progress his Marines had made readying the control center for a last-ditch defense. The first time or two, Barron had written it off to Rogan’s meticulous attention to detail, but around the fourth time he’d seen the Marine in an hour, he’d come to realize Rogan was far from sure his people could hold their line.

He was putting far too much time into setting up defenses he didn’t think he was going to need.

“Yes, Bryan…do whatever you need.” Barron looked around the massive deck. He had over sixty officers and spacers there, and he didn’t really need them all. The fight was raging all around, but Barron had given his gunnery stations independent control over their fire…just in case any of them got cut off or the comm connections failed. He was staying on top of damage reports, but there wasn’t much he could do with any of that either. The boarders had cut off two of the station’s launch bays, and three reactors as well. That was bad, especially the loss of over two hundred Lightning fighters that had been in the process of being refit and refueled. But Striker was riddled with destroyed weapons platforms and even with thirty percent of its power generation capacity gone, everything still functional was firing at full power.

Barron looked up at the main display, half to check on the status of the battle, and half to take his mind off the thought that Highborn soldiers might come blasting through the doors any minute. The fighting was still some distance away, but not so far that Barron couldn’t hear the echoes of gunfire, especially whenever one of the hatches opened.

The fleet was fighting hard. He wanted to tell himself his people were holding their own, but he knew that would be a lie. The first fighter battle had gone better than he’d expected, but he knew better than to expect a repeat of that. Even with the thousands of casualties his people had inflicted, they were still going to be outnumbered when the two sides met again. Badly outnumbered.

“Admiral, I’ve got Reg Griffin on the line for you.”

Barron’s eyes darted to the side of the display. There was a cluster of fighters heading back toward the fleet. He’d thought the entire strike force had already landed.

“Reg, what is it? Why are you still…”

“Admiral…” Griffin had never interrupted Barron. The admiral wasn’t angry, but he did feel a knot in his gut. If Reg Griffin spoke over him, something important was going on. “…Raptor is still alive, sir. Jake Stockton is still alive. He was a prisoner of the Highborn all these years. He’s coming in with Lynx now.”

The words had been so unexpected, they sounded almost like gibberish to him.

“Reg, I don’t understand. What are you saying?” He understood exactly what she had said, but his mind couldn’t accept it. He’d mourned his friend, missed him every day since the battle that had claimed him…but he’d never imagined Stockton could still be alive after so long.

“He’s alive, Admiral. He is heading back now. I’d like to divert to Striker, with your permission.”

Barron’s mind was racing, still trying to force himself to believe what he was hearing. His first thought was to approve Reg’s request, to order her to get to the station as quickly as possible. If Jake Stockton was still alive, Barron wanted to see him immediately.

But his eyes remained fixed on the display, and on the almost constant reports of the outnumbered Marines pulling back in a dozen sectors. Both alpha and delta bays were under attack, and it looked very much like Striker’s entire launch and landing capability would be neutralized. He couldn’t risk bringing anyone in…he didn’t have a landing slot he was sure wouldn’t be overrun at any time.

“Negative, Reg…we’re up against it with these boarders. The bays are at risk. Dock with Dauntless.” For an instant, he wondered if he should have sent them to a different ship. Dauntless was Stockton’s old home vessel. Barron’s mind was still in a whirlwind about all he’d just heard, but he knew if Stockton was alive, his friend faced a difficult integration. Barron knew all about the Highborn Collars, more than all but a few members of the fleet did. He understood that whatever Stockton had done for the enemy, it had been entirely involuntary. But he still felt anger toward the pilot, even as he told himself it was misplaced. He had no idea how the pilots and flight crews on Dauntless would react when their ‘dead’ commander returned…and they realized he had been fighting against them for five years.

He remained silent for a few seconds. “Dauntless, Reg…get him over there as soon as possible.”

He cut the line, and then he turned toward the comm station. “Commander, get me Admiral Travis on Dauntless…”

Chapter Thirty-Three

HWS Hegemony’s Glory

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Ilius, pull back, now. You need to get that ship out of the line.” Chronos’s flagship was battered, the bridge covered in a haze of patchy gray smoke, but Hegemony’s Glory was in far better condition than his immediate subordinate’s vessel. Ilius’s ship had been bracketed by two of the heavy Highborn ships, and it had only survived that encounter thanks to aid from a pair of Alliance ships. The two Palatian battleships closed on one of the Highborn vessels, firing relentlessly as the range dropped to the point where even their weaker weapons were devastating. One of Imperator Tulus’s ships was destroyed in the fight, but the other continued pounding away until the Highborn ship itself was obliterated.

Ilius’s flagship then turned to face its other attacker. The two vessels had been locked in a death match, but finally, with more assistance from the remaining Palatian ship, the Hegemony vessel prevailed. It was seriously wounded, however, possibly mortally so. Yet, it had remained in the line, and now yet another fresh enemy ship was closing.

“I can’t retreat. We’ve got nothing close enough to plug the gap. If the Highborn pierce the line here, they’ll flank us in both directions.”

Chronos knew there was some truth to what his friend was saying…but only some. A single battleship pulling back would hardly open a huge hole in the line, and Ilius could cover whatever opening he did leave by extending the distance slightly between his ships.

Chronos stared at the screen, watching as the new enemy contact moved closer. Flashes of light on the display denoted the shots being fired. The Highborn ship appeared to be fully operational, while Ilius’s vessel was a near-wreck, with only two batteries still functional. The confrontation wasn’t going to be a fight, especially since the remaining Palatian ship was almost as battered as Ilius’s. It was going to be an execution.

Chronos had been worried about his friend. Ilius had been acting strangely, a strange fatalism heavy in everything he’d done or said for the past few months. Hegemony Masters liked to pride themselves on being above such normal human failings as exhaustion and despair…but Chronos knew that was nonsense. He knew, if for no other reason, because he was so close to giving up himself.

And Ilius seemed closer even than he was.

Neither of them could admit that, of course, not even to each other. A lifetime’s conditioning and decades of adherence to social mores and societal expectations were not easy things to escape. Chronos had already gone against the beliefs he’d been raised to embrace in his secret relationship with Akella. As commander of the fleet, the last thing he could do was admit to anyone he didn’t think the Pact was going to win the war.

“Ilius, that’s a direct order. You are to pull that ship back, out of range of the enemy, and conduct damage control operations.” Even as he uttered the words, he knew convincing his friend wasn’t the problem. Ilius’s ship was badly damaged. Chronos was far from sure it could generate enough thrust to escape, even if Ilius gave the orders immediately. That went from conjecture to realization in just a few seconds.

“Chronos, we’re down to maybe 3g from the engines. If we turn and tried to run, we won’t make it twenty thousand kilometers. If we stay in the line, at least we’ve got two batteries still in the fight.” Chronos could almost hear the unspoken, “for a few more minutes, at least.”

He stared at the screen, feeling the helplessness build inside him. Ilius had given in to despair, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Chronos could order his friend to retreat, but that didn’t make it possible.

His eyes darted around, looking for some ships, any ships, he could send to Ilius’s aid. But the whole line was deep in a desperate firefight. There wasn’t a vessel within sixty thousand kilometers of Ilius that could break off and reposition…not without exposing its own flank and getting blasted to hell.

Chronos wanted to repeat his order, insist that Ilius do as he commanded. But he remained silent. There was no way out, no tactic to pull the shattered vessel back to safety…none that would get it out in time. Chronos fought to resist the conclusion forming in his mind, the terrible reality that was unfolding all around him. Hegemony’s Glory was in enough trouble on its own, but Ilius’s situation was critical.

No, not critical…hopeless.

Chronos had always been considered a hard man, somewhat cold, always focused on duty…but as he sat there, he felt himself unraveling. He wanted to reach out somehow, to help his friend. But all he could do was watch the nightmare progressing before him.

Hegemony’s Glory shook, even as his eyes were fixed on the screen, on the scanner feed from Ilius’s ship, over a hundred thousand kilometers away. Chronos turned his head, but only for a few seconds, long enough to confirm the hit his ship had just taken was a minor one. Then he turned back to look at Ilius’s ship.

Just as the approaching Highborn battleship fired its main guns…and took the vessel directly amidships.

Chronos watched, silent, even as, in his head, he screamed his friend’s name. The Hegemony ship was almost still for a few seconds…and then blasts of energy and flames erupted as a jagged fissure opened up along the hull.

The fires were extinguished almost at once by the vacuum of space, but blasts of instantly freezing smoke and steam followed, as the cracks expanded, moving toward the front of the vessel as it began to split open like an egg.

Reactors…shut the reactors down…

But even as the thought pushed into his mind, Chronos knew it wouldn’t matter. Ilius’s vessel was wracked from bow to stern by massive internal explosions. The tortured hull shook, and a violent blast blew off the back section, just as the rest of the ship went into a wild spin…and finally broke into a dozen major pieces, and thousands of tiny shards.

Chronos scanned the display, looking for any signs of lifepods or shuttles. It was pointless, he knew. Even if some of the crew had escaped, he knew Ilius well enough to be certain his friend would not have been on the first wave of escape ships.

But there were none. None at all. Ilius’s ship was gone, along with its entire crew.

Chronos drew in a ragged breath, and he felt the darkness close in even tighter around him as realization firmed into certainty.

Ilius was dead.

*

Bryan Rogan staggered back around the corner, leaning against the wall and wincing as soon as he was out of sight of the Marines down the corridor. He’d taken a round in the arm, nothing serious enough to take him out of action, but it was bleeding like a faucet. He set his rifle against the wall, and pulled out his knife, cutting a strip off his sleeve and wrapping it around the wound the best he could manage by himself. The cloth quickly soaked through with blood, but it was the best he could do. There was no time to get down to any of the infirmaries on Striker, assuming he wasn’t cut off from them already. He had a pair of field medics with the force he’d assembled to defend the control center, but there were at least twenty of his people in far worse shape. Besides, the last thing he needed was for his Marines to see him appear to be incapacitated. A little blood was fine, it only added to the morale effect of seeing the general standing with the fighting Marines, rifle in hand. But any hint that he’d been taken down would shake even his veteran fighters, especially after they’d been pushed back hallway across the station, to a position they had to hold.

If he withdrew again, it would be to the control room itself. That would be a last resort. The large, mostly open space there would make a poor defensive position, though he’d done what he could to fortify it just in case. Any fighting there would be a danger to the officers running the fortress…and the battle.

It would be a danger to Admiral Barron.

Rogan looked down at the makeshift bandage on his arm. It was so soaked through with blood, it was pooling over the top. But it looked like it had slowed somewhat. Perhaps more importantly, it didn’t matter. Rogan had to get back into the fight. He had to take charge of the desperate battle.

He turned back down the corridor. The main position was in a large chamber about fifty meters from the control center. There were three hallways leading in, and three leading out. The invaders were on one side, and the Marines on the other.

Rogan crept down the corridor, hunched forward, keeping his profile as small as possible. He was too far back to be exposed to most of the fire, but the occasional shot ripped down past him or slammed into the wall nearby.

He moved forward, the sounds of battle growing louder with each step. He came up to a line of Marines, about fifteen of his people in the corridor, right by the entrance to the open room. About half of them were wounded, to one degree or another.

He slipped past, moving right up to the end of the hall, and he lurched into the room, dropping to his knees behind a pile of old equipment his Marines had stacked up to create some cover. There were half a dozen of his people there, trading fire with the enemy.

The room was a nightmare, the workstations and equipment it had once held reduced to shattered wreckage. Fighters from the two sides crouched down, trading fire, and in between them, the room was littered not only with debris, but with the bodies of at least fifty combatants.

Rogan was troubled, not so much by the macabre scene, but by how little it affected him. He’d fought too many battles, seen too much death and carnage. He wondered what kind of a man he would be when it ceased to disturb him at all.

“Status, Captain?” He leaned down next to an officer, even as he aimed his rifle, and added his own aimed fire to that of the other Marines.

“We’ve been holding our own, sir. I’d say we’re taking down two of theirs for every one we lose. But that’s not a winning exchange for us, not in the long run. And it looks like they’ve got more troops coming up. It’s hard to be sure, but my guess is they have a fresh platoon at least.”

Rogan heard the words, and more discouragingly, he understood just what they meant. The Marines could inflict punishment on the invaders, even hold them for a while longer. But the attacking Thralls were going to break through…the only question was when. That meant Bryan Rogan had a decision to make. Should he dig in his heels, fight where he stood to the last man?

Or should he pull back while he still had at least a moderately effective force and make once last effort to repel the enemy…right in the middle of Striker’s command center, with Admiral Barron and the rest of the officers in the thick of the fighting.

*

“We’re okay over here, Atara. I just want you ready to help Clint Winters out if we get cut off or if Striker loses comm capability for a time. The fleet’s deep in the fight now, and we can’t afford any mistakes.”

Atara Travis sat on Dauntless’s bridge, shaking her head as she listened to Barron on her headset. She knew him as well as anyone did, better than almost anyone. She damned sure knew when he was lying to her, and she realized almost immediately things were far from ‘okay’ on Striker.

“Don’t worry, Admiral. The fleet’s deep in command personnel.” That, at least, was one benefit of almost endless conflict. The military of the Confederation and its allies had immense combat experience, something that made a huge difference in both the command structure and the rank and file. “We’ll keep the fight going…whatever happens.”

Atara knew the main problem on the fortress wasn’t battle damage. Striker had been battered in the fighting, there was no question about that, but the giant station was still heavily in the battle, its batteries lancing out, visiting death and destruction on the attacking Highborn ships.

It was the boarding action that posed the gravest threat to Striker. Barron hadn’t said that, not exactly, but Atara was no fool. Three of the station’s launch bays were out of action, and it only took a quick check of the scans to see those areas of the structure had not been knocked out by enemy fire.

“Okay, Atara…thank you. I’m glad you’re out there. You’ve always been close to me, and that has been a great aid and comfort over the years. But there is no one I trust more to lead than you. Remember that.” A short pause. “I have to go…carry on.” The line went dead.

Atara felt a renewed wave of tension. She’d already been worried about the situation on the fortress, but Barron’s last words had shaken her up. They sounded far too much like ‘goodbye’ for her tastes.

The boarders were winning the fight on Striker. That was all it could be. Barron hadn’t said that, but she couldn’t think of anything else to explain the admiral’s deep concern for leadership in his absence. Or for what he’d said to her before he’d cut the line.

Or the fact that she was almost sure she had heard faint gunfire in the background when Barron was on the comm.

She looked down and tapped at the comm controls, opening a line to Winters’s flagship. “This is Admiral Travis. I need to speak to Admiral Winters immediately.”

Almost at once, a familiar voice flooded her headset. “What is it, Atara?”

“It’s Admiral Barron, sir. And Striker. I think the boarders are more of a threat there than we thought.” The fighting on Dauntless had been fierce for a short while, but the battleship’s Marines had defeated the attackers handily, as they had on most of the fleet’s targeted vessels.

“You think?”

“It’s Admiral Barron…I just know him very well. He didn’t tell me the Marines on Striker were losing the battle, but he…well, he said goodbye to me.”

“He what?”

“I don’t think he expects to get through the battle, Admiral. And apart from the normal concern we all have about such things in battle, I can’t think of anything that would have him thinking that way…except the fear of losing the station.” A short pause. “Admiral, I’ve got about a hundred Marines on Dauntless still fit for duty. I’m going to cram them into any shuttles I’ve got left that can fly and send them over to Striker. I think we should have every ship in the fleet do the same, any vessel that’s got both Marines left, and a way to get them over there.”

“That will leave every ship almost defenseless if the enemy tries another series of boarding actions.”

Atara knew Winters was only speaking the truth, but she didn’t care. It was very likely any forces she could send would be too little and too late anyway, but she had to try. “We’d see them coming, Admiral. The enemy can’t use that Sigma-9 maneuver now, not without blinding their whole battleline as well as us. I think it’s a risk worth taking. One we have to take.”

“You’re right, Atara. I’ll issue a fleet order. Any ship with combat-capable Marines and viable transport are to send those forces to Striker at once.”

“Thank you, sir.” She took a deep breath. She felt a little better, for a few seconds. Then the dark thoughts streamed back. Will this be enough? Can we get there on time? And even if the newly sent Marines managed to stabilized things on Striker, the battle was still raging. The second fighter strike was about to launch, and this time Reg Griffin’s pilots weren’t going to have the enemy evasion routines. The fleet had performed well so far, at least holding its own. But the Pact forces were still outnumbered and outmatched. Final victory seemed as elusive as ever.

One problem at a time…first we have to save Striker.

“Commander, I want all Marines capable of carrying a weapon down in beta launch bay…and I mean now!”

*

Dirk Timmons felt the familiar pressure of the high g-forces of launch. The new Lightnings had the latest dampeners, an improvement that not only vastly increased the comfort of flying, but also enabled the ships to utilize thrust levels that would have turned pilots in the old craft in bloody mush. But the miraculous devices were only partly effective during the fighter’s short journey down the tube, and Timmons could feel the force slamming into him. It was something one never got entirely used to, no matter who many times he or she went through it.

But the pressure really pushing down on him was that of command. Reg Griffin had just landed, and while she would almost certainly commandeer another fighter rather than waiting for hers to be refit, she wasn’t there yet. Olya Federov was still on her way back to Dauntless, along with the remnants of her battered wing, and none other than Jake Stockton himself. Timmons had found it difficult to accept that his old friend and rival was still alive. He’d wanted to stay on Dauntless, wait for Stockton to land…but duty came first. Timmons had pushed all thoughts of his friend out of his mind with brutal force, and he’d slammed down a wall. There was only one thing he could think about…leading the squadrons forward.

A grim fatalism had established a firm grip. The wings had won the first round, but that had been a near-miracle, one apparently courtesy of none other than Stockton himself. The Highborn would have reworked their evasion routines before they’d launched their second attack…and that meant Timmons was leading a force that had to face twice its number, with no offsetting advantage of its own.

Timmons had been proud in his younger days. Proud? You were an arrogant ass. But combat and death and wounds—including the loss of his legs—had forged in him a pillar of the wisdom the youthful ace had lacked. He had retained much of his flying skill, but his reflexes had slowed a bit, and as miraculous as his artificial legs were, they lacked the subtle instinctive moves that marked a true natural pilot.

“Listen up, all of you…” He leaned down toward the comm, a needless gesture, he realized. The microphone was sensitive enough to pick up what he was saying without him hunching over and pressing his lips almost against it. “I’m not going to lie to you…this is going to be a harder fight that the last one. You all know that. By now, you also know that ‘Raptor’ Stockton is alive, that he has returned to us. That it was he who gave us the codes that secured our victory. For five years, we’ve fought to avenge our leader…but now, I call on you all to ramp up your focused rage. Raptor did not die in battle, but he was imprisoned and tortured and used by the enemy. I say, we make them pay for that, and we do it now! Full thrust ahead. Let’s hit those Highborn squadrons, and let’s blast every one of them straight to hell!”

*

“How did you get up here?” Tyler Barron stared with disbelief as Akella climbed out of the access hatch, followed in turn by six Kriegeri warriors.

“The access tubes, mostly.” She stretched out her arms as she spoke. “I’m a little sore…those were a lot of ladders to climb.”

“I was worried. I thought Sigma Sector would be about as safe as you could get on Striker, but I didn’t expect the enemy to land thousands of troops to board us either.”

“We managed to get through the enemy-held sectors and make it up here. It wasn’t without cost, though. I had twelve Kriegeri with me when we started out…so only half of us made it.”

Barron noticed suddenly that the shoulder of Atara’s shirt was red with blood. “You’re hurt…”

“It’s nothing, Tyler.” A pause. “I just figured I should try to make it up here. But it looks like the enemy’s threatening the control center, too.” She glanced over toward the three doors leading out from the room. She turned toward one of the Kriegeri. “Commander, your warriors are to join the Marines here and prepare to help defend the control center.”

The officer looked uncomfortable. He paused for a few seconds, but he didn’t speak.

“Commander, you can’t protect me by standing here at my side. If we don’t hold the control center, we’re all dead. So, do as I say.” Her voice was soft, but there was a force of command in it that surprised Barron.

The Kriegeri nodded. “As you command, Number One.” He turned and gestured to the other soldiers, and they moved toward the officer commanding the Marines positioned around the control center.

Barron’s eyes caught a pistol slung at Akella’s side. He waved toward one of the Marines, and he said, “Lieutenant, bring an assault rifle over here for Number One.” He looked at Akella. “If you’re going to be here, you might as well have some real firepower.”

Akella smiled, and she reached out an took the weapon from the Marine. “Thank you,” she said, somewhat amorphously to both Barron and the Marine.

Barron was about to ask if she knew how to use the weapon, but she spun it around into a ready position, quickly checking that the clip was properly seated in the magazine and then flipping the gun to full-auto mode.

She knows how to use it…

Barron gestured toward a workstation near his. “Sit, if you’d like. The Marines just may hold the perimeter outside.” Barron tried like hell to sound like be believed that, but he suspected he came up short. “If it looks like we’re going to have a fight in here, though, get yourself into cover right away…okay?” He waved toward the rows of crates and other extraneous equipment the Marines had fashioned into several barricades.

“Count on it, Tyler. I didn’t come all the way up here to get shot by the first Highborn Thrall to come charging through that door.” Her expression hardened, and Barron saw a strength in her, and a cold malevolence he’d never before sensed from the Hegemony leader. “I came up here to help hold this station.”

She paused, and she turned and looked right at Barron. “I came up here to help you kill Highborn.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

CFS Dauntless

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

“Jake…I still can’t believe it is you.” Olya Federov stood in front of Stockton, her eyes moving up and down as if she was still trying to convince herself it was actually him. He looked the same more or less. He had a worn look to him now, a haggard visage that was difficult to fully evaluate. She had some idea of the torment he had been through, but she knew she could never truly understand. Even as she struggled to forget all he had done, the countless pilots dead in battles against the Highborn Thralls he’d trained, she sympathized with him, too. Nothing he had done to harm the Confederation had been willing, she was absolutely sure of that. And just trying to imagine what Stockton felt like, how much guilt was likely assaulting his psyche, made even the cold fish of the fighter corps ready to burst into tears.

“Olya…I…I…” Stockton looked away from her, his eyes trained down on the deck. He was shaking uncontrollably, and as he hunched forward, she saw the dark metal construct protruding from his neck. It looked like some sort of parasite, a chunk of metal that somehow radiated a sense of darkness and misery. She tried to look away from it, but she couldn’t force her head to move.

She could hear the sounds of boots on the deck, and a cluster of other figures swarmed around her. There were two medics, dressed all in white. They moved slowly toward Stockton, clearly trying not to upset or scare him. One of them reached out and put her hand on his arm, but there was no reaction at all. Stockton was staring down at the deck, his eyes seemingly focused on a single spot. He continued to shiver, but he didn’t say anything, and he didn’t react to the medic’s touch at all.

“Admiral…we’re here to help you.” The medic turned and gestured, and a pair of orderlies pushed up a stretcher. “Admiral…”

Stockton didn’t move, no motion at all save for the shakes that had taken his entire body.

“Admiral Stockton…we’re going to take you to sickbay.” The medic exerted a bit of pressure on Stockton’s arm, but he remained motionless and nonresponsive. The medic waved for the orderlies to bring the stretcher closer, and then she put both hands on Stockton and pushed him back onto the padded matt. He didn’t resist, and in a moment, he was lying on the stretcher. He recoiled as they laid him back, and the thing jutting out from his neck—a Collar, Federov remembered it was called—hit the stretcher. The medics helped turn him more to the side, and they pulled two straps across his body, buckling them in place.

Federov watched, putting most of her strength into holding her tears back. She felt sadness and sympathy for her friend, but the rage was still there, too. She didn’t know what to do, what to think. And she didn’t know what would happen with Stockton. What state was he in? Could he come back? Could he even retain his sanity after all he’d been through?

And what about her, about all the others? Could they get past all that had happened? Was understanding, a realization that Stockton had never willingly aided the enemy, enough to get them past the anger and the resentment?

She didn’t have any answers, and as she saw the four Marines standing just back from the medics—two of them carrying stun guns, and the others fully-armed with assault rifles—she realized Atara Travis had none either. Travis had always been fond of Stockton, but she clearly harbored some suspicion as well.

Federov watched the medics move the stretcher toward the bank of lifts, the Marines taking up position all around. She didn’t know what was going to happen, or how she would deal with her own feelings. But she knew one thing.

Whatever he had done, whatever he had been through, she was glad Stockton was back. They’d been through so much together…and she resolved, however difficult it might be for her to learn to accept all that had happened, she was going to help him get through it all. Somehow.

She turned and took a deep breath, reaching out and grabbing her helmet from the table where she’d set it down. But that would all be tomorrow’s task. Just then, she had a battle waiting for her. Timmons and Reg Griffin had taken the wings back out…and one thing was damned sure.

‘Lynx’ Federov wasn’t about to sit out the rest of the battle.

She wasn’t about to wait ten minutes before she launched again…at least she wasn’t if she could commandeer a ship that was ready to launch.

*

“Bring us in…closer.” Sonya Eaton practically screamed the order, but the words came out of her raspy, hoarse throat as barely more than a whisper. The battle between Colossus and its counterpart had redefined the term, ‘brutal.’ A quarter of her crew were dead or wounded, and she would have bet things were at least as bad on the enemy ship. Her vessel, a scrap of imperial glory reinvented, was practically gutted, half its reactors shut down, the others working at some fraction of normal output. The engines were down to less than twenty percent, and at least three-quarters of the vessel’s vast array of weapons were offline. And for many of them, ‘offline’ meant blasted into twisted, molten wrecks.

But Colossus was still in the fight, and so was her opponent. Sonya Eaton wouldn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until one of the great combatants was utterly defeated.

“Commodore, the engine room reports more damage. Internal fires in the adjoining sections are still out of control. Less than ten percent thrust is available.”

“Then ten percent will have to do, Commander. Bring us in…closer.” Sonya’s eyes glowed with a magnificent combination of raw courage and madness. Colossus had seemed indestructible to her when she’d first taken command, a war machine so large and powerful, she hadn’t been able to conceive it being defeated, much less destroyed. But as she looked around the debris-strewn bridge, and at the monitors filled with damage reports, it became far easier to imagine.

She felt the thrust kick in. The dampeners were among the systems that had been reduced to charred wreckage, and the 2.5g that Colossus’s once mighty engines managed to generate slammed into her like more than twice her body weight.

She looked up at the screen, counting the enemy weapons still firing. Her enemy had one main gun still in the fight, and seven or eight secondary turrets. That was a fraction of the ship’s total armament, but it was enough to finish Colossus. Her own vessel had lost its entire main array, but she had fourteen of the ship’s secondaries still operational, also a fraction of its initial strength…and also enough to take down its crippled adversary.

She watched as the range between the two ships began to shrink, dipping below twenty thousand kilometers. Closing benefited Colossus. Without any of the longer-ranged main guns, each thousand meters closer increased the power of the great laser cannons the ship still had in the fight.

Sonya watched as a series of laser blasts slammed into her target, even as Colossus shook as it received a pair of hits in return. She could hear klaxons in the distance, and other signs of damage to her tortured ship, but she kept her eyes from the screen. She didn’t need details…she didn’t want them. The battle was almost over, and there wasn’t time to complete any repairs. There wasn’t time to change her battle plan. She was going to bring Colossus right down the enemy’s throat, blasting with everything she had left. One of the ships in the desperate duel was going to die…and soon.

“Range fifteen thousand kilometers and closing.”

Sonya nodded, but she didn’t look over at her aide’s station, didn’t move her head at all. Her eyes were focused, locked on the growing image of her enemy on the main screen.

She muttered softly under her breath. “You’re going to hell, you son of a bitch…if I have to grab you and jump into the pit myself…”

Colossus shook again, just a few seconds later, and a massive series of explosions erupted inside. Sonya finally turned as the rumbling sound moved steadily toward the bridge…and then the far wall erupted into a furious maelstrom, sending bursts of flame and a storm of metal shards and debris flying all across the massive room.

*

“We’ve got to pull back, General. That’ll buy us some time, at least.”

“How much time, Captain? The control center has vital systems all around…and key personnel. If the enemy troops get there, we’re one small step from losing the whole station.” And one shot away from losing Admiral Barron…

“We’re going to lose it here no matter what we do. If we pull back, we can drop some obstacles, set up some kill zones, delay the enemy’s pursuit. And we can link up with the forces already deployed in the control center. That’s twenty Marines, right? Can you honestly say we don’t need that extra force?”

Rogan heard his subordinate’s words, and he knew they were all correct. His mind swirled around, wondering how, with more than fifteen thousand Marines on the vast station, a mere twenty reinforcements had become so vital. You don’t have fifteen thousand Marines anymore…

He had no idea how many of his people were dead, or how many were wounded, either in one of the sickbays or aid stations…or by themselves somewhere, lying in some corridor, groaning in pain. His gut told him half his people, at least, were casualties, and thousands more were cut off in smaller groups, fighting in a hundred different sections of the great fortress.

Rogan leaned out, around the end of the corridor, and he raised his rifle. He fired five or six bursts across the room, before he pulled back under a hail of return fire. He told himself he’d scored a hit, taken one of the enemy down. But he knew that was a wild guess at best, and even more likely, just wishful thinking.

He knew he had to answer the officer. He had to make a decision. But he didn’t know what to do.

Then he heard a shout from across the room, a Highborn officer yelling out to his troops. He knew immediately what was happening. “Prepare to repel!” he shouted, and even as the words left his lips, a wave of enemy troops came rushing across, moving toward his position, firing as they came. He knelt down and brought his rifle to bear again, opening fire at full auto, along with the Marines positioned along the end of the room and in the three corridors.

The fire was withering, and Thrall soldiers began falling, dropping in clusters in some spots, two and three at a time. But they ignored their losses and kept coming. Rogan was trying to keep track of his Marines, but he knew his primary role just then was as another rifleman. If his people could pour enough fire into the attackers, they could beat back the assault…and, if not, the enemy would burst through to the control room almost immediately. The Marines already there would put up a fight, of course, but they didn’t have the strength to stop the enemy.

Rogan was pumping his finger, aiming and firing controlled bursts. He dropped two of the attackers in rapid succession, but the Thralls kept coming, firing as they did. His own people were exposing themselves somewhat as they aimed their own fire, and he could see he’d lost at least four or five so far. The enemy casualties were triple that, at least, but still, they surged forward.

Rogan could feel his heart pounding, and for an instant, he lost hope. His people weren’t going to stop the attack. They were going to be overrun…and the enemy would press on to the control center. The admiral was going to be killed or captured.

No!

A wave of fury took Rogan, an unwillingness to allow things to come to such a pass. He lunged forward, into the room, crouching behind a pile of debris next to the bodies of two of his Marines. He opened fire again, using his vantage point to cut a swath through the advancing soldiers. Three of the enemy dropped, then a fourth.

He could see shadowy movements off to the side, more of his Marines following his lead, pushing forward, pouring fire into the attackers almost in enfilade. For a few seconds, Rogan wondered if any amount of punishment would push the attackers back. Then, he saw it, an almost visible ripple in the ragged Thrall line…and a few seconds later, it was over. The enemy slipped back to their own cover, and the struggle reverted back to the sustained firefight it had been moments before.

Rogan could only guess how many enemy troopers had been killed, but he knew with certainty that repelling the assault had been costly to his own Marines, as well. There were at least a dozen casualties, and that didn’t count walking wounded.

The enemy attack had done something else as well. It had convinced him his people couldn’t hold their position. There was no choice but to pull back and join up with the forces in the control room for one last desperate defense…a fight to the finish.

He turned to tell the captain his decision…but the man wasn’t next to him anymore. Rogan looked around and behind him…and his eyes settled on the officer. The man was down, lying on his back and the floor all around was covered in blood.

Rogan slid back, careful to keep his head down, and he reached out, his hands moving toward the buckles to remove the stricken Marine’s armor. But he stopped almost immediately as he realized the captain was dead.

He shook his head, drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds. The battle on Striker had been costly and blood soaked, but staring down at the officer he’d been talking to just moments before bore down on Rogan’s will like some irresistible torrent. Even Marines had their breaking points. But Rogan had one thing still holding him up. One mission that rose above all, that transcended any pain or loss.

He had to defend Tyler Barron. The enemy wanted to kill or capture the Pact’s great admiral, and Bryan Rogan had only one thing to say to that.

Not on my watch…

“We’re pulling back,” she shouted. “Fighting withdrawal to the control room. Evens…go! Odds, covering fire for thirty seconds.”

It was time for the final stand. Time for Bryan Rogan to show his comrades and his enemies just what a Marine was.

*

Captain Givens stared out the small porthole on the shuttle, shaking his head as his eyes scanned the exterior of Fortress Striker. The station was been blasted hard in the fight, and whole sections were torn open, reduced to scrap. But the truly bizarre sight was the mass of troopships, at least two hundred of them, docked all across the vast construction’s hull.

That’s why we’re here…

Givens winced slightly as he moved his arm. He’d taken a light wound in the fighting on Dauntless. It was irritating, but nothing that was going to keep him out of the coming battle.

Admiral Travis had been brutally clear. The situation on Striker was unknown…but very likely critical. His Marines, and the others then in route—Marines, Kriegeri, and Palatian stormtroopers alike, all survivors from the contingents on more than forty of the fleet’s line vessels—were to land wherever they could and join in the fight. She hadn’t said, ‘save Striker and Admiral Barron or don’t come back,’ but the brutal reality of the situation had been clear anyway.

Givens wasn’t in overall command of the relief effort. No one was. There was almost no coordination. The shuttles coming in had been dispatched from all across the fleet, and they were approaching in a ragged line stretching at least twenty thousand kilometers. It was no invasion, no coordinated strike…it was a few dozen small forces all hitting at different times and in different spots. But the approaching forces, Givens’s people and all the others, were the only reserves available, the only help the defenders on Striker could hope to receive. Reports suggested the fight there was going badly…and that meant there wasn’t time to hold back, to organize a coordinated assault. The battle would be won, if it was won, by every hundred Marines pouring into the melee from a shuttle, fighting, breaking through, bolstering a defensive position…or being wiped out if they landed in the wrong spot.

Givens knew he should be scared. His people had already fought a nasty battle against the enemy forces that had boarded Dauntless. Now they were stuffed into a shuttle, racing into the unknown. But his blood was up. Admiral Barron was on Striker. The Corps worshipped the admiral, and Givens would sacrifice himself and all his Marines if need be to save the Confederation’s hero. And General Rogan was on the fortress as well. Rogan was the most beloved commandant in the hundred twenty-year history of the Confederation Marines. There was no risk too great, no sacrifice too profound…not when the call of duty cried out so loudly.

Givens looked out again. The gray steel surface of the fortress’s hull filled almost his entire field of view. The shuttle would be docking within just a minute or two. Then his people would begin the fight…and they wouldn’t stop until Striker was secure, or every one of them was dead.

Chapter Thirty-Five

CFS Dauntless

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Dammit, those things are tough…

Dirk Timmons looked out as the enemy squadrons opened fire. His people had done well enough in the exchange of ship to ship missiles, but now that the formations had closed, the real dogfight had begun. And the enemy ships weren’t responding only with their lasers. They had another weapon system, a barrage of tiny bits of superheavy metals launched at high speeds—a high tech shotgun—and the weapons were tearing whole swaths in his ranks.

“Crank up those evasive routines…double the rates!” It was all he could think of, but even as he gave the order, he knew it would do little good. It was already clear the enemy weapon had been designed specifically to counter the Pact squadrons’ maneuvers. A laser struck a specific target, in one exact location. But the enemy scatterguns were sending out a cloud of projectiles covering several hundred meters or more…and a single hit struck with enough force to obliterate a fighter.

Timmons poked at his scanners, trying to get some kind of read on the density of those projectile clouds. Some of his ships passed through them unscathed, which meant the projectiles were scattered out with large spaces between them. But it was also clear that any ship caught in the cone of the enemy weapon had about a twenty-five percent chance of being blasted to oblivion…in spite of their evasive maneuvers.

Timmons angled his throttle, moving his thrust vector to starboard, and he held it there for perhaps ten seconds. Then he swung it back to port, holding it almost as long there. Extending the duration of the evasive maneuvers would help upset the scattergun targeting, but it would reduce the effectiveness of the defensive routines against enemy lasers. It also made it more difficult to maintain a constant overall course.

His eyes moved between the three small screens in front of him, and he winced each time, as small dots winked out in groups…every one of them a Pact fighter damaged or destroyed.

“Full thrust…all units. Close until you can see their eyes…and then blow them out of space.” It wasn’t an elegant plan, but it was all he had. The enemy weapon had an effective range, a point past which even the dense cloud of projectiles became too spread out to pose a major danger to incoming ships. But it had a minimum range, too, at least in a way.

The projectiles tore out from the launchers in a conical shape…and close enough to the firing ship, the area of effectiveness was small and much easier to avoid.

“Watch your scanners…those things come out in a cone. Track the dispersal patterns, and you can figure out the danger zones. Get in close enough, and you can avoid them entirely.” Timmons knew that fit securely in the ‘easier said than done’ category, but he also knew if his people couldn’t avoid those scatterguns, his casualty levels were going to make what they had done to the enemy in the first engagement look like a calm stroll on a beach somewhere.

He came around, moving toward a pair of enemy fighters, and as he did, he realized another advantage of getting in close. The enemy weapons were unusable when other Highborn fighters were also in the area of effect.

Or at least, they’ll have to take out their own to get us…

So far, the enemy had not been that desperate.

Timmons didn’t much like relying on the Highborns’ unwillingness to sacrifice their own Thralls to destroy Pact craft…but he wasn’t exactly swimming in options just then.

He pressed his fingers, and his lasers lanced out, taking down one of the fighters in front of him. The enemy had changed their evasive routines as expected, but at less than a hundred kilometers, blasting them was like shooting fish in a barrel.

Don’t forget…that goes both ways…

Timmons focused on his own flying, doing all he could to remain a difficult target. But he had to take down enemy fighters, too…as many as possible.

Before those scatterguns gutted his strike force.

*

“Admiral…please. Stay down behind the barricade.” Bryan Rogan was staring at Barron, his eyes pleading with the admiral.

Barron looked back at his comrade, his friend. He stood a meter from his command chair, grasping an assault rifle. “This is our fight, Bryan, all of ours.” Barron was scared, but he was determined not to admit it. He’d faced countless dangers in his long career, stared into the eyes of death more than once. But his nerve had been steeled facing threats to the ships and bases he’d commanded. There was something raw and primal about the kind of fight that was heading his way. He’d always respect the Marines, and the kind of elemental courage that allowed them to push forward into enemy fire.

“Admiral…this is my job, not yours. You’ve got a fleet out there that needs you. Let me do what I’ve trained to do, so you can do the same.” Rogan’s voice had an edge. Barron knew it was born of anxiety, of the Marine’s desperate need to keep him safe. Still, it was the harshest tone Rogan had ever directed at him, and he was surprised.

“Okay, Bryan…to a point. Set up your defenses, and I’ll keep the most vital officers at the stations behind the barricade. But I want everybody fully armed and ready to fight. Understood?”

“Yes, Admiral.” Rogan looked as though he was about to say something else, but then a pair of Marines came bursting into the control room.

“The enemy, General…they’re coming.”

Rogan looked back at Barron, for just a second, and then he raced to the center of the room, shouting out orders to the Marines present. Rogan had the twenty he’d left in the room, plus thirty-one more he’d brought back from the previous position. Akella had ordered her own Kriegeri bodyguards to join the Marines and follow Rogan’s orders.

Barron turned and issued his own orders. He’d done everything possible to ensure the battle could continue even if Striker’s control hub was destroyed or taken. Every still-operational gunnery station on the fortress was on its own. The weapons would continue to fire as long as they remained functional and had power. The engineering sections had their orders, too…and the absolute priority for energy flow, save for minimal life support, was the weapons array. Barron had lost count of how many power conduits had been cut, and how many reroutes were keeping vital systems going, both built in backups and temporary cables strewn about by the damage control teams.

“I’m not sure you chose the best place to come.” Barron tried to smile at Akella, but all he managed was a weak grin. “I think you should stay here.” He pointed toward the heaviest section of the barricades. “And stay down when the enemy gets here…no matter what.”

Akella returned the smile, achieving something a bit better than Barron had managed. “I appreciate your concern, Tyler, but all the same, I think I’ll try to use this thing.” She held up the assault rifle Barron had given her. “As you said, we need every gun right about now.”

Barron was going to object, try to insist that Akella hide behind the barricade. He had his arguments ready…she was vital to the cause, she wasn’t trained as a warrior, the politics of the Pact would be thrown into disarray if she was lost. But the quiet courage she was displaying struck him hard, and he remained silent. He had a hundred reasons to keep her out of the fight, and only one to allow her to engage the enemy. She was an honorable woman, and she knew what was at stake. She had a right to choose how she would face what was coming, and Barron knew he had to respect that.

“Be careful, Akella. Stay low. The fire’s likely to get pretty heavy in here.”

“I will. And you too, Admiral…the fleet needs you. We all need you.”

Barron was about to respond when a shout went up among the Marines. He reacted instinctively, pushing Akella down behind the barricade, and following her himself, pulling his rifle from his back as he did.

Half a second later, all hell broke loose.

*

The explosion tore through the starboard wall, sending chunks of destroyed equipment and shards of metal flying across the bridge. Sonya caught something in the side, and she looked down and saw the blood soaking through her shirt. She didn’t feel the impact, not at first, but then the pain made its delayed appearance.

She winced, trying to hide it, along with the fact that she’d been hit at all. A quick scan of the bridge confirmed her initial expectations. A lot of her people were down, and almost certainly, a number of them were dead.

She looked down at her own side, feeling around with her hands. It was a bit of metal, not very large, and still sticking out. She tried to grip it with her fingers, but they kept sliding off the slick, bloody surface. Finally, she felt movement—and pain—and the shard slipped out and bounced off her leg before landing on the floor.

The wound wasn’t serious, she decided that almost immediately. It was bleeding fairly badly, but she tried to ignore it. Colossus’s epic duel with its counterpart had reached the final stages. The two ships were battered wrecks, their hulls torn open, thousands of their spacers dead at their stations, or blasted out into the icy vacuum. Nothing mattered just then, nothing but being the last one standing.

“Internal comm is down, Commodore.” She could hear in the comm officer’s tone, he too was injured. Pain had a sound all its own. “No…not entirely down. It looks like the network is cut in a number of places. I can’t reach engineering, but I do have several of the forward turrets.”

“Acknowledged.” Sonya wondered if she’d hidden her pain any better than the comm officer.

She looked around at the bridge, and she saw a nightmare. There were fires raging just beyond the destroyed wall, and the deck was littered with dead and wounded spacers…her people, torn apart, burned, bleeding, struggling to hold their hands over gaping wounds. She was a combat veteran and the child of a navy family, but she’d never seen anything like the horror unfolding around her.

And none of it mattered, not then. All that mattered, the only goal in her focused mind, was to destroy the Highborn superbattleship. Only one of them could survive, could come through the fight that had been raging for twelve hours…and that one was going to be Colossus. She refused to lose, she refused to let her enemy escape…whatever it cost.

“Do we have a line to the main engine room?”

“Yes…it’s a little staticky, but I think we can get a message through.”

“I want engines at full…whatever the hell thrust we can get, and damned the risk. We’re going right at that thing. We’ll ram them if need be, but I’ll be damned if they’re going to get out of this system.”

The officer listened, seeming both inspired and terrified at her command, and at the grave, somber tone of her voice. Then he turned and repeated the order.

Sonya stared straight ahead, through the fire and death and debris that had been her bridge, and in her eyes there was only raw determination.

She wondered for an instant if she still clung to her sanity…and then she decided she didn’t care.

*

“Alright, let’s move. Things are a damned wreck around here, but climbing through hell is what Marines were made for.” Johnny Givens waved his arm, gesturing for his Marines to climb out of the shuttle and into the blasted corridors of Fortress Striker. There were Marines coming in from all over the fleet, but Givens had insisted the pilots of his shuttle dock as close as possible to the control center. The communications from the fortress had become spotty, and to Givens that meant only one thing.

The control center was threatened…or even under attack.

There was another ‘or’ to that thought, the next logical step, but Givens pushed it aside. He refused to believe his people might be too late.

“Go, go…we’re out of time.” Even as he shoved the last of them into the corridor, he could hear fighting sounds at the head of the column. He’d have landed right on top of the control center if it had been possible, but that vital section was buried deep inside the station’s hull. His people would have to make their way to the command deck, and very likely fight their way in. But Tyler Barron was in the control center, and Johnny Givens commanded Dauntless’s Marine contingent. He didn’t care how many Highborn Thralls his people had to fight, how difficult a journey it would be to reach their destination. No one was going to stop his people from protecting the admiral.

No one.

He pushed his way past the Marines clogging the corridor, heading toward the sounds of combat. His rifle was in his hands, and his magnification goggles were pulled down from his helmet, set at 2X. He was ready to plunge into the fighting, but when he finally made it to the front of the column, the firefight was over. Three of his people were down, two of them dead. Half a dozen enemy bodies littered the corridor up ahead.

He turned toward a private standing next to him, and he gestured toward the wounded Marine. “Get him back to the shuttle…and then catch up with us.” Dauntless’s Marines didn’t have any medics or normal support services. They were equipped for shipboard duty and not invasions or protracted combat. His wounded would mostly be on their own, he knew…but he still couldn’t leave them lying on the deck bleeding when he had any alternative. The shuttle had medical supplies, and it offered a relatively safe refuge, and a chance for a wounded Marine to try to give himself first aid.

Givens turned back and moved to the front of the column. “Okay,” he shouted back to the Marines lined up behind him. “Let’s get to the control center…and make sure none of these bastards get near the admiral!”

Chapter Thirty-Six

Forward Base Striker

Vasa Denaris System

Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

Striker’s control room had plunged into the fiery depths of some nightmarish hell. Gunfire tore into hastily assembled barricades thrown together from crates and chunks of blasted equipment. Workstations were torn into bits and pieces by the withering gunfire, and they exploded into wild showers of sparks. Structural supports weakened and collapsed under the punishment. And everywhere, men and women fought and died.

The Marines in the forward line held grimly, pouring fire into the advancing Highborn troops. The enemy dead lay in piles at the entrances to the room, mounded up so high the soldiers coming up were using the bodies of their comrades as cover. The defenders had repulsed no fewer than five attacks, but they had taken losses in each successful effort, and less that half the Marines and spacers who’d begun the desperate battle were still standing.

Tyler Barron crouched down behind the second barricade, just back from the most intense fighting. He felt the urge to lunge forward, to stand with his people in the most forward position, but he also knew his responsibility. He was the overall commander, of the fleet and of Striker, and the weight of that duty was no less for the lack of any formal Pact commission.

He was lying against the wall of metal crates, holding his rifle in one hand, while the other worked the portable comm unit connected to what remained of Striker’s communications network. He was checking status reports from the fleet, squinting to see the maps and reports on the tiny screen. The battle would reach its climax soon, he knew, if only because the two sides couldn’t endure the punishment much longer. He was proud of his people, and he pained for those he lost. He had no idea what that number was—thankfully—but it was certainly in the tens of thousands, and probably the hundreds of thousands. That was immense carnage, and yet, Barron told himself, such numbers were almost meaningless in a fight over the freedom and survival of hundreds of billions.

He could hear Bryan Rogan’s voice, hoarse from hours of desperate screaming. Rogan was encouraging his Marines, and the spacers who’d taken up weapons and joined them on the firing line. There was little else the general could do. There were no more tactics, no elaborate strategies, no decisions on where to go. His people had pulled back as far as they could. Now, they would hold where they were…or they would all die.

Barron reached down to the comm unit, about to check in again with Atara Travis on Dauntless…but he never finished punching in the code.

A series of lower, louder shots rang out, and a section of the barricade was blown apart. Another half dozen of the shots—small rockets of some kind, Barron guessed—ripped into the control room and shattered the barricades.

Just as the enemy forces surged forward.

Barron dropped the comm unit and pulled up his rifle. Private, general, spacer, admiral…everyone left in the control center was a rifleman now. He fired, and then again, taking down two advancing enemy soldiers.

His cover was mostly gone, but he crouched down behind what little was left, and he continued firing. He took down another of the Thralls, even as his eyes caught a strange, bright flash…and then another.

He saw one of his people drop, and he realized with surprise that the enemy was firing some kind of stunning weapon. The deck was strewn with dead and dying combatants, but as he knelt there, his mind raced to understand why the Highborn would be using stun guns when they had killed so many and were on the verge of victory, at least on Striker’s control center.

Then, suddenly it was clear, and a near panic took him.

The enemy hadn’t come for Striker…they had come for him.

*

“Abandon the bridge…all of you, get out of here now!” Sonya Eaton staggered across the deck, moving toward the main tactical station. The officer who’d manned that post was dead, lying about a meter away from his chair, his head bent at a grotesque angle from his body.

She had a difficult time even staying on her feet. Colossus’s engines and dampeners were both critically damaged, and with the two systems cycling between short malfunctions and partial operation, the bridge was experiencing a wild ride from zero gravity to 2 or 3g and back again.

Sonya Eaton commanded the greatest ship any Rim nation—or the Hegemony—had ever possessed, but she knew it was near death. Colossus had been battered until it was little more than a pile of wreckage, and even its still-functioning systems were barely this side of crippled.

She’d shut down three of the reactors that had still been functioning, concerned that damaged containment systems could fail…but she’d needed to keep some energy generation going, and it wouldn’t take more than one microscopic antimatter leak in any of them to destroy all that remained of her ship. She felt a cold shadow, a realism that at any instant that dreaded malfunction could occur. Would she even know? No, almost certainly not. The escaping antimatter would obliterate the ship before she or any of her people realized what was happening.

Her fears and doubts went with her every step, but they didn’t slow her down, nor stop her from doing her duty. As bad off as Colossus was, its opponent was at least as ravaged. The massive Highborn superbattleship was torn open in a dozen places, and massive eruptions burst out into space, like dark metallic volcanoes, the gasses and fluids being expelled freezing almost instantaneously once they cleared the fires and explosions within the battered vessel.

Colossus was no less threatened by internal explosions and spreading fires. The bridge’s radiation alarms had gone off moments earlier, and Sonya almost immediately began evacuating her surviving officers. Most of them were off the bridge, now, though she had no real idea how far the contamination spread. The monitors showed dangerous levels already, and they were rising steadily. But Sonya wasn’t going with her people. She wasn’t going to leave the bridge.

Not until the fight was over.

“Commodore…you have to come with us.” She heard the call, but she couldn’t place the voice. It didn’t matter. She wanted them all off. There was no place safe on the battered ship, she knew, but the radiation on the bridge was already close to lethal levels, and her gut told her they were going to continue increasing.

“I’ll be right behind…” A lie. Sonya Eaton wasn’t leaving the bridge. Not until Colossus destroyed its enemy. “…help the wounded…I want everybody out now.”

She finally made it to the tactical station, and she forced herself into the chair, realizing almost immediately that she’d sat down in a pool of half-congealed blood. It was the kind of thing that might have bothered her once, but she hardly noticed it. She had more urgent things on her mind…like how she could direct the fight still raging. How she could do it alone, without her bridge crew of sixty or more.

“Commodore…everyone is out. Come on…there’s no time.”

“I’m right behind you…go!” She shouted out the order, waving her hands to the officer to emphasize her command. Then, the instant the man reluctantly slipped through the opening, she turned to the workstation. It was damaged, only some of it functional…but she found what she needed. She punched a quick code into the small keyboard, and the heavy emergency door slammed shut. Her people were locked out of the bridge.

And she was locked in.

She worked the controls, bringing taking direct control of one of the forward batteries, the last of Colossus’s main guns still operational. She pulled up the targeting display, letting out a frustrated sigh as the image shook and flickered in front of her. More damage.

The thing wasn’t fully functional, but it was workable, at least partially so. She adjusted the firing solutions, modifying the equations produced by the targeting AI…and she fired.

A near miss.

She slammed her fist down on the workstation, counting silently to herself as the gun recharged. She went into a short coughing spasm, and when she pulled her hand from her mouth, it was wet with blood. Her stomach was wild, tormented, and for all she tried to tell herself it was nerves, when she doubled over and vomited pink-tinged froth all over the deck, she had to acknowledge the effects of the radiation.

As if in response, the alarms sounded again, a different tone…one that signified LD50 levels. Half of a human sampling exposed to the radiation on Colossus’s bridge would die from it. Sonya was an accomplished mathematician, first in her Academy class in several disciplines, but it didn’t take advanced calculus for her to figure she had one chance in two of surviving…assuming she made it through the fight.

Her vision was blurry, and she had one hand on her chair, fighting off the dizziness. She tried to focus, to keep her eyes fixed on the targeting display. She was still working the solutions, but she was having trouble focusing. Her analytical mind was mostly out of the fight, sinking into a whirlwind of confusion and fatigue. All she had left was blind instinct.

Her fingers moved over the controls, her tortured gut in full control of the targeting. A few seconds later, the display moved to the fully charged indicator…and she fired.

She dropped from her chair, landing on the deck, between the seat and its dead former occupant. Her stomach wretched again, and she turned her head to the side and vomited…bright red blood pouring out of her mouth now. But her eyes remained fixed on the display, and she was watching through the blurry haze as her shot struck the enemy ship dead amidships…and a few seconds later, Colossus’ nemesis vanished in the blinding fury of matter-antimatter annihilation.

Colossus had won the duel…by the slimmest of margins.

Sonya Eaton stared at the display for a few seconds, a strange look of grim satisfaction on her face. Then her head dropped the rest of the way to the deck, and she let go of the burden of consciousness.

*

“No!” Bryan Rogan’s shout was raw and primal, a ferocious scream that rose above the cacophonous gunfire even as it tore at his parched and aching throat. He’d seen his Marines killed, been forced to give up position after position, been cut off from the rest of the station, unaware of the status of his other units.

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 Winters 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 smooth 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.

She looked around, and she listened carefully, doing all she could to make sure she was alone. She was concerned about security devices, but she recalled a conversation with Kerevsky some time before on Montmirail, where the spy had mentioned security gaps in the Senate Compound. It seemed astonishing to her that the underground tunnels leading into the bowels of so sensitive a complex lacked motion detection and AI-directed monitoring. A fly couldn’t have snuck into the Hall of the People, and certainly not into the underground tunnels and mechanical installations below. But she was about to walk right into the reactor powering the entire Senate complex.

Existing in a place like the Confederation had done nothing to reduce the narcissism and corruption of the political class, she suspected, but it had stripped them of the paranoia one needed to survive in an environment like the Union. The damned fools are just too arrogant…and now they will pay for that.

She moved slowly around a corner, listening again for any signs of movement. Still nothing.

She walked slowly, quietly down the hall, her eyes darting around, checking for cameras or scanning units. She found three along her path, but all were poorly located, and after a moment’s analysis, she’d been able to slip around outside their coverage area. Finally, she came to another locked door.

She was edgy, entirely unsure if Kerevsky’s clearance was sufficient for his card to open the door…or if her attempt to use it would sound off some kind of alarm.

Penned in the captive corner of her mind, the essence of Sandrine Ciara wrestled with confusion, and with impotent indecision. In one sense, she longed for an alarm to sound, for her possessed self to be foiled in her scheme. Being caught, however, almost certainly meant death…and Ciara wanted to live.

She struggled once again to regain control, with just as little success as before. Then she watched the scene as her body slipped into the control room and sat down at one of the vacant workstations.

*

“Are you coming, Gary?” Emmit Flandry looked over at Holsten, his expression offering mild admonishment for the intelligence chief’s poorly hidden suspicions. “I know you think this is a waste of time, but we don’t know what will transpire going forward. If there is any way to wrest control of the Union from the Highborn, it is worth pursuing.”

Holsten almost shook his head, but he managed to hold it steady. He couldn’t understand how someone as mentally capable as Flandry—and the Speaker was an intelligent man—could be such a pompous fool. Holsten was no military veteran, but he wondered how anyone could convince themselves one disgraced exile could somehow seize control of the Union from the Highborn.

“I will be there shortly Emmit.” He looked around the outer rotunda. “I was supposed to meet one of my people, and he seems to be late.”

Flandry’s gaze was non-committal. “I will see you later, then. Perhaps when we hear what First Citizen Ciara has to say, we will have the tools to open another front against the enemy.”

“Perhaps.” And maybe I will learn to fly by holding my breath…

Holsten turned and walked toward the main entrance. Andrei Denisov was standing just inside the great double doors. “Andrei…have they called you, too? Perhaps they want to see if you can add to any magical plans First Citizen Ciara may have for defeating the Highborn.” He thought the title sounded ridiculous, though he realized by preliminary treaty, the Confederation still recognized Ciara as the Union’s head of state.

“They want to see me after she is done. Speaker Flandry requested that I come at four.”

Holsten nodded. Flandry always surprised him. One minute he seemed like a typical fool politician, and the next he was incisive and meticulous. It made far more sense to speak to Ciara and Denisov separately, if only to use one as a verification method for what the other said.

“Since you’ve got some time, want to take a walk with me? One of my people has apparently lost himself, or at least lost track of time. I think you know Admiral Kerevsky, don’t you?”

“Yes, I do. And, I’d far prefer coming along with you than hanging here all day. I’d wager your politicians are less pompous and arrogant than ours in the Union—if also less brutal—but I’ve long since had my fill of the breed, either here or on Montmirail.”

“I couldn’t agree with you more, my friend. I couldn’t agree with you more.”

The two men walked out into the morning sunshine and down the massive stairway to the street below.

*

“I would like to introduce someone who has come to us as a friend, as a leader who would see a century of animosity between the Confederation and the Union ended, and would usher in a new era of mutual friendship and cooperation…Sandrine Ciara, First Citizen of the Union.” Emmit Flandry was smartly dressed, his suit made from the finest material, and perfectly tailored, even if his substantial girth somewhat detracted from the finished look.

The Senate Hall erupted into applause, the Senators rising and giving Ciara a standing ovation. It was fake, she realized, most of it at least. The Senators would debate fiercely, she suspected, once she was no longer there, as some decided supporting her was politically expeditious, and others pursued a more cautious approach. But it wasn’t going to come to that, not if everything went according to plan.

“Thank you, Speaker Flandry, esteemed Senators. I have come to you via a difficult and unlikely path, and sadly, I stand here as a head of state in exile, one who has come to beseech your aid, to help me reclaim my lawful position as First Citizen of the Union…and enable me to continue my program of alliance and friendship with the Confederation.”

She stood silently for a moment, as another round of applause broke out.

“Thank you, my gracious hosts…and I daresay, my friends. Our nations have been enemies for far too long, and that must end now. As we speak, invaders from the Highborn support the usurper Villieneuve, and they aid in the fight against the Confederation and its allies. This must stop now! Only through friendship and cooperation can we hope to prevail, and to return to the technology and prosperity of the old empire.”

She glanced down at her chronometer, as yet another surge of clapping drowned out her words. It was almost time. She was seconds away from completing her mission…from serving the Highborn.

*

“What do you mean his access card was used in the Senate Compound?” Holsten was angry now. He’d looked all over Troyus City for the missing Kerevsky, and the damned fool had been in the Senate Compound the whole time. “We’re heading back now. You send someone over there and tell him I want him waiting in the rotunda when I get there, is that understood?” Holsten didn’t wait for an answer. He snapped the small communicator shut and slid it back into his pocket. Kerevsky was somewhat of a maverick, and Holsten had been concerned about the depth of the relationship he’d forged with Sandrine Ciara, but it was unlike his agent to simply disappear like this.

And what the hell was he doing in the Senate Compound?

Holsten had always considered Kerevsky reliable, but now he felt tension in the pit of his stomach. Was it possible his agent was conspiring somehow with Ciara? He found it hard to believe, at least that Kerevsky would commit outright treason or any overtly disloyal acts. But attraction had inspired such things in people before.

He turned toward Denisov. “Andrei, we’ve got to get back to the Senate Compound. Now.” He started walking down the main avenue. It was a decent walk, but it would be too out of the way to get to one of the transit stations. He strode down the street, becoming more and more nervous with each step. He’d been somewhat suspicious of Ciara, but now every warning bell in his brain was going off. If she’d enticed Kerevsky into some kind of scheme…the agent had a very high clearance level. His credentials would open doors all over Troyus City.

He pulled out the communicator again and called his office back. “Where in the Senate Compound? What doors did Kerevsky’s card open?”

He stood for a moment, waiting for the agent on the other end of the comm to look up the information he’d requested. A few seconds later, a voice returned and told him exactly where Kerevsky had accessed.

Holsten’s face went pale. “Andrei, we’ve got to get there now.” He turned and started to run, his eyes fixed on the Compound about a kilometer ahead, up on the massive Senate Hill. He made it about ten steps, and then a bright flash blinded him…and then a shockwave slammed into him, knocking him against the wall of a nearby building as he was pelted with a storm of debris and wreckage.

He realized what had happened, and he had a few seconds to comprehend the horror of it all. Then, everything went black.

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Forward Base Striker

Andi climbed down the ladder, making her way down to the deck, still amazed she’d somehow managed to land Pegasus amid the ruins of Striker’s Delta landing bay. The fact that the control center had advised her that Delta was in the best shape of all the station’s flight decks, hit her even harder as she surveyed the ruins all around.

The trip back had been a mostly silent one, and when she wasn’t working with Sy and the imperial AI, or telling her people what they’d discovered, she’d spent as much time as possible in her cabin. She’d lost comrades before, but Vig had been closer to her than anyone save Tyler himself. Her longtime second in command had been more than a brother to her, and she’d considered him her family, in every way that mattered.

Now, he was gone…as were so many others she’d loved and respected. She’d tried to hide it from the others, to put on a brave face, but she had spent no small amount of time sobbing in her quarters. She’d endured a lot in her life, dealt with darkness, deprivation, and misery. But even the strongest people had their breaking points, and Vig’s death had brought he close to hers.

For a time, she’d wondered if it had broken her, but she’d been pulled back from the abyss by a single transmission, a communique from Striker that carried two bits of news. First, the Highborn had been driven back…the fleet had held.

Second, Tyler was alive. By all accounts, he’d suffered a few light wounds, but he had come through the fire yet again. Andi knew she would carry a heavy sadness with her wherever her future led, but she had something to live for, something that would help her survive any loss.

She only spoke with him briefly—she couldn’t imagine all he had to do in the aftermath of the terrible struggle—but the sound of his voice, and the words he had spoken to her, came like a lifeline to lead her out of the darkness. She would get past the heartbreak and pain, overcome the hopelessness trying to pull her down into the abyss.

But she would never get past the anger, the rage…the unbridled, venomous hatred of the Highborn. And she would never rest, never stop, until the mystery of what she’d brought back was solved. Until the Pact possessed the deadly weapon the empire had used to drive away the Highborn.

Until she had finished the job the ancient imperials had left unfinished…and saw to it that every Highborn out there was dead.

CFS Dauntless

“Jake, I still can’t believe it’s you.” Reg Griffin stood next to Stockton’s bedside, trying to act as though she didn’t notice the fact that it was surrounded by something that was functionally a prison cell. Griffin knew Atara Travis had come to see Stockton personally, almost the instant the battle ended. She’d welcomed him back, hugged him, told him everything would be fine. But she’d also ordered him confined for the time being.

Griffin was uncomfortable with the stark arrangement, but her mind was too full of dead pilots, of the damage Stockton’s captivity had inflicted on them all to truly object. She wanted to disagree with Atara’s caution, but she couldn’t. At least not while Stockton still had that…thing…protruding from his neck.

“Reg…I’m so glad you’re alive. I thought…” Stockton’s voice was quiet, a barely audible rasp. For a moment, she thought he was injured, but then she realized he was just despondent. She was still wrestling with how to accept all that had happened, but for the first time, she realized that as much anger and resentment she and her comrades might have, the truly hard road back was the one before Stockton. He had been more than just the leader of the fighter corps, he had been its legend, almost a demigod to three generations of pilots. She was suddenly very aware of the pain she knew he was feeling…would probably feel for the rest of his life.

“I’m not so easy to kill, old friend.” Her eyes moved slightly, making contact with Stara’s. The fleet’s flight control commander, and Stockton’s longtime lover, had been next to him every second her duties allowed. Reg could see the redness in her eyes from crying. Reg had despised the Highborn already, considered them her mortal enemies, but as she looked at her friend, as she struggled not to hate him for all that had happened, her rage toward the enemy morphed into something she’d never felt before, a fury as cold as the deepest reaches of interstellar space. She wanted to kill Highborn, not just to win the war…but to watch them die.

“You did an incredible job, Reg…you should be proud, of yourself, and of the squadrons.” Stockton turned his head and winced as the protruding section of the Collar got stuck on the bed. Reg wanted to ask if the thing hurt, if he could feel it, if it was completely deactivated…but she couldn’t bring herself to even mention it. So she said nothing.

“Thank you for coming, Reg, really…but I’m pretty tired right now. Can we talk some other time?”

Reg heard the words, and with them, their true meaning. She couldn’t imagine the emotional toll on Stockton sitting and talking with old comrades. It had to be difficult enough with Stara, but she had been the closest person to him, and he hadn’t faced off against her in battle. Stockton had almost killed Reg—he’d thought her dead for almost a year, and she had come almost as close to finishing him. Reg didn’t want to accept the possibility that there was no way back, that Stockton would never return to who he had been. That she and the other pilots would never be able to fully accept him again, nor get back to the way they viewed him. But she just didn’t know.

It was a difficult question, an emotional journey whose course was a mystery. For the moment, she found Stockton’s request to be a relief, and she wanted to get out of there was quickly as possible.

“I’ll be back, Jake…get some rest.” She looked at Stara again, and their short, exchanged glance spoke volumes. Then she turned and walked out of the makeshift cell, waiting for a few seconds for the Marine outside to open the door.

She would be back…but she didn’t know when. She wanted with all her heart to bring Jake to where he had been, to embrace him again as her leader and her friend. But she didn’t know how to start…or how long a path lay ahead.

Highborn Flagship S’Argevon

“The results of the offensive were indeed disappointing, and yet, I still find it possible to draw some advantages from the operation. Jake Stockton’s defection—which I can only assume resulted from an unlikely Collar malfunction—was very damaging, and almost certainly accounted for the margin of the humans’ survival.” Tesserax refused to call the battle just concluded a defeat. “When we return, our attack forces will be led by the five newly launched Terradonnas, which alone are likely sufficient to obliterate their depleted human fleet and the battered remnants of their fortress. The balance of our own force will be somewhat smaller after our own losses, of course, but I feel there is more to be gained by haste than by a protracted arms race. Given time, the humans will repair their station, and they will reinforce the tattered remnants of their fleet. We must strike them again before they are able to make substantial progress on these objectives.”

“I share your disappointment, Tesserax. I did not believe the humans would find the strength to repel our assault. Certainly, whatever happened with Stockton was unfortunate, however those events, at least, will not be replicated in the next engagement. His leadership will be missed at the head of the wings, but after the losses the human fighter corps suffered, I do not believe this will be an undue disadvantage. When we meet the humans again, our wings will retain at least a two to one advantage, and the new weaponry will play a more decisive role in an engagement with no leaks of our navigation routines. I am concerned, however, to a certain extent. The pacification of independent human space has taken longer than expected. Ellerax will not be infinitely patient, nor will the situation on the primary front remain static indefinitely. I will support your call for a new invasion as soon as the other Terradonna-class vessels are ready…but I urge you to spare no effort, overlook no detail that may be of utility or concern.” A pause. “We cannot allow another setback. We must complete the pacification without further delay.”

Tesserax didn’t answer. His pride and arrogance rose up, and he almost argued with his comrade. But intellect won out in the end. Phazarax was correct, and his words were indisputable. For many reasons, the next major offensive against the humans had to be the final one.

He had to lead his forces forward to destroy the human fleets…and to conquer their space, from the Occupied Zone to the farthest stretches of the Rim.

And that was just what he intended to do. Whatever it took.

Forward Base Striker

“He was the best of the Corps, Admiral. There will never be another like him.” Sebastien Carruthers stood next to the sleek black metal cylinder that held the remains of Bryan Rogan. The fleet’s senior surviving Marine officer had been wounded twice in the fighting, but as he stood speaking to Barron, he came very close to hiding it entirely. Barron knew Carruthers was in pain, but he also knew the Marine wouldn’t show it, especially not when he was honoring his lost commander.

There were over a thousand Marines just beyond the hatch a few meters from the coffin, all that could be crammed into Dauntless’s battered landing bay. More were gathered in the corridors and compartments beyond, watching on monitors and listening on comm units as the Corps bid farewell to its leader, and to its most beloved member.

The losses in the battle had been almost beyond counting, and grief hung heavily over the grim satisfaction the survivors felt that they’d held, that they’d taken all the Highborn could throw at them and were still there. Even if it had cost them their very heart.

“There’s going to have to be, Seb. Bryan was with me for twenty years, and I saw him rise from a dedicated captain, to a legend in the Corps. But he’s gone, now, and he would be the first to admonish us if we didn’t look first to the fight, to the future. He always told me, ‘Marines die, but never the Corps.’ That won’t be true if we lose this war. Bryan is one more reason we can’t let that happen. Filling his shoes will be difficult, but we can’t allow it to be impossible. There’s too much of a fight still ahead. And we owe him better.” Barron paused, looking down at the capsule that contained his lost friend. “Yes, we’re going to have to fill his shoes. You are going to have to fill them…General Carruthers.”

The Marine colonel, no, now general, stared back with stunned surprise. “Admiral, I can’t…”

“You can and you will. Because you have to. Because Bryan would have chosen you himself to succeed him, if he could have.”

Barron extended his arm, handing a small box to Carruthers. If he’d lived, I have no doubt Bryan would have given you these himself. Wear them and honor his memory…by leading the Marines as he would have done.”

Barron sucked in a ragged breath, exhausted from the constant struggle to hide his own pain at Rogan’s death. But as always, duty called, and it drove him forward, ever forward until the fight was finally over.

If it is ever over…

Troyus City

“I’ll be just fine…and I don’t have time to sit here while you poke and prod me and perform fifty useless tests.” Gary Holsten stood up, and he reached for his clothes. He’d been in the hospital for twenty hours…and that had been twenty too many. There was nothing he could do about that now, especially as he’d been unconscious for eighteen of those. But he damned sure wasn’t going to sit there in bed while the Confederation burned down around him.

He’d been disoriented when he’d first awakened, but then his memories flooded back, even as the doctor was updating him. Things were worse even than he’d remembered. The Senate was gone…the buildings, the monuments, every one of the politicians he’d spared with for so long. Gone.

It had taken him some time to piece it all together. Then, it came to him. Ciara. He’d had her checked…she’d escaped from the Highborn, but she hadn’t worn the Collar the enemy used to control humans. He’d been suspicious of her, worried about what she might do, but he hadn’t imagined anything like this.

The Highborn must have brainwashed her or controlled her some other way.

But how?

It didn’t make sense. He hadn’t trusted Ciara at all, but Confederation support had been her only hope of regaining her control over the Union. He was even more confused when he’d gotten the news that Ciara had been in the Senate Hall herself when the explosion took place.

What had prompted her to make a suicide attack on the Senate?

Holsten felt anger toward Flandry, toward the dead Speaker’s unwillingness to take his concerns seriously. Holsten hadn’t imagined anything like what had happened, but he wouldn’t have brought Ciara to Megara either if the Speaker hadn’t insisted.

You paid the price for your foolishness, Emmit…

Holsten had never much liked his ally of convenience, and he’d casually detested the rest of the Senate…but he felt sadness and rage at their deaths. It was a strike against the Confederation, at the very heart of its government. He’d hated the Highborn before, but now he despised them with a cold ferocity harder than anything he’d felt before.

“Admiral Denisov?” Holsten had been with the Union admiral when the explosion occurred.

“He was more seriously injured than you were, Mr. Holsten, but he will survive.” A pause. “I’m afraid it is out of the question for him to leave now, however.”

Holsten just nodded, and then he mumbled, “Thanks, Doc…” He grabbed his coat—the remnants of his coat—and he walked down the hallway toward the elevators. His head was swimming. He had to see what was happening, to calm the panic likely to spread in the wake of the disaster. He had to get to the nets, take control of the broadcasts, try to calm the population. Then he had to see about the establishment of a new government.

But first he had to get to his office. He had to get a message to Tyler Barron via the Pipe. He had to tell the admiral what had happened.

He had to let his friend know they might be facing a growing crisis in the heart of the Confederation as well as on both its troubled borders.

CFS Dauntless

“This is real, Tyler. It is how the empire drove the Highborn away. The formula isn’t complete, but it is close. We’ll get there. We’ll put the pieces together, and then…”

“And then we’ll commit genocide? Use a biological weapon to infect the Highborn, to kill them all?”

“Yes.” Andi’s answer was simple, and the certainty in her tone chilled Tyler’s blood.

“So simple? Just obliterate an entire race of beings?” Barron was a wreck, he knew that. The battle, the loss of so many friends and comrades, the certainty that all his people had bought with their sacrifice was a little time…they all wore on him. But he had begun to wonder what his people would have to become—what he would have to become—to win this war. The rage was there, of course, the uncontrolled fury, and it took all he had to keep it bottled up, under control. And now, Andi was urging him to open the gates, to release the monster, the very worst of himself, unconstrained by any bounds of civilization.

“Yes, it is that simple. The Highborn are creatures that should never have been created. They are monstrosities, unnatural beasts with no place in the universe. Destroying them will be a cleansing, the righting of an old wrong. But aside from that, these miserable things have killed too many of our people. Vig, Bryan…Ilius…and all those before them. And Sonya Eaton, lying in a medpod, in a coma from which she may never awaken. That must stop, and the only way to ensure these would be gods can’t hurt us anymore is to wipe them from the fiber of the universe. To send them to the deepest and darkest hell imaginable. To erase them, profoundly and utterly.”

Barron understood how Andi felt, and he even shared much of it. But he couldn’t get past the implications of what she was advocating. Not even the Union had employed biological weapons, not in any significant way…and now he was supposed to lead the effort to infect the Highborn with a virus, a malicious and cleverly designed one that would lay hidden for months to enhance contagion, to spread the coming death as widely as possible.

The files Andi had found were not entirely complete regarding the synthesis process, but they were quite clear about the effects of infection. The virus attacked the modified DNA of the Highborn, tearing their cells apart from the inside, with pain he was sure he couldn’t even imagine.

He’d been destined for military service from birth. He’d excelled at the Academy and risen to the highest levels in his beloved navy. For all the death, all the suffering and torment, all the desperate, endless fighting, he’d always considered himself to be an honorable warrior.

Now, he was expected to set all that aside…and to become a mass murderer, soaked in the blood of an entire race.

He looked up at Andi, his mind drifting, seeking for some way to share his doubts with her, his concerns. But her expression was cold, hard. There was no pity in her, none at all. He knew she wouldn’t listen, that she couldn’t listen. She had no hesitancy, no doubts about unleashing any nightmare she could on the Highborn. He loved her desperately, but at that moment, she scared him, too. He’d fought all his adult life, inflicted enormous casualties on his enemies, and lost more friends and comrades than he could count. But he wasn’t prepared to openly embrace genocide…and it terrified him to see how ready Andi was to do just that.

Blood on the Stars Will Continue with

Descent into Darkness

Book 17

Appendix

CFS Excalibur-Class Superbattleship

The Excalibur is the first Confederation ship class to fully employ a combination of its own newest technology with that of the Hegemony, provided per the terms of the Pact. It was designed at a rapid pace in response to the dire situation on the front, and the Excalibur itself, the first, and to date only, vessel of the class to launch, was constructed at the Kirovsky Shipyards, orbiting the Iron Belt planet Belgravia.

The Excalibur is more than twice the size of Repulse-class battleships such as Dauntless, and the vessel carries a massive arsenal of weaponry and defensive system, much of them representing major leaps forward in Confederation technology.

Offensive Array

1 – Spinal mount antimatter-powered hyper-velocity railgun, launching 120kg projectiles.

4 – Quad 10 gigawatt Confederation “primary beam” particle accelerators (16 guns in total).

40 – Omega fourth generation 2 gigawatt laser cannons.

20 – Ground bombardment pulse cannons.

10 – Plasma mine launchers (1,000 mines held in magazine).

Defensive Array

60 – 200 megawatt point defense lasers in double turret mounts.

20 – Blast gun anti-fighter pellet launchers (developed from railgun technology).

4 – Deflector screen projection systems (designed to warp and distort incoming energy weapons fire).

Small Craft Contingents

180 – Lightning III (“Black Lightning”) assault fighter-bombers (12 squadrons, 2 assault wings).

30 – Attack Wave (“Ironfist”) heavy bombers (crew of 6).

20 – Heavy assault shuttles (capacity 20 Marines).

20 – Standard Fleet shuttles.

2 – Admiralty-3A class fleet command cutters.

Power Generation

Dual (“Confed-1.0”) antimatter reactor system.

12 – 15 gigawatt fusion reactors.

Complement

Primary ship crew – 1,620

Fighter-bomber pilot and flight crews – 960

Marine contingent – 840

Admiral’s command staff – 40

Total – 3460

Initial Ships of Class: Excalibur, Constellation, Starfire, Argo

The Pact

The Pact is the document forming an Alliance between the Hegemony, the Confederation, the Palatian Alliance, and nine separate Far Rim nation states. The ratification of the agreement faced significant opposition by both the Confederation Senate and the Hegemonic Council. The Senate was wary of the economic burdens it would impose and the requirements it held for the Confederation to commit he vast bulk of its armed forces to the Hegemony front. The Hegemonic Council objected to the provisions requiring full sharing of all science and technical data, an obligation that flowed almost entirely in one direction as a result of the Hegemony’s generally greater tech levels.

The name came to refer to the alliance itself, though such usage was not specified in the document and was entirely colloquial.

Strata of the Hegemony

The Hegemony is an interstellar polity located far closer to the center of what had once been the old empire than Rimward nations such as the Confederation. The Rim nations and the Hegemony were unaware of each other’s existence until the White Fleet arrived at Planet Zero and established contact.

Relatively little is known of the Hegemony, save that their technology appears to be significantly more advanced than the Confederation’s in most areas, though still behind that of the old empire.

The culture of the Hegemony is based almost exclusively on genetics, with an individual’s status being entirely dependent on an established method of evaluating genetic “quality.” Generations of selective breeding have produced a caste of “Masters,” who occupy an elite position above all others. There are several descending tiers below the Master class, all of which are categorized as “Inferiors.”

The Hegemony’s culture likely developed as a result of its location much closer to the center of hostilities during the Cataclysm. Many surviving inhabitants of the inward systems suffered from horrific mutations and damage to genetic materials, placing a premium on any bloodlines lacking such effects.

The Rimward nations find the Hegemony’s society to be almost alien in nature, while its rulers consider the inhabitants of the Confederation and other nations to be just another strain of Inferiors, fit only to obey their commands without question.

Masters

The Masters are the descendants of those few humans spared genetic damage from the nuclear, chemical, and biological warfare that destroyed the old empire during the series of events known as the Cataclysm. The Masters sit at the top of the Hegemony’s societal structure and, in a sense, are its only true full members or citizens.

The Masters’ culture is based almost entirely on what they call “genetic purity and quality,” and even their leadership and ranking structure is structured solely on genetic rankings. Every master is assigned a number based on his or her place in a population-wide chromosomal analysis. An individual’s designation is thus subject to change once per year, to adjust for masters dying and for new adults being added into the database. The top ten thousand individuals in each year’s ratings are referred to as “High Masters,” and they are paired for breeding matchups far more frequently than the larger number of lower-rated Masters.

Masters reproduce by natural means, through strict genetic pairings based on an extensive study of ideal matches. The central goal of Master society is to steadily improve the human race by breeding the most perfect specimens available and relegating all others to a subservient status. The Masters consider any genetic manipulation or artificial processes like cloning to be grievously sinful, and all such practices are banned in the Hegemony on pain of death to all involved. This belief structure traces from the experiences of the Cataclysm, and the terrible damage inflicted on the populations of imperial worlds by genetically-engineered pathogens and cloned and genetically-engineered soldiers.

All humans not designated as Masters are referred to as Inferiors, and they serve the Masters in various capacities. All Masters have the power of life and death over Inferiors. It is not a crime for a Master to kill an Inferior who has injured or offended that Master in any way.

Kriegeri

The Kriegeri are the Hegemony’s soldiers. They are drawn from the strongest and most physically capable specimens of the populations of Inferiors on Hegemony worlds. Kriegeri are not genetically-modified, though in most cases, Master supervisors enforce specific breeding arrangements in selected population groups to increase the quality of future generations of Kriegeri stock.

The Kriegeri are trained from infancy to serve as the Hegemony’s soldiers and spaceship crews, and are divided in two categories, red and gray, named for the colors of their uniforms. The “red” Kriegeri serve aboard the Hegemony’s ships, under the command of a small number of Master officers. They are surgically modified to increase their resistance to radiation and zero gravity.

The “gray” Kriegeri are the Hegemony’s ground soldiers. They are selected from large and physically powerful specimens and are subject to extensive surgical enhancements to increase strength, endurance, and dexterity. They also receive significant artificial implants, including many components of their armor, which becomes a permanent partial exoskeleton of sorts. They are trained and conditioned from childhood to obey orders and to fight. The top several percent of Kriegeri surviving twenty years of service are retired to breeding colonies. Their offspring are Krieger-Edel, a pool of elite specimens serving as mid-level officers and filling a command role between the ruling Masters and the rank and file Kriegeri.

Arbeiter

Arbeiter are the workers and laborers of the Hegemony. They are drawn from populations on the Hegemony’s many worlds, and typically either exhibit some level of genetic damage inherited from the original survivors or simply lack genetic ratings sufficient for Master status. Arbeiter are from the same general group as the Kriegeri, though the soldier class includes the very best candidates, and the Arbeiter pool consists of the remnants.

Arbeiter are assigned roles in the Hegemony based on rigid assessments of their genetic status and ability. These positions range from supervisory posts in production facilities and similar establishments to pure physical labor, often working in difficult and hazardous conditions.

Defekts

Defekts are individuals—often populations of entire worlds—exhibiting severe genetic damage. They are typically found on planets that suffered the most extensive bombardments and bacteriological attacks during the Cataclysm.

Defekts have no legal standing in the Hegemony, and they are considered completely expendable. On worlds inhabited by populations of Masters, Kriegeri, and Arbeiters, Defekts are typically assigned to the lowest level, most dangerous labor, and any excess populations are exterminated.

The largest number of Defekts exist on planets on the fringes of Hegemony space, where they are often used for such purposes as mining radioactives and other similarly dangerous operations. Often, the Defekts themselves have no knowledge at all of the Hegemony and regard the Masters as gods or demigods descending from the heavens. On such planets, the Masters often demand ores and other raw materials as offerings, and severely punish any failures or shortfalls. Pliant and obedient populations are provided with rough clothing and low-quality manufactured foodstuffs, enabling them to devote nearly all labor to the gathering of whatever material the Masters demand. Resistant population groups are exterminated, as, frequently, are Defekt populations on worlds without useful resources to exploit.

Hegemony Military Ranks

Commander

Not a permanent rank, but a designation for a high-level officer in command of a large ship or a ground operation.

Decaron

A non-commissioned officer rank, the term defines a trooper commanding ten soldiers, including or not including himself. Decarons are almost always chosen from the best of the base level legionaries, pulled from combat units and put through extensive supplemental training before being returned to take their command positions.

Quinquaron

The lowest rank truly considered an officer. A quinquaron officially commands fifty troopers, though such officers are often assigned as few as twenty and as many as one hundred. Quinquarons can also be posted to executive officer positions, serving as the second-in-command to Hectorons. Such postings are common with officers on the fast track for promotion to Hectoron level themselves.

Hectoron

The commander of approximately one hundred soldiers, or a force equivalence of armored combat vehicles or other assets. As with other ranks, there is considerable latitude in the field, and Hectorons can command larger or smaller forces. The Hectoron is considered, in many ways, the backbone of the Hegemony armed forces.

Quingeneron

An officer commanding a combat force of five hundred soldiers or a comparable-strength force of heavy combat or support assets. In recent decades, the Quingeneron rank has been used more as a stepping stone to Kiloron status. Quingenerons also frequently serve as executive officers under Kilorons.

Kiloron

The commander of one thousand soldiers, or a posting of comparable responsibility. Despite the defined command responsibility, Kilorons often command significant larger forces, with senior officers of the rank sometimes directing combat units as large as twenty to fifty thousand. Kiloron is usually the highest level available to Kriegeri, though a small number have managed to reach Megaron status.

Megaron

The title suggests the command of one million combat soldiers or the equivalent power in tanks and other assets, however, in practice, Megarons exercise overall commands in combat theaters, with force sizes ranging from a few hundred thousand to many millions. Megarons are almost always of the Master class.

Blood on the Stars Will Continue with

Descent into Darkness

Book 17

Books by Jay Allan

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Duel in the Dark (Blood on the Stars I)

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Dauntless (Blood on the Stars VI)

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Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars VIII)

Invasion (Blood on the Stars IX)

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The Colossus (Blood on the Stars XII)

The Others (Blood on the Stars XIII)

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Empire’s Ashes (Blood on the Stars XV)

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Table of Contents

The Crimson Worlds Series

Blood on the Stars Series

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Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Appendix

Hegemony Military Ranks

Books by Jay Allan