Empire Reborn
Blood on the Stars XVIII

Chapter One
Highborn Flagship S’Olestra
Imperial System B02-1612
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Ellerax sat quietly, staring forward, seeming to be completely undisturbed by the events of the battle. But in truth, he was edgy, nervous even. Not so much about the current fight, perhaps…he was sure his force was large enough to defeat the enemy he faced. But he had begun, for the first time in several hundred years of war, to question whether his people would win the overall conflict.
Over the independent humans, he was sure enough of success, though they had done far better than he had expected, too. But, in the end, he was even confident that Tesserax would ultimately prevail there, despite the troubles he’d had. But here, on the front that had existed for more than two centuries, where his people had fought a seemingly endless struggle, he had recently become somewhat…uncertain. So much so, he’d come out himself, to monitor it all very closely, to ensure that they did win.
The enemy had become stronger recently than they had been in the earlier stages of the conflict, at least visibly to him…and they had pushed harder against his forces. They had won three battles over the past two years and driven his fleets back. He had yielded over thirty systems to them, though he had managed to find time to withdraw all of the Highborn from them first, leaving behind only humans. Still, despite the fringe nature of the lost systems and their overall lack of importance, he had resolved that it was enough. He had to intervene, himself, to take command directly and quickly reverse the direction the war had taken.
He looked up, watching the ships in action. He commanded over three hundred vessels in the battle, and the opposing force numbered only ten. He knew the enemy was more advanced than his people—though he had squashed as much speculation about that as he could—and that they were always outnumbered. But thirty to one was way beyond even the adversary’s normal superiority. His fleet had already destroyed half of the enemy force, and the rest would be gone very soon. He had lost roughly thirty ships, which was somewhat more than he had expected, but not nearly enough to salvage the enemy’s position.
The only problem was…it wasn’t a major battle, certainly not from the enemy’s perspective. It was just fairly a small force of theirs that he had managed to catch. When the next truly large fight happened—and it wouldn’t be all that long, he suspected—he knew the enemy fleet would be much larger, perhaps two hundred or more, and while he would probably put well over one thousand vessels into the combat, he just wasn’t sure it would be enough.
His eyes returned to the display, and he watched as two more of the enemy ships met their ends. The final three were badly damaged, suffering recurring explosions and near defeat. But near wasn’t the same as done, and even as battered as they were, the remaining enemy vessels were still fighting, something that was crystal clear as he saw two more of his own ships blown up.
Twenty of his vessels piled on top of each of the survivors, blasting from close range, and one of them was destroyed a few seconds later. The fight was almost over, but still, another of his ships fell before the two remaining enemies were finally destroyed.
Ellerax wanted to enjoy the result, to celebrate the victory…but he realized his side had lost thirty-six ships, in a battle where they had outnumbered the enemy 10-1, a fight that had gone on for far too long. There was no question that things on this front had declined in the years since his people had started the war against the humans, and he regretted launching that conflict before the old one was complete. With any luck, the fight in the Rim would be over very soon, and all of his forces and production—and that of the newly conquered human worlds as well—could be poured into an overwhelming effort to end the first war, too. Then his people would be truly dominant, and they would take their place as the masters of everything.
If he could wait that long. After watching the just concluded battle, he was far from sure that they could. His mind started going from one spacedock to another, calculating the number of vessels he could assemble, the grand size of the fleet even with every hull save those currently fighting the humans. He knew that he could put more vessels into battle than he’d ever had, yank fresh hulls right from the shipyards, and he wondered if that would be enough…without the forces still engaged on the human frontier.
He looked at the screen, turning his view back to the current battle, trying to analyze how many of his surviving ships were badly battered. That, at least, was a bit better than he had expected, but only because the enemy was very precise, and they targeted damaged ships relentlessly until they were destroyed.
“Commander…ready the fleet to depart as soon as all vessels are prepared.” He turned as he spoke, looking across the bridge to the officer in charge of the fleet. “We will leave as soon as the ships can be secured.”
“Yes, Sir!” Holliax stared back for a moment, unaccustomed to acting as a subordinate, but then he turned and started belting out orders to the fleet’s other officers. About a minute later, he turned back to Ellerax and said, “We can leave in approximately forty minutes, Sir.” It was clear that was longer than he wished, longer than Ellerax wanted as well, but also that it was the fastest he could arrange.
Ellerax thought for a moment, but then he just nodded and said, “Very well, commander.” He would have remained on the bridge for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, but forty was longer than he could waste. He had a hundred things to do, including reports from Tesserax to review—and ones from Phazarax, too, just to truly check up on his subordinate’s operations.
He stood up and looked over toward Holliax. “I will be in my office.” He turned and walked across the bridge, moving to his study, the facility he was taking from Holliax by his presence. He hadn’t spent any significant time on a ship in over a hundred years, but conditions had forced him to venture out, to take tighter control. He might have suspected some resentment from the commander, some frustration about losing his office—and for that matter, his control over the fleet—to his leader, but he didn’t. If there was one thing about the Highborn that was a weakness, a negative to their abilities, it was arrogance. That made Ellerax unaware that his subordinate might resent any usurpation he, himself, imposed, even while it fueled the unhappiness that Holliax faced.
Ellerax moved farther. Unlike most of the vessels, where there were only a few of the Highborn, surrounded by legions of enslaved humans, the flagship’s bridge was mostly crewed by his own people. He wondered as he walked, what he could do to further improve his fleet’s performance against the enemy—the real enemy his fleet had just faced. Would it make a difference if he increased the number of Highborn on all of his ships? How much could he even do that, without pulling too many away from their supervisory positions they had over the many human occupied planets they ruled over? It wouldn’t help if he enhanced the fighting power of the fleet a bit, at the cost of reducing the flow of new ships coming out from the shipyards, for example.
He walked through the doors of his office, and he felt relief as he heard them close behind him. It was essential that he always appeared to be totally in control whenever he was in front of any of his people. He was the first of his kind to exist, and despite whatever petty resentments they might have, he was their leader, and he always would be. He had been the first of them, and nothing would ever change that. But now that he was alone, his true emotions came out. He was Highborn, through and through, unable to imagine anything but total domination. And yet, he was worried, about the status of the war, and about whether he could lead his people to the total domination they all believed was their destiny. There was nothing else he could accept, or even think about…yet while his determination had remained solidly in place, his edginess had grown, too, digging into him, stretching his concerns almost to a worrisome level. He sat down, tried to set his thoughts in line correctly, to regain the utter confidence he had possessed for most of his life.
He succeeded, for a moment at least, but then the nagging doubt began to find its way back in.
* * *
Tesserax was worried. No, more than worried…he had almost reached panic. He had held back the scheduled attack for several months, as he had become more and more absorbed with the developing crisis on many of his worlds. He had quickly realized what it was, though he had fought against that understanding at first, told himself that it couldn’t be. But in the end, the tests had proven it. The Plague, the terrible disease that had chased his people from imperial space centuries before, that had come relatively close to eradicating them entirely, was back. He still couldn’t believe it, not entirely, despite the proof of multiple studies. The disease was dead, eradicated. There was no way it could have survived for centuries with none of his people to infect…it could only endure for a fixed time without infecting one of them. While it was at least possible, he supposed, that a few of his people had been infected after they had initially believed that the disease had ended, he knew it wasn’t possible for it to have continued, for it to have been handed down for almost four centuries. If any of the Highborn had been afflicted with the disease in the last three and a half centuries, he was sure he would have known.
He was almost dumbstruck by the news, and he had been driven to aggressive measures, to slamming down restrictions on travel between worlds, even from ship to ship. The disease was incredibly contagious and one person with it could easily kill a whole ship’s crew—would kill them all, in fact—the Highborn aboard, at least. The disease had been developed by the empire centuries before and used to chase his people away. It had succeeded at that, though the war that had been waged to that point had proven to have done too much damage to the empire for it to long endure. Even as they had pushed the Highborn aside, the empire continued its decline at an even faster pace, and it fell only a few years later, leaving behind hundreds of worlds utterly depopulated, and hundreds more badly battered, losing much of the technology they had long possessed.
His people had feared a return of the virus, at least in the early years, but in the intervening centuries, with the empire gone, there had been nothing of it, not even any surviving records, at least none his people had found.
But the enemy had obviously found them. They must have…and they either discovered some live and somehow preserved viruses, or they found the formula to make more. Whichever it was, it was a disaster, one which threatened the entire resolution of the war, which even posed the risk of total devastation to his people. Unless he finished the enemy off soon.
He heard the door slide open, and he turned around to see Phazarax entering the room. His number two—or joint number one, depending on how one viewed their respective assignments—knew about the virus too, of course, but Tesserax still wasn’t sure how to approach it. He had to report it, he knew that, but he wanted time, enough at least to attack the enemy, to push them to the brink of surrender. It was his only hope, he realized that. But he wasn’t sure if Phazarax would agree, if he would support his plan. It was very dangerous. If Ellerax found out before he reported it, he was almost certain he would be sacked or worse…and so would Phazarax.
Tesserax knew his colleague could refuse to withhold the data any longer, that he could even report the virus himself, without Tesserax’s approval or even his knowledge. But the two of them had worked fairly well together, and Tesserax suspected that Phazarax’s reporting of the virus, without, say, a major victory, for example, would very possibly not save him.
“Phazarax, welcome. Before we get into anything else, I just want to say that the flagship has been scrutinized five different times. No one has been transferred here from one of the known infected worlds, or from any other vessel, and no sign of the virus has been discovered.”
He stared at his…friend was too strong a word for any of the Highborn to use to describe another, but perhaps co-conspirator was appropriate, at least Tesserax hoped it was.
“That is good news. I assume similar tests have been conducted on all of our ships and bases. Do you have any idea what percentage appear to be clean yet, and how many are infected?”
Tesserax took a moment to reply. Then he said, “I’m afraid we have tracked direct personnel transfers from planets we believe to have been infected to close to one-third of our ships. Unfortunately, the disease has a long incubation period, and we haven’t yet been able to judge exactly all of the worlds where the enemy implanted it. Tracking the motion of our people, not only from the infected planets to the fleet, but also to and from other, possibly undaunted worlds, is difficult to say the least.” His somber tone attested that things were probably worse than he expected, but he didn’t say anything more.
“This is a massive problem, Tesserax. If the enemy has the virus, if they can produce enough of it and continue to spread it…” His voice was different than usual, higher and more concerned.
“We cannot allow that. We must attack immediately and push for total victory as quickly as possible. We must forbid any further transfers of our people from one ship—or world—to another. We cannot help to avoid spreading the disease where it already is, but we can maintain our protected environments. I have also directed all of our medical personnel to study the virus, to try to develop some kind of treatment as quickly as possible.” The tone of his voice suggested he was not hopeful of this. His people had already tried centuries before, with no luck. They had stopped, only after the empire had fallen, when the disease appeared to be extinct. But now it was back.
“I hope the medical staff is successful, of course, but as you know, the history on this is problematical. If they are unable to cure it, every one of our people on any ship where it appears will die. Perhaps every person on any planet that has been infected will, as well. The toll could be enormous.” Phazarax paused for a few seconds, then he repeated, “It could be enormous.”
“I know, Phazarax…I know. But all I can think of doing is pushing hard, destroying the enemy before they manage to do the same to us. You have to realize…they can do this now. If our medical people don’t come up with a cure of some kind, and if we give the humans enough time, they will continue to spread the virus. The only way to stop it, or try to at least, is to break down the fleet, post large detachments around each of our planets to try and keep them safe from any enemy assault…and as well as being uncertain, that denies us the power we need to continue the assault, to destroy the humans once and for all.”
“You want my support, for the immediate invasion of enemy space, with no further stops, no attention paid to our losses?” Phazarax paused for a moment, and then added, “And you want me to agree that we will continue to not report the virus to headquarters, not until we have made considerable progress in the offensive. When we have good news to go with the bad.” His tone gave no real hint as to what his answer would be.
Tesserax sat still for a moment, his head nodding slightly. Then he said, “Yes…that is precisely what I want to do. But I know I cannot do it, certainly not the part about attempting not to make a report to Ellerax for a time, without your cooperation.”
Phazarax sat still for a moment, clearly considering the situation. The idea of withholding the report, of not telling Ellerax, it was almost inconceivable, Tesserax knew, to him as well as to Phazarax. But he was almost certain that he knew what the response would be…for both of them, probably. Tesserax, at least, would be immediately replaced, he knew, but he figured Phazarax was also on thin ice…very thin ice. And he already had to explain why he hadn’t made the report yet.
Phazarax looked. Finally, he said, “Okay, Tesserax…I will go along with you, for a little while. But we have to show considerable success…and I mean considerable. Destroying the enemy, taking out all of their ships we can find, seizing more planets…it must be our focus, even more singularly than it was before. We have to win, Tesserax…we have to win, and we have to do it now.”
Tesserax sat and stared back at Phazarax. He didn’t exactly have a smile on his face, there was no cause for that, but he nodded, and he said, “Oh…don’t worry about that, not for a moment. Our attacks will be decisive.” He paused a few seconds, and he repeated, “They will be very decisive.”
Chapter Two
CWS Dauntless
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Tyler sat and stared at the prisoners. The light wasn’t great, and the three of them were just lying down, silent and unwilling from their capture to cooperate with his people. He had been involved in the desperate fight from the very beginning, and he knew it was getting close to the end now. The enemy was getting stronger, while his forces were growing weaker. And he couldn’t really see any way out of it, none save only the infection, the one tool his people had managed to discover that just might give them some kind of hope. He had never been a real believer in the virus—it just seemed a bit too out there for him to latch onto—but he had to confess that so far at least, it did seem to be working.
The three Highborn were sick…very sick. Everything had developed more or less in line with the best records they could find of the disease, though he knew that the total knowledge of his side was spotty at best. Nevertheless, it seemed to be a success, at least in that the virus itself was effective…and as far as he could tell, only against the Highborn. None of his people had shown any vulnerability at all.
Whether the enemy had a cure or treatment was another matter, and still, honestly, he didn’t know. He had tried to interrogate the hostages repeatedly, made every effort he could to get them to cooperate, but none of it had succeeded. The Highborn just sat, and when they became sicker, they lied down…but not one of them uttered a single word since they’d been brought back.
Nevertheless, though he could think of a dozen possible problems with the virus, Tyler was, more or less, fully onboard now. It wasn’t so much that he felt good about its possibilities, but honestly, he realized it was just about the only hope that remained. The virus, at least if it worked the way it was supposed to—and his people could manage to find a way to spread it truly widely—could possibly totally eradicate the enemy. It was the only chance he had of prolonging his own culture, of surviving outside of abject slavery. He had fought with everything he had conventionally, as had all of his people, and that had just led to imminent defeat. He knew that the straight out fight, and that alone, though he still planned to continue it as long as possible, really offered no chance at victory.
“Tyler…”
He turned as Andi entered the room. She had been in favor of the use of the virus from day one…very strongly in favor. He understood that, especially given her background. He had come from a military family, one of considerable wealth, who had been raised to think of service in a noble way. Reality had changed that view to a certain extent, but not entirely. Andi, on the other hand, had been born in a terrible slum and orphaned at a young age. She had grown up alone, in abject poverty, often fighting for scraps of food. Despite their differences, the two of them loved each other deeply, and they agreed on most things. But Andi was by far the most ready to utterly destroy an enemy.
“Hey Andi. You were right, at least I assume so. They certainly look like they’re dying to me, and with any luck, we’ll know for sure soon.” Barron even felt bad about that, about the fact that the Highborn might die. Though he had slain thousands of them in battle, and probably millions of their enslaved humans, this seemed different. The enemies were their prisoners, and while they weren’t being cooperative at all, he still felt as though his people should try and treat them somehow…rather than standing around, waiting for them to die.
Andi walked over to him and crouched behind him, beginning to rub his shoulders. He knew he had a thousand things to do, and no time for just sitting around and enjoy a backrub, but nevertheless, he closed his eyes and truly enjoyed it for a moment. It was an escape, a way out of the constant stress he was experiencing, if only for a moment.
Andi was silent for a moment, but he knew the massage would only last for a minute. She had as much to do as he did, and despite their still deep affection for each other, they both understood their obligations.
“Yes,” Andi answered finally. “I assume these three are going to die. The real question is, do they have any treatments or cures? We have no way of knowing that…and these three, whatever else you want to say about them, they haven’t given us any information at all.” Her voice was somewhat cold, no concern at all about the aliens, only the hope that the virus would prove to be as lethal to them as it had before.
Tyler closed his eyes for just a few seconds, enjoying the rubdown, as well as just Andi’s presence. They agreed on most things, but even when they didn’t, he loved her, and he knew she loved him too.
A minute later, he shook his head and turned to face her. “If we have achieved a victory of sorts with this virus—and that is of course far from certain—we have to decide what will come next. What will the enemy do if our past efforts were a success, if we have infected a large number of their people with this disease? If they don’t have any cure, it is a major threat to them…and it will remain so indefinitely, at least unless they are able to develop a treatment. We are also able to continue spreading it, at least there is a chance. What will they do in response?”
Andi looked down for a moment, and then her eyes came back up and met with Tyler’s. “They have two choices, Tyler…unless they have or discover a treatment. They can make peace, try to live alongside us. But I don’t see that. I just don’t believe the enemy has that in them, and even if they did, what future is there for us in it? If they do find a cure, in a month or in ten years, do you really think they wouldn’t come right at us again?”
Tyler looked down for a moment, and then he said, “No…I don’t believe they wouldn’t, and I suspect they would be even more aggressive. It seems to me that accepting us as…equals…is beyond their abilities.”
Andi nodded. “I agree with that completely. And it leaves us with only one option. To fight now, to endure as long as we can while spreading the virus as aggressively as possible. With some luck, perhaps we can prevail…perhaps we can hold them off long enough for the virus to really spread.” She sounded confident, but Tyler knew her too well. He knew the disease was a good step, at least it was if it turned out the enemy didn’t have any cure. But it was still a question about whether his people could spread it far and fast enough…and he just didn’t know the answer to that.
But he knew what he had to do.
“We will have more of the virus ready soon…and we will have to dedicate ships to attempting to get past the enemy, to try and spread it further. Those will be almost suicide missions now, though. The enemy no doubt knows what we’re doing, by now. Between us being pushed back and the vulnerable worlds being farther from us than those we have already infected, I can’t really see that many of those ships will make it back, especially not when the enemy will no doubt deploy more of their vessels defensively to try and stop our infection efforts.”
Andi looked for a moment like she might argue that point, but then she just sighed and nodded.
“The worst thing is, while they will likely have to deploy vessels defensively, I will also have to divert ships from the fleet to attempt to spread the virus, so we’re going to remain heavily outnumbered. That will make it even more difficult to put up any real defense against the enemy’s push. And if we get shoved back farther—which is likely—it will become even more difficult to reach their truly populated worlds. If we get pushed back to the Confederation, we will be even unlikelier to even reach any of their really populated planets. I’ll remind you that the only places we’ve managed to hit so far are occupied Hegemony worlds. We haven’t even gotten into their space yet.”
Andi just nodded for a few seconds. Then she said, “At least you’ll be fighting for something, trying to hold out long enough for the virus to propagate. We may not have a great shot at victory, but it’s a damned sight better if the virus is at least a real danger to them. Think about how it will affect their judgment. They are arrogant…terribly so. They’ve taken casualties in the war, of course, but most of their ships’ personnel are enslaved humans, so most of the losses so far have been them. Now, we’ve got something that hurts the Highborn, that kills them. Them…and them only. In huge numbers. How will they react?”
Tyler thought for a moment, and then he said, “They’ll be coming…and soon.” He looked down, thinking for a few seconds. Then he said, “Very soon, I suspect.”
* * *
Atara sat on Dauntless’s bridge, the same place she had been for most of the past five years. She had fought, commanding first the ship, and then an entire section of the fleet. She had seen the vessel almost torn apart, so badly damaged that she questioned whether it could even be repaired, but now she was grateful for its condition. Dauntless had come through the most desperate parts of the last fight, but the vessel had escaped with only moderate damage. The ship had been hurt, of course, but nothing too severe, and now, after almost two months, she was ninety percent effective. That put her in the top fifteen percent of all ships, and perhaps the highest five percent of battleships. That was something to be thankful for, even if there wasn’t much else right now.
She commanded almost half of what remained of the Confederation forces, and she had spent most of the past two months—when she hadn’t been watching and waiting for the enemy to advance—trying to decide how to deploy the limited repair facilities to her ships. She wanted to preference her battleships, but they were also the largest vessels that needed the most repairs, and, in the end, she had bounced around a bit, picking and choosing the ships that got the most work. One thing she had focused on was preferencing drive systems, even over weapons. She needed her fleet able to move as quickly as possible.
She knew that when the enemy finally came, her orders would almost certainly be to retreat, to pull back all the way to Confederation space…and there to fight the next battle, and very possibly the last one. At least she was pretty sure it would be the final one with what she would still consider a major fleet. She didn’t doubt that small detachments would escape, and that some of them at least would struggle to the end. Hell, if she survived the next engagement, she would be one of them. She couldn’t exactly fault those who might yield, though, who would surrender once the fleet was battered beyond any real ability to fight. They would see what life was like under the Highborn’s rule…but she was sure she didn’t want to be one of them. To her, the only acceptable alternative to victory was death.
“Admiral, we have several reports coming in from the repair crews. Things are moving significantly faster than we estimated.” Garvus Trotsky was a captain, but he had forgone the command of a vessel to serve as Travis’s new senior aide. She had offered to put him in charge of a cruiser, even a battleship, but he was dead set where he was, at her side. She couldn’t understand why, which was strange considering the number of years she had served as Tyler Barron’s aide, even to the point of avoiding promotion for so many years.
“Send them up to me, Captain.” She almost sighed, but she held it back. She was tired of looking at reports, of shifting through page after page of seemingly endless data. But she insisted that all of it come through her, almost every bit of information. She was dedicated to her job, in fact, it was everything to her. She wondered for a moment what she would do if the war ended, if she could actually go home. She knew that was unlikely, that she was far more likely to meet her end, and probably soon. But for a moment, she wondered if she could even adapt to a civilian life, if she could learn to exist in that kind of world. She told herself, yes, that if the war was somehow won, if peace actually came, she could learn to live that kind of life.
But she didn’t really believe it. She had come far, very far…and she wondered if there was anything for her anymore except war.
She shook her head and looked down at the reports. Trotsky was right…they were good, very good.
But not good enough, not considering the amount of damage…and what the enemy had.
* * *
Jake Stockton stood to the side, watching the fighter crews jockey around their craft. It was just a patrol getting set to go out, but to him, it was everything. His desire to get back into a fighter, to return to the life he had possessed years ago…before he’d been captured, before the enemy had used him to fight his own people…was almost insurmountable.
He wanted to ask Admiral Barron to reinstate him in the fighter corps. He wanted to be in command, of course, but he would accept any posting, even as a normal pilot, before he would stand aside. Anything to get him back to his life—and to the fight while it was still going on. He knew the situation, and he realized that his side was in desperate shape…but at least he was back on the right side. And he wanted to get out there, to take his revenge on the enemy. The enemy that had used him, turned many of his people against him, that had installed the device in him that he had finally managed to have removed. He wanted to return to the cockpit because that was where he belonged, because it was his natural habitat. But even more, he just wanted to hurt the enemy, to strike back at them anyway he could.
“Jake…you look a lot better. How are you feeling?” The voice was familiar. Reg Griffin had been a loyal officer, a reliable commander under him. But that had been some time before, and for several years now, she had occupied Stockton’s position, as commander in chief of the fighters. He knew she was truly concerned about him, that she wanted him to recover, but he couldn’t help but realize that they were also rivals now.
“I’m good, Reg. It was rough for the first couple weeks, but since then the progress has been rapid. I feel like I am back to normal…or almost at least.” He looked at Reg, tried to sense her true attitude, but she was very good at hiding what she was truly thinking.
“Do you want to start flying again?” He was surprised at the offer for a few seconds, but then he realized that whatever else she might do, Reg Griffin didn’t have it in her to try and keep him out of the fighter corps. He didn’t know what would happen if he proved himself again, if he eventually made a move to take over, but he was just glad that she wasn’t resisting his efforts now.
“I think I should get Admiral Barron’s permission…though this is just a scouting run, isn’t it? Maybe I can just take out a fighter and sail around a bit.” He knew that he shouldn’t, but he wanted to. He really wanted to.
“Sure…let me call up another fighter. Just promise me, you’ll fly, but you won’t do anything else. No commands, no wild maneuvers. Just see how you feel in the ship.”
He wanted to get annoyed, to ask her what she was expecting him to do…but he realized she was right. His entire, long career had been one wild stunt after another…and despite his current situation, he knew somehow that wasn’t over, not yet. But he wasn’t going to push either. He had to see if he could still fly, if he retained his abilities, or if they had been lost.
“I promise, Reg. Nothing but a quiet flight. I’ll even stay back, outside the main patrol.”
“It’s a deal.” Reg sounded somewhat concerned, but Jake knew that she could have shot down the entire thing if she had wanted—or she could have told Admiral Barron about it. He was grateful to her, though he also knew that sooner or later, at least if his flights went well, he would end up challenging her for command of the force.
She nodded, and she moved off, telling the service personnel to prepare another ship. He walked over to the side, thinking about flying, and he was excited…and a bit scared. It had been a long time since he had flown, and his normal fearlessness had slipped, just a bit.
He stared out the small porthole, looking at deep space, at the blackness of it. He had never really thought about just how deadly it was, how many ways it could kill him. But he had to go back out again…he just had to.
He turned, moving toward the ship that Reg had ordered prepared for him. It was out now, lined up and almost ready to launch. He paused for a second, struck not exactly by fear, but by caution. He knew he was pushing things, that he should wait longer, be certain that he was completely healed. But then his other side—the side that had directed him all his life—reenergized and took control. He climbed up, into the ship, and he closed his eyes for a moment while the crew finished setting it up. He smelled the chair, the deep, rich leather of the seat, and he remembered a hundred other times, a thousand, in various fighters, when he had climbed in, without thinking about it at all. Now, he paid attention to everything, to the seat, the controls, the entire space. He wanted to consider it as a tool, as a ship he flew during his work…but he knew it was more than that. It was his home.
He watched as the crew pulled away, and as the other ships took off. They sailed down the launch bay, and out into space. He saw each one of them, noticing it more than he ever had before. The ships used today where vastly better than those that had been in service when he had started his career…they were even considerable improvements over the ones he had commanded just a few years ago, before he had been captured. The Confederation’s science had been increasing at a stunning pace.
He reached out, grabbed ahold of the joystick, and for a moment, he just sat there, his hand on the controls, feeling the stick, closing his eyes for a moment. Then he pressed the button, fired up his engines, and he raced down the launch bay…and out into space, into the depths of emptiness that he recognized as deadly…but also, in some ways at least, as home.
Chapter Three
CWS Constellation
Garvus III System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Admiral Simpson, thank you for coming over. I wanted to discuss the status of the fleet with you.” Sam Taggart had been at work endlessly for almost seven weeks, scraping up any kind of repairs she could…but it wasn’t enough, not even close. “As you know, we are in terrible condition, my forces even worse than yours. I’ve got a bunch of ships I would call lost, write off entirely…but we don’t have enough new vessels to compensate, not even close.”
Simpson was nodding, agreeing with Taggart. “Look, Sam, let’s be honest. We’re looking for a miracle right now. Nothing else will save us. All we can do is the best we can, to struggle to face whatever we have to…and see where it all leads. I think the enemy is pretty badly battered as well, that they will take some time to get ready before they come farther. If that isn’t true, if they have reserves we don’t know about, we’re finished…at least our forces here are.”
Taggart looked at Simpson. She knew almost everyone, him included, thought she was the better of the two, but just then she realized that he had grappled better with the situation than she had. There was no point in over analyzing, in trying to look too far in advance. All they could do was the best they could, no matter how little that was.
“You are right, Admiral. We have lost Grimaldi and all of its repair capabilities. We have far less here at Garvus III, far less…and even fewer facilities at Garvus I and II. We have to pick out the ships we are going to work on, the ones that will give us the most return in a short time…and ignore the others. In fact, I would send some of them farther back, toward the inner worlds. Whatever happens, either here or with Admiral Barron’s forces, I figure there will be at least some of our people still fighting if…or when…the battle gets there.”
“I agree…I’m sure there will still be resistance, and maybe some fresh shipyards, and a few more months may allow some of our truly badly battered vessels return to the fight. To be honest, I don’t think it will make a difference in the end result, but our duty is to fight as aggressively as we can…as long as we are able. There are others whose job is to consider overall strategy, and as bad as our position is, I wouldn’t trade with them for a second.”
Taggart stared back for a few seconds, and then she started nodding. “I wouldn’t trade either…no way.” She was sure of that. As desperate as her situation was, as much as she was almost certain it would eventually claim all of her forces—and her as well—she did not envy those even farther up the command chain. She respected the hell out of Admiral Barron, but she wouldn’t want to be him right now, not for any price.
“So, Admiral…how do you feel we should approach the fleet on repairs? What ships should we send farther back, and which vessels do we focus on here? We have to decide which ones we have a chance to get at least somewhat ready before the enemy strikes again.” Simpson asked the question, and he looked to Taggart to answer first, before he did.
“Well, Admiral, I would normally send back Constellation, but honestly, as badly beaten up as it is, it is by far our best ship. I’ve had some work done on it already, and with your permission, I would increase the priority, do everything possible to get it into the best shape possible before…” She paused, just for a few seconds. “…before the enemy attacks.”
“I agree, Admiral…Constellation is absolutely vital. It goes first on the list. Anything we’ve got that you need for it is yours. Now, beyond that ship, I think Carlyle, Prescott, and Wolverine are the next in line. They’re all cruisers, but they’re big ones, and they received relatively less damage, certainly than Constellation did, but also than most of our ships did. If we get three months, I think we can have them at close to full power.”
“I concur. As a matter of fact, I would say that other than Constellation, most of the more repairable ships are from your command. Triumph, Allegre, and Doriance are certainly in better condition than any of my ships. I might scrape up Torrance from my command…it’s probably in the best shape of any of my decent sized vessels.”
She ran her hand over her face, trying to ward off the fatigue. She had no time for sleep now, no time for anything except duty. She knew her side was doomed, that nothing she could do would amount to victory. But she had to push as hard as she could. Her natural exhaustion was real…but it was also unimportant. She just had too much work to do.
Way too much work.
* * *
Gary Holsten stepped through the portal, and out into the remains of Constellation’s landing bay. He knew it would be bad, that the damage would be severe, but he wasn’t fully prepared for what he saw. There was debris everywhere, broken bits of various machines. It was mostly gathered together, in piles covering the least useful parts of the floor, but it was still shocking. He knew, of course, that the fleet had barely escaped, and that the superbattleship had truly just made it. It shouldn’t be a surprise to see the level of damage, but it still was almost overwhelming.
“Mr. Holsten…it is a pleasure to see you.” He looked up and saw Sam Taggart. She was tired, he could tell that immediately, and he wondered how long it had been since she’d slept even for a few hours. He realized that Admiral Simpson was in command, that Travis was the number two, but while Simpson was a perfectly fine officer, he knew that Taggart was extraordinary. He would pay a visit to Simpson as well, of course, but he had decided that he wanted to see her first.
“Thank you, Admiral Taggart.” He made sure to use her new rank rather than call her commodore—after all, he was the one most responsible for issuing the promotion—but he realized she was probably not the kind to care at all. “I am here to get the true sense of what we have left, about what kind of fight we can make if the enemy moves on us before Admiral Barron pulls back and joins you.” He had long spoken carefully, tried not to be too direct in letting out his concerns…but now he just said it. He knew that Admiral Barron would be returning, with whatever remained of his fleet, and that the two forces, what was left of them, at least, would probably join up. Perhaps they could get together and face off against the enemy at the Krakus System, once the location of Base Grimaldi, and defeat them, send them back to Union space. In fact, he was almost sure they could…if they could pull back far enough ahead of the main enemy. On the one hand, that didn’t seem to do much, but he realized it would actually help. Krakus was a carefully chosen system, one that formed a narrow pass between most of the Confederation and the Union…and that space was far from enemy territory. The Highborn would probably have great difficulty sending reserves, and if the humans could retake it, they might actually hold it. At least for a while.
Not that it would make much of an overall difference. Barron’s reports make clear that the enemy forces on his front were more or less overwhelming, and while his fleet, combined with the few remnants of the force here, might actually prevail in Krakus, there was likely no way they would be able to turn about and defeat the invading main enemy force, even if they suffered minimal losses in the first fight. And what were the odds of that?
“Well, Sir…I have no real idea what Admiral Barron has left, but the enemy was badly beaten up in Krakus, too. We were slammed even harder, of course, but I doubt they will be able to advance for several more months, and possibly even six or nine. If Admiral Barron returns in that time, ahead of his pursuers, I have to assume that he will have the power to retake Krakus, at least for a while. We will help, of course, though if this takes place in three or four months or less, I have to say that our forces will be very limited.” She paused a second and then added, “Very limited indeed.”
“Yes…I suspected that even before I got here, but after what I’ve seen, I’m even more certain. Still, whatever is able to help is worthwhile.”
“Of course, Sir. I will do everything possible to rush the repairs.”
“I know you will, Admiral…you have my utmost confidence.” That was true, to an extent. He had as much faith in her as anyone, but he knew there was only so much anyone could do.
He looked around again, trying to evaluate just how horrific the damage was…and how long it would take to get Constellation back into the fight, even at half strength or less. Then he turned back toward Taggart. “Do the best you can, Admiral…it’s all any of us can do.”
* * *
Holsten sat, waiting for his ship to make the jump, to head back home. He had planned to stay longer at Garvus, perhaps even to head out to meet with Tyler Barron…but he had decided that his job was centered at home, not on the frontier. He had good admirals in charge in both locations, excellent ones, and anything they couldn’t do, he would be no help in. Besides, he had heard various rumors, some signs that the Senate was getting a bit out of control. He had known that would happen, of course, that sooner or later—given enough time—they would become as bad as the body they had replaced, but he figured he could delay that, maintain a moderate level of control for a while longer. But he knew he had to be home for that. If he left them alone for too long…well, then he realized that he would be as much to blame for whatever happened as they were.
He knew there was little he could add to the frontlines, that his best position was back on Megara. It wasn’t where he wanted to be. He ached to be up with Tyler Barron, to do whatever he could to fight off the enemy. But he knew his place, and he understood the best use of his skills. He had to keep the Confederation going, to make certain that the shipyards continued producing all that they could. He liked to think that everyone understood the situation, that the politicians in the Senate knew that they were fighting for their lives, that they didn’t have any time at all for political disputes…but he knew better. The Senate would probably do a lot of good, but they would also put out a lot of damage. That was the way a democracy worked…but he knew they couldn’t afford any of it. Not now. He wasn’t sure what he could do, how much he could hold them back…but he swore he would do what he could.
He tried to tell himself that his trip had served some purpose, that he had helped Taggart and Simpson in their incredible—and mostly pointless, he suspected—operations, but he realized that the two officers would have done just as well without him, that the trip had been an exercise in frustration for him. He hated staying on Megara while so many of the Confederation’s best were out fighting…but he realized that was his place, the location where he could do the most good. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but he recognized it, and he swore that going forward, he would pay attention to it. He would remain on Megara until the war was over, however that went.
And despite his best efforts, and his hopes…he believed he knew how it would end up. His people would fight, they would fight hard, but in the end, they would be overwhelmed. He tried to push back against that thought, to develop some kind of imagined of a route to victory, but he just couldn’t. Every possibility he considered, every effort he made to think about a way his side could win ultimately ended in failure. Save perhaps, the virus. There were a lot of possible ways that could fail, too, but at least it offered some kind of chance. Still, that was mostly in Barron’s hands now, the scientists and others involved all deployed to the fleet. He found that all he could do was hope.
Nevertheless, he vowed to himself that he would fight to the end, that if he couldn’t win, he would die in the effort…and that if he could even extend that, make the end come a year later, or even a few days, he would do it.
He would do everything he could.
Chapter Four
CWS Dauntless
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Stockton walked away from the fighter, trying to appear calm and relaxed, but for the first time he could remember for years, he was actually excited. He had taken out a fighter, flew it around, and it felt just like it had been years before. He had blasted along with the patrol, and then he fired off on his own, pulling some serious maneuvers, things he hadn’t even considered when he’d taken off.
And they had all gone well! He carried off everything he had tried flawlessly. The tougher the maneuver was, the better it had seemed to go. After years of working as a slave to the implant, and then carrying it around with him almost as a prisoner, he felt back to the way he had been years before. He knew he had to fly more, to truly prove he was back, but he didn’t doubt it himself, not anymore.
He had always been committed to flying, to blasting off and soaring around, but now he realized how far he had come from the pure love he had of taking his fighter out. It had been years since he had felt this way, and he was joyous. He wanted to go back out again immediately, but he knew he should take it easy at first…and he realized he needed to get formal approval to actually return to service. Reg had probably violated orders, technically at least, by even allowing him to take out a fighter, and before he could go again, he needed to speak to Admiral Barron.
He suspected Barron would have a cautious slant, that he would encourage Stockton to take things slowly…but he didn’t doubt that he would give his consent. He was one of Stockton’s oldest friends—his best friend still alive—and Jake was almost sure he wouldn’t stand in the way…at least not too much. He, at least, understood Stockton’s devotion to flying, and he didn’t think he would put up much of a fight.
Reg Griffin was another matter. He thought about her, about the years she had put in as commander of the entire fighter force. That, of course, had been Stockton’s job before he was captured, and he would be lying to himself if he said he didn’t want it back. But how could he take it from her after so long, and after she had executed it so well?
He walked over to Reg, who had landed last and was just getting out of her ship. He walked up and waited until she climbed down.
“Reg, I just wanted to thank you for letting me join your patrol. I know it was a stretch for you to do it without checking with Tyler, and I wanted to let you know how appreciative I am.” He knew that the two of them might very well come to a fight for position, and he constantly reminded himself whatever happened, not to allow hostility to enter into it, not on his part at least. Reg had stepped up and led his fighters well when he’d been captured, and she had treated him with nothing but respect. She knew, of course, what he wanted, and he could only imagine that she wanted to keep it just as badly. But whatever happened, he would try hard not allow it to get personal, not with her.
“You flew well, Jake…very well. Better than I could have imagined. But take it easy, ok? You’ve been through a lot, a tremendous amount, and it is going to take a while to truly get back into form.” Her voice had sincerity in it, but he also detected some edginess, some concern that he was angling to take her job away, to retake control of the fighter corps. He would have assured her otherwise…except that was the exact truth. Whatever else he did, however they clashed in the coming weeks and months, he swore to himself he would never lie to her.
“Thanks, Reg…it felt good. Really good.” He didn’t address her advice on moving slowly. For an instant, he imagined she would just assume he would take care, move methodically…but then he realized she was just like him. Reg Griffin would do whatever she could to regain her old position, and do it as quickly as possible, and he realized she knew that about him as well. He was aware that the job they were destined to struggle over had been his first, but she had occupied it for years now…and neither of them was the sort who could just walk away.
But for now, he just left it where it was. He nodded to her, and he turned and walked away. He had to go and see Tyler Barron, and get himself officially reassigned, even on a testing basis. He was sure of one thing…if he was to obtain Barron’s appointment back to the overall command, he would have to prove—and that meant prove—that he was back to one hundred percent, in every way.
And he intended to do just that.
* * *
“Alright, Captain…issue the order to all ships. I want them to prepare for both a withdrawal and a fight. We won’t know which it will be, not yet.” Atara knew that a withdrawal was the only option that gave her people a reasonable chance of survival, at least for a couple more months, but she nevertheless wanted, on some level as least, to stay behind and fight. And she suspected Trotsky did as well. He was a good aide, perhaps the best she had ever had, and she wished the situation was better, that her side had a better chance.
She didn’t really want to survive a defeat, not one as total as that which faced the Confederation, and if all hope was already gone, she’d just as soon go out commanding a large fleet, and not a scattered group of survivors a month later. But then she realized that at least the virus actually gave her side a chance…a real chance. She had trouble accepting that, of imagining the enemy dying in large numbers, helpless to fight it off. That required a lot, of course, not the least of which was the still unknown factor of whether they had ever formulated a treatment or a vaccine. If they had, she realized her side was defeated, that there was really no way to prevail. Despite her doubts, however, the more she thought about it, the more hope she placed on it. She wasn’t sure that was more than wishful thinking, but it helped her stay focused, so whatever it was, it helped.
“Yes, Admiral. I suggest we reorder the force, divide it into the vessels in the best condition and the ones that are most battered. There are a lot of them that won’t contribute much to a fight, either now or in the immediate future…but perhaps if we can buy some more time for them, we can fix them up enough to give a good next showing.”
Atara agreed with him completely, though she had imagined the word ‘last’ before ‘showing’ rather than ‘next’…and while he hadn’t said it, she took that as Trotsky’s thought as well as hers.
“Very well, Captain…start prepping a list of all ships that are currently less than twenty percent effective…” She paused for a moment, considering the fact that she was calling a vessel that was more than one fifth operational to be combat ready. “…and have them prep for a withdrawal. But no one is to leave yet…I need to clear this with Admiral Barron first.”
“Yes, Admiral, of course.” The aide paused for a second and saluted. Then he turned and raced off, to begin his project. Atara realized that combat effectiveness, at least in terms of a percentage of normal, required some personal judgment, that one person might consider a vessel nineteen percent affective, while another might classify it as twenty-one percent. She felt the urge to intervene, to insert her judgment into every phase of the decision, but she realized that she simply had to delegate, that there were only so any hours in a day…and besides, she was fairly certain that Trotsky saw things much as she did, that more likely than not she would have vessels that were realistically seventeen or eighteen percent effective in the active group.
Which was good, because even with a bit of that kind of pushing, she knew a large portion of the fleet would still be sent away. Assuming Admiral Barron approved, of course. She couldn’t imagine he wouldn’t. The portion of the fleet she was planning to send back was large, but it represented a tiny part of its current firepower.
While there were plenty of badly damaged ships, at least that group it didn’t include Dauntless. Her flagship was more than sixty percent combat effective, which actually ranked it high among the vessels of the fleet, in the top twenty percent, if not the top ten. She could have changed flagships, of course, if she’d had to, sent back a badly wounded Dauntless with the rest of her battered vessels…but she was glad she didn’t have to. She wasn’t going, no matter what, not while any of her vessels remained, and she was happy that Dauntless could stay with her. In one way or another, she had been aboard since the ship had launched…and before that, she had served on its predecessor. Even more than Tyler Barron, she had developed a connection to the vessel…and if she had to die, she would choose it over any other place.
She turned and looked at her workstation, trying to figure out where Tyler was right now…but before she really got started, he got out of one of the lifts, and started walking over to her.
“Hey, Atara…I wanted to discuss the situation with you. You know I expect the enemy to come, sooner rather than later, and we have to decide what to do…whether to meet them in battle, or to pull back. Or some combination.”
“It’s funny that you came when you did, Tyler…I was just about to look for you. I have my aide dividing my force up into two groups, those less than twenty percent effective, and those more. I want to send the battered ships back now, as soon as possible. With the state of their engines, a lot of them will be going slowly enough. That will leave us with the effective portion of the fleet for whatever you command.”
“Twenty percent? I think ‘effective’ is a bit of an overstatement, don’t you?” He sounded tired, worn down to a nub…but then he agreed with her. “Still, I think that’s a good place to draw the line. The vessels at or below twenty percent wouldn’t add much to the fight anyway…and they’ll give us the hope of continuing the battle, assuming we can buy enough time to get some repairs done on them.” He paused for a moment. “Actually, I came to tell you we’re going to pull all of your ships back. I expect an enemy assault anytime, and as much as I would like to give them a full-fledged fight, there is no way we can. I do plan to give them another good struggle, at least one, but the time is not now. If we pull back, return to the Confederation, it will take the enemy some time to traverse the distance and close. That will give us more new vessels from the shipyards, and a little time at least to conduct repairs. And you held the line in the last fight, were the final one to retreat. It’s only fair that this time you be the first to go.”
Atara heard Tyler’s words, and while she agreed with them in theory, she found it difficult to accept leaving while there were still forces present. She had always been in every fight, and if there was going to be one in the present system, she wanted to take part in it. “Sir…I don’t mind being the last one out. In fact, I think I would prefer it.”
“I’m not at all surprised to hear you say that, Atara, and I would consider it if it wasn’t for the fact that your ships are in the worst shape. It’s amazing you made it out with anything at all from that last fight, and the thought of putting you back into the same position so soon, well, even if I could bring myself to do it, your forces just don’t have the power right now. I’m sorry, Atara, but this time you have to retreat.”
She felt the urge to continue the argument, but she knew he was right. She figured half of her ships, at least, were going to be in the sub-20 percent category, and Dauntless, at around sixty percent, was perhaps one of her vessels in the best shape. As attached to the ship as she was, she realized she couldn’t make any decisions based on it alone…and her command was shot to hell.
“Ok, Tyler…” She finally managed to accept that he was right. Barely. “So, I know you’re leaving someone behind, at least to give a short fight, to buy some time if the enemy comes soon. Who will it be?”
Tyler looked down for a moment, then he said, “There really isn’t a choice. The Alliance forces are too far behind the others in technology…and they’re pretty badly beaten up, too. Vian will put up a fight, of course—it’s part of their way to insist on participating in any fight—but I think I can convince him. And the Hegemony…we’re just fortunate to have them at all, and they’re still adjusting to being a smaller part of the whole, and not the largest member. Chronos will also argue with me, but he will go in the end.”
“So, that leaves Clint…and the other half of the Confederation force.”
“Yes…well, sort of. In the last battle, we were heavily engaged. Your force really had the worst of the fight. With this…engagement…I don’t intend to allow it to become that heavy. We will fight the enemy at the jump point, for a short time, hurt their lead units, and then we will run. I’m figuring something close to half of Clint’s ships…with him leading the others back along with your vessels.”
Atara knew the answer already, but she had to ask. “If Clint is leading half his force back, who will be commanding the ships in the battle?”
“I will be, Atara.”
His tone was strange, final, and she knew nothing she could do or say would change his mind. She just sat quietly for a moment, trying to think of some way to argue, to convince him to pull back and leave someone else in command of the rearguard. But in the end, she knew it was hopeless, utterly hopeless, and she didn’t even try.
“Promise me, Tyler…seriously…that you will pull out, that you won’t throw your life away, not yet at least.”
“I promise you, Atara. I don’t know if the virus will truly work, but I can promise you that I want to be there for the final battle…and to see if just maybe it does. I’ve never been a huge believer in it, but honestly, it’s our best chance—our only chance—now.”
She could hear the sound in his voice, and she knew he was serious. He did intend to survive the fight, to pull back the reserve and lead the whole fleet into combat once more…but she also knew that intentions didn’t necessarily prevail, that the plan Tyler had, whatever its specifics, was almost certainly desperately dangerous.
She figured there was maybe a fifty percent chance he would survive…and she wasn’t sure it was that high. But she knew there was nothing she could do about it.
* * *
“Jake…I am thrilled to hear that you have tried out a fighter, and that it went so well. Though, you should have come to me first.”
Stockton stared at Tyler Barron, trying to read him, to get an idea of what he would say. He was very good at analyzing people, at figuring what their responses would be, but Tyler Barron was one of the most difficult people to read. He was pretty sure the admiral wasn’t really upset that he hadn’t come to him before taking out a fighter, but that was about all he could gather.
“I know that, Sir…it just happened, sort of on the spur of the moment. I am sorry.” He knew that wasn’t really true, and that Barron wouldn’t believe him, but he hoped it would suffice to move the conversation on. “That is why I am here now, Admiral…to ask your consent. For a formal return to the fighter corps…in whatever capacity you see fit.”
Barron didn’t reply, not at first. Stockton wasn’t sure about his response, and he got nervous. But then Barron responded, in a way Stockton didn’t expect. “Jake, I knew this might happen, that the day could come when I would face you being back, ready to go…and I would have to decide between Reg Griffin and you.”
Stockton listened carefully, but he had no idea where Barron was going.
“And that day still may…probably will…come, but for now, I have an alternative. The fleet is pulling out, most of it at least. I am staying behind, with a force to blunt the enemy assault, to buy some time for the others to escape. It is not a suicide mission.” It was interesting that Barron felt it was necessary to say that. “I fully intend to retreat, to escape and fight again. But, nevertheless, it is extremely dangerous. The force I am keeping will have extra fighters, double the number it would normally have. Even more, maybe triple if I can manage it. We’re going to deploy right on the point and hold the enemy back as long as we can…and then I will issue a call, and the fighters will have to return at once. There won’t be more than enough time for an immediate return, perhaps not even a sufficient amount, but the ships will have to blast their way out once the enemy is able to transit enough of their vessels through the point to defeat us in spite of our resistance.”
Stockton listened silently, though he was pretty sure he knew what Barron was going to say…and how he would respond.
“The mission is dangerous, Jake, one of the worst situations we have ever been in, but just maybe it will do some damage to the enemy and convince them we’re still ready to fight. Then, the survivors will head back to Confederation space at whatever speed they can manage. No doubt, some won’t escape, but hopefully a portion of the force will survive the battle and come through in good enough condition to escape, to make it all the way back ahead of their pursuit. I have most of the operation planned out…the ships, the positions, the squadrons I will be deploying. But I don’t have a commander for the fighters yet. Do you want the job?”
Barron hesitated for a second, but then he spoke up again. “Before you answer, Jake, I want you to understand that the chance of being killed—even of being abandoned and left behind—is high. Very high indeed. All of the pilots will be volunteers, and as much as I need them, I will try as hard as I can to persuade them against it. I know you are looking for a way back in, to your old position…but this is just as likely a ticket to your death. I would love to have you, but I still have to suggest against it. If you take my advice, you’ll go back with the other ships, and wait and see what happens. If I make it back, I promise you a fair conclusion, at least as close to one as I can get.”
Stockton listened, and he knew already that despite Barron’s attempt to dissuade him from accepting his offer, he would take it…gratefully. And Barron knew that, too. Stockton did want to command the entire fighter command, to return to his old job…but this was a good step, a way for him to prove he was back, to set himself up—if he survived—to prove he was truly ready to go. He suspected Reg would have also volunteered to take the command, but that Barron had told her to go back, to take charge of the main force. It gave him the chance to prevail, to score a major success.
“I will take the command, Sir. I will stay here with you and lead your fighters.” Stockton stood for a moment, upright, feeling both good about being back on duty, and edgy about the nature of his assignment. But his entire life had been like that, one insane mission after another, and he realized after a moment, that he felt more normal than he had in years. “And thank you, Sir…thank you very much.”
Chapter Five
Highborn Flagship S’Olestra
Imperial System B12-023
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Ellerax sat quietly, thinking mostly about the war on his front—the main fight. But he found his mind drifting to the other conflict, the supposedly easy battle to subjugate the free humans. Back when he had first launched that attack, he had expected it to be complete long before now, but Tesserax’s last report, while positive overall, suggested a considerable amount remained to be done. That was of concern, not only because he doubted some of what his subordinate had told him, but because he needed it to be done. He wanted Tesserax and the others, and all of their ships, back to fight the main enemy. He needed everything he could get to win the war, the real war, and to establish his people once and for all as the dominant force in the galaxy.
The struggle he faced had gone on for a long while, much longer than the short duration of the fight against the humans. It had been one reason he had decided to conquer the humans when he did…to add to his power and to give him the strength to overthrow the main enemy once and for all. But things hadn’t worked out at all how he’d expected. Not only had the humans put up a much stronger resistance than he had predicted, but the primary foe had also kicked up the level of their own operations, moving the status of the long term fight to a dangerous point, to one where Ellerax had even considered defeat, and what that would mean.
The enemy had been mysterious for all the years he had fought them. His people had never captured one of them alive, nor even a dead body. He had determined that they used robots—highly sophisticated ones—for much of their operations, and his people had captured a few of them. But who the actual people were, what they looked like, and where they had come from, were still major questions. They were the only truly intelligent aliens his people had ever discovered, at least ones still alive, and he was curious about them, where they came from and how many of them there were.
He pondered what to do, how to proceed. He could order the fleet massed, launch a desperate invasion into enemy space, put everything he had into one major push…but what if it failed? Even after centuries of armed conflict, he really knew almost nothing about the enemy. If they defeated an all-out invasion, if they drove his battered and defeated forces back, that could be the end. Ellerax was usually cocky, arrogant, fully assured of his own superiority and that of his people. But right now, he was nervous, edgy, uncertain of what to do.
Should he order Tesserax to return, to abandon the fight against the independent humans for a time, to reinforce him on the main front? What would the humans do then? Would they seek to follow up, or would they take the time to rebuild? It would be annoying, certainly, to face the humans with renewed strength, to give up all the territory they had gained…but the more he thought about it, the more it made sense. He was always cocky, sure of his people’s success, but now he feared defeat. The humans were a threat, he supposed, but the primary enemy was a far worse one.
Yes, perhaps he would call Tesserax and his people back, focus all of his strength at once on the main enemy. It would cost him all the gains won against the humans, but he didn’t doubt those could be regained, and possibly more easily than they had the first time, when even he had to acknowledge his people had underestimated their enemies.
Still, he hated the notion of giving in, of accepting that the enemy was stronger than expected—and perhaps stronger than he was, though to truly imagine that was beyond his abilities—but he knew that if he didn’t at least consider it, he might face defeat. If his people lost on the main front, Tesserax and his forces would also lose, regardless of whether they defeated the humans. As strong as the forces facing the humans were, they were only a fraction of the fleet he had at home. But perhaps that was just the portion he needed to push him over the top, to overwhelm the main enemy.
Still, what if he called them back, and even together his forces were defeated? The thought was bizarre, and he didn’t know how to even consider it. His people were supremely confident, more than that even, they couldn’t really contemplate defeat, at least not easily. He knew his people had been driven from the old empire, that they were “defeated” there, but that had been the result of the disease, the one factor his people and all their science hadn’t been able to overcome. Fortunately, the empire collapsed shortly thereafter, lethally wounded by the fight against his people, and that was how he considered it, as a victory of sorts and not a defeat.
Now, he was unsure what to do. For an instant, he decided he would call back the forces facing the humans, combine everything into a final effort to defeat the main enemy. But that only lasted a moment. His confidence returned, and he decided he would assemble everything he had, all the forces that remained at home—but not those deployed against the humans—and he would launch a massive attack, one that he would lead personally. That had been the problem, he told himself. He had allowed too many others to lead, when he was the best qualified. And he would allow Tesserax to complete his conquest of the humans at the same time. He was very close to removing his subordinate, replacing him, but he decided that he was as good as anyone else…except himself, of course.
He purged entirely his earlier thoughts and concerns and told himself it was his presence that was required, that he himself would lead all of the final assaults. That was what was necessary, he realized. As capable as his people were, as superior as their abilities were, they were not him. He was the most superior, the most capable, and he had to lead his forces directly.
Yes, that was the way to finally end the war. He had to take the field, to command…and then, if Tesserax hadn’t conquered the humans by the time he won the main war, he would travel there, and take command himself.
He was Ellerax, born to be the master of all life…and his errors had been in depending on others too much. From now on, he would see to everything personally, and then he would lead, and all his minions, his own people and the humans, would live on forever, and they would all come to worship him.
And the other force, the unknown enemy that had caused him such grief for so long…they would be destroyed, totally exterminated.
* * *
“Go! Forward, and now we don’t stop for any reason, not until the enemy is completely defeated!” Tesserax shouted into the comm unit, doing everything he could to encourage his people, to take their minds off of the virus, which was becoming a larger problem every day, and getting them to focus on the attack. If the enemy had not unleashed the biological weapon, if things had continued as they had been, he would have taken more time, moved a bit more slowly. But now, the enemy had utilized a weapon that he had to stop. He had all his medical personnel working on it, desperately trying to find a cure, but he realized that had been the case three centuries earlier, and nothing was discovered then either. No, the likeliest positive scenario wasn’t the discovery of a cure, but a quick victory, one which crushed the enemy…before they could spread their new weapon to more of his people.
They had already managed to affect large swaths of his occupied space, to infect a significant number of his people. They would all die, he knew that…every one of them. At least unless his medical teams managed to produce a cure and do it very quickly. Perhaps what was even worse was the fact that his people from affected planets, many of them, had been transferred to the fleet before he had become aware of the infection. He had since put various plans into place, ordered all personnel to remain on their vessels. He tried to suggest that was about protecting them from the virus, but he knew it was just as often about trying to restrict the transmission, to keep those aboard infected ships cut off from the others, to limit the number of ships affected.
The vessels that had infected crew members, even ones who didn’t yet realize they were so afflicted, amounted to more than thirty percent of his strength. He was fairly certain his own flagship was not affected, but many of his ships were, and he intended to crush the humans before the infections became severe…before many of his crews even realized that they were dying. Most of his vessels’ operations were done by regular humans, he knew, and only supervised by his people—and the disease only affected the Highborn—but he didn’t know how the regular humans would react, when all of his people aboard their vessels died. What would they do? Would they stay focused, do their duty as long as they were capable? Or would they start to lose control? They were controlled by the Collar, but they were also used to having some of his people around to direct their activities. What would they do when they were alone, when all of his people on a given ship were disabled, or dead? Would they continue to function? Would they accept commands from other ships? Or would they freeze, waiting for orders from their dead commanders? He’d had the occasional vessel where all of the Highborn aboard had been killed in action, of course, but they were rare, and usually, there were replacements sent over very quickly. What would happen when huge sections of the fleet fell into such a condition—and worse, when he was afraid to send replacements over for fear that the virus would endure and infect the new arrivals—he just didn’t know.
In truth, despite his efforts to do everything possible to show confidence, Tesserax was worried. Very worried. He knew his force was strong enough to defeat the enemy…but he wasn’t sure what would happen in the coming months, how many of his vessels he would lose as the disease worked its way through his people. But he understood one thing that was totally clear to him. He had to win, and he had to do it now. He knew Ellerax was displeased at how long things had taken, at how desperate the fighting had been at times. When he discovered that the old virus was back, that the humans possessed it, he would undoubtably relieve Tesserax and replace him with someone else, even himself. And that was not acceptable, not after the years Tesserax had put in, after the desperate fights that had finally led him to the brink of success. No, he would keep the news from Ellerax for as long as he could, and bank on his ultimate success, the conquest of all the human nations, to save him from the fate he would otherwise almost certainly see.
Perhaps he would even return with enough strength to force the issue, to compel his leader, the first of his kind, to accept him into the top tier of power, to share the command of all the people with him. Yes, that was what he wanted, and nothing less…and he intended to get it. But first, he had to defeat the humans…totally.
He watched as his ships began to enter into the warp gate, to transit on their way toward the first battle…and toward the last battle. He could feel his eyes glistening, and on some level he knew his sanity was slipping away, but he let it go. He would win, emerge utterly victorious, and nothing would stop him.
Nothing at all.
* * *
Percelax sat down, enjoying the silence of his study for just a few moments. That was all he had, all he’d had the entire time since the fight, he thought. Just a couple of minutes to himself, before some crisis or another would arise and call him back into the fray.
The battle had been a success, at least in that he had occupied the system, and seen the enemy retreat. He had barely slipped in, just ahead of the orders to stay back, and he had won, taken the system and devastated the enemy fleet.
But his force had been badly hurt as well, far more so than he had expected. He couldn’t move forward, couldn’t even consider it, not for many more months, and while he knew the enemy was in even worse shape even than he was, they also had forts and other fixed defenses to help them in the defense of the next systems. He had no choice but to remain in place, and, perhaps worse, to send many of his ships back to get repairs. That was another negative of his posting, he realized. The Union was fairly backwards, and the number of shipyards he had managed to bring up to the standards he needed was very limited.
He heard a buzz…the sound of his intercom. It was no surprise that some minion or another needed him for something. He let out a deep sigh, and he pulled himself together and pressed the button. “Yes?”
“Sir…I am sorry to disturb you, but Villieneuve is here. He says that you sent for him.”
Percelax had almost forgotten. “Yes…yes, I did send for him. Give me thirty seconds, and then send him in.” He moved his hands through his hair, and he straightened his uniform. Villieneuve was only a regular human, but he was the titular head of the Union, and he did have certain talents when dealing with his people. He had produced more craft for the assault than Percelax had expected, and while almost all of that was lost in the fight, he had already come up with a handful of new craft.
Percelax stared at the door, and a moment later it opened, and the human entered. He nodded, and when he was about halfway to Percelax, he stopped and saluted.
Percelax stared at him, at the construction protruding from his back. That was the only reason he was obedient, he knew, the sole reason why most of the humans, at least those from the occupied territories, were. He still didn’t have enough of them to implant them in every crewmember, and every vital worker on one of the key worlds, but the people of the Union seemed to be more…pliable…than those in the Hegemony, more willing to do as they were told. He knew that was the result of their government, which, despite the fact that it was now solely controlled by his people, continued to operate under Villieneuve. The average Union resident would hardly notice the difference, and most of them knew that any opposition they showed would be crushed instantly. In that, Villieneuve’s government rivaled the efficiency of the Highborn.
“Villieneuve…I wanted to review the Union construction process with you. I know that you have already received several new vessels, but I wanted to confirm what you would have in six months. I also wanted to discuss which additional shipyards you feel are most useful for upgrading to handle some of my Highborn repairs?” He didn’t offer Villieneuve a seat, and the Union dictator didn’t move to take one. It was clear that Percelax was in command…but he recognized that the Union leader was indeed very good at what he did, and even though he didn’t like him, he figured he would use it. He would use it well.
Chapter Six
CWS Omicron
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Stockton sat in his fighter, quiet, waiting calmly for the orders to launch. He knew that the enemy was coming. They had all known for almost two days, ever since the upfront scouts had reported that enemy ships were transporting into the adjacent system. Dauntless, and much of the rest of the fleet, had already left, heading back to the Confederation. Akella had gone as well, with the Hegemony Council, and a good part of their remaining fleet, but Chronos had refused to leave, declaring that he would stay with Tyler Barron. He commanded sixteen vessels, much of the Hegemony force that was still in more or less good condition, and those ships were packed with fighters, almost four hundred craft, part of the almost two thousand vessels that were crammed into the ships of the command…every one of them under Stockton.
He had commanded even larger forces, of course, but this was the first time since he’d been back that he was placed in charge of fighters, and despite the fact that he had rarely if ever been nervous before, he was now. He wasn’t sure if it was all that had happened to him, or simply the realization that he had to perform here and do it well, to prove to both himself and to Tyler Barron that he was truly back.
Or maybe he was just getting older, losing the youthful veneer, and realizing that he could die, that he probably would die in his fighter one day. He had always thought that, known somehow that it was a probability, but now it seemed closer. That didn’t cut his zeal for flying, or his desire to regain his command, but it did drag a bit on him. When he was younger, he was perfectly willing to die if it was necessary…but now, with Stara, with everything that had happened to him, he had realized that he wanted to live, at least on some levels. He was still prepared for whatever happened, but there was something there that wasn’t before, just a little bit of genuine fear.
He pushed that aside, checked his dashboard again. His ship was powered up, ready to launch. He was set to go out first, to blast off at the head of 1,961 vessels. He had discussed the tactics with Barron, and they had agreed that this fight would be different. First, the fleet was relatively small, and it had no chance to hold back the enemy, not for long. The Highborn fleet was almost certainly huge in comparison, and they would win eventually, no matter how well Barron and Stockton and the rest of their forces fought. They were only trying to buy some time, and to bloody the advance components of the enemy.
That was the key, the tactic Barron was betting his life—and that of all the ships’ crews—on, that the enemy would expect his forces to be deployed conventionally, formed up relatively close to the gate, but set back far enough to deploy conventionally. But Barron’s forces weren’t set up back from the gate…they were right on it. Right on it.
They would blast the enemy ships as they emerged, from close range, and they would hold the Highborn fleet back as long as they could, destroying as many ships as possible…and his fighters would do the same thing. The ships would be moving at a slow speed, and they would remain close to the warp point at all times, firing constantly as the enemy ships came through. His vessels would blast the enemy craft mercilessly, until the Highborn managed to get significant forces through, and launch fighters of their own. Then, the entire fleet would withdraw…and his forces, those that could manage it at least, would withdraw to their capital ships and escape.
He had led dozens of missions, hundreds actually, but now he felt a pressure that was new to him, a realization that he had to perform. He had to. It was vital to the fleet’s having any chance at escape, and it was essential if he was ever to retain his position as the fleet’s overall fighter commander. He liked Reg Griffin, and he could acknowledge that she had done very well since she had taken over…but the position was his, and he wanted it back.
“Jake…we’re picking up activity from the gate. They’re coming through.” It was Tyler Barron, speaking to him in a calm voice that he knew was anything but. “Launch your fighters…and good luck, my friend.”
“Yes, Sir! And good luck to you, to all of us.” He flipped off his radio, and he looked around for a couple seconds, staring at the fighters crammed into the deck. They were all crewed up and ready, waiting for him to launch. He looked down, staring at his hand wrapped around the controls, and he thought about how long it had been since he had commanded Confederation—and allied—fighters in battle.
Ok, Jake…now is the time. Do this, and do it right!
He tightened his hand around the throttle, and he blasted the fighter forward, ripping through the launch tube and out into the blackness of space.
* * *
“I want everyone ready to open fire on my command. All ships, all weapons. We need to destroy those ships as they come through!” Tyler Barron sat on Omicron’s bridge. The ship was one of the new superbattleships, a true powerhouse, and one of the few arrivals since the last fight. She was considerably bigger and stronger than Dauntless, but it wasn’t the same to him. He still remembered the old Dauntless, though she would barely serve as a cruiser in today’s fleet, and he knew that’s where his heart was, where he had served in his earlier years as the commander. But he was also very fond of the newer Dauntless, the replacement for the earlier ship, which was still in service, still fighting after years and years in battle. He loved that vessel, too, but he had long realized that she was really Atara’s, and he had tried, most of the time, at least, to step back, to respect her control of the ship. Omicron made sense as a flagship. It was the newest, and one of the largest, ships in the fleet, and it bristled with power. Barron told himself that it was his flagship now, that he would come to feel about her much like he did about the old Dauntless, but he knew that wasn’t true. She might serve him well, she might fight like crazy. He might even come to like her, but she would never replace the memory of the old Dauntless, not for him.
He stared at the screen, watching the warp point, waiting for the disruption he detected to materialize into enemy ships. He knew it would happen, he had been in space his entire adult life, fighting more battles than he could easily recount, but things seemed to be moving more slowly than usual. He knew the transit didn’t take more than thirty seconds, and often less, but it seemed as though he was watching for minutes.
And then he saw it. An enemy ship where there had been none a second before.
“Fire…all ships, all guns, fire!”
He heard his command repeated, and an instant later Omicron’s batteries, and those of every other ship in the fleet, opened up, almost as one. For the first instant, there was only one target, and every battery in the fleet zeroed in on it. Before it had even recovered from the transit, it was blasted to bits, its weapons destroyed, and, just after the second vessel appeared, it blew up, too, filling the screen with a few seconds of bright light.
There go the first two…
Barron stared at the screen. He had little to do at the moment but watch, so that’s what he did. The third ship was targeted already, but between the recharge time for batteries and the need to switch targeting, it took longer to blast it to oblivion. It was still destroyed before it had any of its own guns ready to fire, but by the time it exploded, there were three other ships transited.
He kept his eyes on the display, watched as his fleet split their fire now, targeting the next three enemy vessels. Two of them were also destroyed, quickly, and the third was badly damaged, but in that time, six others had transited. He knew this was how it would go, how the longer the fight went on, the harder the battle would get…but he wasn’t done yet, not even close.
“Order the fighters to attack.” He issued the command, and after hearing his officer issue the order, he saw Stockton and his craft begin moving almost immediately. Almost two thousand fighters swarmed in, targeting only three ships, while his fleet blasted the other three. He watched as the fighters tore in, as they opened fire, first launching their torpedoes. The three vessels were large, and they could take a lot of damage…but over six hundred torpedoes were fired at each one. Even with a reasonable hit rate of 20-30%, the sheer number of shots pretty much told the story, but Stockton’s vessels scored 50%…or they would have if the ships had endured long enough. As it was, perhaps twenty-five percent hit the ships, and as many more sailed through the empty space where the vessels had been seconds before.
The fighters sailed past where the ships had been, blasting to cut their thrust, to come back again. Barron glanced at the other enemy craft, the targets of his larger vessels, and he saw that all three of them were battered badly, perhaps not destroyed utterly yet, but certainly unable to fight back, to fire any weapons.
But now, there were ten new ships through. Despite his vessels and squadrons operating at near perfection, they couldn’t keep up with the pace of transits. Soon, he knew, some of the enemy vessels would survive past their re-acclimation periods. They would fire back at his forces.
He watched as his vessels continued to fight, as Stockton’s fighters came about and blasted their way back in, firing their second rockets, at six ships this time. Some of the targets might have survived this assault, but somehow the shooting of the fighters was even better this time than it was with the first shot. Over sixty percent of the shots hit, a staggering number, and all six of the targets were blown away.
Barron leaned back, and he smiled. He knew it wouldn’t go on this way, that in spite of his massive kill ratio, the enemy was getting more and more vessels through, and they had far, far more craft than he did, but for the moment, he just enjoyed the kill ratio, the torment his ships were unleashing on the enemy vessels. It wouldn’t last…and as fate would have it, there were more ships coming in now than his people could wipe out quickly. He was watching when the first four of the enemy vessels opened fire…and several of his ships took their first hits.
It wasn’t over, not by a long shot, but Barron was also aware that the key to getting a large number of his vessels out of there, of escaping with a kill ratio heavily in his favor was to pull out in time. If he stayed too long, if he allowed too many enemy ships to get through before he ordered the pullback, he would start to lose a lot of ships, too. And that was not his goal, not at all.
* * *
Stockton pulled his hand over quickly, bringing his ship around hard. It was the kind of maneuver he had done before, years ago, during the period he knew had been his peak of performance…at least so far. He felt free, much like he had in his earlier days, and his fears and concerns, though real, seemed to remain behind, back on Omicron’s flight deck.
He had led his ships in their attacks, directing the discharge of their rockets…and watching nine battleships be utterly obliterated by the mass of destruction they unleashed. Then, after the rockets were all fired, he had issued a new command to his ships, one directing them to proceed on their own, to move forward as individual squadrons, and to blast away with their lasers.
He held himself back for a moment, issuing all the commands he had to, watching as his ships fanned out, moving against the increasing number of enemy vessels, but then he realized he was done for now. His people knew what to do, and the orders that remained to be issued would come from the squadron and wing commanders…at least until Barron issued the order to pull back. That, he knew, was going to be difficult, for the entire fleet, with a long way to go to their exit warp point, but even more for his fighters, to catch the fleeing vessels, to land the best they could while the parent ships blasted away at full speed. He suspected—no, more than suspected, he was sure—that some of his people would end up left behind, abandoned. He hated that, thought about it mostly as a fighter jock would, but he had long ago come to accept the fact that his people were far more expendable than the battleships and carriers they were based on. He knew Tyler Barron hated the idea of leaving anyone behind, but a couple dozen fighters weren’t much of a choice compared to a battleship with a crew over 3,000. He knew Barron would push it as far as he could, farther even, but in the end, he would opt to save his large vessels…and now, more than ever before. Every ship he had left was precious to him.
Jake stared at his screen, checking out the situation, and looking for a target. He knew he shouldn’t really get into the close in fighting, that he should hang back, worry about his command responsibilities. But that had never been his way. He had done all he could do for now, and even though one more ship, regardless of how well piloted, could only make so much of a difference, he selected a target, and be blasted off toward it.
He was concerned about the battle, and about the retreat he knew would be extremely stressful. He was worried about the casualties and about getting as many of his people landed when the fight was over. But most of all, he felt exhilarated. He knew it didn’t make a lot of sense, that he should be morose, over the losses he would suffer, over the desperate return to the ships for the survivors…but he felt excited. He was back where he belonged, in command of a desperate assault. He knew he would still have to face Reg, that the two of them would ultimately fight it out for the top job…but for now, he was the commander, and all of the excitement he had always felt in situations like this had returned. Jake realized, even more than he had before, that this was his purpose, that he was born to fly, that there was no other place for him, no other purpose.
He brought his ship around, angled into his target vessel…and he blasted away with his lasers. He saw one of the turrets on the ship, and he angled for that, firing at it, and destroying it. He felt excitement, joy at the act of taking out one small system on a single ship. This was his purpose, he had known it before, and now he realized it again, after years of turmoil. He was back, and he vowed to retain his role as the ultimate fighter commander, despite Reg Griffin, and the fact that he liked her, despite all he had been through and the doubts many still had about him.
He would return to his peak, his old position, and he swore that he would lead his fighters—all his fighters—at least once more.
Yes, he said to himself, I will survive this fight, and I will lead the entire force, at least once more…
Chapter Seven
CWS Dauntless
Ora-Caponis System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Andi sat quietly, listening to the ship’s personnel go about their duties. She was just a passenger on Dauntless, or at least she didn’t have any direct responsibilities, but she found that she liked being on the bridge, or anywhere else, rather than alone in her cabin, where she had nothing to do but think. Think about Tyler, about whether she would ever see him again.
She wouldn’t have left his side, wouldn’t have even considered it, save for the reason she had…their daughter. It troubled Andi greatly how long the girl had been away from her and Tyler, but she recognized the time they lived in left them no choice. She had considered going back, being a mother, a thousand times, but each of them had ended the same way. It was more important to fight, to battle to hold together the Confederation, human society in general, even if that meant the girl never saw her again.
But now, the end was coming closer, and Andi knew that. She wanted desperately to stay by Tyler’s side, but she had agreed to go back with Dauntless, to prepare for the worst. She wasn’t sure what she would do, whether she would try to blast off into the depths of space aboard Pegasus with the girl, or whether she would just take the child aboard her ship…and blast it to bits. She wasn’t the type to give up, and she still had some hope for the virus, but she knew that if it didn’t work, if it didn’t kill enough of the enemy, and fast enough, there was likely no other hope. The idea of taking off, of blasting into the depths seemed nice, in a way, at least, particularly if Tyler could come too, but she realized it wasn’t so simple. She could fill her ship with fuel, overfill it in fact, but even that would only get her so far…and she knew it wouldn’t be far enough, not even close. She could find a place to hide, maybe, but she couldn’t truly escape.
She looked across the bridge, and she locked eyes with Atara for a moment. She knew the commander of the ship—hell, of half the fleet—felt as much like she should have remained with Tyler as she did. Atara had known Tyler longer even than she had. She had been at his side for more than twenty years, serving through one crisis after another. She might even have been a bit jealous of the officer, but there had never been anything of that kind between her and Tyler. They were almost like siblings, completely devoted to each other, but nothing further…and that even stretched back before Andi, when Tyler had been, by all accounts, a bit wild.
Barron had told Atara that she had carried the rearguard the last time, that he needed her to lead her portion of the fleet back. That was all true, of course, just as much as the reason he gave Andi. But she knew it was also his attempt to send them both back, to take them away from the battle he knew would a quick and hard fought nightmare. He had sworn that he would only stay for a short while, that he would hurt the enemy as much as he could and then he would run away. He wouldn’t have had enough power to offer a straightforward fight, probably not with every ship in the entire fleet, much less the far more limited forces in his rearguard. But Andi knew him very well, and while she believed he would try to run, she knew he would give the enemy one hell of a fight first, one that could very easily claim his life. In fact, his deliberate efforts to make certain that she and Atara, and most of the others he really cared about, all went back told the story clearly. He was far from sure he would escape. Actually, Andi tended to think he didn’t expect to, or at least that he considered it a 50-50 chance.
She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts away from Tyler. She would do anything she could to help him, but she knew the only thing she could do was what she had promised him she would. Take care of Cassie…whatever that meant, whatever it turned out to be.
She looked back at Atara one more time, and then she got up and walked across the bridge, heading toward the elevator bank. She knew it would be no better in her quarters, that it would probably be worse to be all alone, but she couldn’t stay any longer, not now. She could feel her rigid demeanor beginning to fail, her endurance slipping. For a long while, she had used the virus, the hope it gave them, to sustain herself…and she knew it would again. But right now, she was close to losing it, and that she knew she had to do…in private.
* * *
“Gregory…come here for a moment. Check this out.” Dr. Emile Cathartis was crouched over an elaborate setup, his idea of the hull of a Highborn ship. It wasn’t certain he had done everything correctly, but he had certainly had more than enough bits and pieces of destroyed Highborn ships to work with. He was trying to improve the Confederation’s weaponry, to enhance its effect on the enemy hulls. But that wasn’t what he was talking about just then.
Gregory Wendell was another scientist, younger than Cathartis, and lesser in his achievements to date, but he was certainly one of the most watched of his generation, and like Cathartis—and almost every scientist in the Confederation—he was working on ways to defeat the enemy. Any way that was possible.
“What is it, Emile? Do you have something?” He hadn’t come up with anything himself, and as far as he had known, his friend hadn’t either…at least not until now.
“It’s nothing conventional. Everything I’ve tried with the normal weaponry has failed. The Highborn have designed their ships well, very well. But I tried something else, just to see, and it gave me an idea. Watch.” He moved his hands, operating some kind of equipment. He pressed a button, and there was a loud crack. At first, Gregory didn’t know what had happened. He looked up at his coworker.
“I fired a bolt…of active cold virus. You see, I was trying to come up with something that could penetrate the hull of an enemy vessel and slip inside mini explosives. But I couldn’t make it work. I could blow small holes in the hull material, but I couldn’t get them large enough to penetrate with a workable explosive. I almost gave up, but then I figured, perhaps there was something else that could work. The virus. I used the cold as my initial test, but it works with The Virus, too…”
Gregory was confused, until the moment his friend had said ‘virus.’ “You are thinking about the virus that infects the enemy. About making some kind of weapon to deliver it to their ships. But how? You’d have to insulate the virus from space and create some kind of deliverable weapon. Maybe if we have five years to work on it. But you and I both know the enemy will attack in less than six months, probably considerably less.”
“Yes, that is true…but if Admiral Winters sees the potential, puts his full support behind us, we can get everyone we need working on this. The problems you mention all exist, but they are also all clearly solvable. I can’t speak for how well this could be delivered—through spatial distances and not in the lab—about how many hits could be achieved…but I am willing to bet that we can come up with something…and maybe quickly. Just possibly in time for the battle we know is coming up.”
Gregory made a face, assuming his friend was convincing himself of the impossible…but then he really started to think about it. Maybe…just maybe there was a chance. There were a lot of questions, chances it wouldn’t work, but there was really nothing new needed for it. Just a creative use of existing technology. It might not work, but the more he thought about it, the more he started to realize that there was really no time for conventional research, for the development of new systems. There wasn’t time for anything…except just maybe to build his friend’s idea, almost without testing.
His expression changed, the doubt dissipating from his face. He didn’t exactly look confident, but he believed it was worth consideration. Worth a try.
“Let’s go and run it by the admiral.”
* * *
“Atara, thank you for coming right over.” Clint Winters sidestepped the fact that he outranked her, that he could have simply ordered her to come. The two of them commanded the Confederation forces, the bulk of the fleet at least, and until Barron returned—and despite the doubts that from time to time crept into his thoughts, he assumed he would return—he thought it best to treat her as his equal. He would take the reins if they were attacked, or if she wanted to do something he really thought was an error, but he considered that so unlikely that he didn’t even think about it.
“Of course, Clint.” Atara stepped the rest of the way into the room, and the door slid shut behind her. “You know I’m happy to come whenever you want, but I’m also aware that you haven’t, not once in the past month…so what do you say we jump right to the reason, because I’m sure it’s a good one.” She stood in front of him, staring down into his eyes.
He wasn’t surprised, not really. She was right, he wasn’t the sort to call meetings for no reason…and he did have something to discuss, something that might turn out to be nothing…or just maybe…
“Okay, Atara, I’ll get right to it…but at least sit down.”
She smiled, sort of at least, and she pulled out one of the guest chairs and sat.
“Ok…here’s the deal. We’re sitting back here, waiting for the enemy to arrive. We don’t have much chance, save for the virus, and as much of that as we were able to spread, realistically, there is no way it has hit all of the enemy. Maybe it will hurt them, in a period of months…maybe it will even upset their military actions enough to buy us some time, give us a chance to build back up somewhat.”
Atara listened. She knew all of this, of course, and she was certain there was more.
“What if we had a way to hit them right where it will hurt the most…in their warships?”
She was surprised by what he said. “You mean deliver the virus to them…in their ships…like through some kind of torpedo or something?” She sounded doubtful. Most of their physical weapons, as opposed to lightspeed lasers, operated with nuclear explosions on near misses. Actually, hitting a ship with a torpedo was very difficult.
“Not exactly a torpedo at least not all the way. More of a cloud…of very small particles. Many of them, most in fact, would be blasted across open space, but some would contact the ships. If they can hit with enough velocity, and we design them just right, they may be able to penetrate the vessel’s hull…and inject some of the virus into it. I know it sounds crazy, and the pathogen will have to have time to reproduce and infect them, and then there will be months for the disease to progress. But still, it is a chance, at least to spread the infection further, to their most vital units.”
Atara just sat for a moment, silent, but then she turned and looked at him. “I don’t know, Clint…it seems there are a lot of things that could go wrong. We have to actually hit the ships, at least with some of these small devices. And we have to connect with a lot of them, or it won’t do enough…which means we’ve got to build a huge number of them, very quickly. Then, the virus has to multiply and spread through the vessel…and while we have every reason to believe it is very communicable among the Highborn, we have no knowledge that scoring a couple hits, depositing a few tiny batches into the vessel, will be sufficient to invoke a shipwide outbreak. We don’t even know how many Highborn are on the ships, as opposed to enslaved humans. According to Jake Stockton, and I remind you that he was posted to a flagship, not a normal vessel, there were perhaps fifty Highborn…and as many as three thousand humans, so even if we are successful and kill off the Highborn, there is no way of knowing what effect it will have on the vessel’s operation.”
“That is all true, Atara, and probably a dozen other things either of us can speak of…but then, let me ask you one question. What else can we do? What option offers a better chance, even if it is relatively small?”
Atara didn’t answer immediately. She just sat and thought about it. Finally, she said, “You’re right, of course, Clint. We’re already in a bad position, with almost no chance, and this may offer some kind of way to hurt the enemy. We have to do anything we can, even if the chance of success is small.”
“Yes, that is true. But please, review the details further. I’m not saying this is necessarily going to be a huge success, but I think it has more potential than you give it. Don’t forget, the enemy is very pompous, assured of their superiority. The planets we have infected, the spread of the disease, is going to have a serious effect on them. I’m sure they already have measures in place, efforts to separate their people, to limit the transmission of those we have already reached. If we are successful in spreading the illness further, in reaching their ships, that will only increase the overall effect. At some point, we may hit some level at which we truly affect their behavior, the ability of their survivors. They will be more concerned about our capacity to spread the disease, and less certain about their own to prevail. They might even withdraw, at least for a while. It might be a longshot, but it could actually lead to a victory for us, or at least a chance to build our fleets back up and give them a better fight.”
Atara looked at him, and she nodded. “You are right, Clint. Unless the whole thing is pointless. We know that the virus worked on the three captives we had, but we still have no real proof that they don’t have a treatment of some kind. We were never able to get any of the prisoners to talk, and as far as we know, the planets we infected, all the Highborn we have afflicted save the three prisoners, have already been inoculated. We keep banking every hope we have on the disease working, on it somehow infecting enough of them to make a difference, to give us a shot at winning the war. What if they have already started treating it, if for all of our efforts and sacrifices, there is no real effect of this disease?”
Clint Winters looked at her for a moment, considering what she said. He wanted to answer her with something hopeful, but he just couldn’t. Finally, he just said, “Then, it’s over. If the virus isn’t effective, if we’re really just down to what remains of the fleets, we have no chance. None at all.”
Chapter Eight
CWS Omicron
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron sat, watching his ships fight…and noting the increasing number of enemy ships that had come through the warp point. It was expected, of course, and he knew it would continue until the enemy overwhelmed his forces. That was something he couldn’t allow. But exactly when to pull out, to decide he had achieved the maximum damage to the enemy while suffering the minimal losses himself, was still somewhat of a mystery.
But it was getting closer. And he knew if he allowed too many enemy ships to gather, he wouldn’t get away at all…and as much as part of him was prepared for that, he knew he couldn’t give in, fight to the end quite yet. He still had some resistance to offer, and as long as there were ships in the fleet to continue to struggle, he swore it would go on…and he would lead it.
He wasn’t a huge believer in the virus plan, but he knew that, too, offered some hope, a chance that his people could possibly prevail.
“Increase the output on all weapons to 115%.” He gave the order, after more or less deciding against it. He knew it might cost him systems, even vessels, but in the end, he realized he needed everything he could bring to the fight. He was going to have to withdraw soon, and he wanted to take as many enemy vessels down as he could before then.
“Yes, Sir.” Jack Trafalgar was a veteran of the navy, but he was relatively new to Barron. His command was mostly new people, as he had tried to make sure as many as possible of those he knew were back with the main fleet. That made his crew, while mostly veterans, perhaps not the best in the navy. But Trafalgar was definitely an exception, and Barron had realized that almost immediately. He was very impressed with the officer, and he had already decided to keep Trafalgar with him throughout the war. He always needed more good officers, and he wasn’t going to let one as good as Trafalgar slip away from him.
He watched his ships respond to the order, looked on as the power level of their fire increased. He was mostly considering how long he could stay, when he had to give the order for his ships to run, but he took a moment to focus on the increased firepower, on the barrage his ships were putting out onto the transferring enemy ships. There were a lot of enemy vessels through already, and they were coming far faster than his forces could destroy them now. He knew he would have to withdraw soon, and that meant even more quickly he would have to order his fighters to return to his ships…but when he glanced at them on the screen, he realized they were tearing into the enemy vessels like mad, even more aggressively than he remembered. Jake Stockton was trying to prove his worth, that no one was better than he was at what he did…and he was doing it.
Barron stared at the display, watched as the fighters went in toward the enemy ships, blasting away with abandon. Stockton was not only a brilliant tactician, but it looked like he had come a long way toward recovering his standing with his pilots, at least with those he commanded now. Even as Barron watched, he saw three enemy battleships destroyed by them in rapid succession, and more were under desperate attack. He wasn’t surprised at the ships Stockton had taken out early on, when he’d had his missiles, and when the enemy forces present were much smaller. But now, his forces had used all of their main weapons, and were down to their much lower powered lasers. Still, they were taking out a significant number of enemy ships.
Barron was focused on Stockton for a few moments, but then his attention got diverted. For the first few minutes of the fight, only his side had fired. The first enemy vessels that got through were blasted to rubble before they could even fire, but now many more ships had come through, and a fairly large number of them were firing.
He could see the beams coming into his ships, in larger numbers every minute, and his vessels began to take considerable damage. Then, almost immediately, he lost his first vessel, a cruiser called Carruthers. The ship was hit by four major shots, almost at once, and it hovered for a few seconds before it exploded wildly.
Tyler Barron had seen hundreds of ships destroyed in his career, and he tried not to let it get to him. But a few minutes later, another cruiser was lost, and just after that, he saw one of his battleships hit by half a dozen shots in a matter of seconds. The vessel was still there, holding out…but Barron knew it was gutted, that it was probably wouldn’t survive the battle.
It is almost time…or is it already here? Should I order the fighters back, and the ships to begin their retreat…or should I hold out a little longer? He knew he should give the command, begin the withdrawal immediately, but as much as he was sure that was the right thing to do, he couldn’t, not yet.
He turned back, looking toward the fighters, little more than a series of blurs on his screen, and he watched as they went in after more enemy ships, gunning them down mercilessly. He had to give them a little more time, at least a couple of minutes. But he knew the overall situation was deteriorating rapidly, and it would only get worse. He would give Stockton a couple more minutes…but only that. Then his force had to retreat.
It had to run like crazy, and hopefully stay ahead of the enemy forces coming through the gate every moment.
* * *
Stockton brought his arm around, swinging his fighter wildly. The longer he flew, the more he fought, the farther his intensity grew. He remembered a hundred earlier fights, and some wild efforts, but never a time where things were more desperate than they were now. He knew his people were very near the edge, that his efforts were only a small part of what they could do to hold off utter defeat, but he swore that they would not go down, not while he was alive. Jake Stockton had been through a tumultuous four or five years, the worst by far he had ever experienced, but now he was back. Back where he belonged. He couldn’t promise success, but he could swear that he wouldn’t survive defeat.
He blasted his ship forward, at full speed, heading toward one of the enemy battleships. It was one of the eight ships he had sent his fighters against, and it was badly damaged. One fighter, at least without torpedoes, couldn’t do a serious amount of damage to so large an enemy vessel, but hundreds of them, coming from all sides, battering it endlessly, could. And they had. He had checked his scanners, monitored each of the vessels his forces were attacking. Individually, his fighters had each done little damage, but as a group they had gunned the ships endlessly and blasted them hard.
He stared straight ahead, bringing his ship in, closer than he had before. He remembered back in the day, before he’d been captured by the enemy, when he had flown in close to targets. He had been somewhat cautious at first, but now he was almost sure all of his abilities were back…and he was determined to repeat that tactic, to close in as much as he could. He fired, once, and then a second shot, but he kept his ship on target, closing with the enemy vessel, firing again, and then a fourth time.
He glanced for a second at his screen, watched as the shots all hit. They caused damage, some at least, but he knew that would only do so much, that it would take a hundred or more hits from a fighter to seriously damage such a large ship. Of course, he wasn’t the only one attacking, and he was hopeful the combined effort would succeed. He glanced around, saw at least ten other ships attacking, just from his side of the vessel. But he was going to do as much as he could to add to the total, and the closer he got, the more damage each shot did.
He fired again, and again. Now he was close, almost as close as he had ever come, but this time he pushed on his throttle, angled his ship downwards, and came in even closer. His trajectory allowed him to come in farther than he ever had, and he fired once again, from less than 5,000 meters. The way he had flown before, he would have crashed right into the ship, with no chance of escaping, but with his altered angle, he had just made it work. His hand moved the instant after he fired, and his ship blasted off at full thrust…escaping the enemy ship by less than a hundred meters.
The shot had been dead on, and as soon as his ship was clear, he angled his vessel again, and he looked to check out the damage he had done. The explosion was considerable, and he could see at least a dozen areas that were badly damaged by his other ships. He knew he should continue pulling away, that he was very close now and vulnerable to the enemy’s defensive batteries. But his gut told him the ship was close to being destroyed, and he made his way back, blasting at full, first reducing his speed away to nothing, and then increasing it again toward the vessel. He hadn’t intended to lead any of his people to follow him, but six others saw him, and they all did the same thing, coming around, in toward the enemy ship, right behind him.
He thought about directing them away, telling them to pull off, to not take the risk—the risk he was himself taking—but he didn’t do it. He knew what was coming, and he was fairly certain a lot of his people would die, if not in the current fight, in the next one, or the one after that. He knew his pilots were pushed to the limit, as was everyone else in the fleet, and he had decided to allow his people to make their choices, to determine how they would live…and how they would die.
He stared ahead of him, watching the incoming fire, evading it as well as he could. At least three-quarters of the vessel’s defensive guns were knocked out, which seriously cut down on the fire he and his people faced. Still, it was a danger, and a few seconds later he saw one of his companion ships hit. The fighter took a shot that looked as if it barely touched it…but then it lost control and spun around. Stockton felt an urgency to help, but he knew there was nothing he could do. Perhaps the ship would clear the vessel, and the pilot might survive. But that wasn’t likely, he realized, not in the current battle. When his people got the recall order, he knew they would have to race back to their base ships, that they wouldn’t have an instant to waste…and everyone in a damaged fighter, with reduced engine power, would likely be left behind. There wasn’t any way around that, he knew. No rational officer would risk three thousand personnel over a damaged fighter, or even two or three. Neither the ship’s captain, nor Admiral Barron would feel good about it, but in the end they would make the logical decision. As a younger man, Stockton had disagreed, he hated that kind of logic, but now, despite the fact that it affected his people, that it might affect him one day, he understood, and he reluctantly agreed.
But the pilot of the damaged fighter must have realized that he wouldn’t make it back, that being captured was his only option to dying. And it was clear he knew which of those he wanted. Stockton could see, and he predicted the action just before it happened. He felt an urge to call out to him, to try to get him to stop, but he knew more than anyone what being captured meant, and he remained silent, watching intently as the ship streamed into the enemy vessel, causing considerable damage as it crashed.
Stockton nodded, a silent tribute to the officer, and then he focused back on his own ship, on his most recent attack. He knew he couldn’t come any closer than he had, that he had barely escaped the last attack. But he wasn’t prepared to step it back either. His eyes darted back and forth, between his display and the area in front of him. He could see the enemy ship now, coming closer every second. He breathed deeply…and held his breath.
His ship zipped in, coming ever closer. His range dipped down, to 5,000 meters, and then he fired. He pulled up, right afterwards, but for a moment he wasn’t sure it was on time. For a half a second he thought he was going to crash, that the day of his loss in one of his ships that he had envisaged for so long, had finally come. But then he whizzed by, perhaps fifty meters from smashing into the vessel, and he sailed off across space. For an instant, his thoughts drifted back to the pilot he had lost, but then his attention returned to the ship he had attacked, the vessel that was now under assault by at least 200 of his fighters. There were several explosions, beginning up toward the bow. They were relatively small, and for an instant, Stockton thought they weren’t enough, that the vessel would survive, at least a little longer. But then a huge split opened up, tearing through at least half of the ship. Huge flames leapt out of it, dissipating as they came into the vast expanse of space, and as the oxygen escaping from the ship dissipated. Then, perhaps ten second later, the entire ship exploded, its vast mass disappearing, being absorbed by a huge explosion, and then, perhaps thirty seconds later it began to evaporate, leaving nothing but a few clouds, and bits of matter that were cast away from the area of the huge detonation.
Stockton felt joyous, thrilled as he always was at the destruction of an enemy ship. He knew there were more of them coming every minute, that his force would have to withdraw soon, but for a few seconds, he felt pure exhilaration.
Then he checked his screen, looking for a new target. But before he could zero in on another ship, he received the word from Omicron. The withdrawal order. He had been known to extend things, to send back some of his forces while he remained and took another shot or two. But he knew this time was different. There were over a hundred enemy ships through the gate now, and more coming every minute. The forces present already outnumbered and outgunned Barron’s entire force, and worse, perhaps, at least to Stockton, several of the enemy vessels were launching their own fighters now.
He realized he had no choice, that he had to pull his fighters out of the battle, and begin the desperate escape, back to their mother ships, and with any luck, out of the system.
And to the next fight.
Chapter Nine
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System D12-1649
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
“What is going on over there? We’ve sent over one hundred forty ships through, and the reports coming back suggest that we have lost over sixty ships so far! How it that even possible? The enemy has withdrawn, and we’re fighting a rearguard…nothing more. The same reports that speak of our losses report no more than seventy or eighty enemy ships in total! Our force should have destroyed them all by now.” Tesserax wasn’t speaking to anyone in particular. He was on the bridge of his flagship, with at least a dozen of his people present, and his words were directed out to them all…and none of them.
It was bad enough that his fleet was partially affected by the disease all of his people feared, that the time pressure to complete the destruction of the enemy was further accelerated by it, but for an enemy rearguard to offer the kind of defense this one had, to inflict the damage his forces had sustained, was unexpected. He had assumed any rearguard would be commanded by a lower level leader, but with the damage his forces had taken, he rethought that. Perhaps he was facing one of the top enemy commanders, perhaps even Admiral Barron himself.
That was hard for him to accept. He would never expose himself to the unnecessary risk of such a fight…but he wondered now if Barron would. Yes, he realized, he thought he would. In fact, the more he thought about it, the likelier it became. Perhaps he could turn the whole thing around, make it a real success instead of an overly expensive effort. If he could kill the enemy leader, it would be well worth the losses he had suffered.
“Send the following order out, both on a robot messenger and also to all of the ships about to make the jump. The enemy force is to be attacked more vigorously than it has been. I believe Admiral Barron is in command, and I want him killed. All vessels are to move forward, as aggressively as possible. Destroy his flagship. If he is there, kill him.”
He listened as the comm officer repeated his command, and as he prepped a bot to take it forward as well. In a moment, the rocket launched, and headed directly toward the warp gate. He wasn’t sure what would be first, his new ships to get through and shake off the period of inactivity they experienced after a jump, or the smaller, sleeker rocket to do the same thing, albeit faster than one of his capital ships. But it didn’t matter which was first. He had sent both of them.
He stared at the screen, watched as the rocket blasted towards the gate, even as his ships continued to go through. He knew, if Barron was there, he would try to escape, that the rearguard would not fight to the end, at least not voluntarily. It wasn’t that he didn’t think Barron would fight to the finish—to be honest, he would be disappointed in anything else—but this wasn’t the end, not yet. Barron would flee if only to fight again, to launch a last ditch defense of his home space, of the Confederation.
At least he would if he was able to escape.
Tesserax watched his screen, saw as more and more ships zipped through the warp gate, and he wondered how far Barron would push things, how long he would remain. His opinions on the human leader were still forming, and he wasn’t sure. But something told him Barron was very aggressive, that he would remain as long as possible…and perhaps a bit longer than that.
That is exactly what he was hoping for.
* * *
Ellerax sat quietly, appearing calm to everyone around, but inside he was anything but. He had worked hard, essentially around the clock, preparing for his invasion, for the destruction of the enemy. But despite his natural confidence, he was still troubled by occasional fits of uncertainty, by concerns that despite his massing of forces, and his personal leadership, his side could still lose.
That was absurd, he knew. His own leadership would be invincible, it would propel his forces to victory…but still, there was some kind of doubt present. It wasn’t enough to convince him to change his efforts, to get him to alter his plans, but it was powerful enough to keep him edgy. Worried.
He stared at the reports that were coming across his desk, the location of every ship he had, and how long it would take a mass all of the forces into one fleet. That, at least, he had decided without a doubt, that he would place all of his vessels together into one large group. That would sacrifice the defense of some of his planets even, leave most of his own frontier open…but it would all be in the pursuit of ultimate victory. If the enemy split their ships, if they invaded his undefended worlds, so much the better. They would have fewer vessels available when the final battle came. Once he won that fight, the war would be over. He might have a few smaller enemy groupings still to destroy, but that would only be a moderate amount of finishing up. The war would be won in the large main battle, and he was determined to win that, whatever the cost.
He pulled up his keyboard and began typing out orders. He was very concerned, not about his people’s loyalty, but about their competence, their ability. He knew they were all good, that they understood what they were doing, at least to a point.
But not to the same point that he did.
Ellerax was almost four hundred years old. He had been born to lead, and he had done so for most of the time he had lived. And he planned to continue to lead. Forever. That meant sometimes realizing the limits of his own people’s abilities, and of stepping in when he had to.
He had always known how many ships he had in total. Over three thousand vessels, not including Tesserax’s forces on the human front. His vast armada had been spread out across his domain, much of it fighting in various battles for centuries, but in another month, six weeks at the outside, they would all be assembled in one system, ready to set out. It was his grand plan, the ultimate solution, and the more of the enemy forces that were spread out, away from their main fleet, the better.
He wasn’t sure how many vessels in total the enemy had, but of all of the estimates he had assembled, the work of centuries of review by his people, none of them extended beyond several hundred. They were better than his ships, even he had to admit that, though it was difficult, but he was certain his combined force was powerful enough to defeat them, and to proceed on to their planets, to wherever they lived and destroy them, utterly.
He looked up again for a moment, trying to think of everything he had to, of the coming offensive, of Tesserax and his forces…and of the two enemies. He tried to consider everything, to analyze all of the details, but behind it all, driving his mind, arranging his thoughts, was the Highborn realization that they were superior…the most superior creatures the universe had ever known. That didn’t exactly explain the enemy ships being so superior, or how the war had gone on for centuries…but it didn’t have to. Ellerax was like all of the other Highborn, and whatever he thought about, whatever he put his substantial mind to, eventually, the end result showed his people’s victory. He wasn’t capable of anything else, despite the doubts that occasionally jabbed at him.
His people would win because they were the best, and that, in the end, was all that mattered.
* * *
Percelax stared at the ships he could see, the vessels lined up, awaiting time in one of the repair facilities. He knew that fixing his ships would take long enough even if he had sufficient facilities, but looking at so many vessels just waiting to be even partially repaired upset him. It stretched out the time before his forces could continue their advance, and now he was just hoping he could be ready in another six months…but he was far from sure.
He had started upgrading some nearby Alliance shipyards to allow them to repair his own ships, but that work alone would take months before the first vessel could even begin refurbishment. He did have several smaller yards that had already been upgraded, but they were far from enough to handle the amount of work his fleet required. He was fairly certain the enemy was in even worse shape, that they couldn’t think about returning to the system and attacking. That, at least, was a good thing…his victory would stand. But it would be a while before he could return to the fight either, before his fleet was ready to launch a new assault.
What would happen in that time? Would Tesserax advance far enough along the main front to approach his position? Would his commander seize the initiative quickly enough? And how did he feel about that? Annoyed, certainly, irritated that Tesserax would come in and steal all of the limelight. But then he considered the alternative, that the enemy forces facing the main fleet withdrew, that they came back and attacked him before Tesserax could intercept them…and before he had even completed his repairs.
As much as it annoyed him to think of the overall commander gaining even more of the credit for the victory, he actually decided he would be better off, that he would retain the credit for his earlier victory, and not have it damaged by a new defeat.
He wondered, however, how would Tesserax act? He might prefer Percelax to engage the enemy, even to be utterly destroyed, just to further diminish the humans’ strength. Yes, he thought further, that is exactly what he will want. Anything that diminished his own standing, that gave Tesserax and the main force more of the credit, was definitely going to appeal to the overall commander…and Villieneuve and his people were utterly expendable, even more so than he and his followers.
He thought about what he could do, how he could alter things, avoid being destroyed. He knew Tesserax wouldn’t really care if he survived, but he probably wasn’t trying to have him killed. Actually, he suspected he was irrelevant to Tesserax’s goals, that he could live or not, as long as most of the glory of the win went to the top.
He knew the answer, at least in theory. If the enemy fleet—the main fleet—came after him ahead of Tesserax, he would have to make a decision on whether to fight, to try desperately to hold out, or to give up, to abandon the system, to give back all he had won. That was a terrible plan, he knew. It would cost him most of the credit he had gained for taking the system…but perhaps it could be modified. Maybe he could pull back, knowing that the enemy forces couldn’t stay long, that they would have to fall back again to face Tesserax, and his forces and he could just come back, retake the system.
Yes, he thought, that just may be a good plan, the best. The enemy could move against him, try to take him out, but he knew they wouldn’t be able to follow him, to come further along. They would have to withdraw, move to the position where they could take on Tesserax, and then he could just move back, and retake it.
Hell, he could even advance, enter the battle and come to the aide of Tesserax’s forces. His commander would have no choice but to give him at least some credit in the final large battle, to award him, at least in part.
The more he thought about it, the more he agreed. There was no reason to offer a fight in the system, no reason at all. He would simply pull back, stay away from the enemy until they had no choice but to fall back.
And then he would follow…and join in the final battle.
Chapter Ten
CWS Omicron
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“The fighters are to return to the ships…now!” Barron knew he had waited as long as he could, and just possibly a bit too long. His ships weren’t that badly beaten up, not most of them yet, but they were starting to take considerable fire. In a few more minutes, he would have badly damaged vessels, and even some destroyed. He had to pull them out, right now. And that meant he was already late to call in the fighters. “Advise the fighters they will have to dock with fleeing ships…and command the entire force to pull out, right now.”
He had considered leaving behind a force to try to keep the enemy occupied, to attempt to hold them back long enough for the rest of the fleet to escape. He knew he probably should do just that, but he was also aware that an assignment to the rearguard would essentially be a death sentence. There were a lot of enemy ships through now, and more arriving every minute. Perhaps he should have chosen some ships to stand, to sacrifice for the others to have a better chance at their escape…but he just couldn’t. For once, almost all his ships were close to fully functional, and he just couldn’t yank anyone’s chances away from them. Perhaps some of them would be destroyed by the time they reached the far off jump gate, but at least he would have given them all a chance.
He told himself the same thing about the fighters, though he knew landing on a running ship was an extremely difficult thing to do. Still, he knew there was no alternative. If he ordered his ships to remain in place until the fighters had landed, none of them would make it out. He knew the next few hours were going to be incredibly difficult, but he had known that all along. At least his force had really beaten up the enemy advance guards. He didn’t expect it to buy a lot of time, but he knew the loss ratios, so far at least, were immensely in his favor. If his people could hold it together, if they could execute their flight and keep moving to the next jump, he would have scored an impressive victory. It wasn’t enough to equalize the fight, of course, to give his side any real chance when the curtain drew on the final battle, but right now, he had to take a day at a time.
A minute by a minute.
“Admiral…all ships acknowledge, as does Admiral Stockton.” Trafalgar spoke calmly, though Barron seriously doubted he could be. He knew they were entering the most difficult part of the engagement, and probably the one where they would seriously start taking losses. All his people could do now was run, picking up as many fighters as possible and getting out of the system. He tried to tell himself that all of his people would make it out, that battleships and fighters alike would all find their way home.
But he knew that wasn’t true. All he could do now was watch…and wait. And see how many escaped.
His eyes were fixed on the main screen, watching his vessels begin to blast away from the enemy. They were being fired on as they did, with more of the Highborn ships shooting every moment. None of his vessels had been destroyed yet, but he knew that was only a matter of time. How many would actually make it out, and how many fighters would return and land, were huge questions, ones he didn’t even know how to answer. He looked at the plot from the enemy’s warp gate to the one he was planning to use for his exit. They were separated by a good distance, perhaps seven hours for his newest ships, at least if they stayed more or less undamaged, to ten or more hours for his slowest. How quickly the enemy would follow them was one of the questions he couldn’t answer. He hoped they would be delayed, that his withdrawal would give his ships an edge, but he didn’t know who was in command of the enemy’s advance guard, and how aggressively they would come on.
His eyes were fixed on the enemy vessels, trying to determine exactly what they were going to do. They had a lot of damaged ships, especially among their farthest in ones, and there was definitely a chance that his people would gain at least an advantage in their escape. But he found it impossible to believe that his vessels would gain enough of an edge to actually get away. Not all of them at least.
He looked at his own ships on the display, saw then beginning to pull away from the enemy, to start their escape attempt. They were responding quickly, which they should be…he had addressed the withdrawal at least several times and told all of his commanders that they were to obey at once when the order was issued.
He stared at the clouds of tiny dots—Stockton’s fighters—and he was less sure of their conduct. Jake was the finest pilot he had ever known, and a brilliant commander, but he had a bit of a problem with retreat orders. He was sometimes slow to obey, and this time, slowness would mean death for his pilots. This wasn’t a situation where Barron could hold back his ships, give more time for the fighters to return. No, they had as long as it took his vessels to reach the transit point and jump.
And not a second more.
He stared at the screen for another few seconds, and he was about to tell Trafalgar to get Jake Stockton on the line…but just then, he noticed the clouds begin to spread out, some of the fighters moving toward his ships. He knew they were all flying along different paths, that some had more speed away from the fleet to overcome…but it appeared that Stockton was obeying his orders. Barron was edgy, nervous about how many of them would even reach ships that could land them, and whether those vessels would make it out of the system. But so far, at least, everything was going as well as he could expect, at least for now.
What was going to happen in the next minute, the next hour, was anyone’s guess.
* * *
Stockton repeated the orders into his comm. “Retreat…I repeat, retreat!” He knew those who didn’t reach their mother ships, who didn’t land on time, were going to be left behind. That was bad enough in any situation, but for him, the idea of being recaptured by the enemy, of having another one of their devices installed, was inconceivable. He told himself he would die first, that he would crash into one of the enemy ships before he would allow himself to be captured…but then he had always felt that way, and still he had been taken before. All it required was for him to lose consciousness in his vessel, and the enemy could grab him again.
He felt himself shaking. Jake Stockton had come through his entire career without really feeling fear…but now he felt it. Just thinking about the enemy, about any chance of being captured, gave him the shakes.
He tried to push it aside, to take a position on the rearward side of his command, closer to the enemy. It was the way he had always flown, but now it was taking everything he had not to blast at full for home.
He looked at his scanners, checked out his formation. That was a fancy word, he knew. His ships were actually more of a blob, still getting larger as most of his craft raced back to the fleet, but some of his ships were still pulling away, blasting hard to reverse their course and follow the others.
His own fighter was more or less heading back. He thought about reversing course, of placing himself in his usual position, at the rear of his force. But he knew that wasn’t going to matter, that his people would either make it back, or they wouldn’t, and there was nothing he could do.
Then he saw another cloud, more fighters.
Enemy fighters.
He sighed for a moment, tried to decide what to do. There were actually five clouds, coming from different areas of the enemy fleet…but only one was very close. That one would reach his fighters, some of them at least, before they got to their ships.
They had to be dealt with.
He stared at the display, picked out the areas where his fighters could come in from behind, where engaging the enemy wouldn’t appreciably slow down their escape…at least not if the fighter battle didn’t last too long.
He moved his mouth toward his microphone, and he said, “All fighters…keep moving, get back to your motherships. Except…” He paused just for a few seconds. “Wings A3 and A4…continue to accelerate toward the fleet as well, but on the way, you have to take out the enemy fighter formation at 360-d23. Go in hard, and blast the hell out of them. We only have a short while to take them out and still reach the motherships in time.” He knew it was a very small amount of time, but it had to be done.
He stared at his own board, thinking for just a few seconds. Then he reached out and grabbed his throttle, pushing it forward, blasting his thrust out at full speed…away from the fleet.
Toward the enemy fighters.
* * *
Barron was watching. He had Stockton’s fighter marked up on the screen, and he saw it as it blasted in reverse direction, not toward the fleet, but away from it. For an instant, he thought the commander of his fighters was heading back to the enemy fleet, and he reached over for his comm, intending to order him back himself. But then he spotted the fighters. The enemy fighters.
He saw what Stockton was doing, and as much as he wanted Stockton to come back, he understood. Just maybe Stockton and some of his fighters could hit the closest enemies, the ones who would catch his fleeing forces, and still make it back before their mother ships all transited and left them behind. The idea of abandoning any of his people repulsed him, and he intended to do everything possible to ensure that they had every opportunity to escape. But he knew that further delays in the arrival of the fighters, like those resulting from battles fought along the way, would make that very difficult.
And Stockton…he was almost certain his fighter commander would not allow himself to be captured, not if he had any choice about it. He was sure Stockton would take his ship alone if he had to, against a dozen enemy battleships, before he would allow himself to be taken again.
No, Barron thought. He is going to make it back. He will blast that group of fighters and flee back before any others manage to close.
He thought that, but even as he did, his doubts grew. He pulled back from the microphone…the last thing Stockton needed was to be distracted by a communication right now.
C’mon, Jake…finish them off and get back here. In time.
He watched as his commander raced back, leading a cluster of fighters into the enemy. He knew there was no time to waste, that even reaching the fleet without further delays was difficult. But he knew there was no choice…none but to engage the enemy and defeat them quickly.
Very quickly.
* * *
Stockton jerked his hand hard, bringing his ship around to avoid half a dozen torpedoes fired in his general direction. The enemy fighters had not been well trained before he had been captured and ultimately placed in command, and the efforts he had made to improve their performance, while substantial, had clearly faded. That made sense, of course. The losses suffered in the intervening time had been enormous, and the Highborn’s fighter pilots, all normal humans enslaved by the same device he had carried, didn’t fight with the same skill or aggression his people did.
He watched as the rockets propelled onwards, past where his fighter had been. He had lost all but one, which managed to maintain its tracking and follow him. He dove again, heading back towards the enemy, and hopefully shaking the torpedo. He stared at it as he blasted his thrusters at full, and for an instant, it looked like it was going to follow. But then, it sailed off in a different direction.
He breathed hard. The last torpedo had come closer than he’d anticipated, and when he looked up at his force, he realized two of his ships had been hit. It wasn’t exactly unexpected, but it still bothered him. The fight, so much of it against just transferred vessels, had not been especially deadly. He didn’t know the exact numbers, but he figured he had lost less than two percent of those he had brought in. But now, he knew he was fighting a better prepared force…and that his people would lose more ships.
“Alright, everybody, remember, this isn’t a bunch of just transited ships, still not fully operational. These fighters are not as good as you, certainly, but they’re fully operational…and they can kill you. I need everybody at the top of their game. We need to wipe out this force and do it quickly. Or we’ll end up stuck here…and you know what that means.”
No, they didn’t know…but he did.
“Now, let’s finish this and catch up with our mother ships!”
He angled his fighter hard, coming around the outer edge of the enemy formation. He looked at the ships closest to him, and he picked out one. He angled around, trying to come in from behind it. The Highborn fighter responded, though, far better than he hoped, and he found himself coming in from the side.
He squeezed his trigger, fired his lasers three times. The first shot grazed the target, sending it off in a direction that caused his second to miss entirely. But he adapted almost instinctively, and his third went directly into the enemy vessel. It exploded wildly, and despite the situation, the stress, Stockton felt exhilaration. He knew the situations, both in the current fight and overall, were bad—damned bad—but despite that and his many worries, he felt pure excitement. He was a fighter pilot, above all, beyond even his abilities as a commander, and he realized it. And fighter vs. fighter combat was the ultimate for him. Despite the risk, the danger of losing, of being killed, he just loved it. He knew his rank, his age had given him many opportunities to leave his cockpit behind, to advance to some other position, but he didn’t want to. More than anything, he loved flying his fighter, and blasting enemy ships.
He brought himself around, searching for another target. He was half-absorbed in the fight, loving every minute of it, but he also realized that he had to win this battle, and quickly. If he took too long, and almost any time was too long, the mother ships would be gone, and his fighters would be trapped. That would be the end, he knew, and as much as he had always expected to die in his ship, something told him today wasn’t the day.
His eyes focused on an enemy fighter, and he adjusted his trajectory, brought his ship in hard. No, he thought, today is not the day.
Chapter Eleven
CWS Dauntless
Tara-Epsilon System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Andi stood, watching the projectiles being prepared for testing. She suspected they would work, that they would deliver the virus, at least if they could penetrate the hulls of the enemy ships. She knew the test they were about to give wouldn’t entirely answer that question. The target hull was an example of the finest armor the Confederation had ever produced, but there was no telling how much better the Highborn hulls were. Perhaps they could resist even a blast that penetrated the test hull. Or maybe it wouldn’t even get that far…perhaps the Highborn weaponry could stop the relatively small number of weapons from even getting close enough to impact.
But most worrisome of all was the possibility that the virus, the last great hope of mankind, was simply not effective, that the enemy possessed a cure. That was still a possibility, Andi knew.
Still, she found herself feeling a bit hopeful. She was still excited at her own thought, her addition to the plan. Atara and Clint had developed the whole thing, but their initial thought had been to package the virus into shells to be fired by the large ships. That would be fine, except the percentage of those that would hit was very small. That was one reason why they had been so rarely used in recent years. Andi had suggested using the limited amount of the virus that they had differently, in the smaller torpedoes of the fighters. Those were fired from much closer in, and a larger number scored hits. If the system worked, if the virus proved effective, her idea might just be a major contribution. Like Tyler, and most of the others, she had stopped thinking out very far, focusing her attention instead on the next fight. But if the virus did work, and if the shells could spread it to more of the enemy than their earlier efforts had, she knew that there was a chance. Perhaps not much of one…but a chance.
She turned and walked out of the room. Her participation in the development of the new weapon carried another bonus…for her at least. It took her mind off of Tyler, at least for a few minutes here and there. She had been thinking about him almost around the clock, afraid of what he might do off by himself. Or at least away from those closest to him. She didn’t expect that he would throw his life away or anything like that, but she suspected he would be even more wild, more aggressive than he usually was. She knew the war was coming into its end phase, that without the virus proving effective it would be over soon. But at least there was still some hope.
She walked down the corridor, wondering about just how she had gotten here. When she was younger, she had been a pilot with a small crew, searching around for scattered artifacts left over from the empire. At first, she had just been a member of the crew, but eventually, she had inherited Pegasus, and the command of a small team.
Then, she had run into Dauntless, the old one, with Tyler Barron in command. They had been adversaries at first, and then allies. Her entire life had changed enormously, and somehow she had gone from being a criminal, at least to the Confederation authorities, to being Barron’s wife, and an admiral in her own right. She knew she deserved that, at least in terms of some of the operations she had carried out in her capacity, but it still amazed her. In her youth, she had imagined retiring with a good sized fortune, settling down somewhere and living the rest of her life in luxury…but she had never considered the possibility of what actually happened.
She had never even thought about anything like the route she had taken, and the endless difficulties it would entail. By any measure, the ceaseless times she had risked her life, the number of instances where she had almost lost Tyler and other friends, or where she had actually seen those close to her killed—Vig!—where almost insurmountable odds. Combined now with her daughter being so far away for so long, it was almost too much to endure. Somehow, she had kept going, barely, but she was nearing the end of her ability…they all were.
She knew Tyler planned to fight until he had lost every ship he had, and then with a rifle or pistol afterwards. He would never give up, she knew, even if he was all alone. She respected that, and at times she thought the same way. But there were other considerations, as well. If the war was truly going to be lost, if the virus and every combat option was expended, perhaps she could just get into Pegasus, take the small craft, with Tyler and Cassiopeia and a few of the others who had survived, and head out, away from settled space. That was a difficult option, she realized, and for reasons that went far beyond convincing Tyler and anyone else to go. She could fuel up, double load the ship at the final world before the frontier, but that would only get her so far. She would be able to jump several times, for sure, perhaps travel far enough into unknown space to find a planet where she could mine more fuel. But she could just as easily run out before that happened, end up stuck somewhere her people couldn’t refuel and couldn’t grow food. Where they would die, just as much as they would if they remained until the last, fought to the final finish.
But there was a chance they could make it too, that they could escape. That might not mean much in the overall scheme of things, the escape and survival of three people, or even ten or twelve. Not when literally trillions were conquered. But she realized, it meant something to her. She cared about the Confederation, about the other powers that surrounded it, but in the end, if there was no other option, if the virus failed and the fleet was battered even worse than it had been, she was prepared to take off, to leave behind the culture, the civilization she had been born into.
She had been nothing when she was born, had crawled out of the lowest gutters…and if she had to, she knew she could make it on her own, find a way to survive without the wealth, even without human society. But she was not sure about Tyler. His past was different than hers. He had been in the navy for his entire adult life and dedicated to it since birth. She honestly didn’t know if he would be willing or able to accept total hopelessness, whether he would agree to run from the destruction, or if he would be compelled to give into it, to be destroyed by it.
She knew she couldn’t leave him behind, not utterly, that as long as he lived, she would remain with him…or at least near him. She suspected he would try to get her to go, at least before the final fall, to take their daughter and flee…but she knew she couldn’t go, couldn’t run away and leave him behind. Not as long as he was still alive.
If he died before her, if she was still alive, she knew she would be devastated, that in many ways her life would be over…but then she promised she would take her daughter on Pegasus and try to make a run for it. She didn’t know that there was any hope in heading out into the wilderness of unexplored space, but if it was the best chance she could give her daughter, she knew she had to do it.
That she would do it.
* * *
“Reg, take them out to a range of 50,000, and then attack. Our guns are all at .25%, so they’ll just tap your sensors, and any ship that is hit will drop out. You’re probably going to take heavy losses coming in, but what we need to see is how many hits you can score. We have our estimates, but we have to see how things work out in a real test.” Atara knew everything she said was true, but she didn’t mention that fighters usually carried their torpedoes to attack other fighters, that coming in close enough and hard enough to score hits with physical weapons online vessels was dangerous. Really dangerous. In fact, she didn’t even know that it was really possible in any major way.
It would be worse, of course, not in a test, but against the actual armed Highborn ships, not to mention with enemy fighters, too. She might carry out another test, one with some of her own fighters deployed as the enemy, but first, she just wanted to see how many hits her people could score against the test ships.
“Yes, Admiral…we are almost at 50,000 now. We will begin our approach in two minutes.”
Atara sat and stared at the screen, watching the fighters deploy, waiting for them to begin their attack. The test was only on three ships, and she only had 200 fighters deployed. She knew she would have to run more training operations, get at least some of the pilots a turn or two at firing the missiles. But first, she had to get at least some proof that it would work.
She noted as Reg’s craft reached 50,000 kilometers and slowed down. Their speed hit zero, and then they began moving back the way they had come. Toward their target ships.
“Alright, give the ships the go ahead.” Atara looked at Garvus Trotsky as she uttered the command. It was just a test she was conducting, but she also realized that the results just might give her side a chance. If the enemy was truly susceptible to the virus, and the attack proved to be successful against her ships, and if the enemy vessels weren’t stronger than hers, able to repel attacks that penetrated Confederation craft.
She realized that was a lot of ifs, that there were a number of ways the strategy could fail…but it was the first one they’d had in a long while that actually offered even a chance of success. She tried to feel hope, to allow some excitement to build inside of her, but she was just too exhausted, too close to beaten. She could proceed, conduct the test, even believe there was a chance of success…but in truth, her mood was glum. She went about her duties, conducted the operations she had to, but that was all she had in her. Perhaps she would regain her old self, strive to enter a fight expecting more than ultimate defeat, but for now, she just proceeded the best she could.
She saw the fighters now approaching the three target ships. All two hundred of them were blasting at full power, increasing their speed as they raced into range. Atara knew they would “lose” a good number to simulated fire from the ships, in fact, that was the one thing that was probably better on their end than the Highborn’s. And she was right.
The vessels opened up, firing at long range…and the first fighter was hit. She had stated that every one of the tiny ships that was hit would be considered completely lost, though she knew that some of them, at least, would survive in actual battle. She doubted very many of them would be able to close to the range they had to and score an actual hit with the torpedo after sustaining damage, so she figured it was better to consider them simply “lost.”
She stared at the screen, watching as another two fighters were hit. But the force continued to blast in, moving at increasing speed. The fighters were spreading out, and they were advancing in an irregular manner now. That was Reg’s doing, and Atara had deliberately not asked her any of her plans. The fighter commander knew what was at stake, and she would do everything she could to get as many of her ships into firing range as possible.
Seven fighters were down now, and the three warships were blasting over a hundred guns in total, covering the approach. That was a bit more fire than three enemy vessels would have—fighters and the defenses against them were the one area where her side still had the edge—but she figured she would just let that go. After all, she was assuming that other fighters were occupying the enemy squadrons, keeping all of them away from the attacking craft. That was a bit of a wild assumption, she realized. Even a few enemy fighters breaking away from a melee, and interfering with the assault on the ships, would scramble Reg’s ability to focus wholly on the assault. And the bombs were larger than the regular torpedoes. The ships still carrying them were less maneuverable than those that weren’t. It wasn’t an enormous difference, but in fighter combat, even a small edge could be used effectively.
There were ten ships hit now, which, though five percent of the approaching vessels, wasn’t really that many. The fighters were getting close now, and their evasive maneuvers increased. The ships were moving all around, generally toward the three ships, but jerking in every direction on their way in. They were under 10,000 kilometers now, and the attacking force split into three separate groups.
They took another four hits, but then they were under 5,000 kilometers. Atara stared at the screen, more intensely than before. She knew the ships had to move more slowly to come in close enough, and that, too, would increase their losses. She could see now that Reg’s forces were actually decelerating as they approached their targets, and despite the wild swings they were making, they continued to take hits. Twenty-one now, just over ten percent of the force. Atara knew that in a real battle some of them might have survived in damaged vessels, to return to their capital ships—or await rescue, assuming their force had prevailed sufficiently to hold on to the system. But she considered them all lost in the test she was running.
She held her breath as Reg’s ships went the rest of the way in. They were under 1,000 kilometers now, and soon they would fire. But that required them to stop their wild evasive maneuvers, at least for a few seconds. And that meant more would be blasted by the defensive batteries, which were now firing at point blank range.
She saw another ten of the fighters blink out of the simulation as the low intensity beams struck them. Then, almost immediately, another two. For an instant, she felt as though Reg’s entire force would be eradicated, but then she saw the fighters begin to fire. She couldn’t follow them all, of course, but the first two she saw just missed, and her mood sank. Then the third one scored a hit.
And the fourth. She felt buoyed up almost immediately. She didn’t know yet whether the weapons were breaking through the target’s outer hulls—and even if they were, if they would also do that to the Highborn vessels, with their somewhat tougher materials—but so far the mission was beginning to look like a success.
She kept watching, almost ignoring the casualty count—now at 42—as well as the numerous ships that missed. She was jerking her eyes back and forth, from fighter to fighter, watching for those that managed to hit. In the end, forty-one of them did.
Of that total, seven didn’t manage to penetrate the hulls, hitting at a bad angle and bouncing off. But 35 of them did hit and penetrate, and she was waiting for the report on what happened inside. The entire operation was a test, but the torpedoes were real, and they were actually filled with the virus. It didn’t cause any harm to ordinary humans, at least none that had been determined, and it was vital to see how it would spread inside a ship, how many areas would be infected, and how many would be locked off and protected.
She knew it was strange to use the actual virus on her people, even though she was fairly certain it wasn’t harmful, but the crews of the target ships had all volunteered, and she just had to know exactly how quickly and how far the virus could spread upon impact. Her data wouldn’t be exact, of course. Her ships weren’t of the same layout as the enemy’s, with the same airtight doors in place during a fight. But it was the best she could do.
She stared for another minute, realizing it would be awhile before she got even the preliminary report…and probably a couple days before the follow ups were ready. Then she leaned over her microphone and said, “That was great Reg. Pull in your ships and head back for now.” ‘For now’ was particularly accurate. She had two more sets of three ships ready for the next tests, and she was almost certain that Reg Griffin would choose to lead them all.
She had watched Jake Stockton rise in the ranks for years, and she had been stunned by his repeated successes, by his almost magical ability in the cockpit. She had been very disappointed when he had vanished, when he’d been assumed killed, and even more stunned when she realized he was serving the enemy. She knew that hadn’t been his choice, that he had the enemy’s unit installed in his spinal cord and brain. She understood that, and she was glad he had managed to return…but she hadn’t been able to forget entirely about what he had done, the contributions he had no doubt made to the enemy’s development of a useful fighter force. She knew none of it had been intentional, that any of her people—including her—would have done whatever they could have if they’d been captured and implanted with the device. But still, she couldn’t quite make it back, to look at Stockton the way she had in years past.
And Reg had done a lot to fill the gap that Stockton had left. She wasn’t quite sure the new fighter commander was a match for Stockton at his peak. But she was close. Very close. And that, all things considered, was a miracle.
Atara felt sorry for Jake. She wished the best for him, and for his recovery, but she was just as happy with Reg Griffin keeping her position.
She turned toward Trotsky. “Place the fleet back on standby…and then go get yourself some rest. We’ve got two more tests to run, but we won’t be doing the next one for at least six or seven hours, and things will be quiet until then.”
“Thank you, Admiral, but I think I will stay here for…”
“No, you won’t.” She almost smiled. She had known exactly what to expect. “I want you fresh for the next test, and that means you go and sleep now, at least for a few hours.” She watched him, and before he could say anything, she added, “Go, Garvus…grab a little sleep. Come back in five hours.” Her tone was in no way hostile, but it didn’t invite further argument either.
“Yes, Admiral.”
She just nodded, and then she got up and walked to the bank of elevators. She was tired, too, and while she doubted she would get much sleep, even lying down in the silence of her cabin would be better than sitting on the bridge for the next few hours.
Chapter Twelve
CWS Omicron
Vela Tracasys System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Get those fighters landed…as quickly as possible!” Barron was on his feet, yelling across the bridge. His fleet had already landed a fairly large number of the fighters, and he knew the commands he was giving were repetitive, that they had already been made by a number of subordinates. But he knew they would carry even more pressure coming from him. And he wanted his fighters landed, all of them, before his ships started transiting out.
He had told himself he wouldn’t withdraw, that he wouldn’t allow a single ship to go until Stockton had all his people were onboard…but even then he had known that was mostly bluster. His largest ships each had more crew than Stockton’s entire force, and he realized that if it truly came down to a decision, he would send them through, with or without the fighters.
He looked at the screen, and he realized things were going fairly well. His ships had exceeded his expectations, and most of the fighters had arrived well in advance of the enemy pursuers. He believed they would be able to land, all of them.
Except for Stockton, and the force he had led against the advanced enemy squadrons. That battle had gone very well, and despite taking significant losses, they had obliterated the enemy, taking out 8 of their ships for every one they lost, despite the fact that their foe had missiles as well as lasers. It was better than Barron had expected…much.
But it had also taken time…time he realized he didn’t have.
He calculated the arrival figures, both for the last of Stockton’s ships and the first of the pursuing enemy. He had some estimates in the mix, for enemy speeds particularly, but it came up exactly the same way it had the previous two times he’d done it. Stockton’s last fighters and the enemy vanguard would arrive at almost the same time.
He knew what he should do. That last force was only about a hundred fighters, and he realized that by every military measure, they were expendable. But they were the pilots who had turned about and fought off the closest pursuers and leaving them behind seemed wrong.
No, it doesn’t seem wrong. It is wrong.
He knew he had to get his fleet moving long before Stockton and his ships could arrive…but he could hold back one ship. His ship.
“Transfer all of the fighters we’ve got aboard Omicron. Get them to the other ships.” He knew the order would be unexpected, but he was impatient. He had enough time, he thought…maybe…but just enough. “You heard me, now!”
“Yes Sir!” Trafalgar spoke, and perhaps for the first time Barron had heard him sounding confused. Or maybe not confused, perhaps he did understand, and he realized just how much danger Barron was about to take on. He turned his head, pausing for just an instant before he passed on the orders.
Barron turned forward, staring at the screen. Stockton’s fighters were being pursued by a fresh force of fighters. He was almost sure he could make it back, barely ahead of them, but he was far less certain he could pull his ship out before they hit it. And there were at least a dozen of the large enemy vessels coming as well, just behind the fighters. Barron imagined trying his escape, transiting out of the system, under attack by several hundred fighters, and as many as 10 or 12 battleships as well. He was worried about it, uncertain about his ship’s ability to endure the damage it would sustain. If he lost his engines, he would be caught. If his ship was damaged in any one of a dozen different ways, he would be caught. And being caught meant being destroyed, losing almost 4,000 crew…and dying himself, far away from Andi and his daughter, without the chance to see them once again.
But he had to do it. He couldn’t leave Stockton behind—he just couldn’t—and that meant he had to go for it. He would endanger his flagship, and himself, but not the rest of his fleet.
He looked up at the screen, watching the last fighters, other than those currently launching from his own ship, land. Then he turned toward Trafalgar. “The fleet will begin to depart. Calypso, Wellspont, and Nordlingen are to hold their positions until our fighters land. All other ships—except us—are to proceed immediately, and transfer. And as soon as our fighters have come in, Calypso, Wellspont, and Nordlingen are to transit immediately. We will remain until the last of the rearguard fighters have landed.” Even as he spoke the words, he knew that his ship would shortly be engaged again, by ten times enough to destroy it.
But he was ready for it…as ready as he had ever been.
“Battlestations,” he said, calmly, almost mysteriously so considering what his ship was heading into.
“Yes, Sir!” Jack Trafalgar understood the danger, the very real chance that the ship wouldn’t make it, but he was now fully in tune with his commander.
He turned and looked right at Barron, and said, “Battlestations, Sir…the ship is ready!”
* * *
Stockton checked his scanner for about the hundredth time. The enemy ships were right there, over three hundred fighters pursuing him, and just behind them, more…and ten battleships. He would reach the spot where his landing ship was ahead of them—barely—but he wasn’t sure he would be able to land everyone before the enemy began to attack. And he was absolutely certain that Omicron wouldn’t make it through the warp gate before the enemy was all over her. His only worry for now was getting his ships there. Tyler Barron’s job was escaping once that happened, and despite his doubts, Stockton placed incredible stock in the admiral’s ability.
He leaned down and said, “Alright everybody…we’re going up to 120% thrust on deceleration. That will give us an extra…” He paused for a moment to do the calculation. “…one minute seven seconds before we have to switch over.” He knew that when they changed to deceleration, if their pursuers didn’t do the same, they would catch him sooner…but the difference in velocities would make it very hard to engage for more than a few seconds.
No, the fighters at least will decelerate when we do.
He counted down the final moments until deceleration, and then he returned to the comm. “All fighters…decelerate.” He slammed his hand forward, blasting his engines fully in deceleration. His body jerked hard forward, as even his ship’s anti-acceleration system rattled at full. One hundred twenty percent was more thrust than it could compensate for, and the force slammed into him.
He checked the display, watching to see if the enemy did the same, or if they continued to accelerate. For an instant, it appeared that they were continuing, and he started to prep for a very short attack as the enemy surged forward. But then he picked up signs of deceleration coming from them, just as he had expected.
He stared at his display screen, and he saw two of his fighters zipping ahead of the others. He knew at once what it meant, that their efforts to go to one hundred twenty percent had triggered some kind of system failure. Those two pilots were gone, as good as dead or captured, but they were still there for now, able to watch as their comrades raced for home, and they just zipped past.
He couldn’t do anything for them, he knew that, but still he felt the urge, the drive to find some way to aid the pilots. But there was nothing he could do.
He pulled his eyes away from them, focused on the rest of his force. His vessels were slowing down, and when they reached Omicron, they should be synced with it on speed. He knew his landings had to be fast, much quicker than normal, but he was sure he could manage it. He’d done it a thousand times. Getting them out of the system, reaching the warp gate through all of the incoming firepower…that was the real trick. But that was Barron’s job. His was getting his pilots back aboard.
He counted softly as his force approached Omicron. Most of the other ships were gone already, transferred to the next system. And the rest would follow in the next couple minutes. All except the flagship…it would wait for his people.
He knew that he was to land everyone on Omicron, that all of its ships had been transferred to make room for them. That had surprised him, but only for a moment. In retrospect, it was perfectly like Barron to take the risk, all of the risk, onto himself. He just figured the fact that the crew of Omicron were also in danger nagged at the admiral.
Stockton was a strange guy. He had always realized that. He could get along with others, could more or less appear to fit in—or at least he had been able to before the enemy captured him and deployed him against his own forces. But he knew that was mostly fake on his part, that he was basically alone. Even Stara…he loved her, no question, but he also realized that she could never truly understand him. But Tyler Barron was the one person he thought could maybe truly get him. Barron had always been his commander, since the days when he had commanded a single squadron and Barron a lone ship…but now he realized that he was his friend, too…his only real friend. Their positions, the differences in their ranks, would always keep them at a certain distance, but he knew he would never meet anyone who understood him better than Barron.
He glanced outside of his fighter, saw Omicron up ahead. “Alright, everybody…line up, and land as quickly as possible.” He knew that every second he saved would increase the chance that the flagship would escape.
He turned and checked his display, watched the ships approaching from behind. They were all decelerating, even as his ships were. The fighters would come in almost immediately after his ships landed, and just maybe before the last of them did. And the first battleships would only be moments behind. He knew it would take Omicron a while to escape, perhaps ten minutes…and as little as that was, it was enough time for her to be blown to bits.
He stared out at his ships, seeing them lined up, starting to land very quickly. He was pleased with their performance, both in the battle and now with the emergency landing. He brought his own ship around, lined up to be the last fighter to land. He checked again, making sure he was ahead of the incoming fighters, that he could make it in time.
Yes, he could, he figured. Barely. But as the line of fighters began to disappear, as all of his people made it aboard, his mind began to think about what he could do, about whether he could help Omicron if he stayed out for longer. But just then, he heard his comm unit activate, and no other voice except Tyler Barron’s came on. “Jake, it’s Tyler. I want to make sure you land along with your people. It occurs to me you might be thinking of something else…and there is nothing more you can do. Come aboard now…and leave the rest to me.”
Stockton heard his commander, and he couldn’t help but smile. He thought he knew Barron very well, but now he was reminded that his longtime commander had a pretty good read on him, too.
“Yes, Sir…I’ll be inside in just a minute.” He watched the last few ships land, and then with one final look at his screen, he followed the final one inside the ship. He knew the problem wasn’t over, that Omicron could easily be destroyed, but his part was finished. Now it was Admiral Barron’s show…and there wasn’t anything or anyone he had more confidence in.
He brought his ship to a halt, and he let out a deep breath, one he hadn’t even realized he had been holding. He held out his hands, and he realized they were shaking. But he had done his part, all of his fighters had…now it was up to Tyler Barron.
* * *
“The last fighter is secured, Sir.” There was excitement in Trafalgar’s voice, but also fear. It was time for Omicron to run, but whether it would escape or not was still a huge question.
“Very well…engines on full. Head right for the point.” Barron was impassive. Inside, he was edgy, nervous, not at all sure his ship would make it. But outside, he exuded confidence. His long career, his many terrifying moments had all served to build up the legend that surrounded him, and despite his own dislike of it, he had come to use it. He looked around the bridge, and he saw the effect it had on his people. All of them. It didn’t remove the fear, not exactly, but it was certainly a source of inspiration. It had taken him a long time to realize the effect he had, that he really had, on the people under him. He wasn’t the sort to think that much of himself, but nevertheless, he realized that the personnel of the navy at least—his people—had adopted a sense of him that he thought wasn’t healthy or true…but it was useful, and right now that was all that mattered.
“Engines on full, Sir.” Trafalgar was a commonsense officer, one of the best he had served with. But it was clear even he had fallen under Barron’s spell.
The admiral turned toward the main display, watching as the fighters approached, as the battleships moved into range. He started to calculate just how long the enemy would be able to fire before his ship managed to make the jump. But then he decided it just didn’t matter. He would move as quickly as he possibly could, and he would make it or not. There was nothing else he could do.
He could feel the ship accelerating at full, the output of the engines overcoming the compensation system. It was only a small percentage getting through of course. The full acceleration level would have killed everyone aboard in a second if it hadn’t been mostly comped out. But it was still uncomfortable.
He watched as the enemy approached. The fighters were closer, but their deadly range was much lower than that of the battleships, and it was the line vessels that actually fired first. They opened up at their maximum range, and their first salvos missed. Barron had his ship moving toward the warp gate, but its approach was randomized, jerking around in every way to do the best it could to avoid the incoming fire. Barron knew that routine wouldn’t work endlessly, that a large enough number of shots made at decreasing ranges would begin to score hits. And when the enemy fighters closed, it would be even worse. His evasive maneuvers were far less effective against the smaller craft. Tactically, the main defense against fighters was his own small craft, but that wasn’t an option, not now. He suspected either of the enemy ship types could destroy Omicron, but if he had to guess which was the greater danger in the time they would have, he would say the fighters.
He watched for a minute, as the line ships continued blasting, and so far they still missed. But as every second passed, they got closer, and their targeting improved. And then the fighters came in.
He was glad, at least, that their fighters, at least those close enough to launch an attack on him, had already used their missiles. But several hundred ships with lasers were a serious threat.
“Anti-fighter systems operational…at full power.” He knew a ship like Omicron had substantial armament, that it would definitely take out some fighters…but it wouldn’t be enough, especially not of the Highborn units. They were flown by humans totally under Highborn control and influence, pilots wearing Collars, who wouldn’t even consider retreating regardless of how many were killed. And there was no way his ship could destroy them all.
He watched as Omicron’s guns lashed out, and he was excited when the first enemy fighter blew up. It happened very quickly, as did the second and third. But there were hundreds zooming in. And the larger ships were moving up as well, getting closer with each passing moment.
Tyler Barron sat in his chair, trying to look as unmoved as possible, but deep down he knew there was an excellent chance his remaining lifespan was measured in minutes. He looked at the battle, watching carefully, evaluating every second how his people were doing. They were succeeding, brilliantly, but he knew that was no guarantee of success. Even with the odds leaning tremendously in his favor, all it would take was enough damage from the enemy to destroy his ship.
No, not even to destroy it, just to take it off course, to prevent it from escaping and damage its engines.
They could follow him through as well, of course, but he knew the rest of his fleet was waiting there, all guns ready…and only a tiny part of the enemy fleet was ready to go. It would be a quick and nasty fight if all of the enemy battleships came after him, but his side would win, and they would probably have the time to put enough distance behind them before the rest of the enemy fleet could make it through.
No…if he could make it to the warp gate, he was fairly certain he would escape. He just wasn’t sure he would get there. He checked the timer, saw that there was four minutes, thirty seconds, not a lot, but enough.
His ship shook hard as the enemy line of enemy battleships scored their first hit. They had seven or eight shots from the fighters that had also so far connected, and there was damage. But the engines were still close to 100%, and overall, the ship was still in good shape. For the moment.
He looked out, turning his attention to his crew for a moment, evaluating their condition. It didn’t matter in one sense, he knew. They were here whether they wanted to be or not, and they were on the fastest route back to temporary safety. But most of them didn’t look terribly concerned. Worried, yes, but also buoyed up by a strange faith, an assurance that no matter how bad things looked they would come through.
Barron didn’t understand that. To him, his career had been covered in a river of his subordinate’s blood. Millions had died directly under his command, and before that, untold legions had died at his side. His people should hate him, he figured, blame him for the losses, for all the dead spacers. Worse, all the fights, the desperate battles, had led them here…to the brink of defeat. For a moment, Barron wondered if they wouldn’t all be better off if the enemy killed them right here, if a few lucky shots ended the suffering that he might otherwise cause for another six months or year.
He wasn’t sure how long his people’s will to fight would last, how long it would be before they actually began to accept the harsh reality that even if they survived this fight, it was very likely their deaths were waiting for them, and probably very soon.
Omicron shook again, harder this time. Barron realized that the firing battleships had scored another hit, and almost immediately, the ship shuddered again. A third hit. Barron was already checking the damage from the second shot, when the effects of the third one came up, too. His engines had taken some damage, perhaps 20%. That wasn’t a truly massive hit, but it would increase the time before he got to the warp point. He figured it meant another fifteen seconds—and then he actually checked on the computer, and it came out as eighteen. That wasn’t good, but it wasn’t a disaster in itself. Unless the enemy scored a deadly hit during that period. That would be a different story.
Barron sat, quietly waiting for the next hit. His ship took another dozen shots from the enemy fighters, but for the next couple minutes, all of the battleships missed. His thrust was down another three or four percent, but now the transit point was right ahead of him. In less than ninety seconds, he would enter it, be transferred across seven light years almost instantly. Or, he would be dead.
Just then, another shot from the battleships hit…and within seconds, three more. He could hear the sounds, explosions ripping through sections of the ship. He forced himself to stare at the monitor again, checking the engine power…really the only thing that mattered now.
It was 43%. The hits tore through entire sections of the ship’s engineering and took out one of the engines entirely. He didn’t know if it was a relatively small problem, like a blasted circuit, or if the entire engine was in ruins. But for right now, it didn’t matter, so he didn’t even inquire. There would be plenty of time once he jumped to truly evaluate the damage. He turned toward the main screen, just as Omicron took another big hit. The ship was huge, and it could take a lot of damage, but the ten ships now engaged with it were more than enough to utterly destroy it. They had entered medium range, with significantly increased their hit rate, and almost as if to point this out, Omicron took three more hits in less than fifteen seconds.
Barron checked again, worried that the engines would be further damaged, but though the hits had been severe, they hadn’t damaged that area of the ship again. Barron knew he had lost crew members, that his ship had suffered severe damage to numerous systems, but for the next forty seconds, all he cared about was the engines. And as the time counted down, he realized that Omicron was likely to make it through, that unless the enemy followed at once, and engaged his entire waiting fleet, his ships would retreat, that they would make it to the next battle. That fight, when it occurred, would very possibly be the last large battle. He knew what vessels he had left, and he was aware that Gary Holsten was scouring every planet for whatever new ships he could possibly get produced in time—and whatever old hulks could be shuffled back into service, too. He knew his fleet would have every possible ship from the entire Confederation, as well as the Alliance and the Hegemony.
And he was just as sure it wouldn’t be enough…not even close. He knew that, almost certainly, but he was aware that he would fight nevertheless, fully certain that whatever chance he had was based not on the battle, but on the virus his people had implanted. Whether that was a real chance, if the enemy had no cure and enough of it was spread around to make a difference, he would find out eventually. He had never been a huge believer in the virus, but he had to admit that it was their only real chance. If it worked, he would never again be so grateful for having been wrong about anything.
He looked up at the screen. A third of the display in front of him was black, deep black. The warp gate. He had twenty seconds left, and the angle of his ship was set now. Even if his engines were knocked out completely, it would only add a fraction of a second to his time before the jump…unless an explosion jerked him away from his course.
He felt his ship shake again, twice in rapid succession. He knew there was damage, probably severe, but this time he didn’t even check it. He just stared at the countdown clock, watching as the last ten seconds ticked off, as his vessel slipped into the transit field and disappeared.
Four…three…two…
He was counting down, but just before the ship transferred, there was another hit, worse than any that had come before. There were explosions all around the bridge, and Barron, for a second, could feel a burning pain. He was hit, somehow, but he only had a second to evaluate it before his ship fell into the gate and transited through.
Chapter Thirteen
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System D13-2540
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared straight ahead, almost mystified at the damage his fleet had suffered. He had finally brought his flagship through to witness the situation for himself…and it was even worse than he had anticipated. Over one hundred vessels had been destroyed or badly damaged, almost as many as in a major fight. But it hadn’t been a truly large enemy force that he had faced, and the scans all verified that. The enemy had kept back a sizable armada, but it wasn’t their entire navy, just a rearguard. How had they done the amount of damage that his fleet had taken?
He understood, of course, at least in a sense. He knew now that they had waited just beyond the warp gate, that they had opened up on his ships as they came through. That had been a surprise. He had expected the possibility of a small rearguard, of course, but the number of vessels the enemy had left right against the point had truly surprised him. Their positioning, right where his ships materialized, was a daring move, one that could have resulted in their losing everything. But it hadn’t. The operation had been carried out almost perfectly, and most of the vessels had escaped. It didn’t bother him losing one hundred ships, not exactly, but the best estimates he had of the enemy vessels destroyed was well under ten…and that drove him crazy. He had built up an invincible force, one the enemy couldn’t hope to defeat. But if they managed to continue fighting giving out ten or twenty times the damage they took…no, this couldn’t happen again.
He looked forward, desperately trying not to show any emotion. He had already decided that the commander of the operation would pay the price for the defeat—and what else could he call it, despite his taking the system? That wasn’t entirely fair perhaps, especially as he had ordered the force to advance as it had, but if it came down to a choice between one of his people being blamed more than he should be, or him taking the guilt, he knew where to go.
“Get the fleet organized…quickly. We are moving forward as soon as we can.” He knew that wouldn’t be fast enough, that the damaged ships and the disorder of the fight would take at least a few days to get wrapped up enough to advance. The enemy rearguard would be at least a system ahead, and maybe two by then. That bothered him, though he realized it didn’t really matter. Whether he caught those ships, blasted them to ruins before they returned to the rest of their fleet, or he simply destroyed them all at once, the result would be the same.
He knew time was a serious matter, though, that he had to make it through the Badlands and to the enemy fleet before the infections that affected many of his fleet personnel became active. The humans’ apparent development of the virus, the one weapon that had truly threatened his peoples’ very existence, was disconcerting, and it left him little time to wrap things up, to destroy enough of the enemy fleet so that they couldn’t spread it any more than they had already. He had dispatched ships to defend all the planets that had his people on them—all except those that had already been infected—and he was reasonably certain that it wouldn’t spread any further, at least not beyond what normal travel had already done.
Still, it was bad…much worse than he had shared with many of his people. He had analyzed the breakdown, and the known instances of travel between infected worlds and uninfected ones. The results had shaken him. If every traveler was infected, and if he or she spread the virus to everyone on whatever planet they had visited—and that was the worst case scenario, he realized—a little under half of his people could be lost. That was a staggering percentage, and it would be the end of him, and of any career…unless he had also completely taken out the humans, conquered their territory. Then, perhaps, the glory of the conquest could overrule the losses, which in reality, were mostly not his fault. At least he hoped it could. He wasn’t sure, but the one thing he knew was if word of the true situation got back to Ellerax before he took out the humans, he was finished.
He got up and turned to walk back to his office. He didn’t have anything to do there, not really, but he just wanted to be alone…to think clearly about the situation and what he should do. He didn’t have the room to make any more mistakes. He could still come through this with a shot at something like success…but he couldn’t afford any more mistakes.
None.
* * *
Ellerax read the report, the most recent of hundreds he had reviewed over the past few weeks. His grand fleet was almost totally assembled, ready to head out soon. Where it went, what exactly it did, was up to him. If he had known where the enemy’s homeworld was, he would have gone there, but he realized that despite centuries of warfare, his people knew very little about their primary foe. That should have concerned him more—and at times it did—but right now, he was feeling good. The vast array of vessels assembled, the largest force he had ever seen, the biggest that had existed since imperial times, was simply too strong for the enemy. That decision wasn’t based on fact or on any real knowledge, but nevertheless, he was certain his invasion would yield success. Total victory.
He knew he would lose ships, possibly a lot of them, that many of his people would die. But the force he had all around him was so large, so powerful, it simply couldn’t be defeated. He would prevail, defeat the enemy his people had fought for so long, and then, if Tesserax hadn’t completed the conquest of the humans, he vowed he would go there, lead his whole fleet, and utterly destroy whatever forces they had left. Then, he would rule over everything…and he could begin to repopulate the many empty worlds that had once been the Imperium. In five hundred years, he would rule over a truly vast domain, thousands of planets, each occupied by billions of people. In total, he would command untold trillions of obedient humans as well as vast numbers of Highborn.
It was the reason he had been created, the purpose he had always had. He had always been aware of that, at least on some level, but now he had become impatient. He wanted to achieve total conquest as quickly as possible. He chided himself for allowing others to lead when he should have, and he vowed that he would no longer do that. He would lead, truly lead…and that would be the difference.
He set the report down and he closed his eyes for a moment. He realized how he had let things go on for so long. He had placed too much support on his people. They were Highborn, no doubt, far more capable than normal humans. But they weren’t him. He was the most perfect being in the universe, he had always believed that. And from now on, he would truly act that way.
He focused on the report again. He had 2,750 ships now assembled in the system, and another 356 on the way. That was the total Highborn strength, apart from that on the human frontier. He had pondered whether it made sense to cluster it all together, to leave all of his worlds undefended, but in the end he had decided that nothing was more important than the offensive about to begin. Perhaps the enemy would assault some of his unprotected planets, kill some of his people…but that wouldn’t go on for long. The enemy would soon realize the force he had assembled, that he was about to lead forward, was immense. They would recall all of their vessels, he was sure of it, bring whatever they had together…and he would destroy it. He would destroy it all. Then he would proceed and find their planets…and he would destroy them utterly, too. The humans would just be conquered, compelled to live under his domain, but the aliens, whoever they were, would be utterly eradicated.
He looked up again, and his eyes were wide open. He had always been wildly confident, perhaps too much, at least in terms of his acceptance of failure by his people, but now he was more than just assured, more than self-confident. He had reached a point where he was absolutely certain his plans would succeed, that his side would prevail, that he would be covered in glory. There was no other way things could go, not with him in command of his enormous fleet.
He sat and he smiled, not realizing for an instant that his previous loose grip on sanity was now almost entirely gone.
* * *
Percelax stood and watched his people moving all around, carrying out his orders. He had decided that he would withdraw if the enemy came through, temporarily abandon his conquest. He didn’t really like the plan, but the more he had considered it, the better it seemed.
He couldn’t prevail against Barron’s fleet, no way…but he knew the enemy admiral could not afford to remain there for long either, nor could his force spend any time chasing Percelax’s fleet. As crucial a system as it might be, it was set behind the approach of the main Highborn fleet. Tesserax would love nothing more than Barron, or any meaningful portion of his fleet, staying at XRN-1101, known to the humans as Krakus. The system had been their main defense for nearly 100 years, sitting right at a choke point along the border with the Union. But the approach across the Badlands, the route that Tesserax would take, came into the Confederation at a system the humans called Dannith, and from there, the course was further inside, closer to all of the core systems. Dannith was reasonably outfitted with defenses, but not exorbitantly so. Until the Hegemony was discovered, the system, while along an edge of the Confederation, was long expected to border on nothing but dead systems.
Tesserax would have a definite fight there, but not one he couldn’t win, relatively easily, and Percelax didn’t figure enough of the enemy forces would escape to put up another serious battle. Some would fight, of course, and he knew there would be more combats, but they would be mostly just wrapping up. After the next battle, he was almost sure the humans would be mostly defeated…and he would be safe from any assault.
He didn’t imagine he would face anything at all himself, that the remnants of the force that had faced him would be lost in the fight with Tesserax. But if he actually advanced, following Barron’s forces back to Dannith, and he attacked in unison with Tesserax’s fleet, he could be a part of the last large fight. That was definitely the plan that made the most sense. He knew his superior wouldn’t want to share any of the glory—and he wouldn’t give up anymore that he had to—but still, Percelax would be part of the great victory. Some credit would have to fall to him, and even if it was just a fraction of the total, it would add to what he had already gained. He would return without Tesserax’s level of triumph for sure, but there would be enough to go around.
Yes, that is definitely what he would do. He would withdraw if the enemy came to Krakus, but he would remain close and in contact…and when they went back, when they withdrew to Dannith, as he was sure they must, he would follow, and as soon as Tesserax launched his frontal assault, he would come in from the rear of the enemy.
And he would help to ensure that the humans truly suffered, that despite their subsequent efforts, this would truly be the last major battle of the war.
Chapter Fourteen
CWS Omicron
Comas Trevelera System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Omicron suddenly appeared in the system, amid the waiting fleet. Barron recognized that all of his ships stood ready to attack any enemy that came through, but he didn’t really expect to be pursued. His force had savaged the enemy, caused more damage than even he had anticipated, and he suspected that despite the total size of the force, only a few ships could come through quickly enough to continue the fight immediately. If they could hope it was just him, only Omicron that would be waiting, maybe they would have pursued, but they knew the entire fleet had transferred, that they were almost certainly waiting for their last ship.
Barron knew the enemy would likely move quickly, that they would follow his forces almost immediately, but “almost’ wasn’t the same thing as ‘instantly.’ He was aware that legions of the enemy had not even gotten through in time to be involved in the battle, and they still had a lot of cleanup to conduct. Besides, his force was just a rearguard, after all. Destroying it would help the enemy, of course, but it wouldn’t be decisive. The main part of the fleet would still be waiting back at Dannith.
And it would likely be destroyed there, with or without his own forces. He knew that almost certainly. His fleet had lost the last major fight, and he was almost sure that the odds in the next one would be even more in the enemy’s favor. Even though he was far from comfortable with it, he knew his only real chance at victory lay with the virus. And despite the deaths of the three captives, he didn’t even know whether the enemy had a cure or not. Like everything else, all he could do was live on day at a time and hope for the best.
He glanced at the screen as it came back to life, and he turned toward Trafalgar and said, “Send out a message as soon as the comm lines are back. The fleet is to pull out immediately…and start to head home at full speed.” He felt the words immediately…head home. It has been years since he had even been in the Confederation, and he’d almost forgotten what home was like. Part of him desperately wanted to go back, to experience it all again…but there was a bit of him that dreaded it, that would rather remember it from years ago than go back now and see it on the brink of destruction. The entire society wasn’t ready for that, he was sure. Most of them probably weren’t aware of just how dire the situation was, but they had been producing ships at breakneck speed for years now, so anyone with any degree of cognizance had to know that things were bad.
“Yes, Admiral…it appears our communications just reactivated.” Trafalgar turned away for a second, and said, “Fleet orders…all ships, power up at once. We’re heading to the exit point of the system at maximum speed.” He glanced down at the screen for a few seconds while he listened to confirmations from all of the ships. Then he turned toward Barron again. “All ships confirmed, Sir.”
Barron just nodded. His ship had its engines damaged, and it couldn’t travel at full speed, at least not now. Whether the damage could be easily repaired or whether it would take a longer time, he didn’t know yet. But he wasn’t going to hold back the components of his force that could blast away at full. “Divide the fleet into two components…those capable of full thrust and those damaged. Both forces are to move at the full speed of their slowest members.” He knew that command would be controversial. The fleet had waited, prepared to engage if any enemy pursued his vessel. The morale level was somehow still very high. But Barron knew the fleet—the main fleet—was going to need every ship it could get. If that ended up including all of his ships, that would be great, but if he could get most of his force back, minus the relatively small number of vessels with significant engine damage, he would do that.
The fact that he was on one of the damaged ships—and he was going to stay right where he was—would be controversial he supposed, at least among his people. Despite the bravery of his crews, he seriously doubted any of them had the courage to challenge him on any of his decisions. He had mostly focused the past years on dealing with the crisis, fighting to help preserve the Confederation and its allies. He was very attentive of all of his errors, the mistakes he had made, and he wondered whether things could have gone better if someone else had been in his shoes. But he was also aware that his people had become very focused on him, that they had mostly ignored all his errors, and exaggerated his successes…and as much as he disagreed, he also realized he had come to rely on it, to use it.
It was even more obvious now. Before, at least he had Atara and some of the others he had known for a long while. They also bought into the adoration, but less than the men and women of the main fleet…those he had with him now. His excursion, surrounding himself with people who were in the force before, but not right around him, only made the adoration clearer.
He understood, at least in a sense, and he figured the glorification was normal. If it wasn’t him, it would be someone else. If his people didn’t build someone up to that level, if they looked at things realistically, they would probably lose their minds. And as much as he detested it, as much as he hated himself for it, he used it. He had even gotten used to it, sending people to certain death, commanding his warriors to fight at a level that surprised even him.
It had extended the war, kept his people fighting for as long as they had…but at times it really got to Barron. In the dark, when he was alone, he could swear sometimes he heard their cries, thousands—millions—of dead souls, all sent to their ends by him. He suspected he wasn’t even close to the largest killer in human history, but by his calculation, he figured he was the biggest in the Confederation’s hundred plus years. He knew his people would argue with him, swear that he wasn’t responsible. But he was, at least the way he saw it. Literally millions were dead, and most of them had served under him. Their deaths haunted him, invaded his dreams. He wondered how long he could endure it, how many more he could lead to their deaths before it destroyed him.
Barron was a career military officer, from a family with a huge history of naval service. He had always intended to serve for his whole life, to stay around until they forced him to retire, and then to spend the last years of his life pondering a long career. But now, he only wished he could forget, that he could get away from those no longer alive, the legions of dead that exceeded the worst he had ever imagined, that spoke to him constantly. He just wanted to run, to go somewhere it was quiet, where he and Andi and Cassiopeia could enjoy a quiet life, one where the largest decision required was what to make for dinner.
But he knew that would never happen, that even if he somehow won the war, defeated the enemy, he would never be able to escape the accolades, the constant attention of the people who would credit him for the work that had been done by millions. The only alternative he could think of, though, was defeat, and his death. He might even have chosen that over survival at times, but he knew that Andi and Cassiopeia, and all of his friends and comrades would probably die with him.
No, he knew that he had to press on, to find a way to victory if one was even possible. To fight to the very end.
He looked around at the bridge, at the officers hunched over the various stations, and he thought about the engineering personnel, even then working hard, doing everything possible to increase engine output. He knew his people were all edgy, that they were afraid…but he saw in them hope, hope that he would somehow lead them through it all, and to ultimate victory.
The only one he knew who didn’t believe in that was him.
* * *
Andi stared out, looking at the large sphere of Dannith just outside Dauntless. They had made it back to Confederation space, at least for a while, to fight a battle there…perhaps a final fight. She desperately wanted to participate, and to stand alongside Tyler—assuming, of course, that he too made it back—and fight to the end. But she had to go now, she had to go and get Cassiopeia. It had been several years since she had seen her daughter, and she felt the pain even more intensely than she had expected. She wanted to fight next to her husband, but even more crucially, she had to see her daughter. Tyler had done all he could to persuade her to go, to take her from the battlefield, and she knew that. She normally would stand up to him, argue for her right to stay, but the thought of both of them dying without either of them seeing Cassiopeia again was just too much for her.
She would take Pegasus, her ship from the old days, before she had even met Tyler. She would go back and get their daughter. That was all she had decided so far. Whether she would take Cassiopeia, and return to Dannith, assuming the fleet was still there, or whether she would just take off, make a run for it, she just didn’t know. She doubted she would flee, at least while Tyler was still alive, but she was worried about him, too, even more than she had been. She knew he loved her, and that his daughter was priceless to him…but she had a strange feeling that he was going to die in this next fight, assuming he even made it back from the battle he had likely already fought. Worse, perhaps, she believed he thought so, that he was preparing for it. She hated herself for leaving, for not staying to do what she could to save him, but she knew she had to attend to their daughter first. Just maybe, she could make it back in time to do both.
“Andi…” The voice was immediately familiar. It was Atara. The commander of Dauntless, of almost half of the Confederation ships in the force, had walked onto the deck.
“Hello, Atara…well, we made it back to Dannith, to Confederation space. At least the next fight will be at home, so to speak.” She recognized almost immediately that the statement she’d thought would be reassuring, was actually unnerving. It was always better to be fighting on someone else’s ground, and not your own. She also didn’t say anything about her own intentions. She had always been an independent sort, but she had accepted a commission, and technically, Atara did outrank her. If she ordered her to stay, to take some kind of command…no, Atara wouldn’t do that, at least she was fairly sure.
“Tyler told me you would be leaving the fleet once we arrived here.”
Andi almost smiled. Tyler had been just as complete as she suspected, more so in fact. He had drawn Atara into his effort to save his wife, to do all he could to keep her from the fighting. And to save their daughter.
She realized that at one point in her life, she might have resented it. She would have fought against any effort to keep her from the coming fight. But now, her choice was different. She never would have agreed just for herself, but she had to go and see Cassiopeia again, to try and give her daughter a chance at surviving, at escaping from the domination of the Highborn. She had considerable doubt in her abilities to truly escape, but if things came down to it, she knew she would try.
“I have to go back and get Cassiopeia. Assuming the virus doesn’t work, we are…” She had intended to say ‘defeated’ but she stopped herself.
“Yes. The virus is our last chance. We will fight anyway, to the end if necessary, but there is almost no hope of success, none save the virus. I was never a huge supporter of it, you know that…but now, I have pinned all of my hopes on it. I only wish we had some real intelligence in the enemy fleet, some idea of whether it is spreading, even over a reasonable portion of them.”
“I am sorry I have to leave…but I will return, I promise, and hopefully before the next battle.” She wasn’t sure about that, about exactly what she would do, but she said it anyway. Andi’s early life had been very focused on herself, on what she needed to succeed. But during the past almost twenty years, she had been drawn farther and farther into the greater conflict, into trying to save the Confederation. And as much as she tried to desert it, to think solely about her own interests again, she found she couldn’t. Somehow, she had come all the way from totally invested in herself, her own interests, to devoted to the Confederation she had once barely even paid any attention to. That was Tyler, certainly, at least in part, but it was more than that, too. When she was young, she saw the Confederation only as the weight that was placed on her, keeping her under control on her home world…but then she found out it was much more. There was definitely much of the former still left, of course, more than most of the people born into better means even knew about…but there was a lot good, too, worth saving. And she had found that whatever the Confederation was, every other government she had since seen was worse.
“Just go, Andi. You might be able to escape. I know you want Tyler to go with you, but I just don’t think he can. He has always been an officer, and his father and grandfather and great-grandfather were, too. I’m sure he wants to go with you, but I’m almost positive he won’t be able to. If the virus works, if it actually gives us a chance, you can always come back. And if we’re doomed, then you can take off and try to live some kind of life…out there. Or at least give your daughter a chance.”
Andi thought about it for a second, almost arguing about Tyler…but she realized it was only the truth. Given enough reason, she suspected she could pull away, leave the Confederation, but just then, she realized for certain that her husband never could. He would want to, desperately, she knew that. But his honor ran way too deep to allow him any escape save victory or death.
And she just didn’t know whether she’d be able to leave him behind…even with him begging her to, and their daughter’s future at stake. That last bit would possibly do it, but she also realized that her own future would be totally glum if she lost Tyler, if the Confederation was destroyed. She would go on solely for her daughter…for their daughter.
“Well, I’m going back to get Cassiopeia, and then…we will see.” She wanted to leave it there, but then she continued, almost involuntarily. “I’m just not sure I can leave, Atara. I know I should, that Tyler wants me to, but I have never run from a fight before, and I don’t know if I can do it now.” She surprised herself at the candid nature of her words, at how she just spat out her innermost feelings, not to Tyler, but to Atara. She had friendly relations with her, of course, and she knew Tyler and Atara had never had any kind of personal relationship…but she knew he had shared much with her, that she was his best friend. Despite her realization that she had nothing to worry about, she had always felt a bit reserved around Travis, not overtly, at least not that she realized, but she knew it had kept her from ever developing a truly close relationship with her. And now she realized—truly realized—that Atara was her true friend, as much as she was Tyler’s. She turned toward her and forced a rough smile, and then she said again, “We will see.”
Chapter Fifteen
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System D13-2540
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax sat and studied the reports, reviewing the medical condition of his crews, the status of his vessels. Thirty-one percent of his ships had infected individuals aboard, and in most cases, on a vessel that had any infected individuals, the disease had already spread to all of those in the crew. Some of those crews knew, the early ones, but he had intercepted the transmissions quickly, and he had arranged for many of those infected to be told they were negative. That would have bothered him once, but now his mind was utterly focused on one thing…defeating the humans. He would clear up any problems he created along the way after that was done.
Meanwhile, he would place the infected vessels, particularly those where the crews didn’t know they were, in the front ranks. The enemy resistance would save him from having to handle some of those, at least, and it was better to have most of his losses come from ships full of crews that were going to die anyway. He knew that wouldn’t solve all of his problems, but it very well might reduce the intensity. He knew his personnel, those infected but who didn’t know yet, would be angry that he had lied to them, but perhaps he could reduce their number, substantially. That was a very dire way of thinking about losses he might take, but he knew the humans would kill a large number of his people no matter what, so why not those who were going to die anyway? The way he thought about that, they were free to him, not real losses at all, but people who were going to die anyway, one way or another.
He had just ordered the fleet to move out two days before…after a wait of almost a week. That had been longer than he had hoped, and it pretty much eliminated any chance of catching the fleet he had just fought. That didn’t really matter, he knew. He would just destroy them with the rest of the human ships, but still, it irritated him. He had intended to move quickly, and he had done everything as aggressively as he could. It had just taken longer than he had hoped.
The thirty percent figure was high, too…a lot of his people who were already as good as lost. He would engineer things so they endured the bulk of the losses in the coming fight, but still, he was going to lose a lot of people outside of the battle. The crews who knew they had the disease were still relatively calm, but he knew that could easily change, probably would have already if he hadn’t exaggerated the results of the quickly restarted research on the disease. He suggested that the researchers believed they were close to a major breakthrough, but in actuality, he knew they were still nowhere near one.
He had initially planned to transfer new personnel to replace everyone who was infected, but then he realized that he had to somehow utterly disinfect the ships, or the new crews could just get the same illness as those they replaced had. The virus was evil in that way, and he knew that if he left even just a few of the organisms behind, an amount that couldn’t be seen, couldn’t even be detected, they would grow, and ultimately infect the entire new crew. And with his researchers so far faring no better than they had almost four centuries ago, when they had first rushed to try and defeat the disease, he knew his best hope was to limit exposure, to keep as many of his people away from the virus as possible…and as few of those already stricken aware of their fate for as long as possible.
He shook his head. Surely, he thought, if the research efforts had been continued for all of the time between the initial outbreak and the one now, it would have worked…at some point his people would have found a cure. But they had decided that the disease was extinct, that once the empire had fallen so hard, it wouldn’t be seen again. That seemed careless to him now, but he remembered being totally in favor of the decision when it was made. Now, he had to hope that something could be found in just a series of months, and while that was possible, he knew it was unlikely.
He pushed aside the medical data…it was just too depressing. It was also a reason he had to move quickly. If he waited too long, the virus would begin to break out on many of his ships, and there was no way of knowing what would happen then. It would be far better if he could fight the battle first and take most of his losses from the infected group. That seemed possible, at least if he could make it to the Confederation in quickly. His fleet was moving at full speed, and any ship that had a defect, a malfunction, was being left behind. The entire trip was too long to risk travelling above maximum speed, but he intended to push the fleet at full power. If he lost a couple more ships as a result, that was far less of a problem than having a third of his fleet rebel. He didn’t know that would happen, of course, but the best way to avoid it was to have the fight before the virus broke out on the ships that were infected but didn’t know it. Then, if any survivors—temporary survivors—wanted to launch some kind of fight out of frustration, he could at least handle it.
He was fixed on defeating the enemy, and on securing his place in the system for after the war was over. He knew he was in danger, that if he did anything else wrong, he would undoubtably be replaced, but now he began to wonder if even victory would be enough to protect him. He had assumed it would be, but now the virus, and the fact that he had deliberately hidden it from Ellerax, was an extra factor. He had assumed that in the months after the fight, the virus would tear through the worlds and ships that were infected, but it wouldn’t spread. He had ordered every planet and every vessel to cease any and all transportation. He had even posted squadrons around the infected worlds, with orders to blast any ships trying to leave. Perhaps Ellerax would view the virus as a new and unforeseen danger his minion had to deal with, which is of course what it was, at least to Tesserax. It might even enhance his glory…at least if not for his failure to report it. That was the one problem. It would be impossible to explain why he didn’t report it immediately, but if he did tell Ellerax about it, the leader would almost certainly replace him.
He had thought about that before, many times, and he had decided that he didn’t have any choice. He had to defeat the humans, and he had to do it very quickly…and then hope for the best when everything came out.
* * *
Ellerax sat calmly, staring out at his bridge crew, as S’Olestra’s engines began to blast. He had just ordered the ship—no, not the ship, the whole fleet—to set out at 50% power. He knew he had an immense number of vessels under his control, that the power it possessed was almost unbelievable, the most that had been seen together in the 400 years since the fall of the empire.
No, he realized, it had been far longer than that. The forces the empire possessed at its end were far smaller and more scattered than those it had deployed at its height. And he had assembled all of his power right there, ready to end the war. To win it.
His plan was very simple, to head out in the direction that had become most pinpointed to a “home” for the enemy…and to fight anything they came upon. The war had been going fairly badly over the past several years, but Ellerax assumed that was because his forces were spread out. Assembling them all in one place would leave his settled planets undefended, but he didn’t imagine that would be a problem for long. Once the enemy realized what he was doing, they would have to withdraw all of their ships, bring them to face his. Hopefully, he would fight them in stages, in three or four groups, but even if they put everything together, he was confident that his massive force would win. The casualties might be high, and it could take him several years to replace them, but all that would remain after the destruction of the primary enemy was the free humans…and if Tesserax hadn’t finally annihilated them by the time he was finished, he decided that he would go himself, and crown his glory with that final conquest.
The destruction of both enemies…the more he thought about it, the better it sounded. He almost hoped that Tesserax managed to bungle his job, that the free humans were still in the field long enough for him to arrive and throw the coup de grace.
He turned and looked at the screen, seeing the entire fleet moving forward. “Increase to 75% speed,” he said.
“Yes, Sir!” the response came in, and the voice then went on to issue the command to the entire fleet.
Ellerax realized that it took a bit longer than usual to issue orders to so enormous a fleet, that with so many vessels, he had a number of problems that slowed things down a bit. He found it irritating, and he swore to see what he could do about it in the future, but for now, he just gave his orders gradually. When the entire fleet was moving at 75%, he would finally move them to 100%. He knew he would have some ships drop out in the course of his invasion, the victims of malfunctions and the like. But the vast majority of his vessels would proceed at maximum power…until they encountered the enemy.
And they would defeat it, any and all forces that stood in their way. The fleet would proceed forward, until it finally reached inhabited planets, the home of the enemy…and it would destroy them all, whether there was one or ten thousand. Ellerax was incredibly intelligent, capable of immense thought, but he had a weakness, one that was almost in control of him now. He was cocky, arrogant, unable to truly imagine being defeated. He could hardly accept losses by those he had placed in power, but the idea that he could lose a fight was almost ridiculous to him. He would win, he was certain of that…and that conviction drove him forward, relentlessly.
“Increase speed to 100%,” he said, his voice grim, serious. It was time to end this war. It had been time for a long while, but his mistake had been allowing others to lead. Now, with the fleet totally assembled and him at its helm, victory was certain.
* * *
Unit AE-1124 stared at the screen, looking at the force coming through the warp gate. It was enormous, far larger than anything the enemy had ever deployed before. It gave orders to its subordinate units, commanded them to activate every scanning device his ship had. The vessel was hidden, and it would remain so…until it decided to retreat or send a message home. And it knew it would have to do one or the other, and soon. But first, it needed solid data, as much information on the enemy fleet as it could get.
It turned itself on fully, activating the components that usually remained off, save in a battle or in a critical situation. It deemed this to be the latter.
It was watching as even more enemy vessels poured through the warp gate. There were over two thousand there already, and many more coming through. How many it would be in total was a question it couldn’t answer yet, but it’s best calculation already suggested a major change of plans by the enemy. They had assembled all or almost all of their forces for a massive attack. And that was absolutely vital news to report.
It knew this was a major change in the enemy’s operations…and one that could upset the plans for dealing with them. AE-1124, and all of the bots above and below it in rank, had the war under control for many years…at least until now, when the enemy fleet began appearing. If the foe was truly going to attack with all of that force, advance with that large of a fleet, it would overwhelm the ships that were left to face it. It would unbalance the entire war.
AE-1124 realized that the news of the enemy action had to be reported up the chain, but how far up? It had always gone to its fleet commander, another AI, but of the AB class, superior to it in every way. But now as it looked at the massive fleet—now over twenty-five hundred and still coming—it realized that the message had to go higher. It had to go to the top, to one of the live creatures that were in ultimate command of the entire fleet. That was for sure, it realized, but it didn’t know if it should report directly, or through its commander. There was a certainty that it would be detected when it sent out its communication, and that it subsequently be destroyed. There was almost no question that AE-1124 and the other bots on its ship were doomed. Its ship was simply too close to the enemy not to be detected when it transmitted.
That wasn’t a concern, of course. Its sense of determination to survive was waivable in situations like this. The loss of the scoutship wouldn’t make any real difference in the battle almost certainly to come. It would be sorry, in a sense, to miss the fight, but that wouldn’t stop it. It knew that it would be detected, and then destroyed within moments of sending its transmission, but its only real concern was who to contact.
Twenty-six hundred vessels had already entered the system, and they were still coming. This was the entire enemy fleet. That meant something had changed, that the enemy was pursuing a different strategy. Its forces had to know as soon as possible, and it would send all of the data it had collected along with the message.
Time was urgent, and it made its decision. Despite the fact that it was a lesser unit, that contact with the living creatures was usually made by the highest of its kind, it realized it had to report immediately to the top level. It switched its communicator to the frequency it had never expected to use, the one that led to one of the highest rank, the creatures that had created them all, those that were alive.
It would also send the message at the same time to its own commander. It would have to know as well, and as soon as possible. It knew its immediate commander was a bot too, that it would need to receive commands from the living creatures that had created them, but this way, at least, it would be ready, prepared for the orders that would come.
But AE-1124 was only responsible for reporting the arrival of so large an enemy fleet. Its fate afterwards was largely irrelevant.
“Attention to our masters…I apologize for contacting you directly, but the news I bear is of the utmost importance. An enemy fleet is entering the system, even as I make this report. They are in excess of twenty-seven hundred vessels, many of their largest size. It is my belief that this is all or almost all of their entire force, all gathered together for a massive assault. I am including all of the data I can send with this message. I will withhold my thoughts on the enemy intentions, as you are far more capable than I of analyzing this. The sending of this transmission will disclose our presence to the enemy, and while I will attempt to escape, I do not believe it will be possible. I wish you the best of luck in dealing with this massive change of strategy by the enemy.”
That was all it said, but it would take at least two more minutes for all of the data to transmit. It had already sent commands to its engineering unit, ordered the ship to blast at full away from the enemy. Its ship was very fast, and against a normal sized enemy force it would have at least a chance of escape. But against twenty-seven hundred vessels—actually, over twenty eight hundred, now—it knew it would never survive long enough to get out of firing range.
It glanced at the enemy forces, watched as they began to fire. Its ship was engaging in full evasive maneuvers, but there were just too many ships shooting. Lasers whipped by, all around, and against all odds, for a few seconds, none hit. But then, almost immediately, two separate blasts occurred, and after that, another seven shots slammed into the ship.
Well, five did at least…the other two blasting through the space that had seconds before held the small scoutship but was now covered with dust and little bits of metal, all that was left of AE-11124’s ship…and the AI itself.
Chapter Sixteen
CWS Omicron
Lexus Denari System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Omicron and its fleet had travelled through space, as quickly as possible. She was up to almost 100% on her engines, and while that was a shaky status, and many of the repairs were hasty and far from reliable, so far it had held up well. Most of the fleet had, though two damaged ships had to be abandoned on the trip as their engines couldn’t keep up with the fleet’s pace. Their crews were removed to other ships, and they were both destroyed.
Tyler Barron had sat for many hours on Omicron’s bridge, trying to stand out, to keep his people’s spirits high. But he realized they were all in stunningly good shape already, and as much as logically they knew how bad the situation was, somehow they were overtaken by the expectation that he would find a way to win, that in the end he would lead them to victory.
Over time, he had realized that he was the one who was the most down, and it was only getting worse as they neared the Confederation. For years, he had dreamed of going home, of returning to his estate and spending some time just relaxing and getting to know his daughter again. Now, he was indeed headed to the Confederation, but the reason, and what he could reasonably expect to happen, were very bad indeed. He just might get to see his daughter one more time, at least. He hadn’t asked for that, and he had expressly told Andi to just go and take off with the girl…but he knew his wife too well to assume that she would do that. She would probably stay out of the fighting—barely, Andromeda being about the only thing that could keep her away—but he was pretty sure she would want him to see Cassiopeia again. Probably for the last time.
He had even considered going with her, resigning his commission and taking off with his wife and daughter and anyone else who wanted to go with them…but he just couldn’t. His life, and the lives of those who had come before him, were all Confederation navy. It was who he was, inside and outside. He had to fight this out, to the finish, even though he knew his chances weren’t good. But even more, he wanted his family, Andi and Cassiopeia, to be safe, or as close to it as they could get.
Perhaps the infection will work, he told himself. He had never been a big believer in it, but he recognized that Andi and the others had spread it fairly wide, that they had made a big cut into the Highborn, at least those present in the Hegemony. But his doubts went far beyond the virus not working, or the enemy having a cure…he could actually see it having a terrible effect, taking the Highborn from a domineering group that just wanted to enslave mankind, to a vengeful force, seeking to strike back, possibly to obliterate humanity. Whatever damage the virus did, it was the enemy fleet that was the major problem, at least for now. And his people hadn’t managed to target it in any real way. Even if they ultimately killed a massive number of the enemy with the virus, not enough of those would come from the fleet.
He recognized that some ships, perhaps even a large number, probably had transfers from some of the infected planets, at least before the infections had been discovered. Still, even if it proved as contagious as it was supposed to be and killed everyone on any of those ships, he couldn’t believe that would be enough to equalize their forces. Nor could he suspect that the battle he knew was coming could be postponed for long enough for all the infected—possibly dying—aliens to see the infection to the end. The one effect of the disease that was frustrating was the incredibly long incubation period it carried. He knew the enemy would likely still have the chance to fight before their conditions worsened. And they would be angry, furious at his people for the desperate assault they had made, for the approaching deaths of so many of their kind.
“Admiral…we are approaching the next warp gate. Once we pass through, we will be six more transits from Dannith.”
Barron just nodded. He had a strange attitude about Dannith. The planet was on the border, kind of a rough place, or at least it had been the last time he was there. But it was part of the Confederation, and he would be happy to see it, very happy. Even if it turned out to be for the last time.
He stared ahead, looked at the warp point his ships were approaching. The trip had been a long one, and he’d made it in what had to be record time. He knew the enemy was fairly close behind him, but he was almost certain he was at least a week ahead of them. That wasn’t much time, he knew, not enough to meaningfully repair any of his ships or to do much besides getting ready to face the invasion. But it would give him time to see Dannith, to set foot on a Confederation planet, at least once more. And possibly to see Andi and Cassiopeia again…one last time. Tyler Barron didn’t know what would happen next, but if he was going to place a bet, he would say that within a week of his arrival, perhaps two weeks at most, the enemy would attack. His forces would fight, and fight well, that he knew. But they would be defeated, and the beaten hulks that survived the assault would limp away, leaving some bits and pieces for the enemy to pursue, to fight. But Dannith would be the last real fight of the war, and the survivors would be scattered remnants.
Even that was all supposition, of course, just the result of his endless pondering on the flight home. He could be wrong about any of it, he realized, but he didn’t think he was. Not even the part about Dannith being his last fight. He didn’t know what would happen, but he couldn’t look out beyond the coming fight, even when he tried. He realized that he didn’t intend to leave Dannith, that he was planning to give this fight everything he had, every bit of himself, save only Andi and Cassie. And if they survived, part of him would, too.
* * *
Stockton felt strange. He knew the overall situation, was almost sure defeat was inevitable, and he knew Barron was even more certain. He figured he should be miserable, but he wasn’t…he was happy. His forces had utterly ravaged the enemy advance force at the last battle, and he was still feeling the effects of that. For the first time in years, he had led thousands of Confederation fighters into a desperate assault, and they had kicked ass. He was almost back…almost. Only one thing stood in his way. Reg Griffin.
He liked Reg, a lot. She was even the one he would have picked to follow him up, to take over if he was gone. But he was back now, and as much it bothered him on one level, he was completely determined to take over, to lead all his forces again.
He had done as well as could have been expected in the recent fight—better, even that he had hoped—and he had done it right in front of Tyler Barron. Stockton knew Barron would make the ultimate decision, and he sympathized with his commander, knew it would be difficult whichever way he went. But he was determined to lead the force—the entire force—at least once again. He knew the survival prospects in the next battle were going to be grim, and if it was time for him to die, then he would die. But he would die in command, and he would fight like the devil before that happened.
He walked down the corridor, heading now to see Stara. He felt sorry for her for choosing him. She had gone on the entire time he was believed the be dead, when he was serving with the enemy against his will, without showing the slightest interest in anyone else. When he came back, she was there, waiting, excited. She had been at his side ever since, despite his going against her will on the surgery that had returned him to duty. He loved her, the only woman he had ever truly been in a real relationship with, but he sympathized with her, and part of him wished that she had found someone else. Despite his feelings for her, and they were considerable, he knew that first above all things, he was a pilot. He had to fly, to lead his squadrons…and perhaps to die in the process. It was part of him, an essential part, and it came before everything, and everyone…even her.
He went through the door, and Stara was there. He hugged her, and they shared a kiss. She was happy to see him, but her unease was clear as well. She knew as well as he did, as well as everyone, that things were bad, that the likelihood of her side winning a victory was extremely poor. Stara wasn’t as crazy about her duty as Stockton was about his, but he knew she would also fight to the end.
“Jake, I’m sorry…I’m on duty in just a few minutes. Perhaps we could have a later dinner after?”
Stockton nodded. “Yes, of course. I’m sorry you have work to do, but I would love to grab a bite tonight.” He felt bad. He had known she was on duty, and he had scheduled his visit accordingly. He was in love with her, but right now he was utterly focused on his job, and on nothing else. He had considered trying to get Stara off of the ship when it arrived at Dannith, finding some way to spare her from the combat, but he realized that she wouldn’t go…and that he shouldn’t try. He loved her, but she was a warrior just as he was, and had been for many years. It would be wrong to interfere with her decision to serve, no matter how much he wanted her to survive.
Besides, what would survival be worth? Stara would never live as the enemy’s slave, and that would be the only choice unless they somehow could steal victory out of the closing jaws of defeat.
He hugged her, more tightly than he had expected, and for longer, too. He would see her again that night, and many times over the next days, but he knew the chance of both of them surviving the coming battle, the war, was almost miniscule. He had been with her for years, but he could feel the end coming now, and while he could accept that professionally—assuming he got the top command back—he knew he wasn’t done with her. Stara was the one thing he would leave unfinished, and he imagined that in another life, where he wasn’t totally dedicated to his pilot’s career, he could be happy with her, live a long life in peace, possibly even have some children.
He looked at her again, and he just nodded as she turned to leave. She stopped and smiled, turning towards him. “Goodbye for now, Jake. I’ll see you tonight!” Then she turned and walked out.
He watched her go, and then he went out himself…down to the hanger deck. It was quiet there right now, with the ship set for its speedy retreat to Dannith, but he had gotten Tyler’s permission to take a ship out whenever he wanted. He’d done it in every system, just to fly around, to improve his already almost perfect responses. He seemed to be as good as he ever was, but he wanted to be certain. He knew that whatever happened, if Barron placed him in charge of the total fighter force, or if he was second in command, the fight coming up would be the most difficult he had ever fought…and he was determined to be at his absolute best, even if it was for the last time.
* * *
Barron sat in his office, enjoying—sort of, at least—the break from having to act like he was ready for the fight he knew was coming. He wasn’t, and he didn’t think anyone could be. He had considered it from every angle, tried to come up with some kind of strategy that would allow his side to win, but there just wasn’t one, not that he could come up with. Nothing but to pray that the virus did its job and did it quickly enough.
Even that, he knew, wouldn’t work. It wouldn’t affect the enemy fleet enough, even if it killed massive numbers of their people and crippled their production. Still, he realized he would like to know if the virus was truly effective, even if he found out right before he died. It didn’t make a lot of sense, maybe, but if the virus damaged the enemy badly enough, it might help Andi and Cassiopeia to escape. That, he knew, would make him die easier, at least.
He had been thinking about the final battle during the entire trip, coming up with every single edge he could. He suspected that the enemy was right behind him, and despite the fact that he have any concrete evidence, he was almost sure of it. Their commander knew about the virus and its level of infection, better than he did. If it was a threat to them, if it had spread as widely as he had hoped and they had no cure for it, that would only place more pressure on their commander to win the war as quickly as possible, before the true nature of the problem became clear.
Barron put his face in his hands, closing his eyes for a moment. He thought of all kinds of futures, of a life with Andi and Cassie, quiet, without being at the center of everything. That would be amazing, he thought, a life with a family, a few friends, and nothing more. That was, of course, impossible for him to ever have. Hell, even if he did find a way to win the war, if the virus proved to be incredibly effective, and the enemy didn’t attack quickly, and a dozen other things all went the right way, he knew he would be one of the heroes, that he would be acclaimed everywhere he went. The notion of a quiet life, of getting up, wandering to the store, living normally…he knew that was impossible for him. Totally impossible. And yet, that was what he wanted most of all.
He was in the navy, had always been in a manner of speaking, even before he had graduated from the Academy, and he had loved it, for years. But now he was done. If he could leave, if he could go live a quiet life somewhere with his wife and daughter, he would do it in a second. But there was no way, none at all.
He sat for a few minutes, allowing himself to think about it, about other options he might have taken. Perhaps if he had not led the White Fleet out, discovered the Hegemony, and unleashed them on the Confederation, his nation might still be at peace. The Hegemony was definitely the first power for the Highborn to encounter. Maybe they would have been conquered, and perhaps that would have satisfied the hunger of the enemy for conquest, at least for a while.
Perhaps for long enough for him to live his life, to die in peace at an old age, surrounded by friends and family. He knew that was selfish, that the Highborn would have come for his people eventually, but as most people born into traumatic times, he couldn’t help but imagine that he had been allowed to live his life first, that the brutality and harshness that was coming had waited until his death.
He thought along those lines for a few minutes, imagined what his life might have been like. Then he cleared his head and brought it back to reality. Whatever he might have been given in other circumstances, he knew what he was now, the role he had accepted and what it required of him.
He punched at his keyboard, bringing up the formation of the fleet, and he stared at it. Whatever the enemy had, however large their force was, he had what he was looking at, and nothing more. And even if they had no chance, he swore to himself that they would fight.
They would fight with a ferocity the enemy had never seen before.
Chapter Seventeen
CWS Dauntless
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Atara looked around the streets, feeling almost strange to be out and around a Confederation city. It had been a long time since she’d been home, in the Confederation, and she just looked around. She tried to enjoy it, to get the feeling of being back in a familiar locale, but she just couldn’t. She understood Clint’s decision, and in a way she agreed with it, but it still ate at her. She had almost become used to leading any kind of desperate operation against the enemy, but this time Clint Winters was doing it. He was heading to the Krakus system, intent on taking out the enemy fleet there, on removing the threat in the rear of their force before the larger battle everyone knew was coming. It was only fair that he lead the assault, and she knew that. But she was still pissed at being left behind.
She had been working around the clock, doing everything she could to prepare her vessels for the fight. She knew she should be sleeping now, taking a break for at least a little while before the battle that seemed inevitable. But she had taken a shuttle down to the planet’s surface instead. She had never particularly liked Dannith, and Port Royal City had always seemed to be a bit of a nasty place, overrun it seemed with pirates and others engaged in the once lucrative, but illegal, trade of finding and trading Badlands goods.
She knew Andi had been involved in that business, that she had run countless missions into the depths, retrieving all kinds of items. Clearly, not everyone who had been in that business was a hardcore baddie, though she figured most of them had a good bit to hide.
But Dannith had changed quite a bit. It had become a way station, the last Confederation planet on the way out to the Badlands, and further, to the Hegemony. It had become the main route for everything constructed in the Confederation for the war zone, ships certainly, but also weapons, clothes, food…everything that the millions of people involved in the war needed from the billions who supported them.
Its illegal trade had also more or less vanished, the massive deployment of military resources making it incredibly difficult to conduct missions to search the Badlands. One by one, the old informants and the ship owners who had plied the space out there had closed up shop and left. Now, Dannith was more or less a navy world, through and through.
Atara walked along the boulevard, once the main section of town that had housed the most active of those who had ventured out in search of Old Imperium trinkets. Now it was much quieter, the old bars and other establishments that had been so busy and active were mostly gone, replaced around where she was, at least, by large housing blocks built to house workers and fleet personnel.
She knew she should approve of the change, be glad that the old, illegal, activity was mostly gone, but instead she felt strange, almost missing the mess that used to be everywhere. She found the apartments to be boring, to look like each other, and she felt the entire area had lost something. It didn’t make much sense, especially because she remembered not liking it before either, but she still felt it had lost something.
She stopped suddenly and turned around. She had wanted to see Dannith, to return to a Confederation planet, but now she’d had enough. She knew some other worlds would be more interesting, that they would appeal more to her, but she was also concerned that as much as she had fought like wildfire to save the Confederation, it had cost her the ability to live normally, to exist under any kind of system save the military. She had been a career officer, well before the current war, but she had always assumed that she would retire one day, pass out of the service with a good record and a pension and do something else. Now, she couldn’t even imagine that.
She walked along, moving fairly quickly, finding the environment of Dannith to be more and more uncomfortable. She would fight for the Confederation, for its people, even die for them if she had to, but now she couldn’t imagine any life but in the military. She was locked in, even if her people somehow managed to win the war, which seemed incredibly unlikely. Despite the losses, the terrible pain that haunted her, she couldn’t imagine a life other than the one she had now. She would enjoy peace, though after twenty years of more or less constant fighting, she wasn’t sure that really existed. But one way or another, she knew she was locked in, likely for the rest of her life.
Which probably wouldn’t be that much longer…
* * *
Clint Winters stared out at the space ahead, and the warp gate that his vessel was rapidly approaching. He was about to lead his fleet, part of it, at least, into the Krakus system, the former location of the main fleet base Grimaldi.
Grimaldi had existed for nearly one hundred years, and it had survived four wars with the Union, but it had finally succumbed to the combined Highborn-Union assault that had occurred several months before. He knew the fight he was heading for wasn’t the big one, that it wouldn’t really buy the Confederation more time, but what it could do was eliminate the chance of the enemy forces there appearing in the fleet’s rear at Dannith.
And it could produce a victory for his people…maybe their last.
He knew that Krakus had been the key component to the Confederation’s defense for a century, that in the unexplained layout of the warp gates, the system had a large number of them, and it formed a bottleneck along the border of the Confederation, with a number of routes in and a number out…but it was the only entrance from Union space, save for a long detour around the perimeter.
He knew he didn’t have much time, that he had to attack and be done as quickly as possible and then return quickly to Dannith. He had thought about his plan a lot, and he had realized that the battered enemy force would likely retreat, knowing as well as he did that he couldn’t stay. But if his force seemed small, something the enemy could possibly take on…just maybe they would come forward and fight. Then, when they were heavily engaged, he could bring the rest of his forces through and possibly badly damage the enemy.
It was a relatively simple plan, and he doubted that he would fall for it. But he had begun to realize something about the enemy. They were very intelligent, smarter than he and his people…but they were also arrogant. Many of his own people had that ill, most in fact at one time or another, but he had come to realize that the enemy took it to another level. They viewed his people as pawns, as almost mindless drones, incapable of competing with them. They just might take his bait, move forward to engage his small force…and then he would unleash the rest. Just maybe he would catch the enemy in a trap, and by the time they extricated themselves, he would have inflicted terrible damage to a force that was already battered. Then he could return to Dannith and fight there.
At least that was his plan. He knew he had to get back as quickly as possible, that he couldn’t miss the fight that would take place around Dannith. But first, he had to secure the fleet’s rear.
He saw that the warp gate had gotten larger, that it was covering almost two-thirds of the forward viewscreen. He looked at the timer, saw that in less than a minute his ship would enter. He just stared straight ahead, watched silently, as most of those on the bridge were doing.
His ship was amazing, a new vessel, one of the few that had arrived after the last fight. He hadn’t wanted to transfer his flag, but his old ship was badly battered, and the battle at Dannith would very possibly be the final large fight. He had to have the best ship he could. He knew Atara wouldn’t be moved off of Dauntless, but he figured one of them, at least, needed the very best ship possible. So, Northampton became his flagship.
He gritted his teeth as his ship entered the warp gate and moved into the strange tunnel that would carry it in just a second across seven lightyears of space, to its destination. To the enemy held Krakus system. As always, the trip was strange, different, and it seemed to last longer than he thought it would. And then, suddenly, he was back in normal space.
He looked at his map, still dark, waiting for his systems to restart. The warp gates were one of the great mysteries of the universe, and despite the rapid advancements of the past twenty years, his people knew very little more today than they had a century before. It wasn’t even clear if they were some strange and totally unexplained natural occurrence, or whether they had been built by some ancient race of which they were the only thing that remained.
He was relieved that there was no shooting at his force. That was as he expected, the enemy being deployed farther back, ready to leave as soon as his force appeared. But if he was lucky, when his forces stopped transiting, when it appeared he had brought only a small fleet with him, just maybe the enemy would advance. Then, when they had moved in close to the warp gate, he would send the word for the rest of his force to advance…and they would destroy as much of the enemy fleet as possible.
He stared at the screen. It seemed to be black forever, but he knew it was less than a minute. Then it came on, started to light up, first with a strange mix of light, as the outside scanners started to come online. Then a few seconds later, it was fully active.
Clint looked, anxious to see what was there. The enemy was just where he expected them to be, back far enough to escape…and their force was even smaller than he expected. He was sure he would have a victory, at least a small one before he returned to Dannith. And perhaps a bigger one, if only the enemy proved him right, if they assumed his force was as small as he was presenting, and they decided to close.
* * *
Percelax stared at his screen, watching the ships come through. He was about to order his force to retreat, to pull back before his damaged ships could be engaged and destroyed. But then the transfers stopped. The enemy force was small, much smaller than he had expected. That was a surprise. He thought for a few minutes that they had some kind of technical problem, that the transfers would start again in a few minutes. But they didn’t…and a few moments later, the force that had come through fired up their engines and advanced.
He was confused at first, unsure what to think. But then he realized he might actually have a chance at defeating them, at beating them back. It was unexpected, and at first he was suspicious. But the more he thought about it the more it made sense. The enemy was built up at Dannith, waiting for the main invasion. Perhaps they had only been willing to risk sending a small force. Maybe they assumed that he would retreat, as he had planned to do.
Should he reverse course? He imagined winning another victory, the effect that would have on the level of credit he got, that Tesserax would be forced to give him. Yes…it would be extraordinary. And his calculations told him his force would win. The enemy had one large vessel, one that seemed new and powerful, but the other ships were all cruisers and destroyers, and a fair number of them clearly exhibited signs of damage, much like his own ships.
Moreover, he could throw the Union ships into the heaviest fighting, compel them to do what had to be done to win, and to take most of the losses he suffered. Their ships were weaker than his, and once the war was over, he didn’t imagine much use for them, anyway.
He thought again, pondering the matter. He had doubts, concerns that it was some kind of trick, that more ships would be coming through later…but he couldn’t control the feelings growing inside him, the thought that he would prevail, and then he could then lead the remnants of his force against the rear of the enemy at Dannith. He would be clearly the second most revered of his people deployed against the humans, perhaps even coming close to Tesserax himself.
Yes, he would do it. He would order his forces forward, and he would destroy the enemy quickly…and then he would proceed to Dannith. To greatness and glory.
Chapter Eighteen
CWS Northampton
Krakus System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Clint Winters stared straight ahead at the enemy ships that were closing on his tiny fleet. He was glad that they seemed to be falling into his trap, but he was concerned about the beating his small force—the bait—would take before their relief force arrived. Especially since he hadn’t yet sent the signal for the rest of the fleet to move. He wanted to make sure the enemy was deeply involved in the combat before they began arriving, but that meant that his forces present were likely to take it hard.
He watched the distance to the enemy decline, moving toward the long range of the weaponry that Northampton had—and the enemy battleships as well—and he said, “Prepare to fire.”
“Yes, Sir!” His aide was solid, but Winters could hear his nerves as well. He knew the officer thought he should have sent the call out for the rest of the force by now, that everyone probably did. But he held fast. He needed the enemy truly deployed first, in too deep to just turn and run.
He sat silently, a little concerned himself that he was waiting too long. But he wanted more than just a quick victory. He wanted to completely destroy the enemy. That required patience.
He watched as the range counter went down below the long range of his weapons. He knew he could fire, but he wanted to wait, just a bit more. The enemy was coming in, fairly quickly. In another minute or two he would send the word to the rest of the fleet…and he would open fire.
Meanwhile, he saw the enemy ships, their biggest ones at least, begin blasting away with their big guns. He had already ordered his force to begin their evasive maneuvers, and he knew that hits at this range were relatively difficult. That didn’t mean his ships wouldn’t be stricken, just that the chance of each shot was relatively low. And as he watched the enemy vessels attacking, he realized that they had less than half of their number of guns working, the result of unrepaired damage. He had expected that, at least partially, but he wasn’t sure, not until now.
Still, he knew that the enemy force, as battered and relatively small as it was, could take out his ships, and the enemy would know that as well. So, he would continue to play along, to entice them further toward the warp point, and the ultimate arrival of the rest of his force.
“All ships, reverse thrust…back to the warp gate at full speed.” He knew that might confuse some of his people, that they might assume he had given up on the plan for some reason. They would learn the truth soon enough. Clint Winters never backed down from a fight.
“Yes, Sir…” Even the aide was somewhat confused. Winters figured there was a chance that he would have understood, but he seemed as confused as everyone else. Oh well, they will all know the truth soon enough…
He checked the range again. It had been declining rapidly, but now it slowed. His ships were still moving forward, still approaching the enemy, but their rate of advance was being dramatically slowed. In around another minute and a half his ships would reach a speed of zero, except of course for the diversionary movement, and then they would keep blasting away from the enemy, apparently heading back toward the warp gate.
“Commander, advise the fighters to hold in place…” He would normally have launched them already, but right now his flagship was the only vessel that had any. The enemy force was clearly battered, their losses from the last fight very obvious, but they outnumbered his own command, fairly heavily…at least until the rest of the fleet arrived.
He stared at the enemy fighters, coming toward his force. His retreat move would increase the amount of time they would take to reach him, but he realized that he needed his own fighters launched before they could attack his ships undefended. That placed a limit on his deception. Once his ship started launching, it would be clear he had no intention of escaping. Arrogant or not, he knew his opponent was capable. He would figure it out and almost certainly retreat. Knowing the enemy like he did, he even figured there was a good chance they would abandon their fighters and run. So, that was the moment he would have his fleet begin coming in. He silently calculated, roughly estimating his fleet’s position, and that of the incoming fighters’. Six minutes. In six minutes, he would launch his fighters, and reverse his thrust again. He would engage the enemy, and he would have his other ships begin to transfer.
In six minutes, the enemy would realize that they had been lured in, suckered…but it would be too late to escape. But first he had to survive for that six minutes.
* * *
Percelax stared at the screen, watching as the enemy ships slowed…and ultimately as they began moving the other direction, away from his ships. They were retreating! The enemy had been slow to analyze, to decide that they were badly outgunned, but finally they had. But it was too late.
“Maintain full thrust, and continue firing.” He would pursue the enemy, fire at them until whatever remained, if anything, reached the warp point. Part of him wanted to go through, to chase any remnants of the enemy force, but he knew his own ships were damaged, that he should be cautious. Besides, he didn’t think much of the enemy fleet would escape, except perhaps the flagship, though he was sure it would be badly damaged.
It wasn’t enough to justify spreading his fleet out, not in a rush. He would analyze his force, check out any new damage, and only then he would move through the warp gate. He knew there were enemy fortresses in some of the systems he would have to cross, but most of them would be around inhabited planets, and he could just bypass them. His purpose was to join Tesserax and the massive fleet, and there would be plenty of time later to clean up any enemy remnants. His force was very fragile, riddled with damage, but its arrival in the rear of the enemy fleet, just as Tesserax’s forces were attacking, would be a total surprise. He would schedule it to arrive at just the right moment, when the enemy was nearing defeat. That would enable him to gain the most glory with the smallest risk.
He saw the enemy flagship take a hit, the first one, and almost immediately afterwards, he saw three of the cruisers also sustain shots. The range was down to medium, and his targeting was substantially better than it had been. It would get even more accurate when the range went down to short, which he knew would happen before the enemy could escape.
He watched the screen again, as his ships fired every weapon they had. Most of the shots still missed. He had to admit that the enemy’s evasive maneuvers were very good, and they dramatically reduced his ratio of hits. But as the range declined, his rate of scoring hits went up. He scored two more against the flagship within thirty seconds of each other, and one in particular looked like a solid shot. The cruisers and destroyers, which had just moved into their own firing range, but hadn’t yet opened up, were taking it even worse. Two of them had clear damage to their engines, and all of them had suffered considerable harm.
And his fighters were closing, only two minutes until they were in range to begin their attacks. His squadrons were badly chopped up, he knew, and they had been the worst of the lot anyway, the best all kept by Tesserax. But the enemy hadn’t even launched yet. He knew they only had one ship capable of carrying fighters, and that its squadrons would be heavily outnumbered by his own…but he was surprised that they hadn’t sent them to try and deflect his own. He figured it was probably because they knew they were planning to go through the warp gate as soon as they could, and that they wouldn’t have time to allow them to land. Percelax thought that was foolish, and he would gladly sacrifice his squadrons if it made sense. The pilots were only humans, of course, though he realized that the enemy were all the lesser beings, and that made it a different calculation for them. Another inferiority.
He glanced back at the screen, watching as his guns scored another half dozen hits, though only one was on the flagship. One of the enemy vessels was clearly very badly damaged, and it was trailing the fleet. It would be destroyed soon, Percelax thought as he watched, but the enemy battleship, while reasonably battered, was still in fairly good shape.
Wait…
He was looking, waiting for his fighters to close when he saw something he didn’t expect. The enemy battleship was slowing down…and it was launching fighters. He could understand throwing the fighters away, of course, but why slow down? That didn’t make any sense.
Then he realized that the entire fleet was doing it. Why would they want to make it easier for his ships to catch them?
Then his ship rocked hard. The enemy had opened fire, all of their vessels. Were they going to fight after all? Did they decide to stay and engage his force? That didn’t make sense…they couldn’t win.
Then he saw it…and a moment later he realized. He had been tricked. More enemy vessels were coming through the warp point. And they were battleships.
He realized at once what was going on…but his force was caught. His velocity was high, and it was directly toward the warp point. It would take a long time to reverse course, and by then…
By then the enemy would have their new ships through and online.
He couldn’t understand how he had been so wrong, how the enemy commander, whoever he was, had gotten the better of him. But he knew one thing, what his only chance was of escaping the trap.
“All ships…reverse thrust at once. Full power back towards our escape warp point!”
* * *
Clint Winters stared straight ahead, watching as the enemy ships started blasting off in the reverse of the direction they had just been accelerating in. He also knew that it was too late, that it would take almost eighteen minutes just to stop their forward momentum…and longer to build any kind of velocity toward their rear. By that time, he would have a lot more ships through, and they would all be firing at the enemy.
They will destroy the enemy…
Winters had executed his plan almost perfectly, and he knew his force would destroy most of his foe. But that wasn’t enough for him. He wanted to obliterate every vessel he faced. He knew it didn’t make any sense, that his victory would be just as glorious either way…but it mattered to him.
He was a fierce warrior, one of the most vicious ones the Confederation had ever produced, and now he allowed all of that out, everything he had learned to keep hidden. Now was the time.
“All ships…fire as soon as possible. Blast them! Blast them to bits!”
“Yes, Sir!”
“And order the fighters to attack the enemy squadrons…blow them to hell!”
“Yes, Sir.”
He knew his fighters were outnumbered, badly at present. But he was confident in their abilities…and within ten or fifteen minutes they would be reinforced by the squadrons on the other ships. Their side would go from being outgunned to having a vast superiority. Then, any enemy fighters that were left would be obliterated, and his squadrons could go against their remaining capital ships, blasting them along with the larger vessels of his fleet.
He leaned back, feeling something he hadn’t felt in a long while. Satisfaction.
He knew it wouldn’t last, that he would return to Dannith, and to the real situation, to one that was grim, where defeat seemed just around the corner. He knew it wasn’t quite that bad, of course, that whatever happened, there was at least some hope that the disease would spread, that it would panic and damage the enemy. And if his plan to launch the virus toward the enemy ships actually worked—and he did doubt that considerably—he realized that his forces had an actual chance of seriously hurting the foe, even if they suffered brutal losses.
Still, he knew things were bad, though, very bad, and that was one reason he wanted to lead this mission himself. He knew Atara would have gone, but she had led more than her share of desperate operations, and he wanted to give her at least a few weeks of relative calm. For all he knew, it would be the last time in her life, in all of their lives.
He also admitted that he had claimed the mission for selfish reasons, for the chance to win one more fight before the large confrontation, the one he was fairly certain they would lose, even if they managed to infect the enemy in the process. He was going to do everything possible to eradicate the enemy here, to destroy them utterly. He was going to do it because he wanted to, because he had to take out his anger somewhere.
He watched as his fighters engaged the enemy. He wanted to think they could have prevailed under any circumstances, however outnumbered they were, but now the enemy was disordered, uncertain how to handle the arrival of his fleet. His fighter pilots knew the situation, they understood that they were outgunned for now, that they had to hold the line for perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes, until reinforcements began arriving from the newly transported ships. But they ignored it all and raced into the enemy forces with absolute abandon.
They launched their missiles, almost in perfect unison, one and then the other. The shots went toward the enemy ships, and they slammed into many of them. The Highborn ships were already unsettled, not sure what to do, and that proved to make them more vulnerable. At least half of the missiles found a target, an astonishing rate, and then the ships themselves came in, firing their lasers.
They blasted away, destroying dozens of enemy vessels—and losing some of their own, too. The enemy was unfocused, but they fought back, and they still outnumbered the attackers by a considerable margin. The battle, which had started as a total rout, gradually evened out. The Highborn lost many more ships, but they had more, at least for a while.
Winter’s eyes caught the newly arrived ships launching fighters, sending them forward to the fight one squadron at a time, as soon as they were out. It would gradually turn the battle around, he knew, but he wondered how many of his ship’s pilots would survive. He knew, as they had, what the plan was—what their role was—but as he watched the combat rage, he felt each of their losses cut into him. He wouldn’t change what he had done, but still, he realized his forces were outgunned—for a short time, at least—because of his plan to trap the enemy, to sucker them in where they couldn’t escape.
He couldn’t change that now, and he realized he wouldn’t even if he could. He had come to destroy the enemy, utterly…and that was exactly what he was going to do. He looked away from the scanner for a moment, and at his bridge crew. There was smoke in the air, and a fair amount of damaged and blown equipment, but Northampton had made it through the battle fairly well, at least so far. And he knew that in a few minutes, the fight would turn abruptly in his favor.
He looked out, feeling for the crew he had lost, all of those dead in his fleet—and those who would die later in the fight—but he also felt something different, something he hadn’t felt in a long while. The feeling of victory.
Chapter Nineteen
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System D12-1649
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared straight ahead, looking at the projected space in front of his fleet. He was doing everything he could think of to push his forces through faster, to reach the enemy position and force the battle—hopefully the last large fight—before his people started breaking out with the disease. He knew that about a third of his ships were affected, and he had done everything he could to preserve the thought that the fleet was largely unaffected. That had included intervening with the medical authorities and issuing a fair number of negative reports to those who were, in fact, positive. That was bad, he knew, and he was sure he would eventually have a large number of very angry spacers to deal with…but hopefully after the last large fight. Then he could split his forces, send out some of the uninfected ships to finish off the enemy, while he dealt with the anger of those he had misled.
This wasn’t how he had thought impending victory would feel, and he hadn’t slept much. He knew he would have to deal with not only his people he had misled, but also Ellerax, to whom he should have reported the virus to at once. That was the communication he truly dreaded, even more than those with his people he had assured were alright but were actually fatally ill. Ellerax was the senior leader, the last word in the eyes of all the Highborn…and he was likely to be angry—very angry—at the rediscovery of the virus long thought to be dead, and even more enraged at Tesserax’s keeping silent about it.
He looked at the monitor in his office, though there wasn’t really anything to see. He was less than a week away from the enemy’s planet, the Confederation border world where he was almost certain they would fight. That was exciting, and he would engage them almost immediately. As much as the numbers were on his side, time really wasn’t. His only real chance of emerging from the deep hole he had dug for himself was to present total victory over the humans along with everything else. Then he might just survive, despite the horrible losses he knew his people would suffer. With the enemy defeated, he could focus his efforts on purging the plague from his people, no matter how many it killed first. Then, he would exercise great care to ensure that it wasn’t spread any further, that it died out completely this time. That was one advantage of driving the enemy back. They weren’t anywhere near his inhabited planets, and they were being driven even farther back. Spreading the virus to any more planets would be incredibly difficult for them.
His warships, at least, were impervious to the type of spreading the enemy had done. It was one thing to drop the virus on unsuspecting planets, out in the open, but quite another to infect the occupants of armored warships. And none of the enemy’s weapons had been developed for that purpose.
“Tesserax, may I come in?” He had been spending a lot of time alone in his office, but that was Phazarax, the one ally he knew he needed. He realized that by convincing his cohort to withhold the information about the virus, he had essentially made him as guilty of it as he was. Still, he knew his chances were much better with Phazarax on his side than they were if he was opposing him.
“Of course, Phazarax, come in…please.” Tesserax straightened himself in his chair, and he looked toward the door as his counterpart came in. “Please, have a seat.” He extended his hand toward the pair of plush chairs in front of his desk.
“Thank you, Tesserax.” Phazarax walked over and sat in one of the seats. Then he looked uncomfortably toward his counterpart.
Tesserax was edgy…he knew Phazarax was uncomfortable with the degree their lies had reached. Not only were they withholding vital information from Ellerax, which was enough to scare the hell out of anyone, but now they had widespread deceit in their own fleet, with hundreds, no thousands, of their people likely to die in a few months, but currently unaware of their condition. “So, Phazarax, what did you want? You seem to have a purpose for your visit.” He knew it wouldn’t be good, but probably Phazarax just needed to be talked up again, convinced that all would be well in the end. That would be easier for Tesserax to say, if he himself was convinced of it, but he knew he would try, nevertheless.
“I have been considering Ellerax…and our failure to report the virus. That is, of course, a problem for us, and possibly an insurmountable one, but Ellerax is our leader. He can put even more effort into curing the disease once and for all. Perhaps we were wrong to withhold the information. Maybe we should send a communique together. After all, our number one priority must be curing the virus.”
Tesserax leaned back and looked at Phazarax. He understood his—subordinate or equal…that was still an undecided issue between them—was nervous, as was he. But there was nothing they could do now, not with a likely battle in a week. “Phazarax, I understand why you’re nervous…I really do. I am too. But we’re looking at a battle in a week…perhaps the final major fight. The virus cases have mostly remained undetected, and we should definitely win the battle. I agree that our notifying Ellerax will be difficult, and we will have to handle it well. But wouldn’t you rather be able to tell him that the humans have collapsed, that they are mostly defeated at the same time?”
Phazarax still looked uncomfortable, but after a few seconds, he nodded. “Yes…I suppose.” He didn’t sound confident, but Tesserax was fairly certain that his counterpart didn’t have any options. Even if he was sorry he had gone along with Tesserax and the deception, there was no way he would want to fall on his sword now, not when he would likely have some good news as well in a week or less.
He stared at Phazarax for a moment, his mind working, trying to decide if his cohort was still with him…or if he had become too dangerous to allow to live. He thought about it for a while, and he decided that Phazarax was already in too deep, that there was no reason for him to give up now, just before the fight. Beside, Tesserax had his plate very full right now, and truth be told, he needed an ally.
And he needed a victory. A truly large one, one that would set the course for the war’s end…and he needed it soon.
* * *
Ellerax stared at the planet in front of him. His fleet had fought the enemy force that was present. There hadn’t been more than a dozen vessels in the opposing force, and every one of those had several hundred of his own matching it. He knew the opposing ships had a higher tech level than his own, though he was starting to have some difficulty imagining how that was possible, how the enemy could conceivably exceed his own people’s knowledge. Still, those kinds of odds had handed him a very easy victory.
He had lost almost sixty ships, however, which was a small percentage of his entire fleet, but was still five times the size of the enemy force. He knew that was mostly due to the range advantage, that many of the losses occurred before his ships even got to their own firing distance. He understood that was one of the enemy’s superiorities, but at the same time, he rejected the whole concept. His people were superior…the greatest ever to live…and he couldn’t accept anything that challenged that view.
The planet showed no life signs. There was a small installation there, but it seemed to have been manned exclusively by robots, and they had resisted to the end. That troubled Ellerax. In almost two centuries of warfare, his forces hadn’t found a single planet that had a population center for the enemy. In fact, in all of years of the long conflict, his people had never captured one of the enemy. In truth, they had no idea what they even looked like. That was strange considering the duration of the fight, as had been the enemy strategy. They had not attacked…never. Their forces merely held a line, and when his people advanced, made an assault that penetrated, they counterattacked and retook it…but nothing more. It almost seemed like they were trying to hold his people back, without seriously harming them.
Ellerax wasn’t able to fully analyze that, either. He couldn’t really accept an adversary that was superior to his people, and the idea of one that was somehow actually trying to look out for them, or at least not trying to destroy them, was completely out of his reach.
He thought a bit more, and then he leaned over his comm system. “The fleet will move out in ten minutes…transit point number three.” He was staring at the screen, at the point that seemed to go directly toward the enemy. They might not have any of their people out here, he realized, but somewhere they had to have a population…and he was going to find it.
He was going to find it…and he was going to destroy it.
* * *
“Sir…the enemy has organized their entire fleet, and they are advancing into our territory. It is a decided change in their activity profile, and we will be hard pressed to resist them with our current fleet makeup…unless you and the other leaders move your own ships into the fight.” The speaker was tall, and he looked like a perfect member of the species he was speaking to, almost the same. Almost. The small metal circle on the back of his neck signified that he was, in fact, a robot, a tremendously advanced one.
The other being present turned toward him, his eyes piercing the dim light of the room. He was sad, and old…but he never shared his thoughts, certainly not with one of the bots. His people had used robots for centuries, millennia, but in spite of their extreme development to almost realistic levels of impersonation, to him, and those of his breed, they were just servants.
“I have read the reports and studied the enemy fleet size. They have gone against our expectations, and their invasion constitutes a true threat. I will send the word out to the others. We will converge, and we will combine our own ships with yours.”
He was silent for a moment, as he thought. The enemy, the Highborn as they called themselves, were acting differently than he had expected. His people had fought against them for two centuries, or at least their bots had. But now he was planning on calling his actual colleagues into battle themselves…all of them that were left. They had existed for a long while, very long, but they were dying out slowly, and a fight, a true battle, was likely to increase the rate of that, bring about the day when the last of them would be gone that much sooner. But there was no alternative, and he realized that. There had been hope that the enemy, the Highborn, would grow out of their phase, become more…reasonable. But two centuries of warfare had only shown them to get worse.
“Go now…back to your ship. Order the fleet to pull back, to retreat until we can bring forward the reserves.”
“Yes, my Lord.” The bot bowed deeply, and then it turned and left.
The creature was left alone in the room, and he walked over to a control panel, one that he hadn’t used in a century or more. He sat down, and he flipped a series of switches, activating the board. It was a communications panel, a very sophisticated one, and it could send its messages at hyperlight speeds. It was only used when it was necessary to communicate with the others like him, the living creatures who were the core of his power.
“Hello,” he said, speaking slowly, clearly. “This is Achilles, and I am contacting you on a matter of considerable urgency. I must ask you all to return at once to Alpha One…and to prepare for battle. The enemy has taken an unexpected action, and we are compelled to increase our own forces, and to do so quickly.” He paused a moment. He was old, very old, but his body still looked young, as young as it had millennia before. But his mind felt the age, and in some ways, many in fact, he was jealous of those who could age and die. He even felt strangely envious about his own people who had been killed in various accidents over the many years. His race seemed to be immortal, at least to normal aging, but they could still die from physical causes…and over the years, many had. Most even.
Even the love of his life, Callisto, had been killed in a terrible accident, almost two centuries before. Two hundred years was a long time, longer than any normal human could live, but for his kind, it was the merest passing of time. He still felt the loss of her every day, despite the fact that they had become aloof for a long time before her death, spending far less time together than they used to. That seemed to be the case of all of his people, and while he had maintained a form of leadership for millennia now, as a practical matter, they had spread farther apart. They conducted their own research, sharing their discoveries but otherwise living mostly alone, surrounded by bots, but rarely seeing anyone else. Now, he would gather them together, all that remained of his people…and they would fight once again.
The war against the Highborn had been an act of restraint, a way of holding them back until they could develop into a more…restrained…society. But they had become worse, not better…and perhaps the most dangerous fact was that they also appeared to be immortal. He regretted the decision, but nevertheless, he knew what he had to do. The Highborn were a threat to humanity, and their ability to produce more of themselves was a grave concern.
His own people, once referred to as the ‘Mules’, had not been able to produce any more of themselves, not for thousands of years. He realized, that if he gave the enemy long enough, if they continued to create more numbers, one day they would become vastly superior even to his own people. His side had the advantage in technology now, but they were declining in population with every accidental death, and the Highborn were still increasing. That might be ok if they were showing signs of development, if they were likely to become the Mules’ successors…but they were becoming less, not more worthy of survival.
He thought about it, considered it from every angle. He had become less and less likely to make major decisions, to order his people to take any actions…and this one was likely to get some of them killed. But the more he considered it, the more certain he became. More out of concern for the regular humans than his own people, even…the enemy had to be destroyed. Completely annihilated.
“This is Achilles. I am contacting you on a matter of great urgency…”
Chapter Twenty
CWS Northampton
Krakus System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Clint Winters looked out across the bridge, through the smoke and debris. His ship had just taken its third hit in just a minute, and the last one had overloaded a number of circuits and injured two of his bridge crew. Northampton had taken a fair amount of damage, but he was confident that she would make it through the battle. And he was determined to stay in the fight, right at the center of his growing force.
He looked at the screen, watched the enemy ships trying to escape. Most of them had various levels of damage, and they blasted away with whatever remained of their engines. Perhaps six or eight of them had actually come to a stop, reversed direction and begun to head back in the direction of their retreat. The rest were still braking, trying to come to a stop and turn around. But as they continued to blast away, more and more of his own ships came into the action.
He was reaching the point of superiority, when his forces in action began to greatly outnumber the enemy. He felt bad for all of his people who were killed and injured, just as he always did. But this time, there was more…there was unabashed bloodlust. Clint Winters had fought in the long war the same as everyone else had. He had been in it from the start…and he wanted blood. He wanted the enemy destroyed. Utterly.
He knew he wasn’t likely to see that, not in the war as a whole, but for the moment, his excitement level rose dramatically. If his people were going to die, and he was sure most of them would in the next month or two, it didn’t really matter if it happened here or around Dannith. And he wanted—needed—a victory, perhaps the last one he would ever see.
He stared at his ships on the screen, watching as more of them streamed forward into battle. He was ready to issue orders, to give any instructions he felt were required, but he realized that most of his people appeared to feel the same as him. They wanted blood, and they were moving forward to get it. So, he just sat and watched.
His fighters were still battling, but now the first of the reserves arrived. They blasted their missiles in first, and then closed aggressively. When they first arrived, the enemy still outnumbered them, but after the blasts of the missiles, the tide had begun to turn. And there were more ships on the way.
Clint Winters just sat and watched as his ship fought along with all the others that had come up. He had the firepower edge already, he guessed, and he still had a large portion of his fleet to come through. He wasn’t concerned about winning the fight…but he wanted to utterly destroy the enemy.
“Stay on the ships retreating…make sure they don’t get away. Nobody gets away.” He stared straight ahead as he gave the command. He’d issued orders like that one before, told his people to press against the enemy as hard as possible, to not let any of them escape.
But this time he meant it…literally.
* * *
Percelax stared at the ship’s screen, utterly perplexed. He had gone into the battle assured of victory, and now he realized that defeat was inevitable. Worse than that, he was now concerned that his force would be obliterated.
He couldn’t understand how the enemy had done it. It had actually been a basic ruse, and he realized he had no idea what forces the enemy had hidden on the other side of the point…but they had taken it so far, put their small fleet totally at risk. They had waited so long to commit their other forces…and he had been totally taken by surprise when they had. Now, it seemed that he had fallen for a basic trap, that he had blundered right into the enemy’s deceit. And he realized that he was fighting, not for victory, but just to escape with his life.
“Increase engine output…go to 110%!” He had seen the enemy rise beyond their engines stated maximums many times, but he hadn’t tried it…until now. As he looked out at the situation, he became more and more concerned. His easy victory was long gone, but now he began to worry about how much of his force would even escape. His ships carried a lot of damage from the earlier combat, and many of them were operating at less than full thrust. At first he hadn’t wanted to abandon them, but now he just wanted to escape…himself. All of his ships were now at maximum speed, and those that were capable were at 110%…but they were starting from a virtual stop, and they weren’t moving any faster than the enemy ships. Slower, in fact, than many of them.
Percelax began to worry that his flagship was doomed, that none of his ships at all would escape. He began to think about what to do, how to flee faster. But there was nothing he could come up with…not that he wasn’t doing already. He had been in danger before, and he was no coward, he knew that…but this was the first time he had ever been facing not just danger but almost certain death. He hoped his ship would endure long enough to build up some real speed, that the enemy would tire of following every scrap of his force and just stop and enjoy their victory…but something told him the commander he faced wanted more.
He felt he should be snapping out orders, yelling commands to all of his people, but there was nothing else to do. All he could do was run, as quickly as possible…and hope that it was enough. His ships were firing, too, fighting as viciously as they could, but he knew where that would end. The enemy fleet was quite large, many more ships than he had, and they were still transporting in. He knew he couldn’t fight his way out, that there was no hope. His only chance was running…and that door seemed to be slamming shut as well.
Percelax couldn’t believe it. He had intended to withdraw as soon as the enemy appeared, retreat knowing their foe had to go back almost immediately. But when he had seen a smaller force than he had expected, one he knew he could take, he had other thoughts. Still, he had waited, watched until the small force, the bait, ventured far into the system with no other ships coming through. That was bold, daring, and it had endangered the first fleet badly.
And it had lured him in. He had fought, beaten back the force, and he had followed it all the way back to the warp point. Now that he thought about it, he realized he had played right into their hands. It seemed obvious. But it hadn’t been…or at least it seemed that way.
The ship shook hard, and then again a moment later. Two more hits. He checked the engine output—all he really cared about just then. It was down by about fifteen percent. That was bad, and he knew it reduced his chance of escape even more.
But the more he thought about it, about what to do, the more he realized that there was nothing more to be done. All he could do was stay put and hope for the best, to escape. Or for the enemy to decide that its victory was complete and to pull back.
But that wouldn’t happen. Somehow, he was sure of that.
* * *
Villieneuve looked at the screen of his flagship, watching as his vessels fought with the enemy. They had gone from almost certain victory to and even more assured defeat, but they were still fighting. His commanders, at least, were all equipped with the Collars, as he was, and their loyalty was thus assured. Still, the Collar only worked to an extent. It assured loyalty, made any moves against the orders given by the Highborn impossible. But, inside somewhere, helpless to make any moves, to do anything really, except to watch, was the true personality of the individual. That was bad for any of them, but for Villieneuve, a man who had ruled for years, it was a nightmare.
The head of the Union, at least he was still that in title if not in decision making, was imprisoned, trapped inside his obedient body. He could hear everything, and he was aware of every move he made, obeying all the commands he had received from the Highborn. But, despite his greatest attempts, he couldn’t escape, couldn’t make himself do anything. He just stayed where he was, issuing the commands he was ordered to, and not showing any fear. But inside of him, where he still exercised some control over his thoughts, he was scared to death. He was going to die. He knew that as well as he did anything else. His ships, the Union contingent of the force, had been ordered to remain behind, to fight and try to buy some time for the fleeing Highborn vessels to escape. That whole thought was vile to Villieneuve, and it drove him almost mad. But there was nothing he could do about it except stay where he was and listen to himself giving out commands, orders he knew would lead to his demise.
“Bring the fleet about ninety degrees. That will give us better firing arcs on the ships seeking to move past us.”
His insides cringed at his words. His body was working solely to save his captors, to sacrifice himself to give them a chance at escape. That was very noble, he supposed, at least in a manner of speaking, but it was the direct opposite of what he would be doing if he still had control over himself.
He felt fear, abject terror. In his youth, he had taken many chances, put himself at great risk, but as he had secured power, claimed and held the rule of his people, he had become less personally adventurous. He had surrounded himself with loyal guards, avoided leading forces directly into battle…until the enemy had come and installed the Collar.
Now he did as they commanded without question. And only inside, deep down with the ability to feel the terror but to do nothing at all to stop it, was he himself.
He tried again to scream, to do anything at all directed by his inner self—his real self—but once again, nothing happened. He could hear his screams, but no one else could. He was trapped…and now it appeared he would watch as it led to his death.
He tried once again, for the thousandth time, to try and force control over himself, to make himself do something…anything. But it was no use. The Collar was firmly in charge.
He heard the reports coming in as his ships were destroyed. He could see that the enemy fleet was too large for his forces to stop, that they were going to catch the Highborn fleet as well as his own. That, at least, gave him something like satisfaction. The thought of the Highborn being killed—of Percelax dying—gave his inner self some satisfaction. But mostly, there was just panic, and the thought of his own imminent death dominated his inner self.
He saw as two more of his ships were destroyed. That left only six hulls in the fight, and they were surrounded by at least 40. It was almost over, and he realized he couldn’t escape now even if he regained control over himself. But he could surrender. That was one of the Confederation’s weaknesses. They would always accept when an opponent yielded. Being taken prisoner by the enemy was bad, of course…but it would be far better than being killed. Nevertheless, despite the thoughts inside, his body remained where it was, and not a word escaped from his mouth.
A shot slammed into his flagship, and a few seconds later, two more. His ship had at least seven enemy vessels surrounding it, blasting it into oblivion. There was an explosion on the bridge, and two of his officers fell to the ground, injured or killed, he wasn’t sure which. Neither he nor his controlled self really cared, of course. About the expendability of the crew members, they both agreed with each other. But about his own, they differed sharply, and deep inside, Villieneuve began to panic.
The ship was blasted again, and it lost most of its remaining engine power. Now it moved along at its previous speed, unable to even evade the incoming shots. Villieneuve knew that his life was likely measured in mere seconds, but still, despite his greatest efforts, he couldn’t regain control.
The ship shook again as half a dozen shots hit it within seconds of each other. An entire wall of the bridge exploded, and half of those still active were killed or wounded. Villieneuve himself was forced to abandon his chair to escape the billowing flames. He moved across the bridge, toward another seat, but he never got there. Another pair of hits struck the ship, and a section of the ceiling fell on top of him.
He thought for a moment, his broken body trapped under the debris, twisted and bleeding. And then he lost consciousness.
* * *
Percelax was desperate. He had done everything he could, first to organize an escape for at least his Highborn ships, and then for just his vessel. But despite everything he could think of, the enemy was closing fast. He had planned to defeat the force that had come through initially, to destroy it and then advance on the rear of the enemy at Dannith, but now—too late—he realized that the enemy had trapped him, that his entire force might be destroyed.
That wouldn’t make a huge difference in the war, he knew. His effort had always been tangential, and the Union was vigorously held by many of his own people, supported by a fair number of encollared slaves. But the ability to project force, to launch any kind of assault—or even to hold on to Krakus—was gone. It would be many months before even the least damaged of the ships he had sent back were repaired partially, and there were no more reinforcements expected. That, he knew, was Tesserax’s doing, that the ultimate theater commander didn’t want to give his rival too much power.
Percelax thought about that, about how even a relatively small number of new ships might have turned things around for him. He felt anger, jealousy. He had always felt envy for Tesserax, wanted his superior’s position, but he had been willing to accept a relatively small part of the glory, to stand aside while his leader claimed most of the credit. Now, he realized, Tesserax would gain all of it, that his reports would no doubt diminish what Percelax had accomplished.
And Percelax would probably be dead, with no voice to speak for him. All of his close officers would also be lost. He tried to imagine how he had fallen into such a trap. It was well executed, no question, but he had still fallen for it. His people were intelligent, far superior to the humans…and yet, he had been tricked. He tried to figure out where he had gone wrong, how the enemy had gotten the better of him…but he couldn’t. It didn’t make any sense that he had been outthought…and nothing else could explain the result.
His ship shook hard. It was badly damaged, and its thrust capacity was less than 40% now. The enemy had many ships that were still at 100%, and they were advancing, surrounding him. He had hoped, however slimly, that he would escape, that his vessel, and a few others maybe, would manage to escape. But as the enemy got behind them, surrounded them, he realized that there was no way out.
He was going to die…unless he surrendered.
That wasn’t a Highborn way. The idea of yielding, of giving in to an enemy, especially one as inferior as a human, was inconceivable. But he realized it was his only chance of survival. And he wanted to live.
He looked around at his bridge staff, at the other Highborn present. They all faced death, he realized. Would they adhere to his orders to surrender, or would they resist and fight to the end? He didn’t know, but the fear inside of him began to erupt. He had to survive…if there was any chance at all.
He reached down, pulled the small microphone to his mouth. He flipped a switch, setting the comm to a wide ranging blast, with no code. He moved his mouth toward it, and he said, “Attention Confederation fleet…this is the Highborn commander. I wish to speak with you, to…” He knew the appropriate word was ‘surrender,’ but he couldn’t quite bring himself to say it. “…offer to end the hostilities.” It was as close as he could come, and as he looked out at his people—the Highborn at least—he determined that it was the same for them. They were all shocked at their situation, and they wanted a way out. He knew he was talking about surrender, that he was proposing it, but somehow not using the word made it seem better.
He stared at the communicator, waiting for a response…
* * *
Clint Winters stared at the comm unit. He had never heard the enemy call to yield before…to surrender, he realized. He didn’t know a lot about the foe, not really, but he was aware that they considered themselves superior to humans. The thought that he had trapped them utterly, that he had them almost totally surrounded, made him smile. He knew the war as a whole was still in a desperate situation, that his people faced total defeat. But for the moment, he just savored the victory, and the helplessness of his enemy.
He stared at the microphone, as if he was pondering what to say to the enemy. But he remained totally silent. He knew what to do, what he wanted to do, in any event, and right now, he was in command.
He knew the Confederation had always taken prisoners, that it had recognized the inalienable rights of even an enemy to yield and be taken prisoner.
Until now.
He stared straight ahead, looking at the communicator, but now moving his hand toward it, not saying a word. He turned and looked at his bridge crew, and his eyes met with several of them. Clint Winters was a very harsh man when it came to the enemy, but now he realized that his crew members felt much the same way. The Confederation might fall, its forces might be entirely destroyed…but not here. Here it was the reverse. And he would see it through.
He knew his people might be able to make use of Highborn prisoners, and that the humans they used for most of their positions were essentially innocents, that they were victims of the Collars and had never known anything else. He realized that he should feel some pity for them at least. But there was none.
Clint Winters felt as though he was winning the final victory, not only that he would ever have, but for the entire Confederation. He would fight again, fiercely, but he didn’t believe his people would win again. He felt this was a last hurrah, so to speak, and he wanted it to be a total victory. And to him, that meant no prisoners. No enemy survivors.
He stared at the comm for another moment, and then he disconnected it, cut the line to the enemy. Then he turned toward his people, and he said, “All ships…continue firing at full power.”
* * *
Percelax looked across the smoke-filled wreckage of his flagship’s bridge. The vessel had been hit at least forty times, and it was beginning to come apart. He didn’t understand why his comm hadn’t gotten a reply, why the enemy hadn’t even answered him. He thought he understood the foe, that the Confederation especially would accept his…yielding. But there had been no response at all.
The ship shook again, and among the other noises, he heard a loud cracking sound. He knew what it was. His ship’s spine was broken. Highborn vessels were all built around a huge central piece, one that ran from bow to stern. It was almost unbreakable, at least until a ship was badly—irretrievably—damaged.
He had waited for a response, expected one…but now he knew there wouldn’t be any. The enemy commander was clearly not interested. He wasn’t prepared to offer him anything…nothing save the destruction of his entire fleet.
He looked at the display, at perhaps the thirty percent of his ships that were still there…and all around them, the enemy, as many as a dozen vessels surrounding each of them now and firing their full batteries. He was as good as dead, and he realized it.
He looked around the bridge, his view diminished now by smoke and perhaps half of the lights being knocked out. He had stopped his ships from shooting when he’d planned to give up, but then he ordered his fleet to resume firing…with the few guns they had left. But he knew the battle was over…that his life was over.
Percelax struggled with his lack of options. His ships were trapped, and the enemy wouldn’t even respond to him. There was nothing to do, no matter how much he reviewed the situation, tried to come up with something, anything other than to just die.
But there was nothing.
His ship shook again, and then another hit, an even harder one. His weapons were all out now, on the flagship at least. His force, smaller even than it had been a few moments earlier, only had a few guns left, and most of them were firing badly, their aim thrown off by damaged guidance systems. He had never faced death before, not close up, and he tried to maintain his calm, at least to those who were watching, his own people. He knew he owed that to them, that if he couldn’t lead them to victory, he should do whatever he could to aid them in their last moments. That worked, for a little while.
Then his ship was hit again…and he heard a strange rumbling. He knew what it was, and he tried everything he could do to contain himself, to die like a Highborn should. But as the sound grew in volume, and as his ship began shaking wildly, he lost control. He shouted out, “No! No!”
And then he was gone. His entire ship exploded, and in an instant, it was nothing but a cloud of expanding gases, and he and everyone aboard was reduced to vapors…and in a few minutes, to nothing at all.
Chapter Twenty-One
CWS Dauntless
Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Atara looked up at the display. She had already heard from Admiral Winters, who had sent a comm report on the fight in Krakus. She was delighted, of course…and just a bit jealous. She appreciated Clint taking the reins this time rather than sending her again, but she also knew that the situation was far from the same. Admiral Winters had taken half of the Confederation ships in the fleet with him, and he’d fought a much smaller force. It was a win, perhaps the final one her side would get in the war, and she was glad about it…even if she hadn’t been there. Better yet, he was already on the way back, and he would arrive in just a few days. But at this moment, she was waiting for something else. For Tyler Barron and his force.
She had been very nervous about Barron, about whether she would see him again. The situation he had been left in, the one that he had taken for himself, was a no win option. He hadn’t had any chance of holding, though at least it seemed from his own communication that he, too, had inflicted far greater losses than he had sustained. That wasn’t a victory, not exactly, but it was close enough. And best of all, he was back. He had returned, as had most of his fleet.
She was anxious to see him, but she was also edgy. If the enemy behaved anything like she expected, they were close behind him. Perhaps not quite near enough to arrive before Winters’ ships were back too, and the whole fleet was once again assembled, but shortly thereafter. She knew the odds were poor for that battle, but the new weapon was at least an option. She wasn’t even sure she truly believed in the virus, but if it worked, truly worked, she knew it would be erupting on many worlds very soon, that perhaps thousands of the enemy would be getting sick…and if there had never been a cure detected, they would begin dying.
She also knew what had been done so far, as amazing as it was, wouldn’t be enough, and that it was unlikely to seriously affect the enemy fleet, at least not enough to give the humans a chance. But if they could infect the enemy’s military, spread the virus to most or all of their forces, it just might make a difference. Perhaps not to her fleet…no matter what happened, she was almost sure the battle would be a defeat. But if they managed to spread the virus throughout the enemy force, just maybe it would spread quickly enough to save the Confederation. Perhaps the Highborn’s behavior once they knew they were infected would change. Instead of pursuing the remnants of the human fleet, they just might pull back, and put all of their attention to trying to find a cure.
And if they didn’t, perhaps they would die.
She knew her wishes were tenuous, that there were half a dozen things that could go wrong, but it was the only real hope, so she clung to it.
The central elevator door opened up, and Tyler Barron stepped out. He looked around, and then over to Atara. He smiled, and said, “Atara…it’s so good to see you again!”
She smiled too, and she got up and walked over to him. “And you, Tyler. I didn’t expect…” She almost said ‘I didn’t expect to see you again’ but she stopped herself. It was true, but the last thing they needed now was more pessimism. Even though she didn’t really expect things to work, she knew they had to try…try their very best. And she was truly happy to see her friend again. “I’m really glad to see you!”
Tyler Barron took another few steps, and then he put his arms around Atara and hugged her. It wasn’t exactly appropriate conduct for the bridge of a fleet ship, but she understood, and she agreed, returning his hug. After a moment, he stepped back. He looked at her for a few seconds, and then he asked, “Andi…did she go back to Troyus City?”
She nodded. She knew he had expected her to be gone, that he would have been disappointed on one level if he found her still there, waiting with the fleet instead of going back to Megara to retrieve their daughter. She was gone, and as difficult as it had been for her to leave, she knew it was just as hard for Tyler Barron. He had engineered her departure, planned the whole thing…but he was still disappointed on one level that she wasn’t there.
“Yes, she left. She was very torn, unsure of what to do, but in the end, she knew she had to go. She had to get Cassiopeia.”
“That’s good.” Tyler was silent for a minute, clearly thinking about his daughter that he hadn’t seen for a couple of years. She knew the only thing that had made it possible, for either Tyler or Andi to be separated from her for so long, had been concern for her, a focus on doing anything possible to win the war. She had agreed with it, but she also knew she couldn’t imagine just how difficult it had been on Tyler and Andi. For whatever reasons, she had never had a child of her own…for her, career had been everything.
“She left you a message, Tyler…” She reached down to her pocket and retrieved a small capsule that Andi had given her right before she had left. She handed it to Barron. If you would like to use my office to watch it, please, go right ahead.”
Barron nodded, and then he reached out and took the message. He wasn’t surprised, not really. He and Andi had said goodbye when they had gone in different directions, and there was no communication that was necessary. Still, he was excited, if not to see her in person, at least to have a message from her.
He took the small pod and he said, “Thank you, Atara.” Then he moved across the bridge to his friend’s office—once his own—and he stepped inside and shut the door.
* * *
“Clint, it is good to have you back.” Tyler Barron spoke the words, and they carried nothing but the truth with them. The idea of fighting his last major battle, of quite probably dying, was terrible, but it was a lot better to have most of his people all gathered together. At least they would be able to unload with the best fight they could possibly give. It might not be enough, he realized, but he was still determined to make a fight like none that had ever been, and he realized his compatriots all felt the same way.
“It’s good to be back…I’m glad I made it in time.”
“Just in time, Clint. I left scoutships along my way home, and two hours ago, the report came in. The enemy is three systems away…at most, five days until they are here.” He spoke the words, realizing that half of him wanted to fight now, immediately, while the other half wanted longer…much longer. But he didn’t have anything to say about it.
“I can’t say I’m surprised. I know you gave them a hell of a fight out there, but it didn’t buy much time.”
“No…we will be facing a good number fewer ships, but I can’t say I’m shocked we didn’t buy more than a week. The enemy knows what we have done with the virus…if it really is a threat to so many worlds, they would like to come as close to finishing this war as they can before they deal with that. The lengthy conception time for this virus, assuming they don’t have a cure, is turning into a problem in itself, though the haste of their pursuit does suggest that perhaps they do not have a cure.”
“Sir, in that regard…we have a new development, one that just may make a difference in the coming battle.” Atara spoke, and Clint Winters just nodded. “Well, perhaps not in the battle itself, but in the aftermath.”
Tyler Barron was surprised. What could his people have possibly developed during his relatively brief time away? “What is it?” He was definitely curious. He would probably have discounted it, written it off as hopeful nonsense…but Clint and Atara were two of the most stone cold people he knew. There was no way they were pursuing something that was pointless, and he was very curious about whatever it was.
“It is the virus again, Sir…a new way of delivering it. Honestly, it’s something we should have thought of before, perhaps a way to inject the virus to the ships we’re fighting…to infect their crews.” She turned and looked at Clint, and he stared back and just nodded. “We have developed a torpedo, Admiral, one to replace those we normally use on our fighters. It will severely hurt their ability to battle other fighters, or to do anything really…except to bomb the ships, and hopefully to penetrate their hulls and inject the virus. If they can get close, really close, they just may be able to spread the virus to the entire enemy force. It won’t do anything to turn the battle, as the virus will still take several months to take effect…but if we can infect most or all of their crews—and the virus actually works—we just may be able to cripple them, even as they are likely to do to us in the fight. It’s far from ideal, but if both sides are crippled, at least they might not be able to advance very far into the Confederation.”
Tyler listened, and he thought about a dozen potential problems, but as he considered it, he realized that it was a hope, at least, one that, if it actually worked, could possibly stop the enemy’s invasion, at least for a while. If they managed to infect most, or even all, of the enemy spacers, it could cripple their ability to invade…possibly for a long while. He tried to imagine the effects, the infection of the crews, perhaps even the unwillingness of other, non-infected individuals, to get on the vessels, for fear that the infection would remain a threat. It could almost destroy, at least temporarily, the enemy’s ability to fight. Perhaps his own forces could even build some new ships and advance back into the Hegemony. Of course, he realized his own fleet would be badly battered by the battle, possibly close to destroyed…and he had to offer a fight at Dannith, more even now, with the possibility of spreading the infection to the enemy.
It was the only scheme he’d heard of that offered any kind of real chance.
He paused for a moment, and then he said, “We’ve only got a few days, but if you’ve got the torpedoes ready…I’ve got the perfect commander for the attackers. I’ve been trying to decide what to do with Jake Stockton and Reg Griffin, who to appoint as the high commander…but it sounds like we need two different groups now, am I right? We’ll need to keep the enemy squadrons as busy as possible while the rest of the fighters launch the desperate attack. That means we need two leaders, working separately, and that is perfect for our situation. And leading the assault on the enemy capital ships…I can’t think of anything more perfect for Jake than that.” He knew that didn’t permanently solve the problem, but then he doubted there would even be any major battles following the one that was coming. He was sure his fleet would be gutted, but just maybe, the enemy would be badly—even fatally—damaged as well. That wouldn’t be a permanent end to the fight, perhaps, but it would stretch things out, allow his side to produce more ships, and if the virus remained effective his side would still have it to use. He couldn’t imagine how that would change the fight, but he knew it would, and possibly decisively.
“Jake?” It was Atara who said it first, but a quick look told him that Clint felt the same way. “I know Jake was incredible, Tyler…but after what he went through? Can we really entrust something so crucial to him?”
“Atara…and Clint…I didn’t tell any of you this, but Jake Stockton led the fighters in the last fight, and he did a magnificent job, as good, possibly even better than ever before. I am totally convinced he is back…really back. I was just worried about whether to put him into his old position, or…” He paused a moment, and he looked at Clint and Atara. “Well, having two separate groups, two leadership positions, it’s perfect.”
Atara looked back at him, as did Clint. At first, they both appeared to be unconvinced, but then they came around. “Well, Tyler…if there is anyone I trust in the universe, it is you. If you say we’ve got Jake Stockton back, really have him back, then I believe it. And, yes, if he is his old self, he is perfect to lead the forces against the enemy capital ships. They have to get close, very close, and if he is really back, I can’t think of anyone better to be in charge of them.”
Atara was sincere, but Barron could tell that there was something on her mind. He wondered for a moment, and then he realized that Winters seemed to have the same thing…and he did, too. He could twist around the facts, assume that everything would go exactly as he wanted it to, but even in that circumstance, he realized that the coming battle would be the worst one he had ever fought, that the destruction would be immense. Just engaging sufficiently for the fighters to have a chance of reaching the enemy, of infecting their ships, required him to commit fully. The more the enemy was facing at once, the better the chance that the fighters—which even though he had just found out about the new weapon, he realized they were suddenly the primary purpose of the coming battle—could prevail. He had lost all possible strategies he might have had to pull out of the fight early, to retreat with something resembling a true battlefleet. To enable the fighters to close sufficiently, he knew he had to fight a true battle, that he had to send his entire fleet in, and close to the enemy. That meant that fewer of them could escape…and maybe none.
He had long considered the possibility that the coming fight would be the last major battle he could offer, that after it, the enemy would just hunt down and destroy whatever few ships remained loyal and in the field. He knew that the foe would still face some challenges, that some of the inner worlds had significant fixed defenses, but there would be no real hope in any of the conflicts.
Not unless the plan actually worked. If his forces somehow managed to infect all or most of the enemy ships, just maybe they would have a chance, not at victory perhaps, but at least at survival. And right now, Barron would accept that…he would accept it gratefully. Even if it cost him his life.
* * *
“I don’t believe it, Clint. I knew your victory was total, but I didn’t expect this. A few prisoners, maybe, but this one?” Tyler Barron stared at the bound captive. It had taken a while to determine who the prisoners were, and longer to confirm any identities…but as Barron stared at the individual, he knew it was correct, that it was Gaston Villieneuve.
“Yes…I was uncertain at first. We captured a fair number of Union personnel in the final stages of the battle. Many were outfitted as he is, with the Collar…but a fair number weren’t. Many of those without the device have yielded, even offered to help us any way they can, though I don’t know how we can trust them. But of those so set up…” He gestured toward Villieneuve. “…not one of them has said a word, despite considerable…encouragement.”
Barron understood what Winters meant by ‘encouragement.’ He wasn’t in favor of it, certainly, but he understood. The entire Confederation was at stake, hell, all of human occupied space was, and he knew they needed to know whatever they could. If…he almost thought ‘torture’ but he backed down to ‘encouragement’ as an easier thought to handle…helped, then it was justified. Hell, with millions dead and billions more likely to die, there was nothing that wasn’t worthwhile. Barron knew his opinions were older, were based on a different time. He couldn’t quite desert them, but neither could he fault those who could.
“Villieneuve…speak to us. You’re captured, and you aren’t going back. If we are killed, you will be too, so give in, work with us.” Barron knew there was very little chance it would work. He didn’t exactly know anything precise about how the Collar functioned, but he was almost certain that when properly working, it seemed invincible.
He turned toward Winters, and he was silent for a few seconds. He was debating, trying to decide what to do. He had a thought, but it went against every bit of him to force it on someone who couldn’t consent. Still, the man sitting there had been the Confederation’s number one enemy for years. He certainly didn’t deserve Barron’s mercy, or even his pity. Still, it took him a minute to say what he had thought. “The doctors who removed Jake’s Collar…they’re anxious to try and take one that is still functional out. Perhaps we should try first on an adversary…on Villieneuve. I suspect if we’re able to recover him, he will understand his situation, and make some effort to cooperate…in exchange for his life.” The words came slowly out of Barron. They were the opposite of how he’d been brought up, the way he had lived his life. But none of his ancestors had gone through as much as he had, and he was ready to do whatever was necessary to prevail.
Whatever.
“Yes, definitely. It makes far more sense to experiment on an enemy than a friend.” Barron expected nothing less from Winters, but the words were spoken first by his longtime, accomplice, Atara. “Far more sense.”
He had become used to Atara agreeing with him, or at least with her doing so in public, and it took him a moment to realize that he, too, was in favor of it. He had brought it up, and despite his history, his many years of moderation, he too was slipping. He wasn’t sure what it was…Andi and Cassie being gone, or all the people he had lost over the years, but he suddenly realized that he, too, had become ready to do anything he had to in order to win, even to protract the fight for an extra day or week or month.
Still, he wondered how much longer his people could function, how much damage they could sustain and still go back for another fight. Would they be able to resist after the next battle? Would they be able to put a force of six or twelve vessels and a planet’s defenses against an enemy fleet that outnumbered them five or ten or twenty to one? He just didn’t know, and especially not if he was dead, and if Atara and Clint Winters were too. Would those who survived even fight on…or would they collapse quickly, before the virus could spread, even if they did manage to implant it? He just didn’t know…but he understood that surviving, that somehow making sure at least a couple of his major players made it out of the next fight, was critical. He just wasn’t sure he could do it.
* * *
Andi sat silently in her chair, looking out at the blackness of space moving past her. She had planned to make the trip all alone, but then she had realized that she had a friend who was in the same position she was in…in fact, she had two children stashed on Megara alongside Cassiopeia. Andi had contacted Akella to ask her if she wanted her to bring her two children along with Cassie, but she had been totally surprised when her friend had instead asked to come along. At least she was shocked at first, but then when she truly thought about it, she realized it was inevitable. Especially since Akella, the head of the Hegemony, didn’t really have anything she had to do, not with her government in exile and all of the systems of her nation currently occupied by the enemy. Her lover, Chronos, commanded the remnants of the fleet, but she had very little to do but sit and wait…and hope for a miracle.
The Hegemony was a different civilization than the Confederation, despite the fact that they had grown much closer to each other in the past several years, but the relationship between a parent and a child was close in both of them. It had been difficult for Akella to send her children to Megara, even tougher than it had been for Andi, who had at least sent Cassie home. Akella was trusting a power that had been her enemy just a few years before. Andi didn’t know if she could do that, if she could find the trust in such a new ally…and the more she thought about it, the more she understood Akella’s decision to come along.
She turned her head, suddenly hearing the sounds of Akella climbing up the ladder to the bridge. Pegasus was a good ship, no, she was a great vessel…but many of her items were old and outdated, including the access to the control room. Andi had updated many of its systems over the years, and its weaponry and engines were top notch. But the access to the bridge was still via the ladder that had been there the day she had first set foot on the vessel.
“Hello, Akella…I hope you got some sleep.” Andi herself hadn’t, not for many days, her mind too busy thinking of dozens of things, of Cassie, but also of Tyler and the battle. It felt strange to be away from the coming fight, and nothing save concern for her daughter would have dragged her back.
“What can I say? I laid down for a while, but sleep? That is starting to seem like a dream and not reality.” Akella leapt up the last few rungs of the ladder, and she walked over to one of the chairs on the bridge, sitting.
“Yes, it is. Perhaps once we have the children we will be able to relax more.” She didn’t believe it, but she said it anyway.
“Perhaps.” It was fairly clear that Akella was no more convinced of that than she was.
“Well, on the bright side, we’re less than four hours from the jump to Megara. I’m not sure we set a record for the time of the journey, but we came close.”
Akella nodded. “Yes…we’ve made excellent time.” She was silent for a moment, but then she said, “Andi…do you think there is a chance, a real chance, that the torpedoes will work, that we will be able to infect all—or most—of the enemy forces?”
Andi paused. She honestly didn’t know. A truthful answer had shifted back and forth in her mind, her opinion changing at least a dozen times. “I really don’t know, Akella…and even if it does work, I’m not sure it will happen quickly enough. We have some of the greatest tacticians on our side, and they will do the best they can, but we’re also running out of space we can retreat over.”
Akella looked down for a moment, and then she said, “Sometimes, things go beyond what you can calculate. You just have to have faith that things will work out…somehow.”
Andi looked up at Akella. She knew her friend was a bit less cynical than she was, but she wasn’t by any means easy to convince of anything. But what she had just said…Andi somehow understood that it was correct. There was no way she could convince herself that things would work out, but she had to, nevertheless. She had to believe that the virus would work, that Tyler and his staff would figure a way to deliver it.
She just wasn’t sure she could.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System E22-7502
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared at the screen, watching as his ship approached the transit point. He was about to send his forces through, to attack the enemy in Confederation space. He knew he had an advantage in numbers, as well as the four ships that were the equal of Colossus, the sole enemy vessel of the same class. But his four ships were all new and virtually untouched, while he knew Colossus was still badly damaged. The enemy had no doubt done everything they could to hastily repair it, but he knew it would be no match for even one of his ships…and he had four of them, plus a fleet that was far larger than the enemy’s.
It was time for victory, past time, actually. Part of him felt as though he should have won already, that there had been problems before that shouldn’t have existed. He blamed his subordinates, and just circumstance, but he wasn’t able to acknowledge that he had made any mistakes. His leadership had been excellent, and he had been hampered by one unexpected problem after another. But now, he would win…he would inflict as much damage as possible on the enemy’s fleet…and he would follow any vessels that retreated and stay on their heels. He would make certain the enemy’s ability to resist was destroyed. He knew his forces would still have fixed fortifications to face, as well as whatever surviving ships managed to escape…but he figured there was a good chance that one more major victory here would drain away the enemy’s desire to resist.
Perhaps they would even surrender and take away the necessity of his conquering every system one at a time. The result would be the same, more or less, but if his force managed to win now, not only the battle but the war, it would definitely aid him with Ellerax. After all, the virus wasn’t his fault, it was the enemy’s action. He should have reported it, of course, but it wouldn’t have made a difference. Not really.
Still, he didn’t feel good. He was nervous, unsure of how Ellerax would accept the news even of a great victory, when it came along with reports of the viral outbreak, and the fact that he had hidden that news for many weeks.
He was edgy about the battle, too. Despite his clear superiority in virtually every aspect, he was still concerned about the enemy’s actions. Particularly their leadership. He couldn’t accept them as equals. That was impossible for him. But he had developed a form of respect for them, especially some of their commanders. And Tyler Barron above them all.
His plan was to win decisively, to crush the enemy…and to kill Barron. He had multiple ships equipped to monitor the enemy’s communications and to zero in on the ship that carried the admiral. When he found it, he would destroy it, and rid himself of his greatest enemy in one stroke. He knew Barron’s death would be a terrible blow to the enemy, one that might even lead to a surrender.
He realized he should have done that before, should have targeted Tyler Barron. He hadn’t realized at first just how important he was, how much the other members of the fleet looked up to him. Killing him would not only get rid of an immense enemy, it would also affect the other parties. Nothing would be more demoralizing that Barron’s death.
Nothing.
He had already given the commands for the battle…as well as the orders to listen to all the communications possible, to determine which ship Barron was on. He knew that the Confederation admiral could be well in the rear of his fleet, but also that he probably wouldn’t be. That was one thing he was sure of. Tyler Barron typically engaged in the heat of battle. And this fight, this desperate attempt to put up some resistance to Tesserax’s invincible fleet, meant that it was almost certain that he would be forward, right in the middle of the fighting.
And that will be his doom…
“Sir…the lead elements are ready to transit, to begin the battle.”
Tesserax turned back to the display, watching as his ships moved toward the jump point. He had done everything he could think of, positioned all his ships that had the infection forward. He knew he would take considerable losses, and the more of those that took place in his blighted vessels, the better.
“All forces continue,” he said, staring straight ahead. “Go through at your current speed and proceed to attack the enemy fleet. All ships are to move at maximum velocity, and to get through as quickly as possible. Decrease the distance between transiting vessels fifty percent. We want to penetrate rapidly.” He was cramming his ships together, getting them through as aggressively as he could. If the enemy was positioned up close to the transit point, seeking to take advantage of his ships’ brief downtime as they had last time, they would find his vessels coming through even more quickly.
It would actually be good if the enemy was positioned far up, he thought. Yes, they would inflict significant damage on his forces early, but they would also be deployed farther forward. And in this fight, that was perfectly fine with him. His vessels that were destroyed would be those infected anyway, and the enemy would be advanced much closer to his entry point. He had been taken by surprise by it last time, but now, he was ready for whatever the enemy did. Whether they were far advanced or positioned back more didn’t really matter to him. All that mattered was they were there, and ready to fight. Then, he was ready.
He was very ready.
* * *
Ellerax watched as his forces, his invincible fleet, moved forward. He had passed through many systems and fought several battles. But the enemy had now apparently pulled back, and the past six systems had been unoccupied.
Ellerax was surprised, not at the cowardice of his enemy, but at the lack of any populations. He hadn’t known much about the foe, despite almost two centuries of warfare, but he had expected to find some populated planets at some point. He was ten systems farther than any of his forces had ever been, and still, there was nothing.
“Scanners…on full. Search the system thoroughly.” He said what he had said after the past six transits, but he knew that he wasn’t going to find anything here. His mind was on the next jump, and he had already sent forward ten of his ships to explore. There were only two transit points in this system, and since he had come through one, he would leave on the other one. That made it an easy choice, unlike some of those earlier, which had required more research before he had advanced. He still had to search the system, make sure there were no inhabitants anywhere, but he was fairly certain that like all of those that had come before, it was completely vacant.
They won’t be vacant forever, though. The enemy has to have home worlds…
He was sure he was on the right track, that he was closing on the enemy’s homeland. Sooner or later, he would come upon their populations, and if they didn’t choose to defend those, he would destroy them. That was his plan. To obliterate the entire population, to hunt down every one of them eventually. To make their species, whatever it was, extinct.
He turned and looked around at his crew. Most of his fleet consisted of humans, each of them with a small group of Highborn ruling over them. But his flagship had many more of his own people on it, and the bridge crew was entirely Highborn. Ellerax had long planned to bring the free humans under his control, to lead over the entire population as a beloved commander. But the resistance they were putting up against Tesserax, and the likelihood that he would have to go himself to finish them off, had worn away at his opinions. The humans weren’t like the creatures he faced now, of course. His own civilization was highly dependent on them, on billions of them working, serving as crews…but he was angry about the resistance levels put up by the independent humans, and while he had no intention of totally eradicating them, he now planned a much harsher adaptation of them. They would learn their place, and they would learn it well.
It shouldn’t have been a surprise to him that humans who had ruled over themselves should want to retain their independence, but still, the degree to which they fought was incredible. He did blame Tesserax somewhat for it, figured his representative had committed certain errors. But his assignee was a Highborn, and one of the first group. He viewed him as inferior to himself, of course, but honestly, not to many others. And that told him the humans had conducted themselves better than he had expected, than any of them had.
“Sir…we have something coming through the monitors. Some kind of activity at the warp gate!”
Ellerax turned, and he looked at the scanner. There was activity there, no question. He wondered for a few seconds what it could be, but then he decided there was only one real possibility. The enemy. And they were coming through. They were coming to fight his fleet.
He felt something, first a smile creeping onto his lips. He had expected to have to continue pursuing the enemy for longer, but if they were coming now, especially after they had totally abandoned all of their positions and retreated, they were serious. And with that thought, his smile evaporated. He had the largest fleet he had ever known positioned around him, but he realized that the enemy had always been superior on a ship to ship basis…and that he had never known just how many vessels they had.
He was still confident, mostly, but now that he faced the possibility of the climactic battle he had sought, he was edgy, too. Worried.
“All ships, go to battlestations!”
* * *
Achilles sat, silent, watching as his robots moved about, operating his vessel, bringing it forward. To battle.
He was old, absurdly so by human standards, but he still looked young, his face, his body, unchanged despite the millennia that had passed. He didn’t feel that way, though. He felt ancient, and while his life had been largely full of work, he only realized after Callisto had been killed just how much he’d truly had. He loved her, more than he could easily express, and now he ached for her to be back, to have another chance at showing her just how much she had meant to him. But she was gone, as most of his people were now. Their population had been on the decline for thousands of years…tens of thousands. They were immortal, at least they didn’t seem to age, but over millennia, accidental deaths began to add up, while every effort to reproduce had failed.
They had lived for almost forty thousand years, and no doubt, some would go on for many more. But he didn’t fool himself. The battle that was about to begin would be devastating. Although their forces were mostly robotic, the leadership was his own people…and more importantly, he had called all of them in, all of those who remained, bringing their ships with them. He hadn’t even been certain they would all obey him. He had been their leader all the way since the first of them had been born, and while he had faced some very early resistance, for most of the time, he had been unquestioned. But it had been many years since he had truly given an order like the one he’d just made. The robot force which his people had deployed against the Highborn, were proving insufficient to defeat the immense force the enemy had now deployed. The only way he could do it, could destroy the enemy, was by massing all of the vessels that remained to him, along with the last of the Mules. And he was a little shocked that all of them had obeyed. All nine hundred thirty-six of them, the total remnant of his people.
He stared at the screen, at the entire fleet. There were more than four hundred ships out there now. That included all of the robot vessels that had been built to contain the enemy, to hold them back until they realized there was no point in continuing. He had once been sure that would happen, that the Highborn would figure their way, that they would realize that they should take their abilities and separate from the conventional humans. But it hadn’t. Instead, they had grown more hostile, more aggressive, intent on conquering all of the independent humans…and they had continued to build even more ships. They had sustained the war against his people, which had never been intended as more than a temporary holding action, at least by him.
Achilles couldn’t understand it. He had been very good at monitoring human actions. He had even known the empire would collapse long before it had, and he had decided to allow it, to let the period of suffering it would cause pass, because he was sure the follow up to it would be superior. But he had not predicted the Highborn.
They had been created, he realized, through manipulated human DNA. Whether they were actually modified humans, or another species was a question that was largely irrelevant. But what mattered was the fact that they seemed to be consumed with a level of arrogance he couldn’t explain. He understood what it felt like to be superior to the regular humans, and he could even recall some thoughts in his youth about managing them all, ruling over them. But those efforts faded away, and eventually, his people had set off on their own, leaving the humans to their own future. They had watched, even interfered a bit, all unseen by the humans, but they had never again made their presence known. Not until they saw that the humans had again created a new species.
At first, his people had been excited, curious to find out if the new creations were their equals, if they had been a second miracle in human development. That anticipation was even further increased by their apparent ability to produce more of them, many more. That was the one thing his people had not been able to do, not since they had used the last of the special genetic material they required.
The Highborn were arrogant, but Achilles could remember a certain obnoxiousness in his own people too, something that had gripped them for perhaps the first fifty years of their lives. But that had faded in his people over time…and it had only increased in the Highborn. They had become more and more aggressive, even violent. They had conquered all of the humans in the region they had settled in, and they had enslaved them. His people had finally decided to intervene, to attempt to control the spread of the Highborn, at least until they got past their aggressive phase.
But they never did. They became more and more difficult, and their military strength only increased. And then, they launched another campaign, one targeting all of the free humans living on the Rim, while simultaneously increasing their efforts on his own front.
Achilles had thought about it, considered it from every point of view. He had assumed they just required longer than his own people to turn around, to realize that their attitudes were primitive, that they should act as the protectors of humanity, and not the masters. But it was four centuries later, and they were more arrogant than ever.
The final decision he had anticipated sharing with his cohorts, but they had all—every one of them—looked to him. He knew what he had to do, in retrospect, he had known it for some time, he now realized. The Highborn weren’t going to recover. They weren’t going to come back, act responsibly. If anything, they were going to become even more intolerant.
They might even become more powerful than his people, too, in fact, they were already close. Their advancement over recent years had been incredible, and if they hadn’t gotten too close to the quality of what the Mules had yet, they had constructed a lot more.
He knew what he had to do, but it was still difficult to accept. The last absolute war his people had fought had been forty thousand years ago, when they had defeated the Regent…and he had lost much of his urge to fight since then. But he ultimately realized that the Highborn were defective, that they had to be destroyed while there was still a chance.
Completely destroyed.
He knew it would be costly, and a hint that he had waited too long, that the enemy might actually prevail, nagged at him. He was also aware that many of his people, the few that remained, would probably be lost, even if they prevailed overall. That would wear his people down farther, bring them that much closer to the time that the last of them would die. Then, mankind, if it still survived, would have to exist on its own. Maybe they would mature, develop into a race that could survive, and maybe they wouldn’t. But he knew that would be up to them. Realistically, he knew this was the final crisis his people could save them from.
They had watched over the humans for years, but that was almost at its ending now. They would fight, attempt to overthrow the Highborn, to see that they were all destroyed…and then any of his people who were left would set out, into the deepest space, and never appear again in human history.
He stared straight ahead, watching as his crew, mostly robots, but with several Mules present as well, went about their duties. The fight was here, the entire Highborn fleet, at least all of it stationed back in their home area, advancing on his own forces.
The fight was here.
Chapter Twenty-Three
CWS Dauntless
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Atara stared straight ahead, watching as the enemy forces transited through the point. Part of her wanted to have the fleet far forward, to be waiting, even as Barron had in his previous battle. If that had been the case, her ships would already be firing on the first vessels coming through, and they would enjoy a short period of superiority. But she knew there was no real chance of winning in a straightforward fight. Even with an initial period of success, she knew that would fade, that all of her hope—all of their hope—had to rest upon the new torpedo. On spreading the virus among as many enemy vessels as possible. And that required that they give them all time to slip into the system.
And then to rely heavily on Jake Stockton and his pilots’ efforts. Once that would have made her confident—there was almost no one she had believed in more than Stockton—but he had been through hell, she knew, and she wondered if he was truly his old self again. She wanted to believe in him, but she found it difficult. Still, Tyler seemed to be fully onboard with Stockton, and she trusted Barron more than anyone else.
Her ships were positioned back, alongside all of the others, almost to the planet itself. She knew the plan required as many of the enemy ships passing through as possible before they launched the fighters. She hoped they would all come through, and she realized that Barron’s trick in the last battle made that even more likely. Her deployment looked like a rational plan, too, one that was based on bringing Dannith’s fortresses into the fight along with the fleet…and so it was. But it was also designed to draw as many of the enemy in as possible.
She just watched as the ships jumped through, and she realized they were moving quicker than they had in the past. She couldn’t help but smile, as she realized that Tyler’s last attack had affected them enough that they sped up their transiting, possibly past the border of total safety. Whatever happened in the coming fight, she realized that her people had affected the enemy, and more than once. She doubted the Highborn would recognize that, but she did. It was something, at least, to feel good about, though if the battle went as she expected, she wasn’t sure it would matter much. History had a way of burying losers and raising up winners, and factors like who thought they were the good guys didn’t really figure into that at all.
“Monitor the enemy but hold your position.” She mumbled the orders. She knew her people were aware of the plan, but she wasn’t planning to take any chances. “And advise the pilots to stand ready.” It wasn’t time to send them to their fighters, not yet. They would spend enough time out there once they were launched, and she figured they could use a little longer to themselves first, to do whatever each of them did before taking off. She couldn’t imagine that they could rest or relax, that they could purge their minds of the thought of what they were about to do, of how many of them would be killed…but whatever they could manage, she wished them the best.
She looked forward, watching as the enemy ships continued to pour into the system. She wasn’t sure if they were all coming through, but it certainly looked like a lot of them were. Even as she stared, the lead ships began to form up and advance, while more and more vessels continued pouring through.
Yes, she thought…if that isn’t all of them, it’s got to be close. She knew that placed a huge burden on all of them, and particularly on Stockton. She had relied on him immensely in many older battles, and she had always been one of his biggest supporters. But she was having some difficulty assuming he was back—really back.
I hope you’re right, Tyler…I really hope you are right…
* * *
Barron stood, looking at the two officers standing in front of him. One was the best pilot he had ever known, the best that had ever existed, even. But the other one was nearly as good, and she had dropped into the role as commander when the other one had been captured, when he had been operated on and forced to lead the enemy forces. She had actually taken the field against him, led his old command in a series of desperate fights against the enemy fighters. Barron had dreaded having to make a choice, deciding which of them to place in command. In that regard, while the situation was nothing less than pure desperation, it actually made this easier on him. He needed to divide his fighters into two separate forces. One would have to take on the entire group of enemy fighters and somehow keep them busy…while the others would travel deep into enemy space, right up to their ships, and drop their new bombs. They didn’t have any experience with them, with targeting the large vessels with the torpedoes, but Barron believed in Stockton. He had been undecided at first, just like most of his crew, but after watching his performance in the last fight, the desperate battle he had just fought, he was sold. Whatever had happened, whatever problems some of his people had to deal with it, Jake Stockton was back. Fully. He was sure of it.
“I just wanted to talk to both of you together before you report to your fighters.” He stopped for a moment, formulating exactly what he wanted to say. “Before we go into anything further, I just want to say that both of you are incredible. I’m lucky to have either of you and having you both is truly incredible. But it is also incredibly difficult, as normally, I would have to choose one of you as the overall commander. That would be difficult, perhaps impossible. Fortunately, I don’t have to do that right now. Because I need two separate commanders, and two completely different groups of fighters. The first team will consist of many of our squadrons, as well as all of the Alliance and Hegemony forces. Their mission is simple…to go in and tie up the enemy fighters, all of them. You’d probably be outnumbered anyway, even if you had all of our forces combined, but with only half of them…well, you’ve been there before. Reg…that will be your command. Your orders are simple. Go in, mix it up with the enemy, and keep them off the other force.” He paused for a few seconds and then added, “At all costs.”
“Yes, Sir…I have already thought about it, about how to do the job with half of the ships.” She paused. “It will be difficult…but we will get it done.”
Barron just nodded, and then he turned slightly after a few seconds, looking at Stockton. “Jake, you already know what I need you to do. The other half of our fighters have to go in and deliver our new torpedoes to the enemy ships. And by deliver, I mean we’ve got to hit as many as possible. Even those in the rear…hell, especially those in the rear. They’re the ones most likely to have their commanders onboard.” He paused for a few seconds, and then he said, “Jake…you’ve got to come in close on all of them. The torpedoes won’t detonate on impact…they won’t blow up at all, except a small charge that will hopefully penetrate the hulls, at least on a perfect shot. The purpose is to hit the hull, and to do it hard and from close in. If the torpedoes can penetrate through, drop the virus inside the ship—and assuming it actually spreads and works—just maybe, we can infect most of their force. It won’t affect this battle, certainly, but it is the one thing that offers a real chance…of survival. If you’re successful, if you manage to damage most of their ships…you may be responsible for giving us the only real chance we have at…” He was going to say, ‘winning,’ but then he said, “survival.” He didn’t mention the casualties they were likely to take, either of them. They both knew.
“Thank you again, Sir.” Stockton turned and looked at Griffin. “Reg…I wanted to say thank you, not only for what you will do, but for what you have done over the last several years. I realize that we have been competing for the same position, and I can only imagine the stress had been as hard on you as it has on me. I can’t say I’m sorry for wanting my job back, anymore than you can be that you want to keep the role you’ve held for several years. It’s not that either of us is wrong…we’re not. But I feel this plan offers us a chance to work together, to both share the top spot, so to speak, and to do everything we can to defeat the enemy, if not in the actual battle, then just maybe through the spreading of the virus.”
He stared at her for a moment, and then he looked back at Barron. “I’m onboard, Tyler…totally ready to do whatever I have to do to get the virus into the enemy ships.” He paused for a moment and looked back at Griffin. “And I am sure there is nobody who can handle the rest of the fighters as well as Reg.”
Griffin looked back at Stockton, and Barron could tell she was emotional. The situation between the two of them had been weird. He didn’t doubt that either one would select the other to lead if he or she couldn’t, but at the same time, he didn’t question that they would fight to the finish for the role themselves.
“I agree with you both. The situation definitely calls for two independent leaders…and there is no one better than Jake. I will do everything I can to hold off the enemy, to defeat their fighters and distract their warships…while you get your birds in close.” She turned toward Barron. “I understand, Sir…I realize that the ultimate decision on which of us to put in command is difficult. But at least, in this situation, you won’t have to make it.” She paused and then added, “We will see what happens after this battle.”
Barron nodded. He was glad he had found a mutually satisfactory solution, one which didn’t require him to choose between two hyper-qualified individuals. He knew he might have to later on, but that would require both of them, as well as himself, to survive…and for a reasonable fleet, and a good number of fighters, to endure as well. That was possible, he guessed, at least in a sense, but he was sure the odds were against it. Badly.
“I am glad that you are both happy with the current situation. As to what happens next…let’s just wait until then and see…”
* * *
Clint Winters sat on his bridge, looking at the massive fleet that was approaching. He had fought in many battles, most recently the one he had just won, but somehow, he felt different this time. This battle would be extraordinary. It would be bloody, terrible, and most likely, it would be the last truly large fight his people could mount…at least unless the plan with the fighters panned out and bought his side more time to rebuild. But whether that happened or not—and personally, he was pessimistic—he knew his forces would be heavily damaged, possibly even destroyed in the next several hours. He had to advance, they all did. He had to keep the enemy as occupied as possible while Jake Stockton’s fighters closed…and launched their fateful assault…and that would result in, at the very least, a huge number of his vessels being destroyed.
“Sir…I have Admiral Barron on the line for you.”
He turned and looked at his aide. “Put him through.” Then he said, “Admiral Barron?”
“C’mon Clint…I think it’s time to dispense with all the regulations. Call me Tyler. You know as well as I do what is coming.” He did know, but Barron’s tone only increased his awareness. “The enemy is almost in range. I just wanted to check in with you, make sure you’re all set.”
Winters breathed in deeply. “Yes, Tyler…I’m ready.” And he was. Despite the fact that he was far from certain he, or any of them, really, would survive, he was prepared. “We’re going to give the enemy one hell of a fight.” He was too disciplined to say that they were going to defeat the enemy, to win the battle. He knew that wasn’t going to happen. But he fully intended to keep the pressure on as long as it took Stockton’s people to deliver their weaponry. He was far from certain it would work, but he knew it was a chance. Probably his side’s last chance.
“Yes, Clint…we are going to give them one hell of a fight. Good luck.” Tyler cut the line almost immediately. Clint Winters sat for a moment, silently preparing.
Then he said, “Arm all weaponry.”
“Yes, Sir.” He listened as his subordinate issued the command to the rest of the ships in his armada. He knew that Tyler and Atara…as well as Chronos and Vian Tulus were doing the same thing. The entire force was assembled, all lined up together, ready to face the approaching enemy. The whole fleet would act together, fight as one force.
His heard a sound from his board, one he had expected. One that meant it was time.
“All fighters…launch!”
He uttered the command, and he nodded as his aide repeated it. He closed his eyes for a moment, waiting to feel the vibrations from his own ship’s fighters launching…and within twenty seconds, he began to feel the pitching of the ship. The fighters were tiny in comparison to his vessel, and he could easily have ignored them totally. But he had always been fascinated by the launch, and he always waited for it. He could remember doing it for years, even before he had commanded a ship, twenty years earlier, sitting in his place as a first officer, listening for the distant sounds of the fighters taking off. And he was still doing it.
He turned and looked at the display, watching as the last of his flagship’s 144 fighters took off, and then he turned toward his aide, staring for a moment as the distance to the forward enemy ships continued to drop. Then he said, “Main guns…open fire!”
* * *
Jake Stockton sat inside his fighter, waiting for the order to launch. He was content with his role, as happy as he had been in the meeting with Barron an hour before. He wanted to command all of the fighters, to return to his old place, but he understood that there were two separate contingents now, and that required two leaders. If he survived, and Reg did too, he suspected they would encounter their rivalry again, but for now, he just hoped for the best—for himself and for her—and he focused on his own job.
Hers was bad, in some ways worse even than his. She would have only half of the fighters, and she would have to take on all of the enemy squadrons and shield his people the best she could. Under any circumstances he could think of, she would suffer grievous losses. But he knew his own role, leading the desperate assault against the enemy ships, would be even worse in its own ways. He had to get close…close. He knew his torpedoes had to get through the hulls of their target ships, and disperse the virus inside, and he was very aware that it was the purest speculation that they even could do it, no matter what. But whatever the chance was, he knew the closer he fired from, the more direct his hits were, the better it was.
He waited for the final order to launch. He was on the same ship as Reg, which was a bit strange, since they were both leading many vessels full of fighters. Tyler Barron had planned it that way. He had anticipated the final conversation with the two of them, probably for a long while. Stockton had always respected Barron, and he had long known his commander was a genius in his own right, but now, he truly realized just how smart he was, how his mind covered every aspect of the fight. He had only known about the new weapon for a couple of days, but he found in it his answer—at least temporarily—to the rivalry between Stockton and Reg Griffin.
Stockton heard the sound of the bell, the precursor to the launch authorization. He tensed up. He had flown more times than he could recall, but he knew that the current situation was possibly the toughest he had ever been in. He knew his people’s hope—their only hope, really—rested with him. If he could infect the enemy, penetrate most of their ships and spread the virus, just maybe it would turn the fight around…or at least give his people the time to build more vessels, prepare for a rematch.
He knew if he succeeded, that rematch would largely be against new people, as most of those currently engaged would die. He was experienced enough to understand that Reg would lose many ships, and he could lose all of his. There were a dozen things that could go wrong, many ways the plan could fail…but even total success would carry massive losses with it.
He regretted what had happened several years ago, how he had been captured and turned into his people’s enemy. But, whatever he had been compelled to do in the past he had done, and he swore to himself that this time he would deliver his weapons to the enemy, and somehow get them through the hulls…whatever it took.
“All fighters, launch!”
He heard the sound, and he paused for just a second. He was back, truly back. His last years had been difficult on him. The worst thing that had ever happened to him had been inflicted on him by the enemy. He had led their fighters, and they had killed thousands of his people while operating under him. He knew that wasn’t voluntary, that he had been enslaved by the Collar, but still, he knew there were people out there who hadn’t forgiven him, who never would.
And he was the first on that list. Whatever he did, however he fought, even if he was killed, he knew he could never forgive himself, not entirely at least. That wasn’t logical, perhaps, but the damage the enemy had done to him proved far more lasting than their control.
But while he would never forgive himself, he knew he could at least get even, cause vengeance. That he was determined to do, whatever the cost.
He tightened his hand on the throttle and his ship blasted down the launch corridor and out into space. Off toward the enemy fleet.
* * *
Andi stood quietly, looking through the darkness toward her daughter. Cassiopeia was asleep, exhaustion finally winning out over the excitement of seeing her mother again and heading out on a new journey. It had been several days since Andi had docked already, and Pegasus had left Megara again, but the thrill of Cassie seeing her mother was still almost as powerful as it had been the moment they first saw each other. Cassie had grown considerably, and she had clearly been well educated over the years she had been stashed on Megara, but fundamentally, she hadn’t really changed at all. In many ways, it felt as though Andi had been away for only a few days, and not the several years she had been.
She backed away quietly, leaving the room and closing the door gently. She had missed her daughter, thought about her multiple times every day…but now, seeing her, she wondered how she had even endured the separation for just a few days, not to mention years. She understood all her reasons, the need to provide some safety for Cassie, and her own duties on the front. She knew she wasn’t wrong, that she had provided vital service against the enemy, that it was quite possible that her presence had been essential to whatever success they had managed to achieve…but the instant she looked at Cassie for the first time, she felt immense guilt. And while that had faded a bit in the last several days, it was still mostly there, haunting her. She knew she had done the right thing, that she hadn’t really had any choice…but it still wore her down.
She was grateful, at least, for her daughter’s enthusiasm, for her joy at seeing her. She hadn’t known what to expect, and she was very pleased that Cassie didn’t seem to harbor any real anger over the whole situation. It was as though her daughter, just nine years old, understood what was going on, at least somewhat.
“Hey, Andi…you want anything? Some food, or maybe something to drink?” Akella was standing in the small galley, holding a coffee pot in her hand. She’d had a very similar reaction to Andi’s on being reunited with her children, perhaps even a bit worse. At least Andi had entrusted her child to Lita Mareth, her longtime mentor. Akella had sent her two children off to another power’s capital, to a place that had been an enemy ten years before, along with Lita and Cassiopeia. Andi couldn’t even imagine how difficult that had been, and how excited she must have been to find both her children perfectly fine.
“Nothing to eat, not right now…but I will have some coffee, thanks.” She smiled, for a few seconds, and then her face returned to its neutral look. “Akella, I’m going to pull back with Cassie…if necessary, I’m even going to flee if it come down to it. I have to give my daughter a chance at…some kind of life. But first, I have to go back to Dannith, or to wherever the fleet has gone. I have to give Tyler a chance, to join us, hopefully, but at the very least to see his daughter again. I’ll drop you anywhere you want to go before…”
“No…I’ll go with you. I want to see Chronos, too…and I want him to have a chance to see his child again. And he is almost certainly where Tyler is.” She paused for a second, and then she added, “And then…if things go bad, if the war is lost…I would like to go with you, if that is alright.” Akella spoke softly, calmly, but Andi knew she was anything but.
“Of course you can come, Akella.” She was surprised at how relieved she felt. She was worried about the war, about Tyler—about a lot of friends she realized she had now—but she felt genuine relief at the prospect of having at least Akella and her two children with her. She hoped there would be more, of course, that perhaps there would be some sort of exodus, an escape of those closest to her. But she didn’t believe that, not really. As much as Tyler loved her, and she was convinced of that more than anything, she knew him well enough to realize that he would likely be drawn into another conflict, and one after that, somehow telling himself there was at least a chance, even when there wasn’t one anymore.
She reached out and took the coffee that Akella had poured for her, nodding a silent thanks.
She was glad that Akella might join her, just as she was glad that Lita Mareth had accepted her invitation to come along as well. She knew that Lita didn’t have much family, and that her mentor was probably far more educated on the situation at the front than the average person on Megara, but still, she found herself somewhat surprised at her longtime employee’s willingness to come along. She was relieved—the situation would be difficult enough on Cassie, even with her longtime companion coming along. It would help having Lita present…as it would having Akella’s children.
Andi was tired, very tired…but she knew what would happen if she tried to go to sleep. There was just too much on her mind, too many concerns. She raised her coffee cup to her lips, took a long sip. Then she said, “I’m just going to run up to the bridge and make sure everything is working correctly.” She didn’t have to do that, she knew. She had checked everything a couple hours before, and it had all been perfect.
But she felt her emotions rising, and she wasn’t sure she would be able to maintain her control. She was normally a fairly tight person, one who rarely lost her ability to at least appear to be calm and collected…but if she couldn’t do that, at least she could excuse herself, and have her emotional breakdown where no one could see her.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Highborn Flagship S’Olestra
Imperial System A04-234
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Ellerax sat, watching as his ships moved forward. His fleet was immense, and while the force facing it was considerably smaller, he knew the enemy ships were superior, and that he had come upon the largest conglomeration of opposing force his people had ever seen. That was faced by his own fleet, which was also the most massive force he had ever led, even bigger in proportion than the enemy conglomeration. The fight would be immense, and it would be bloody. But he had added up the enemy forces, and he was almost certain that his side would win. After that, despite the terrible losses that he knew his own side would take, he was almost certain that the enemy would be finished. They might have a few more ships farther back, but the fleet they had deployed here was the largest by far he had ever seen, and it had to be most of what they had.
His fleet had advanced much farther than ever before, and the enemy had pulled back, abandoning system after system. But none of those were inhabited. In two centuries of warfare, with dozens, no hundreds, of battles, his forces had never found a populated world. There had been small outposts left behind, but even they seemed to be mostly automated. After two hundred years of warfare, his people still knew very little about their enemy. That should have concerned him more than it did, but Ellerax wasn’t capable of imagining that his people could lose a fight, that any defeat could occur if they made sufficient effort, as they were doing now. He had made a number of assumptions, guesses really, about the enemy, but to him, they were almost certainly true.
He stared at the screens, showing his forces moving forward at maximum speed. The truth was the enemy had a longer maximum range. He had trouble accepting that they were superior to his people in any real way, but nevertheless, he knew the facts. And he was intent on clearing through the area where his opponent could fire but he could not, and to his own range as quickly as possible. Then the battle would truly begin.
He knew he would lose ships first, that the enemy would draw the initial blood…but he swore to himself that when the battle was over, his forces would remain, and the enemy would be completely destroyed. The foe would likely fight hard, and if they stayed and battled to the end, perhaps it would be the final major battle. If they ran instead, if enough of their force escaped, there would be another significant fight. But whatever happened, he was confident that his side would win. He was incapable of believing anything else.
That was why he had given Tesserax so long, why he hadn’t removed him from command more quickly. He fundamentally believed that his forces were invincible, that they couldn’t lose, not in the end, and as much as he blamed Tesserax for the delays, he couldn’t help but believe that he would prevail in the end. If Tesserax didn’t complete his conquest by the time he had finished with his enemy, then he himself would go there, along with the survivors of his fleet, and he would finish things. And then he would rule, over everything…forever.
* * *
Achilles sat, quietly watching as the enemy fleet approached. He knew the fight would be difficult, that his people would take considerable losses. In fact, if the visible portion of his fleet had been all of it, he suspected he would lose. But he had forty vessels, larger than any of his others—much larger—hidden just behind his main fleet. They were the ships most of his people had been on, scattered throughout space, conducting endless research, while their robot forces engaged the enemy. Back then the plan—his plan—had been to contain the foe, to eventually guide them to proper development. But now he recognized that they had actually become worse, that the longer they had existed, the more arrogant—and powerful—they had become. He realized that his people had to intervene—truly intervene, not just hold them off—and they had to do so while they were still able. In another fifty years, or possibly less, the foe might become decisively more powerful than even his forces. That was something he had never seen before, nothing his people, despite their declining ranks, had ever come close to experiencing, not since their earliest days. They had always been the superiors, their technology significantly in advance of anyone they had dealt with, and he couldn’t imagine giving up that position…certainly not to the Highborn.
There was even more to the situation, to the threat the Highborn mounted. Though they were on the other side of the enemy, more or less out of reach of his own people, he had come to realize that the Highborn were also on the verge of conquering the free humans. That was disturbing. The Highborn had first engaged when the empire was still in existence, when most of humanity was united. The empire had been old, and well into decline at the time, but it had proven capable of defeating its creations, of driving the early Highborn outside of the imperial borders. There, Achilles had expected the new breed to review their lives, and to develop into a more acceptable group, perhaps even one that could come to fill the role his people had long held, guiding the regular humans. But they had become worse instead, and they had subjugated all of the humans who lived in their space and treated them very badly. He had tried to give them time, to wait until they got older, more advanced…but with each step forward in technology, they just became more and more arrogant.
Finally, he had been compelled to offer them some resistance, to keep them occupied, away from the weak and vulnerable humans that still remained free, amid the ruins of the empire. He had told himself that would do it, that the resistance offered by his robots would cause the enemy to learn, to understand the role they could achieve. That they could even take the place of his own people, and guide humanity without his own interference. But instead, they turned their human conquests into slaves, and then, while still fighting his forces, they directed their efforts toward the rest of the humans.
He understood now, if not why they were the way they were, at least what they were. They were defective, interested only in their own advantages…and that likely wouldn’t change. It would just grow worse as time went by. They saw the billions and billions of regular humans as nothing more than tools, slaves to use in building their own power, in aggrandizing their own civilization.
No, his efforts to give them time to develop had failed. His people had watched over humanity for 40,000 years…and now they would intervene one final time. They would do everything they could to eradicate the Highborn, to take them out of the picture, and give the regular human beings a chance to reclaim themselves, to reestablish a single power, another empire.
Then, he swore to himself, whoever survived among his people, they would set out, travel to truly deep space, and never be seen again.
But first, they had to win the fight, and they had to destroy the Highborn.
“All ships in the front line…fire!”
* * *
Tesserax sat still, just watching the battle unfold. He had come through the point, emerged in the space around the enemy. But his ship was back, far from the fight, watching. He knew the battle would likely be his, that his forces were simply too superior for the enemy to defeat, but he also realized that his losses would be considerable…and he smiled. All of the vessels in the front of his force were infested with the virus. Their crews were doomed anyway, at least unless his people came up with a cure, and quickly. So, the losses from the battle, the ships that would be destroyed, were doomed anyway, or at least their crews were. Whether he could save any ships, recrew them after those onboard were all dead, he didn’t know. The virus was extremely contagious, and he wasn’t sure how long it could survive, even on a deserted ship. He was uncertain about ordering anyone to board one of the vessels, even if he suspected it was clean. More likely, he would simply order them all destroyed, and just take the added losses.
All of the rear of his formation, the hundreds of vessels situated farther back, were untouched by the virus. They would take losses, too, but far fewer…and they would have the victory. And that was all that mattered. This was his final chance, he was almost sure of that, and he was determined to win.
Whatever happened, he would have problems enough, with immense numbers of infected planets, with thousands—hundreds of thousands—of his people affected. Worse, they were mostly worlds newly occupied that were afflicted, and many—most—of the regular humans there were not yet collared. Where his people died off, the locals would almost certainly rebel, and that would cause him more trouble.
And he would have to tell Ellerax. Likely, he would have to admit to knowing about it, to not reporting it immediately, and that would anger the supreme commander. But just maybe, if he could present it with the war almost won, with the humans reduced to just a few scattered remnants in opposition, he would regain his master’s approval.
If he couldn’t, he wondered if he could rebel, if his subordinates would support him in rising up, in seizing control of the area around the newly conquered humans. That was a new thought, one he hadn’t had before, but now it came up, and he truly considered it. The fact that his people had always been loyal to Ellerax, that despite their constant jockeying for position, none of them had ever made a play for total control, even for a part of the domain, seemed to be lost on him. The more he thought about it, considered the likelihood of his being taken from command, even punished, the better of an idea it sounded like.
He turned back to the screen, watching as his forward vessels opened fire…and almost immediately began to receive it, too. The humans were inferior, certainly, but he had to acknowledge that they had advanced their technology fiercely, in only the years of the war. They had gone from a notable inferiority to reasonably close to his people’s equal, and that was another good reason why he had to win the war…and do it soon. His race was vastly superior to the humans, but in numbers they were far fewer. There were billions and billions of humans out there, and that could make up for a lot when compared to just a few million of the Highborn.
He watched as the early fire continued. His side had the edge in that. All of his vessels had weapons with the maximum range, and only the newest of the enemy’s did. That would change as the distance dropped, as the rest of their ships would come into range. He knew the fight would be nasty, that his forces would take heavy losses. But they would win…of that he was sure.
He saw the enemy fighters deploying, and his own ships were launching too, sending their squadrons to fight those of the enemy. He knew that his weren’t as good as the enemy’s, despite the fact that the fighters themselves were actually superior. That was one of the frustrations he had endured. Some of his pilots had become almost as good as their opponents, but that had been the result almost solely of having Jake Stockton under his control. But Stockton was gone now, returned to the enemy, and most of the pilots he had trained had been killed. Stockton had become the only person to ever break free of the Collar. Tesserax still wasn’t sure how that had even happened, and he was definitely still frustrated about it. One thing that was certain…he promised himself that if Stockton didn’t die in the battle, if he was captured…he would kill him.
He forced his mind away from Stockton, back to the battle as a whole. There was more fire now on the front line. He knew the battle would be a difficult fight at first. He had initially planned to hold back his entire force, and to launch them forward as one large group…at least if the enemy didn’t engage them at the jump point, which they hadn’t. But then he had considered the fact that the enemy might retreat, that they might try to escape with a reasonable portion of their fleet intact, and he had decided to push his ships forward as fast as he could, as soon as they emerged and regained control. That plan made even more sense, especially since his first vessels were all infected with the virus.
He looked at the masses of incoming fighters now, and his immense forces surging out to meet them. Something was strange, though. Only about half of the enemy fighters were forming up to meet his own…and they were badly outnumbered, by almost three to one. The rest of the enemy ships were hanging back. Strangely.
He would admit, at least in a way, that the enemy was better at fighter combat than he was. That was the one area where he could accept that, or at least come close to it, though he told himself it was only because they had fielded fighters for more than a century, while his people added them only a few years ago, in response to the enemy’s. But what did they intend to do with half of their fighters, the group that was formed up behind their first force? Was it another plan, some kind of scheme the enemy had developed? Were they hoping all of his forces would fire their heavy weapons against the first formation, that the second half of their ships would then tear into his depleted ranks?
That didn’t make much sense to him. Yes, the fighters would benefit from the advantage of being the only ones armed with torpedoes, but would that really do more than counter the same benefit his own ships would gain over the first half of the enemy force?
It didn’t make a lot of sense, but he couldn’t think of anything else. Perhaps the enemy was hoping to attack the main ships of his fleet, to work their way around his own fighters and launch themselves, and their heavy weapons, against him. That didn’t exactly add up either. The fighters would do damage to his vessels, of course, and even destroy some. But were they strong enough to make that kind of difference? Their own anti-fighter force, the half of their ships lined up against all of his, would be badly punished, and the fighters attacking the capital ships would also suffer terribly from the defensive fire they would encounter.
It didn’t make sense, none of it. Perhaps it was just desperation, the desire to hit as many of his ships as possible. He couldn’t come up with anything that would be worth it for the enemy…but he wasn’t going to allow them to come in unchallenged against his fleet either.
“Order one-third of the fighters to pull back. They are to hold their weapons in place, and they are to wait and see where the rearmost enemy forces deploy.” He stared at the screen, still unhappy, concerned…but he couldn’t think of anything else he could do, not until he saw where the enemy unleashed the ships.
Chapter Twenty-Five
CWS Dauntless
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Atara leaned in, her body maneuvering to the ship’s motion, almost involuntarily. The hit had been the third one her ship had experienced, in just over five minutes. Dauntless had developed a reputation as a lucky ship, one that could get in and out of desperate fights, but so far, it was looking like that string of good luck might be over.
The vessel had been in the service for a fair time now, and in countless battles…but perhaps none as harsh as they current fight. The enemy ships were firing aggressively, and Atara’s own ships were responding at least as harshly. It was still early, and not that many vessels had been destroyed—yet—but she knew that was going to change. Whether Dauntless would join that group, follow its older namesake to its end, she just didn’t know.
“Bring us around, forward twenty thousand kilometers. All of the ships. Seventy percent thrust.” She spat out the commands, not sure whether her orders made sense, or whether it was just the desire to do the maximum damage before she was destroyed…but she was sure she wanted to do it. She just wasn’t entirely certain why.
Garvus Trotsky paused a moment, and then he responded, “Yes, Admiral.” He then turned and fired up the comm system, possibly hesitating for just an instant before he spat out her commands. Whether he had his own doubts or not, Atara was definitely impressed by his tone, by the rock hard sound of his voice. She’d had a number of assistants over the years, and all of them had been good…but perhaps Trotsky was the best of them all. She wondered what he could do with more time, a longer period at her side, but she was far from certain he would get it. Atara had been in many battles before, and she’d almost been killed a number of times…but now, a large part of her was saying that this was it, that neither Dauntless nor she would leave this system. She wanted to survive, of course, to live out her life, but she realized now that she had given up on that a long while back. It had been at least a couple years since she had actually believed her forces had any chance, any long-term ability to win the war.
Still, she was going to fight with everything she had, for as long as she could. That much was certain.
She felt a small shift—perhaps a second—as Dauntless’s dampeners lagged a little behind the increased thrust. It was a bit worse than she remembered, and she realized that her vessel, while still more or less intact, had started to take damage.
That will get worse…and soon. But so will the enemy…
She gritted her teeth with the second thought, and she allowed her hatred of the foe to come out. She had always been careful, kept herself calm and measured, but if this was going to be her last battle, she was going to make it everything it could be.
She stared at the screen, watching as her entire force unloaded on the enemy. Her ships were taking hits, being damaged, but they were also inflicting it…and she decided that was what she wanted to watch. One of the enemy’s large battleships took six hits in less than two minutes, from three of her vessels that were targeting it. That was an astonishing display of marksmanship by her side, and she smiled. The vessel was among the largest ones present, and it wasn’t destroyed, or even terribly close to it yet, but she knew the fight would take place one hit at a time, one ship damaged or destroyed and then the next.
And maybe…just maybe, Stockton could pull it off again. She knew the job was almost undoable, that he had to not only target any one enemy vessel, but rather all of them. Or, at least, most of them, and that seemed downright impossible. But as much as she still doubted him, worried that he had lost something, she realized that Barron had been right—again. Whatever chance there was, whatever hope existed for their force to actually prevail—overall, if not in the current fight—it relied on Stockton. For all her doubts about him, she realized he was the right choice, if only because he was the only man she could imagine actually carrying out the command, actually succeeding. It was still a longshot, but at least she could envision him prevailing…and there was no one else who had any kind of shot at success, not her, not the entire fleet.
They were all there to screen for Stockton, to give him every chance they could…and suddenly she truly realized that, and she felt both hope and despair at the same time.
* * *
Reg Griffin moved her hand, bringing her ship to the side, turning away from the enemy even as her two torpedoes darted through space, toward the vessels she had targeted. She knew the fight had only just begun, that there wasn’t going to be time for her vessels to return to their ships and rearm with new torpedoes. But she was well aware that the two heavy weapons that each fighter carried were vastly stronger than their lasers were…and she knew they had to score a large number of hits, and seriously damage the enemy force, before she moved forward and engaged with the closer ranged lasers.
She watched her torpedoes close, the targets scrambling to escape. But her shots had been good, dead on, and both of the enemy ships exploded within seconds of each other. She knew those two hits were irrelevant, that the battle was massive and that she needed all of her ships to fire well and take down a large number of enemy ships. The exchange of torpedoes was only the beginning, but with the odds, she knew her people had to claw out an early advantage…and she knew there would be almost three times as many weapons directed at her command as they had to launch. She expected her forces to score a higher percentage of hits, but three to one was a lot to overcome. The commitment of half of the fleet’s total forces—her forces, she told herself, realizing that for several years she had commanded all of the fighters—to Jake Stockton’s command was seriously damaging her ability. She knew why it was done, and she couldn’t argue with it. In fact, when she looked at the situation clearly, she agreed, not only with the plan, but with the fact that as difficult as her situation was, Stockton’s was worse. But she still felt some resentment at the loss of so many ships.
She checked her screen, saw the barrage of incoming missiles. There were seven of them targeting her. No, she realized. Eight.
It was a lot to overcome, but her piloting skills were top notch, and she jerked her hand to the right, accelerating hard. Her eyes were fixed on the small dots on her screen, the weapons moving closer to her ship. Three of them were the most dangerous, and she concentrated on them first. She blasted forward at full speed, and then she jerked hard to the left…and then a few seconds later, to the right. She continued to blast at full speed, doing everything she could to stay ahead of the torpedoes. They were faster than her ship, she knew, but they had a limited amount of fuel. If she could give them a wild enough route, shake their pursuit for long enough, they would run out and continue on a straight line course, out of the battle zone and off into the darkness forever. That was very doable with one or two weapons targeting her, but eight was a lot, and she couldn’t help but try and think of her chances. One to one? Or was that too optimistic?
She jerked around, again and again, using mostly her gut instincts to determine directions. She stared at her screen, watching as each of the missiles closed on her. She understood that her chance was perhaps the second or two before the torpedoes could read her course changes and compensate. If she could keep moving around, stay out of the weapons’ reach for long enough, she could survive.
And if not…
Her eyes were fixed on the screen, the torpedoes getting closer and closer. She wasn’t sure how long she had, that depended on the amount of fuel the weapons had used. She figured she was getting closer…but so were the torpedoes.
She jerked her hand hard again, and she upped her thrust, to 110%. That was risky, she knew, but just then she figured she needed everything she could get. Four of the torpedoes had worked their way into a range below 7,500 kilometers, and two of them were sub-5,000. The closer they got, the greater danger they were. If one of them got within 2,500 kilometers, she knew the chance of it scoring a hit rose sharply.
She figured they were close to out of fuel though…they had to be. But all of them were still coming on, and the nearest two were now under 3,500 kilometers away. Her throat was dry, and her hands, usually rock solid, began to shake a bit. She knew that she was a good pilot, but the number of torpedoes chasing her was large…too large If she could hold them off, somehow avoid them all, maybe she could survive. But she knew that was just a hope, and realistically, she figured her earlier guess at one to one odds was actually optimistic. One of the torpedoes had closed to about 2,000 kilometers, and four more of them were within 3,500. She jerked her hand wildly, changing her course every second or two. She checked her engines, saw that they were still functioning properly, even with the overdraw of power. Then, she dialed it up again, to 115%. That was insane, she knew, probably giving herself at least a thirty percent chance of burning out an engine…and in this case, dying. But she needed the speed.
She moved her hand again and again, trying to make her moves as random as she could. She knew the larger ships in the fleet, the battleships and cruisers, did the same basic thing to avoid hits. But in her case, one shot was enough to destroy her. There was no room for error, no second chance.
She saw one of the pursuing torpedoes continue on a course away from her ship’s new direction. It had run out of power! That picked her up, told her the weapons chasing her were running low on fuel. But there were still seven pursuing.
She was drenched in sweat, and her face was dripping all over her. Her eyes stung from the droplets that poured into them, and she felt nauseous. She had been a pilot for many years, flown countless missions, but she couldn’t remember a situation as bad as the one she was in now. Two more of the incoming missiles ran out of fuel, and she allowed herself an instant to wonder whether she could survive after all.
But the closest missile was less than a thousand kilometers now. She knew that gave it at least a seventy percent chance of scoring a hit…unless it ran out of fuel. It had to be close, she knew, but she was also aware that her time was almost gone. A second missile dropped under one thousand kilometers as well, even as two more ran out of fuel.
She jerked her hand back and forth, blasting in one direction for a second, and then in another. But the torpedoes were closing, and the nearer they got, the better their targeting. Another torpedo ran out of fuel, leaving just two…the two closest to her. She raced with her hand, going totally by instinct, doing everything she could to avoid the incoming missiles…but she knew they were going to hit her. Unless they ran out of fuel…very soon.
She wasn’t even conscious of the moves she was making. Her hand moved back and forth, blasting in one direction and then another totally by instinct. But the torpedoes were very close now, and they responded almost immediately. She checked the ranges, realizing that the closest one was less than five hundred kilometers away. Its chances of scoring a hit were almost one hundred percent from that range…unless it ran out of fuel. She knew it had to be close, but she was also aware that she was almost out of time. Then, the seventh of eight torpedoes ran out of fuel, leaving only one of them still chasing her. The closest one.
She was drenched in sweat, her arm moving rapidly, but the missile still closed. It was less than a hundred kilometers away, and she knew she was out of time. In seconds the torpedo would hit her…or it would run out of fuel. She had always known that she could die, that she probably would die eventually, but now was a bad time. Later perhaps, after her forces had fought off the large numbers, bought time for Stockton’s people to launch their own desperate assault. But leaving her outnumbered forces to her subordinates’ command…it just didn’t seem right.
She closed her eyes as the torpedo came in, now under fifty kilometers. She gave up…knew her end had come. She had seconds left, but even as she surrendered, her hand continued to move, jerking her ship around, changing its course slightly every time. At this range, it didn’t buy much time. The torpedo corrected almost immediately. But it still offered the hope that if the missile ran out of fuel, it would blast off in a slightly different direction than her new movement.
Twenty kilometers. She had seconds left. Her thoughts went back over her life, and she was overcome with both satisfaction and regrets. The things she had done that she was happy with outnumbered those she regretted, but there were also a number of things she wished had been different. But she understood her time had come, and she waited for the torpedo to impact.
But it didn’t.
She opened her eyes and looked. It had run out of fuel, just a few seconds from impact. She checked the scans, looking how close the torpedo had come. Less than 5 kilometers. She guessed that perhaps she had come between one and three seconds from her death. But she was alive! And there was much left to do.
She nudged her fighter down to 100% thrust, and she grabbed the throttle again. Her hands were wet, her whole body was, but she regained control over herself quickly. She had come close—very close—to death, but she was alive, and she still had a huge job ahead of her.
She checked her long range scanner, tried to see how well her ships had come through the attack, and how well they had done with their own. A lot of her fighters were missing, destroyed by the mass of incoming torpedoes. But the impact on the enemy was even worse. Her people had to do three times the casualties, just to hold their own…and she had been doubtful that they could. But they had done at least five to one, and that was incredible. She felt her spirit returning, a bit at least, and she went from a simple pleasure at unexpectedly surviving to a burning need to lead her forces on…to see things through to the end.
Chapter Twenty-Six
CWS Omicron
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron sat quietly, watching as his crew moved through their duties. He was impressed, almost shocked at how quiet it was. His fleet had both newer spacers and old veterans, but the one thing he had used his position to attain for his flagship was experienced personnel. He knew that gave him an edge, probably increased his chance of survival, but that wasn’t why he did it. He partially felt the flagship should have the best of his people aboard, of course, but as he sat and thought about it, he realized that wasn’t all of it either. He just wanted to be surrounded by people of his type, those who had served for a long time, who had proven themselves. He wanted to watch them perform their duties, to move as they had been doing, almost without any doubt.
He wanted to do that one last time…because he didn’t expect to make it out. He had thought about the fight, about what to do, what offered his people the greatest chance of survival. But in point of fact, he realized there was nothing…nothing save Stockton’s grave effort. And while he did believe Stockton was back, really back, and that he was definitely the best pilot he had ever seen, he doubted that even his ace at his best could achieve success, at least full success. The enemy fleet was vast, and it stretched way back, all the way to the entry point—and it was still pouring more craft through.
Barron had tried to think of everything he could, imagine any way his people could win…but the enemy was even stronger than he had expected, and he realized there was no chance. Except Stockton’s attack…and the number of problems with that actually succeeding were almost uncountable. If his ace pilot somehow managed to penetrate the enemy forces, to slice deep into their formation, and to deliver the virus to half of the enemy vessels, that would still leave half of them…and that would probably be enough. Enough to finish off whatever remained of his fleet, and to gradually tear apart the planetary defenses, to complete the conquest of the Confederation. Of all human occupied space.
No, Stockton had to get to most of the enemy ships, and Barron didn’t see how that was possible. He believed that he would do his best, that he would score a significant number of hits, but none of those would even affect the battle. He was sure they would cause the enemy problems afterward, possibly kill a lot of their people, but whatever it did, it wouldn’t affect the current fight. If the enemy came away with enough ships uninfected to continue their assault, to wipe out whatever survived of the human fleet, it was all over.
But despite his doubts, his despair, he knew it was the only real hope they had…and he was prepared to hold the line for long enough, to do whatever he had to in order to give Stockton the time to try and carry out the best attack he could mount. Regardless of the losses he suffered.
He looked over at the main screen, watched as his forces—all of them—battled the enemy. They were doing well, so far at least. His entire force was deployed, but the enemy had only gotten some of their ships into the fight so far. He knew that would change, that things would steadily move against him, but for now, the battle was in hand.
He stared at the clouds of small dots on the scanner, the fighters. He knew they had things even tougher than he did, that many—most?—of the enemy fleet’s fighters had advanced to the battle. Reg Griffin had only half of the fighters in her force, and she was brutally outnumbered. But as he looked, checked on the status of the initial confrontation, he saw that she was doing well, very well indeed. Her pilots were fighting fiercely, and they were actually at least holding their own. That was incredible, and as much as the rivalry between Griffin and Stockton had caused him headaches, he realized how fortunate he was to have two different officers of such incredible ability. He didn’t know if either of them would prevail, would survive even…but he knew they would do everything possible to complete their missions.
He watched the battle continue. In truth, as supreme commander, he was only necessary at a few crucial points. Most of the time he just sat…and watched.
He saw two of the enemy’s vessels, both fairly large ones, blow up, almost one after the other…and then he saw one of his own fleet’s ships do the same. It was still fairly early in the fight, and most of the ships had only suffered moderate damage. That would change, he knew that…for both sides. But he also knew his side would come out behind, that however well they fought, they would lose. But they would stand long enough to do everything possible to distract the enemy from Stockton, to give his desperate assault the chance it deserved. He didn’t really believe it would work, but he realized that it was the best chance, the only chance, they had, and he was determined to see it through.
Absolutely determined.
* * *
Jake Stockton looked out at the space in front of him. He knew what he was supposed to do…to hit the enemy ships head on, to drive steadily through their forces, moving back farther and farther into their formation. But he also knew it wouldn’t work. He only had so many ships, so many bombs to deliver, and there were too many enemy ships for him to hit every one of them…or even most of them.
He had a plan though, one he had come up with before he had launched. One he had shared with no one. The vessels up front, the ones in the lead of the enemy attack were the last ones he should target. Many of those ships would be destroyed by his own fleet’s guns. The forward formation would be gutted in the fight, but the rearward ships would survive, many probably undamaged. He had to move in reverse direction, take out those rearmost enemy vessels first. He would go deep into the formation and work his way back. He would hit as many enemy reserve ships as he could, first. It was the only way…and he knew it.
He thought about contacting Barron, about asking permission to change his orders. But he knew he was right, and as much as he had faith in Tyler Barron—and he definitely did, more than in anyone else he had ever known—he wasn’t sure there would be time to truly consider it, to make that kind of decision immediately. He knew his taking the matter to himself, making the decision, would actually take the stress off of Barron. And he had enough of that already.
He was sure he was right, and he hoped Barron would see it that way. But it probably didn’t matter one way or the other…he figured at least half of his fighters would be destroyed, and possibly more, and he was realistic on his own chances.
He leaned down over his screen, checking out the position of all the forces under his command. He knew they would suffer grievously, even more so under his new plan than they would have under the original. But just maybe, this way they could win. He knew that would be on faith, that the thousands of pilots who would certainly die in the next several hours would have to rely on their trust that the mission had been a success, that it would affect the enemy in a few months’ time.
That was a group he knew would very likely include him. He was planning on bringing his fighters in close, even closer than Barron knew. That would result in grievous losses, and even some ships misjudging the specific calculations and perhaps slamming into their target ships. But they were going to do everything possible to complete their mission. Everything he could think of.
He turned on his comm unit, and he activated it. He sat for a moment, trying to decide what to say. He knew what he wanted to do, but he wasn’t sure he had the same devotion from his people as he had once enjoyed. Worse, what if Tyler Barron came on the line, ordered the reverse of what he planned? He realized, maybe he should have told him, been straight with him. But all he could do now was issue the commands, as see what happened.
“Alright…all ships, prepare to go forward at maximum speed. We are going on the following course…” His hands moved over his controls, sending out the files he had prepared…the ones no one else had seen. “Plug it into your comms now.” He waited perhaps half a minute, and then he leaned forward and said, “Engage.”
He blasted his engines forward at full speed, off on a different course, one that went around the battlefield, avoiding the close in ships. He knew Barron would realize what he was doing, soon enough even if he hadn’t listened to his announcement. But he had faith in his commander, and he told himself he wouldn’t interfere, that he would trust…
He sure hoped he was right.
* * *
Barron stared at the screen. He had been listening to Stockton’s message, and he turned toward Trafalgar and said, “I need a direct line to Stockton…now!” But even as he spoke the words, he began to understand what his subordinate was doing. He had calculated that the ships up front would be badly damaged by the human fleet, and he understood that the key to success, real success, meant he had to get through to the rearward vessels…to hit as many of them as possible.
And he was right.
“Yes, Sir.” Trafalgar was moving his hands over his board to bring up the direct line. But Barron stopped him.
“Negate that command,” he said. He was a bit peeved, though he didn’t know whether it was because Stockton had changed the command or that he hadn’t told him he was going to do it. But he knew what he had to do. “Leave Stockton alone…he’s got enough to deal with.”
“Ah…yes, Sir.” Trafalgar was one of the best aides he’d ever had, but in this instant, he was a bit confused. Still, he took the command, and he stopped the communication.
Barron stared at the fighters as they all blasted their engines, heading off, apparently into deep space. They were flying well to the flank of the enemy force, far enough that the foe might not understand what was going on, at least not at first. Working their way to the rear, trying to attack the most backwards ships, was probably not a good plan, at least not under normal circumstances. Barron figured the enemy would just assume it was a wild ploy, a desperate effort to find a way to damage as many ships as possible. If they did, all the better…because Stockton was going to divide his ships up, and attack most of the enemy vessels. He didn’t have enough force, not to launch an assault that would do sufficient conventional damage to the entire enemy fleet, and his attack was likely to continue to confuse the enemy. Hopefully, they would assume it was a pointless effort, a desperate attempt to strike at more ships than they could take. If they couldn’t figure out what was going on…just maybe it could succeed. Perhaps if they just assumed that it was a desperate attempt to win the battle, spreading out the forces the humans had, hoping for a miracle, Stockton would at least get the chance to close, to launch his attack. If so, maybe there was an opportunity…a small one.
He leaned back and watched. He considered the chance, not for victory in the battle perhaps, but for the survival of his nation, independent and free. It was still a long shot, and even unlikelier that he would survive to see it…but it was worth every last bit of fight he could muster. And in the course of a moment, Stockton’s act of indiscretion turned from angering him to enthusing him. There was no one Barron would rather have in Stockton’s position now…no one. Whatever his officers thought, whatever he might imagine about the man and his status, he was sure of one thing. Totally certain.
Jake Stockton was back, totally…and he was as good as he had ever been.
* * *
Atara watched Stockton’s fighters on the display, moving well beyond where they were supposed to go. She expected Barron to contact him, correct his course, but it didn’t happen. She was confused at first, watching as they continued on a wide course around the nearest enemy ships, but then she realized what was happening. Stockton was going for the rear of the enemy formation, the vessels that would be the least damaged by the conventional forces. It was brave, daring, and risky…and it made her remember how Stockton had always been.
She had not been entirely sure about how she felt about the pilot now. She had been an enormous fan of his exploits before he had been captured, but she knew what the enemy had done—to him and with him—and as much as she knew none of it was his fault, she had a difficult time getting past it.
But now, watching him disobeying orders, taking on an even greater risk, and leading from the front, she finally allowed herself to believe he was back. Truly back. He wasn’t the usual type of officer she would normally tolerate. Despite her somewhat casual relationship with Tyler Barron, she was generally a no nonsense commander, very demanding of all those under her. But she had long ago learned to accept Stockton’s…original style. And it was the return of that, the clear and definitive methodology of his operation, that finally brought her one hundred percent back to his side.
She stared at the display for another thirty seconds, wishing Stockton the best, truly hoping that his desperate plan would work…and then she turned her attention back to her command, the ships she was directed to lead. She knew victory—or at least what would pass for it—rested far more in Stockton’s hands than in her own, but she had a role to play as well. The longer she could keep fighting, and the more enemy ships she could tie up, the better chance the pilots had. And she was going to fight to the finish.
Dauntless had been hit several times, but it was still in reasonable condition, as were most of her ships. That would change, she knew, as the battle continued, but for now, she was well aware of what she had to do…all she had to do.
“Order all ships to increase their fire control to 110%.” The words came from her mouth with an edge to them, a harshness she knew was, at least partially, the result of the fact that she was fairly certain they would lose the fight, even if Stockton managed to infect all of the enemy. And even more so, she could feel that the battle might be her last one, that whatever happened, she wouldn’t survive it. She knew that was foolish, maybe, that there was no way of knowing that…but through all of her desperate struggles, the many terrible fights she had participated in, this was the first one where she believed—truly believed—she would die.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Highborn Flagship S’Olestra
Imperial System A04-234
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Ellerax looked forward, watching as the enemy fleet opened fire. His own ships would be able to open up in just another couple of minutes, but as he watched, at least fifty of his vessels were already destroyed. The enemy fire was heavy, and it was deadly. It was more advanced than anything his own ships possessed, and he knew he would lose more craft in the battle than he would destroy…but he had more, too. A lot more.
He counted his losses, judged them in comparison to his expectations. They were running higher than he had thought they would, significantly so, but still within a level that would lead to victory. His forces hadn’t fired yet, and when they were in range, when they opened up on the enemy fleet, ten or fifteen of his vessels firing at every target, he knew things would quickly change. He had counted the numbers, and he had two centuries of warfare to use for comparison. His forces would suffer terrible losses, but they would win. He was almost sure of it.
He watched as his forces closed. He had already given the orders. His entire fleet would fire in a matter of seconds. The early slaughter they had faced would quickly transition to a two-sided affair. The battle was the largest he had ever seen, the biggest that had occurred in centuries, but he suspected that it wouldn’t actually last that long. His whole fleet was advancing, and the enemy was, too. All of the prior forces his massive fleet had faced in this campaign had skirmished, retreating as they fought. But not this time.
That was good. If the enemy continued to fall back, to avoid a major battle, it would only extend the fight, increase the time it took to finish things. And he wanted it done. He was surprised that he hadn’t found any inhabited planets yet, hadn’t even taken a live prisoner in almost two centuries of warfare. This enemy was strange, very different from the Imperium, and he suspected, also from the humans giving his other forces so much trouble. There was something different about this enemy. He almost wanted to assume that they thought on a level above him, that they were more intelligent, but he couldn’t accept that. The aliens were more advanced, likely because their race was older, far older…but he believed that they would fall. His people were ultimately superior, and they would advance quickly, and pass beyond the technology level they fought against now. Well beyond.
“All vessels, prepare to fire.” He blurted out the command, even though it wasn’t necessary. He had already given orders to fire, but sitting there, just watching—as at least eighty of his vessels were already destroyed—wore him down. He knew there was little for him to do in the battle, that his calls were for major moves, for the decisive moments. Until then, he realized it was the job of his ship captains to mostly conduct the battle. But still, he felt drawn in to participate.
“Yes, Sir…all ships are ready and have been given permission to open fire the instant they are within range.” His aide spoke calmly, clearly, disguising any surprise he may have felt at essentially receiving redundant orders.
Ellerax knew that of course, just as he had known that he was issuing an order he had already given. But he was edgy, despite his repeated analysis of the two forces at play. He knew his side would have the edge, but he was still concerned. The enemy had to come to the same conclusion, and everything they had done for two centuries suggested they would withdraw, pull back and buy more time. But instead, they were fighting…hard…and he couldn’t quite analyze why. Perhaps they knew something he didn’t. Could they have some weaponry he didn’t know about? Or did they have more ships, hidden somewhere, somehow…waiting to come out and turn the tide? He reminded himself that the enemy had the higher technology level, that they exceeded his forces by a considerable amount. He knew that, of course, but somehow, in the end, in the final calculation, he couldn’t quite come to terms with it.
He shook his head, attempting to clear it of such thoughts, trying to focus on his fleet’s great superiority in size…and the fact that they would win. He wasn’t entirely successful, not for a moment at least, but then his own forward ships moved into range, and almost in unison, at least five hundred vessels opened fire at once.
His eyes moved toward the display, watching as the multitude of beams lanced out. Most of them missed, of course, just as they did in almost every battle. But a significant number scored hits, and despite his enemy’s better marksmanship, they scored more hits in total than they took. At least thirty of the enemy ships were badly hit, and a moment later, he felt himself smile as the first of them erupted into a spasm of flames and vanished. His own force had lost almost a hundred of its ships by then, but he knew that differential would now decline. Both sides would lose ships…a lot of them.
But when it was all over, he was sure the survivors would be his own, that the enemy would be defeated, and hopefully eradicated.
* * *
Tesserax sat calmy, watching the scene unfolding all around. The enemy was being cooperative, closing tightly on his forces despite the clear superiority of the Highborn fleet. He wasn’t sure why the enemy was engaging so aggressively, advancing so strongly, but he told himself it was just the realization that they were done. They had been driven back, from the Hegemony, through the Badlands, and to the border of the Confederation itself. His forces were approaching, not only from the direction his own fleet had taken, but also from the Union. The only clusters of civilization left beyond the Confederations was the Alliance, and the few tiny realms in the distant areas beyond. Altogether, they had no chance of even slowing the Highborn assault once the Confederation was conquered.
No, there might have been another large fight, one deeper inside the Confederation, if the enemy had been cautious, had deployed their forces back farther, more able to run. But they hadn’t done that. They were coming on, attacking his fleet aggressively, even holding their own against his forwardmost vessels. But he had more ships to send forward, and the humans didn’t. As the battle went on, as the fight continued, his engaged forces would grow and grow, and the enemy would be badly defeated.
He turned and looked at the display, focusing on the transit point. His forces had finally finished coming through, all but four of them. He had held them back, the four ships of the same class as the humans’ Colossus, not wanting to scare them, to drive them away. But now, they were deep into the battle…and it was time.
“Bring the four super-battleships through…now.” He spoke the words, and he nodded as his tactical officer responded. He stared at the point, looking as one of the vessels stationed nearby launched a probe. It was directed right through, and less than a minute later, it vanished inside.
He continued to watch, waiting for the transit he knew would come within a few moments. He had commanded the four enormous ships to move right up to the point, to await his word to come through. And now he had sent it.
He was satisfied, certain that everything was under control. Save for one thing.
The enemy had detached half of its fighters, diverted them from the great battle that was still underway, and sent them far off to the side. It didn’t make a lot of sense to him. Perhaps they were trying to hit his ships positioned behind his foremost ones…but as many of them as there were, they weren’t strong enough to make a real difference. They might take out some of his vessels farther back, but that would come at the cost of ships they could have killed up front. While that would hurt him a bit more, cause damage to some uninfected vessels instead of those that were already doomed, he couldn’t see what real edge it gave the enemy.
But still, his mind worked on it. What could he be missing? Should he divert some of his own fighters from the battle now raging, send them to try and intercept the enemy fighters? He thought about it, and he almost did it, but in the end, he wasn’t sure if they could make it in time. Where they were, they were doing real damage to the outnumbered enemy. If he pulled half of them back, sent them after the other human force, they might well spend the next several hours just pursuing, not really catching them until after they had attacked the heavier vessels anyway.
No, he decided. His rearmost units would sustain themselves against the coming attack. He might lose a few more ships, but on the bright side, the enemy fighters would end up far from their battered landing platforms, with almost no chance of escape…not within the time any of their landing craft would have to retreat. If they tried to wait long enough for their fighters—the surviving ones—to return, they would all be destroyed…and Tesserax considered that a fair trade for absorbing an assault.
Still, it troubled him somewhat, and he wondered if he was missing something, if there was some kind of other plan the enemy had.
But just then, he saw the first of the great warships come through the transit point. Even though he had seen it before, seen all four of them many times, it almost took his breath away. He had seen what the enemy had done with their single version—they called it Colossus—including destroying the first of the massive ships his people had built. But now he had four more of them, and the enemy had only Colossus, whatever shape it was in. He suspected that they had struggled to repair it, to get it somewhat back into condition for battle, but he knew that it had been almost destroyed, and that it was at best, partially operational. His own four ships were brand new, and fully functional.
He knew his fleet was more than capable of winning, even without the four massive vessels, but he had ordered them through anyway…and as soon as they were deployed he would send them forward. It was time to end this battle, to truly end it, and that was exactly what he was going to do.
He stared at the space around the transit point, watching, waiting until the second vessel came through, less than a minute later. Then the third one, even as the first ship through recovered from the brief period of inactivity that followed transit and its engines began to fire.
Still, he didn’t move his head, not until the fourth vessel came through. He knew he had the battle won, even without the four great ships. But with them he was absolutely certain. He knew the enemy hadn’t known how much force he had, how immense his fleet was…at least not until now.
“Tell the four ships to advance at full speed…as soon as they are all fully operative.” He wasn’t sure what the enemy would do now, whether seeing the four massive battlewagons added to his force would break their will, or whether they would continue to fight on. But he would see soon.
He smiled for a moment, as he looked at the display, watched his engaged forces continue to grow as more ships advanced to shooting range. He could have waited for more of his vessels to come forward before he sent the huge ships, but he had decided it was time…time to hit the enemy fleet as hard as he could.
He smiled, feeling joy as he looked at the overall situation. Most of the ships he was losing were infected anyway, not that the enemy knew that. The more of them he could lose in the fight, see destroyed by the enemy and not by any orders he gave later, the better. But then his eyes moved back to the large cluster of tiny dots, the enemy fighters on their way around the battle. He had considered them from every angle, and he had decided there was no way they could be effective enough to make a difference. But still, there was an uneasiness there, a worry.
“Order the reserve forces to advance on the enemy fighters and engage.” He would send his vessels from the rear area forward and to the side, advancing on the enemy squadrons. The fight would be harsh he knew, and for a short time, the enemy craft would strike hard, especially with all of his own small craft busy in the other fight. But he knew the enemy ships were simply not strong enough to defeat his vessels. They would lose the fight, and a large number of them would be obliterated by his warships. He would lose some, and others would take damage, but he had decided that it didn’t matter how much he lost, how many of his people were killed…as long as he won.
And winning was the one thing he was going to do. Absolutely.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CWS Omicron
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron looked at the screen, startled by what he saw. The battle was bad enough, and he knew his forces had no real hope, none save for Stockton’s desperate assault. But now the enemy had brought four new ships across, and they looked a lot like Colossus.
Colossus was an unbelievable weapon, a ship of war vastly superior to anything else in his fleet, a relic from the far off imperial days. It was immensely powerful, or at least it was before it came within a hair of outright destruction fighting its copy. That version, the creation of the Highborn, represented a major leap forward in their own capabilities, more reason why time wasn’t on the human’s side. If they somehow survived the battle intact, won time to add more ships to their own side, the enemy would just do the same. Barron had known that sooner or later the Highborn would produce another ship of the class, but he hadn’t expected it so soon…much less four of them. He just sat for a moment and stared, dumbstruck at the forces the enemy had deployed against his dying fleet.
Colossus had prevailed—barely—against the first of the enemy craft, and it had destroyed the identical ship. But that effort had cost it almost everything it had, and it had barely gotten away itself. It was battered almost beyond conception, and despite a virtually constant effort ever since, it was far from fully effective. And now, the enemy had four more of the craft, all apparently new…and coming toward his forces. Colossus didn’t have the strength to fight one of its kind, not anymore. Against four, it would be quickly battered into submission and destroyed.
And yet, he knew he didn’t have any choice. His entire fleet was outnumbered, and every other ship he had was fully engaged. He had to send Colossus out, against all four of the enemy vessels…for as long as she could hold. That wouldn’t be that long, he realized, but he couldn’t come up with another plan. He just didn’t have any other ships to spare, and certainly not enough to put up a fight against those monsters. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then he forced them open.
“Get me Commodore Eaton…now.” Sonya Eaton commanded Colossus. She was the fleet’s greatest expert on the capabilities of the imperial vessel…and she would be the one to lead it to its destruction.
“Commodore Eaton, Sir…” Jack Trafalgar’s voice was calm, controlled…much better than Barron knew he could be. All his people on the bridge were acting very well, paying attention to their duty, but he knew they could all see the screens too, that they knew the enemy’s strength was just too great to overcome.
Whether he lost the battle, or found some miraculous method to achieve a victory, a lot of his people were going to die in the next few hours, and he was well aware that they all knew that, that they were all aware, especially his crew. They understood that he was the kind of commander who tended to fight right up alongside his lead forces, and it couldn’t be too difficult to figure that Omicron was in great danger, that win or lose the battle, they were all in desperate jeopardy.
“Commodore…this is Tyler Barron. I’m sure you’ve been watching your screens, and you saw the most recent group of enemy ships that came through.”
“Yes, Admiral…I see them. Four versions of Colossus, all new unless I’ve read them wrong.” Eaton’s tone of voice declared that she knew very well she wasn’t wrong.
“That’s correct, Commodore.” Barron hesitated. He understood just what the situation was, and the orders he was about to give. “Sonya…I need you to advance. I need you to take on those ships, to hold them off for…as long as you can.” His voice slowed. He knew he was ordering her to her death, the very likely end of everyone on her crew. “I’m sorry, Sonya…but we don’t have anything else to send. I’m not sure they’ll all stay together, but if they do, you’ve got to hold them…at least for a while.” He barely managed to say the words.
The line was silent, but only for a few seconds. Then the response came through. “I understand, Sir. Colossus is on the way forward. Don’t you worry, we will make certain all four of those ships engage us…and we will make it last. You have my word on that, Sir.”
Barron knew she meant exactly what she had said…and that she had no misconceptions about her chances of survival. He sat for a moment and fought the urge to cancel his command, to tell her to simply advance to the battleline. But he knew he couldn’t. Colossus was the only thing he had that might hold back the enemy—all four of them—even for a short time. But he knew what the ultimate outcome would be, just as Commodore Eaton did.
He wrestled around for something else to say, but there was nothing. He just nodded, and then he managed to say, “Very well, Commodore…move forward.”
* * *
Reg Griffin pulled her throttle back tightly, advancing at full speed. The enemy fighters were almost in range, and she had already taken to the comm line, ordered every one of her ships to prep their torpedoes to fire. She took every mission deadly seriously, but this time, she knew how outnumbered she was. Her people had to score as many hits as possible with their torpedoes before they closed and fought out the rest of the battle with lasers. She had made that clear to her people, been deadly honest about what they faced. She didn’t see any point in lying, especially not when it would be obvious she was doing it. Every one of her pilots was aware of the situation, and of the odds. Still, the worst part of it all was something that she hadn’t brought up with her people. Even if they managed to defeat the enemy fighters, come out on top despite being outnumbered three to one, they probably wouldn’t really affect the battle overall. Their side would still be terribly outnumbered and outgunned, and while she might keep the enemy fighters busy, that simply wouldn’t be enough.
But they had their assignment, and they knew what they had to do…and by God, she was determined to do everything she could to succeed.
Reg glanced down at the display, looking at the immense hordes of fighters coming at her craft. She took a deep breath, and she reached down and grabbed her comm. “Alright, everybody…aim carefully, very carefully…and open fire at will!”
As she uttered the words, her eyes were darting around her display, looking for a target. She could see that some of the enemy vessels had already launched, and she knew she had to find her targets and fire quickly. Then, her attention would turn instantly to the defensive, to avoiding the incoming enemy torpedoes, even while her own shots went in.
She zeroed in on one of the enemy ships, and she nudged her controls, moved her ship toward it. She could see the enemy fire now, immense clouds of ordnance that were already moving in on her force. She realized that she was out of time, that she had to fire and then try to escape from the incoming wave of torpedoes.
She stared at her screen, altered the direction of her flight slightly, and she launched the first torpedo. Her ship lurched a bit, but she compensated, and she was already searching for another target. She glanced at the incoming weapons that were approaching her at high speed, and she realized that every extra second she spent attacking rather than trying to escape lessened her chances. But she had to get a good shot, and the enemy fighters within range were maneuvering well, doing everything they could to avoid the incoming assault. She finally got a decent second shot, and she took it. It wasn’t as good as she wanted, but she knew she had waited as long as she could—longer perhaps—and that a number of enemy weapons had targeted her ship and were closing rapidly.
She jerked her hand wildly, blasting her engines at full speed away from the incoming torpedoes. They were closer than normal, and she figured she might have taken too long to fire her own. Her shots were off, the enemy trying to escape just as she was, but she had let the incoming torpedoes get very near to her, and even as she blasted away, she realized that ten different weapons had targeted her.
Ten was a lot, and they were closer than normal. But Reg Griffin was an outstanding pilot, and she was doing everything she could to avoid the incoming torpedoes. She jerked her hand back and forth, her eyes fixed on the screen, on the incoming weapons. They were approaching from multiple angles, and that made evading them all the more difficult…but she did everything she could.
She could feel some of the pressure from her acceleration, as she was pushing it beyond the power of her adaptors to fully compensate. But the incoming weapons were even faster, and despite her best efforts, they continued to close.
She knew her best chance of survival was to evade for long enough that the incoming weapons ran out of fuel, but she realized they had started closer to her, and that made buying enough time very difficult. She had managed to evade four of the weapons, broken their contact with her through her maneuvering, but the other six were moving along and getting closer.
She was sweaty, nervous. Her own best guess gave her less than a fifty-fifty chance of surviving. But she wouldn’t give up, not as long as she was still alive. She wondered what would happen in the rest of the fight if she was gone. She had perfectly adequate replacements, of course, but she realized that they weren’t as good as she was. No one was…except Jake Stockton. And he had, if possible, and even more difficult mission that she did.
Her second in command was Colonel Jason Darles…but as she checked her screen, looked for his ship, she realized it was gone. She knew what that meant, and if she survived the battle she would mourn him. But for now, her mind went immediately to the next in line. Colonel Susan Jordan was a good pilot she knew, and a strong leader as well. But she was older. She had been retired, and she only came back to the service in response to the desperate search for anyone who could fly a ship, actually for anyone who could do any job in the navy. She couldn’t be at her top notch quality, not anymore, but she would take command if Griffin went down.
Reg focused as hard as she could. She ignored everything else for the moment. She hadn’t even checked yet to see if her own shots had taken out their targets. She thought about the incoming missiles, deciding carefully on each maneuver she made. She was trying to maintain rationality, but she could feel the fear too, the panic sitting just beyond.
Her screen showed two of the missiles as the most dangerous, the closest. She focused on them as she evaded, counting on the fact that the others would run out of fuel before they reached her. She wasn’t sure of that, far from it in fact, but she realized the closer weapons were the greater danger.
She moved her hand, and then again almost immediately, desperately trying to outmaneuver the incoming torpedoes. She was flying as well as she ever had, perhaps even better, but she also knew that this was the deadliest situation she had ever been in.
She looked at the display, checked the position of each incoming torpedo. They were all closer, but the two she was focusing on had moved into the red zone. She had been concentrating on them more than the others, but now she focused entirely on the two torpedoes. She jerked her hand back and forth, did everything she could to evade them. She bought a little time, stayed away from them for a few more seconds, but she couldn’t evade them.
As she was looking, she realized that one of the other weapons, those a bit farther off, was no longer pursuing her. It was heading off on a straight line…out of fuel. That excited her, gave her back a bit of the hope she had been losing. But she still had five of the weapons closing.
Four of them. A few seconds later, another one continued off on a straight line. But both of those closest to her were still coming on.
She was sweating, and she realized her hands were almost numb. She tried to always seem impervious to such things, to act as though she had no fear, no doubt about how things would unfold. But in actuality, even if she survived the next few minutes, she couldn’t see a way her side could prevail. Even with Jake Stockton and half of her—their—fighters making their desperate attack. She had great faith in Stockton. She even figured he was the better of the two of them, at least when she was being honest with herself. But even Jake Stockton couldn’t do what he had set out to do. He had to hit almost every enemy vessel with his missiles and infect them all. And even if he did that, it wouldn’t affect the current fight. It was hard to look at her position, at her wildly outnumbered force, and decide that she had the better of the two assignments…but she did.
Better or not, she realized she might die in another minute or two. She was masterfully evading the incoming torpedoes, but they were still closing, coming in ever closer. The two closest were deep in the red zone now, and she figured maybe she had another minute, maybe a minute and a half if she executed her evasions masterfully. If the weapons ran out of fuel in that time, if they continued on a straight line course—both of them—she might survive, at least for long enough to engage the enemy with lasers. If they didn’t, if their fuel held out for long enough, she would die. She was almost certain of that.
She saw that the other two of the farthest torpedoes had both run out of fuel. That was good in the sense that it meant the last two weapons had to be close to exhausted as well. But she didn’t have long left, and she would be just as dead if one of them caught her with its last bits of fuel.
She thought about her life, about everyone she knew, her family and friends. That was a small group, she realized. Attaining the highest ranks in fighter combat was a difficult thing to do, perhaps the most challenging of all of the navy’s roles. She had done that, and while she had long known that she could lose her life on the job, she hadn’t imagined it would be so early in a combat. If she had to be killed, if her time had come, she prayed that it would be at the end of the battle, not barely in the middle.
She moved the throttle again, bringing it around almost exactly the opposite of what it had been an instant earlier. Even as she did it, she noticed that one of the missiles didn’t respond. It just blasted off in the direction it had been going in, coming within a thousand kilometers of her ship and then going on into space.
There was one weapon left now, and it was still on her tail. The distance was less than a thousand kilometers, and she realized that the closer it came, the less her evasions would matter. She knew she only had seconds left, but she also realized that the torpedo had to be virtually out of fuel. If she could manage to evade it for just a little bit longer…
But the torpedo continued to close. It was closer than five hundred kilometers now, and she realized that her evasions could buy at most a matter of seconds. She gasped, sucking in a breath she knew could be close to her last. She almost gave up, but her will prevailed and moved her hand again, maintaining her concentration despite all the thought, the memories that were coming up.
The torpedo was less than three hundred kilometers away. Her time was almost gone. Even with the best moves possible, she had at most thirty seconds. But she continued to do everything she could, even if it only bought her a few seconds more.
Less than one hundred fifty kilometers now. It would only be seconds. She breathed deeply and held it, and in her mind, she said goodbye, even as she continued to work her throttle, jerking her ship all around until the torpedo hit.
She stared again as the weapon sank down to one hundred kilometers, and then even less. She had evaded nine of the weapons, but the tenth looked like it was going to get her. She wished the best, to everyone on her side, but especially to Stockton on his almost impossible mission. She had hoped to see if he was successful, to survive for long enough. But it didn’t look like that was going to happen. She closed her eyes when the missile dipped below 50 kilometers and prepared to die.
She waited. She expected her end to come almost immediately, but perhaps twenty seconds later, she realized that she was still there. She opened her eyes and stared at the screen. The torpedo was heading off, just past her ship, its velocity and vector both fixed. It had run out of fuel, she realized. She wanted to feel relaxation, but she realized she had come less than ten seconds from death. She owed her life to the fact that despite her giving up, and closing her eyes, her hands continued to work the controls, to move the throttle even after she had lost hope.
She sat where she was for a few seconds, soaked in sweat, tired, her hands shaking. But she quickly shook it off, realized that she had survived…and that she and her people had only begun their great effort.
She looked at her screen, checked her position. She had deviated from the battlefield as she had tried to avoid the incoming missiles, but now she needed to go back. She had to gather up her survivors and lead them in on the next phase of the desperate mission, the laser battle with the surviving enemy fighters.
As fatigued as she was, as worn and battered, she understood that the battle had only just begun, that the hardest part still lay ahead of her. She moved her hand, feeling the portion of the blast that exceeded her dampeners’ capability, and she started to bring her ship back.
Back toward the enemy, and the next stage of the fight.
* * *
“Full power…all engines.” Sonya Eaton snapped out the command, seeming calm and committed. She was leading her ship to its probable demise, and she figured her entire crew knew it. It was obvious, painfully so, she realized. But there was nothing but calm responsiveness from them. She was sure inside they were all feeling what she was, thinking about family members and others they might never see again, but every one of them kept it hidden and focused on the job at hand.
She felt pride in them, about the warriors they were. She had thought about promising herself she would survive, that all of them would, but she knew she couldn’t do that. So, she just thought she would give one hell of a fight to the enemy. That much, at least, she was sure of.
She felt Colossus’s engines roar to life. The immense vessel had vast power, at least when it was in top notch condition, but now, its engines operated at around fifty percent. That was still a lot, enough to get it forward, to push it into the fight, but how long it would maintain even the level she had now amid the incredible amount of incoming fire she expected was a question best left unanswered.
Eaton stared at the screen, looking through the thin line of cruisers that were closest to her ship. If the enemy decided to stand with those vessels, she would obliterate them quickly. Even damaged, Colossus was vastly more powerful than such ships. It was the vessels beyond, the four great circles that were behind the cruisers, even now moving forward, that were the dire threat.
At least the enemy seemed to be concentrating all four of the ships on Colossus. That was bad in the sense that it took any chance she had of winning the fight and tossed it aside, but Eaton knew that, realistically, even against one ship, fully operational, she didn’t stand much of a chance. Colossus had destroyed a single ship of its type, and that was perhaps the proudest moment of Eaton’s life. But her own vessel had been badly battered as well, almost destroyed. She had directed the repair crews for many months, done everything possible to get the ship into the best shape possible. She had done an extraordinary job at that, accomplished more than anyone had expected. Even she had to admit that the work done had been beyond what she had anticipated…when she wasn’t sidetracked by the realization of everything that was still battered.
She looked up at the screen, and she saw that the cruisers were moving now, away from Colossus…and that the four huge enemy craft were coming up, taking position to engage her. The battle that was about to start would be immense, she promised herself that. Even though she had no real hope of winning, she was determined to make it last as long as possible. She knew that the most the fleet could do was keep the enemy occupied, increase the chance that Stockton and his fighters had. And she was a realist. However bad their chances were, the only real way they could achieve anything approaching victory was if Stockton somehow managed to spread the disease through most of the enemy fleet. That seemed unlikely—which was better than impossible, she supposed—but it was their only real chance. The Confederation’s only chance. And she would do her part.
“Arm all weapons…prepare to open fire with our heavy guns.” She had the longest ranged weapons in the Confederation fleet, actually, they were the longest ranged in either force, save for the four ships she was facing…and she was going to use it. She had developed her own routine for evading the incoming shots, for trying to keep her ship in the line for as long as possible. Whether it would prove more effective than the standard one, she didn’t really know…but she was hopeful the difference would at least confuse the enemy a bit. Every moment she could buy, every shot she could make before her weapons were knocked out, and finally before she was destroyed, was worthwhile. Stockton needed the time, and the more occupied the enemy fleet was while his ships were on their desperate mission, the better.
She nodded at the acknowledgement to her command, and a moment later at the report that all operational weapons were armed and ready. She checked the screen, looked at the range to the enemy. The cruisers had all fled, moved to the part of the line where the regular vessels were fighting…and the four massive vessels, each one a match for Colossus when it was fully operational, moved up.
Sonya Eaton went silent for a moment, and she closed her eyes. She wasn’t sure whether she believed in anything religious or not, but she figured there was no harm in saying a silent prayer.
Then, she opened her eyes and stared at the screen, watching the range drop…and she said only one word.
“Fire.”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
CWS Omicron
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron stared at his screen. He had been watching the whole battle, but now his eyes were fixed on the rightmost portion of his line, where he had one massive ship on his side, facing four behemoths on the other. He knew how uneven the fight was, even more so because the single vessel on his side was at well under one hundred percent of its capacity, and the four vessels fighting it appeared to be brand new. He thought for a moment about what other forces he could deploy there, what reserves he could commit, but he realized there was nothing. His entire fleet was already in the battle, and even where he had initially had the edge, the enemy had moved up more forces. There was no place he could draw any ships from without just causing a different location on the line to fall.
He was counting on Colossus putting up a major fight, and he was grateful that the enemy was deploying all four of their huge ships over there. That would hasten Colossus’s destruction, of course, but at least it gave him more time to hold the line. It was foolish on the enemy’s part, he realized, probably the result of Colossus’s earlier victory against the first vessel of the type the enemy had launched. That was illogical, of course, not the best way the enemy could use their forces. He knew they had enough, more than enough, to defeat him anyway, but that still didn’t justify the irrational use of the vessels they had. It just went to show that however advanced the enemy was, they weren’t beyond that kind of reaction.
He thought about Sonya Eaton. He had always liked her, considered her one of the finest officers he had. He knew his entire force was in terrible danger, that even in the best scenario, he was likely to lose a large number of them—even himself—but he couldn’t imagine anyone had a worse chance to escape than Eaton and Colossus’s crew. But there was nothing he could do except wish her and her people the best.
He turned his head, checked on his other forces. The Hegemony ships were fighting very well, perhaps the best of all of his commands right now…but they were all doing outstanding jobs. Whether they had convinced themselves they had a real chance, or had just thrown in, decided the make the fight one the enemy wouldn’t soon forget, he didn’t know. It was probably a bit of both.
His forces had done very well at first, held their own against the first enemy vessels to advance, but now things were getting steadily worse as more and more enemy ships moved forward. He already had everything engaged, and the enemy still had vast forces advancing…even without the four giant vessels. He knew things were going to get steadily worse for his side, and he wondered what he should do. Should he consider issuing orders to pull back, to try and remove a decent sized force that could fight again? That wouldn’t accomplish much, he realized, but it would probably add a bit more time before the enemy’s final victory. But no, he couldn’t do that. His chance, his side’s only real option, rested with Jake Stockton, and he was taking a long route, staying away from the other fighters and targeting the enemy vessels from their rear sections.
He hadn’t discussed that strategy with Stockton. He trusted the man, understood that he was the foremost expert on fighter tactics, but he had still been surprised by the path he had taken. Then he realized…Stockton knew many of the enemy vessels upfront would be destroyed in the battle, and that he had to hit the ones in the rear, beginning his assault with the ships most protected, least likely to endure significant damage in the fight.
That was a bold move…but Barron quickly realized it was right. It was also the most dangerous. If, by chance, Stockton’s assault was successful, if he managed to score hits on most of the ships, even if he infected most of the enemy, that wouldn’t change the fact that his fighters would be farther away from the fleet…at a time when there wouldn’t be much room for the survivors to escape. Barron knew the chance that Stockton’s command, or much of it at least, would have to be abandoned, was enormous. He also realized he would be the one to make that decision when the time came.
He dreaded that, and perhaps most of all, abandoning his good friend—and that’s what Stockton was, he knew—along with thousands of his pilots. But he was almost certain that there wasn’t much chance of waiting for them to return. By the time most of Stockton’s survivors made it back to the fleet, there would be almost nothing left of it. He knew if he was going to extract any kind of force, he had to go as soon as possible. He would wait until Stockton’s forces had engaged the enemy, that much he had to do, but then, he knew he had to go. It was the only way, and he was still far from sure most of his surviving ships could escape, even if they went as soon as they could…and abandoned all of their fighters.
His head was pounding, what he wanted to do and what he knew he had to do at war inside of him. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking about Stockton, about all of his people…and about Andi and Cassiopeia. His life—his adult life, at least—had been one of constant warfare. He had lost countless friends over those years, and he was sure he would lose more today, perhaps even that he would die. But despite all of the negative feelings he had, on one level he somehow believed that he would find a way to prevail. It didn’t really make sense, and it countered his more prevalent thoughts that all was lost, in both the battle and the war as a whole. But the hope was still there, on some level…and he suspected a large part of what kept him going was coming from it.
He turned and looked at the screen again. Stockton’s forces were almost ready to begin the attack. Barron wondered whether they could do it, hit most of the enemy forces. He didn’t even know for sure that the bombs they carried would work, that they could infect the targeted vessels. A lot had to go his way, he realized, for the plan to work…but he clung to the hope that it would.
And that it would before his entire fleet was obliterated.
* * *
Stockton moved his hand, changing the direction of his movement, bringing it around to right toward the enemy fleet. His forces were dividing up, going in different directions. He had spent the entire time he’d been in the cockpit analyzing the enemy forces, dividing up his squadrons time and time again, as more ships transited through. He had decided the first third of the enemy fleet would not be attacked at all. As many fighters as he had, it wasn’t all that many when he divided by the number of targets, and he knew he had to hit them all, or at least most of them. The upfront portion of the enemy ships he left for Barron, and the others in the fleet.
The arrival of the four massive vessels upset his deployment even further. The Colossus clones were immensely powerful, he knew, and they all had to be hit by the virus. He wasn’t sure that would take the vessels out forever. Even if it killed the entire Highborn crew, the humans aboard would remain unaffected. He knew—perhaps better than anyone else on his side—that the Highborn’s setup required their presence, that humans who remained behind, with the Collar attached, would remain loyal, but would be unable to truly operate without direct supervision. Whether the enemy could completely clean out a ship, dispose of every trace of the infection and then recrew it with fresh Highborn, was still a mystery. But Stockton knew that, at the very least, that would take time, considerable time, and it would give his people a chance to build back some of their strength.
It would also place a fear in the enemy, one that had not been there before. They would enter every new battle with a concern about being assaulted in the same way. He knew his attack was the key to the battle, that the rest of the fleet was simply diverting the enemy’s attention until he had launched the operation.
And now it was time.
His forces all had their instructions, some of them revised moments earlier. He had diverted a large number of his craft to the four great vessels, unsure of how many would be able to penetrate the massive ships’ defenses and actually get the chance to fire on them. He knew he had to infect those vessels most of all, to do everything possible to hit them…but he also had to take on the rest of the enemy ships, too. He had done the best he could, made decisions he knew might determine whether the Confederation continued or fell. Now, that time had passed. His forces were committed, and he would likely know in the next hour or two if his attack had been successful.
Even if it was, though, he wouldn’t know for certain if his attacks had managed to infect everyone aboard the vessels. That would not be clear for several months, not to his side at least…and he knew his own survival prospects probably didn’t extend beyond the next few hours. He hoped he would at least live long enough to determine that the attack had been successful, that his forces had managed to hit most of the enemy craft…but he knew anything beyond that was unlikely. One thing he had determined, for himself at least, was that if he couldn’t escape, he would die. Anything except being captured again.
He watched his fighters deploy and move toward their targets. The enemy fighters were all occupied far away, kept busy by Reg Griffin’s ships. That was something he was thankful for, at least, and her performance, the fact that she had attacked the enemy so aggressively, had made possible his wide ranging course to his targets. But he knew the enemy ships had arrays of guns too, and all of them were directed at his fighters, at protecting the vessels from just the type of assault he was launching.
They opened up just a moment later, and he saw his fighters beginning to take hits, being destroyed. In the first moments of the engagement, he had lost almost a hundred…and the rest of them still had more ground to close before they could fire. For years, he had led his ships in to tighter and tighter distances, but now it was essential that his vessels got in even closer, fired from point blank range.
The torpedoes he carried now were different than the normal ones, and he knew the closer they were launched from, the better the chance that they would function, that they would actually penetrate the hulls and spread the virus. The weapons had never been used beyond a few quick tests, but he was sure their effectiveness would be greatest if they were fired from less than a thousand kilometers, even under five hundred. And that meant approaching the targets at slower speed than normal in an assault…which further increased the vulnerability of his ships to defensive fire.
He knew all of that, and he figured his pilots, at least the experienced ones, were also fully aware of it. But he hadn’t allowed his concerns to affect his decisions. He was prepared to die, if necessary, along with every pilot under his command, but he knew he couldn’t fail. He had to lead in his forces, and they had to succeed. They simply had to. They were the only real chance his side had.
He stared at his screen, checking out the ships he had deployed all around…and the three hundred that were lined up behind him, waiting in reserve for his command to go in as well, to attack any enemy ships that had escaped from the main assault. It wasn’t a large force he had kept back with him, not in the context of the size of the battle, but he had selected them all by hand and taken many of his very best pilots for his reserve.
Then he looked up at the rest of his force, the ships that were even now moving forward, toward the enemy. His losses were up to almost two hundred now as his vessels continued to close. He knew they would go higher, much higher, but every one of them still hurt. He had led countless assaults, lost an almost unimaginable number of pilots over the years, but every one of them still cut at him. He knew his reputation was cold, that most of his pilots were unaware of how much he felt all of the losses. That had been intentional…his people needed to focus on what they were doing, and not on the casualties that cost. But deep within, Stockton felt every loss, every pilot who died under his command.
He sat and watched his force moving in against the enemy fleet. His ships were scattered over a wide area, attacking all of the enemy ships except those currently up in the front lines. As many fighters as he had, he realized that divided up against so many enemy vessels, the individual attack forces were actually fairly small, especially when they had to close to point blank range.
He watched as some of his vessels began to close with their targets. Ideally, he would have scheduled the attacks to be synchronized, to all come off at the same time, but that proved to be too difficult. The fleet they were attacking was just too massive, too spread out. He was concerned that the enemy would realize what he was doing, that halfway through his assault they would respond. But what could they do that they weren’t already doing? Their fighters were committed elsewhere, and they were already firing all of their weapons. There was really nothing else they could do, not in the time they had.
Whatever happened, he knew his ships would at least get their chance. Whether enough of them would score hits—and whether those hits would actually be successful and spread the disease—were different questions. And the second one was something he suspected most of his pilots would never know. That was perhaps the hardest part. Stockton could accept death, he could even sacrifice all of his people…as long as his attack was successful. But dying before he knew the ultimate outcome, amid endless questions about whether it would work or not, whether it would damage the enemy fleet enough to truly make a difference, was terrible. It shook Stockton, pushed him almost to his limit.
Almost. But Jake Stockton knew there was no choice, that he was doing everything he could, that all of his pilots were. And that was all he could give. He told himself that, and he accepted it, mostly, but the doubt still survived, the desire to live, to find a way to return from battle, to see Stara again, and Tyler. But he knew that the best chance he could give those few he truly cared about to survive would probably cost him his own life, and if it came down to a choice, he knew what that would be.
* * *
Chronos stared ahead, watching his people as they did their duty. He could remember when his forces had been more powerful, when they had been the greatest power in the coalition. He could actually recall when the Confederation had been his enemy, when he had led the fleet against them. He tried not to think about that. He knew his thoughts had changed much in recent years, and he had come to appreciate the help offered by his old enemies. More than that, he had begun to accept some of them as true friends. Memories of Tyler Barron and his companions being on the other side, fighting against him, were just too painful to think about. He realized that his opinions back then had been different…that they had been wrong. When he was younger, he had assumed the Hegemony was always right, that its destiny was to rule over all mankind. Now, all of its worlds had fallen to the enemy, and the only thing it had left was the remnants of its fleet, under him, and a Council that he suspected still didn’t quite accept that they didn’t have much say in anything.
Chronos, at least, knew the situation, and he was aware that all he could do was to fight to the finish, to keep his forces in the line with Tyler Barron’s and the rest of them. He knew the Council spent a lot of time arguing about going back and freeing their worlds from the enemy, but he knew that was nonsense. The only way the Hegemony planets would be freed was if the allied force somehow defeated the enemy…and he realized that was almost impossible.
No, he told himself, not impossible. If Jake Stockton would lead the fighters in and somehow infect the enemy vessels with the virus—and assuming it was still deadly to them, something his side still didn’t know—perhaps they had a chance. The virus was slow to take hold, but even if the fleet was badly mauled in the current fight, he knew the Confederation had extensive planetary fortifications on all of their main planets. It would take some time for the enemy to completely conquer them…and that was time they might not have. Not if Stockton managed to somehow infect them all, and the virus was still effective.
He knew Stockton was an incredible pilot, or at least he was before he was captured, but he realized the scope of the project that had been laid on him. It seemed impossible to him. Stockton’s ships had to get close to most of the enemy vessels, and they had to score hits. Not just hits, but significant direct shots that penetrated their hulls and spread the virus inside. Then, perhaps, assuming his forces somehow managed to target most of the enemy vessels, and the virus was actually effective against them…perhaps they would actually stop them, for a while at least.
He knew the enemy had come from beyond the frontier, that the forces fighting his people had been only part of what they had. Perhaps they would just send more ships, this time with sufficient wariness against fighters. Even in the best case scenario for his people, he realized their chance of attaining outright victory—long term victory—was very small.
But for now, he would take things one step at a time. He had to do his part to help the fleet hold out for long enough, at least, for Stockton to have his chance. He knew that it was very possible, likely even, that he wouldn’t survive the fight. As much as he wanted to endure, to get on with his life, he knew that was unlikely, whether he endured the immediate battle or not. He had accepted that, and he had spent his final night with Akella before she had gone to Megara with Andi, to retrieve her children. He knew that meant she would be away from the Council, but he suspected their remaining power was largely in their minds, that they didn’t actually have any real authority anymore. Besides, she would be safer there, on the route to and from Megara…and that pleased Chronos.
He loved her, despite the fact that it was a violation of Hegemony law, and he wanted her to endure, even if it was only for a bit longer. He was sure that she wouldn’t allow herself to be captured, to live under enemy rule, but he knew his own chance of surviving even the day was slim. At least he could buy her a little more time.
He turned his head and stared straight ahead, toward the big screen and the enemy fleet. His ships were firing at maximum power, blasting the enemy vessels in front of them, even as they were doing the same thing to his forces. The battle had started with his side at the advantage, as the enemy forces came through immediately after transiting. But that had quickly passed, and it had become a roughly even fight for a while. But now, the enemy was bringing up more forces every minute, and things were starting to become difficult. Another hour, even half an hour, and the fight would tilt decidedly in the enemy’s favor, and from there they would just get worse and worse. He wondered if he would get the order to withdraw, to pull back the survivors, but he realized that was impossible, at least until Stockton’s assault was done. He understood that the best hope—the only real hope—for his side depended on the pilots out there, on them pulling off a miracle.
He looked around the bridge, checked the status. His flagship was still solid. It had only been hit once so far, though many of his vessels were much more badly damaged. But he knew the real fight was just getting going, that every moment that passed things would become better for the enemy, and worse for his side.
He knew they needed to hold for at least another hour, more likely two. That would give Stockton the time to launch and complete his attack, the chance to actually hurt the enemy. Whether or not he believed it was likely or not, he knew he had to do everything possible to give it a chance.
Everything.
He also knew that in two more hours, his forces would be badly savaged, and the escape route for any survivors would be long and dangerous. Whatever vessels endured, it was possible that few would make it out, survive to serve another day. But this fight offered the best chance his side would have, and however tiny it was, he was going to do everything he possibly could to make sure it happened.
* * *
Colossus was firing every weapon that was in range, and even a few that still weren’t quite. Sonya Eaton was doing everything she could to damage the enemy vessels as much as she could before they destroyed her. And that’s what was going to happen, she knew. Her odds of victory against a single vessel of her type would have been bad enough with her ship being damaged and the opponent being new…but at least she would have some kind of chance. But 4-1? She was well aware of what the end of her fight would entail. But what happened first, what damage she inflicted before Colossus was destroyed, was heavily dependent on her actions now. She had developed her own formula for evasive maneuver, and she had it engaged. Now, she had to decide where she would fire. Should she spread her shots around, blast each ship…or should she concentrate on one of them…maybe even destroy it?
Before they destroyed her.
That was a considerable goal, she realized. She was being targeted by four vessels, and even if her shooting was almost perfect, she understood that it was far from likely she could destroy a ship as large as her enemy before her own vessel, already damaged, gave in. But she was going to try.
“Concentrate all fire on target number three…” It was the closest of the enemy vessels, the one she had chosen to attack.
She listened as her aide repeated her orders, and she watched as all of Colossus’s fire began to focus on the single target. Her own vessel was even worse, of course, the sole target for all four of the enemy vessels. But so far, her adept maneuvering had mostly protected her from the longer ranged shots. That would change, she knew, but she would take every moment she could get.
She looked on as her guns fired, and she saw several weapons score hits on the enemy ship. Her own vessel, though the target of more than four times as many weapons, hadn’t been that badly hit yet. It was still early in the fight, though. The enemy targeting wasn’t as good as hers, and her revised evasion plan seemed to truly confuse the firing vessels. But she knew that wouldn’t last long. Every moment it did was a gift of sorts, a chance to stay in the fight for a bit longer. And she gratefully accepted whatever she could get.
Perhaps she could even destroy the enemy vessel she had chosen as her target…before Colossus was finally put out of action and obliterated. That was somewhat of a longshot, she realized, but she was definitely going for it.
Just then she saw a major hit on the enemy craft, an almost perfect shot. It was the sixth major hit she had achieved, and by far the most severe. The Colossus-sized craft were enormous, and she knew it would take a large number of hits, even ones as dead on as that one, to destroy it. But every hit was a step in the right direction.
She scored another hit a moment later…and then, Colossus itself shook hard, as it finally took a massive hit itself, directly amidships. She had still dished out more than she had taken so far, but now it was a bit closer…and Sonya realized that she had far less to give than the enemy, that even a two or three to one ratio of hits would end in Colossus’s hasty destruction.
No, she said to herself…not yet. Not until we have taken out at least one of the enemy vessels.
She knew that was a huge ask, that it was unlikely. But she was willing to pay for it with her life, and the lives of everyone aboard Colossus. Even though those were likely lost anyway, regardless of her opinion, she didn’t think destroying one of the enemy vessels was too much to ask.
It wasn’t too much at all.
Chapter Thirty
Highborn Flagship S’Olestra
Imperial System A04-234
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Ellerax stared at the display, watching the battle unfold. It was a bloodbath, a total slaughter, but the deeper it went, the more certain he was that his side would win. He had lost over five hundred vessels so far, the most in any fight he knew of, certainly in his long lifetime. But he was also almost sure that he was facing the bulk of the enemy’s forces here, that after he won this battle, his battered surviving elements would race forward against limited opposition and fight their way to the populated worlds he knew had to be located back farther.
He would destroy those…utterly. He had considered for many years what he would do when he finally won the war. He had started with the idea of beating down the enemy, and then adding them to his empire. But now, after two centuries of endless warfare, he had come to a different conclusion. They had to be destroyed, and by that he meant all of them. That would take a long time, he realized, hunting down every single one of the enemy, but time he would have. When the two wars his people fought were over, they would be wholly dominant, the masters of everything they knew of…and hunting down a few survivors would be a small task by comparison to winning the confrontations.
He turned and looked at the display, watching his fleet in battle. The ships were shooting wildly, as quickly as possible, and the screen was almost overwhelmed trying to display the massive amount of fire. The enemy vessels were shooting as well, but there were far fewer of them, and they had a smaller number of guns. That didn’t mean they were weaker, though, far from it. Their weapons were much more powerful, and they caused massive damage with each hit. Still, his sheer numbers were holding up. If the battle continued as it had, he would win. His losses would be enormous, he knew, probably over a thousand of his ships by the time the enemy was defeated, but the victory would complete.
Just then, he noticed several of the enemy ships beginning to move backwards. He fixated his vision, and he watched, for a moment curious if he was seeing just a small redeployment, or if the enemy was trying to retreat. He held his breath, waiting to see what the other ships did. Then he saw more of them doing the same thing, blasting their engines, pulling back.
He felt excitement, exuberance. He had told himself he would win, but now he realized that he hadn’t entirely believed it, not until right now.
“Fleet command…all ships, match enemy thrust, maintain firing range.” He wasn’t going to allow any of the enemy force escape, not anything he could stop. He knew that keeping the range short, continuing the fight, was deadly, that many of his ships would be destroyed as well…but the enemy’s decision to retreat only reinforced his opinion that the victory was there to be grabbed.
He barely listened to the response. He was focused on the fight, on the humongous battle taking place across a swath of space over a million kilometers in length. He knew the battle was for nothing less than total dominance—other than the humans, his people and the enemy were the only living creatures he knew of—and he was determined that his people would win. That he would be the sole ruler of everything.
He watched, and with every passing second, he felt more confidence. The enemy was retreating, and even as he stared, he saw three more of their ships explode. His forces were pressing on, maintaining their maximum rate of fire.
They were winning.
He tried to maintain himself, but he lost a little bit of control, and a smile forced its way onto his face. He could feel the win, taste it. It was right out there, and with it, his destiny would be secured. He would rule over space for all time.
* * *
“Achilles…the fleet is experiencing considerable difficulty. We must move quickly, and engage them with our hidden ships, or the enemy will truly gain the upper hand. We have to engage our reserve…now.” Freya had spoken her mind her entire life. Save for her initial role in the turmoil of almost 40,000 years before, Achilles always considered her to be one of his most reliable people. The two had agreed on almost everything since their initial dispute, and, especially since Callisto’s tragic death, Achilles had come to rely on her above everyone else. But now, he differed with her, at least slightly.
“Yes, Freya, soon…perhaps in twenty minutes or so. The fleet has begun to withdraw, and the enemy is advancing. I want to wait until they have moved beyond us…and hit them from the rear. If we engage right now, they will still be in front of us.” He was sure his fleet’s technology would keep it hidden from the enemy until it attacked, and he was determined to choose the exact right moment.
Freya didn’t answer right away. Finally, she said, “That is calling it very tightly, Achilles. We will lose more ships in that time, perhaps many more. I realize our hidden vessels are the most powerful ones we have, but still, if the enemy does enough damage to the rest of the fleet before we strike, we could lose the battle.”
“Yes, that is true…” Achilles looked back at her. “But coming in behind them, bracketing them between two forces, will give us a greater advantage.” Achilles was old, very old, as all of his people were. He was usually right in his opinions, almost always, in fact, but he had been wrong about the Highborn. For two centuries, he had directed a war run entirely by his machines, designed to hold the Highborn back, to allow them to get past their early immaturity and develop even as his people had. Indeed, he had initially seen the Highborn as a potential replacement of his own people as mankind’s watchers. His people had done that job for a long time, but their one shortfall was an inability to reproduce. They didn’t age either, but over the thousands of years, they had gradually lost most of their people to accidents and the like. There were fewer than a thousand of them left, and their ability to continue to serve in their position was nearing its end.
But the Highborn hadn’t developed as he had expected. They had become worse, not better, and their drive to rule over everything was proving to be overwhelming. Achilles had finally given up on them, decided that they had to be defeated…no, they had to be destroyed. Utterly. Before it was too late.
If it wasn’t already too late. The Highborn had built a huge fleet, and they had become very powerful, more than he had expected. He realized that he had allowed them to develop too far, too fast, that they were close—at least close—to a similar level to his own people. The Mules were more developed, their science better, but the Highborn had made much of that up with sheer numbers. Achilles hadn’t considered them a real enemy, not for a long while, but now he realized that was exactly what they were.
“I understand, Achilles…I agree with you, mostly, but we must advance before our losses reach…” She paused a moment, considering. “…forty percent. If we allow it to go much beyond that, we risk losing the battle, even with our hidden forces engaged.”
Achilles nodded. “I agree with you entirely. I will order the fleet now engaged to accelerate its movement away from the enemy. That will cause them to move more quickly in pursuit. Also, it will likely give them a feeling that victory is almost there…then we will engage them with the hidden vessels. And the final fight will be on.” Achilles was still fairly certain that his side could win, that they would. But he realized that he had waited almost too long, that in fifty or one hundred years—or even twenty—the enemy would have developed more power than his people could face. He realized that he should have reached this conclusion fifty years earlier, but he had clung to the hope that the Highborn would develop into something he knew now they never would be. That was one of his very rare mistakes, and it had…hopefully almost…cost himself, and all of humanity, everything.
Freya moved closer to Achilles, and she placed her hand on his arm. “I agree with you. You are correct that we must hit the enemy from the rear, as long as we can do it before our losses escalate.” She paused, and then she added, “Achilles…I know that you blame yourself, that you take all of the responsibility for allowing the Highborn to reach such a level…but all of us shared the same opinion. The Highborn are…different. I don’t begin to understand what has caused them to branch off on the development route they have taken, but I cannot argue that they haven’t. Waiting for them to move in our direction, to recognize that they have a duty, and obligation, to watch over the normal humans…it seemed like the correct course. But it was not. I hesitate to use this term, especially when speaking of an entire race, but the Highborn are evil…and they must be destroyed. If we do not do that, and do it right now, all of humanity will end up being their slaves…perhaps forever.”
Achilles stared at the screen for a moment, and then he turned to face Freya. He nodded. “You are correct, of course. We have almost failed in our goal to watch over the humans…indeed, we can still lose this battle if we are not careful. I have thought about this many times, considered every step of the fight…and I am as certain as I can be that this is the correct course.” He stared at her for a few seconds, and then he looked again at the screen. And he hoped he was correct.
* * *
Tesserax sat in his seat, maintaining his somber demeanor. He was excited, inside at least, sure his side would win the battle, but he was also worried about what would be next. The enemy was doing well, better even than he had anticipated, but he had enough power, enough ships to overwhelm the humans. His true concerns dealt with how Ellerax would respond when he heard about the virus, about the weapon that had been developed by the humans. He had never considered the humans to be truly capable of winning the war in the long run, but he had to admit that they had done far better than he had expected…and if they had more time, the virus was a true weapon, one he was actually afraid of. He knew Ellerax couldn’t blame him for the human’s development of the virus, or at least that he shouldn’t, but he realized his commander had been close to replacing him anyway. Now, of course, things were worse. He had kept the matter a secret, deliberately failed to report it. He knew Ellerax would replace him at once when he found out, except possibly if he had defeated the humans, or come close to it.
It was vital that he destroy the enemy. If he gave them long enough now, he would have more than simply Ellerax’s reaction to fear. The humans would find a way to deliver the virus to more of his people. He was certain of that. Their previous assaults had swept across many of the Hegemony worlds he had occupied, and they had inflicted the plague on thousands of his people. He needed to destroy them, to crush their ability to resist…and he had to do it now.
He stared at the displays, monitoring the entire battle. His ships were fighting, and with the arrival of more and more of them, the fight was turning to his side. His losses would be considerable, but they would mostly be infected ships, vessels that were as good as gone anyway. In fact, the enemy was doing him a favor, eliminating the section of his fleet that might become difficult as the disease progressed. Some of his people realized they were infected already, but he had kept the news from others. The more of them killed in the battle, the fewer he would have to deal with afterwards.
His eyes moved across the display. Even his fighters were holding up against the enemy, more or less, at least…but then there were only half of the small human ships battling against his entire force. The other half had gone on a long route, around the entire fleet, and they were just coming on now, ready to attack. That had concerned him, especially since he had expected them to concentrate on a section of his fleet, one they could hurt badly. That would be especially troublesome because the enemy fighters had swung around most of his infected vessels and moved on the reserve portions of his fleet. The sections that were untouched by the virus.
But as he watched them coming in, he could see them dividing up. They were coming for every ship he had, save those already deeply involved in the battle. That would be terrifying, a huge chunk of his fleet targeted—especially since it would be the ships were his people were not infected. Except for the fact that there weren’t enough fighters to seriously threaten so many ships.
He had checked a half dozen times, and he was sure of that. The fighters might score a couple hits on each of his ships, of course, but that wasn’t enough, not nearly so…especially since they were attacking the vessels that hadn’t even engaged with the enemy fleet yet. He figured the humans had just calculated wrong, that they had assumed their ships could somehow achieve more than they could.
But that didn’t really make sense. The humans were weaker than he was, and they didn’t really have a chance…but they were intelligently run. He had to admit that. And what they were doing didn’t really make any sense. Scoring a hit or two, even on every one of his ships, wouldn’t really change the outcome of the battle at all. And the enemy would know that as well as he did.
So, what was going on? Was it just a desperation move, something that they had been forced into? That seemed like what it had to be…but the enemy had never done anything pointless before. Even when they were pressed hard, made totally desperate, everything they did made sense.
But this didn’t…not really.
He thought about recalling some of his fighters, pulling them back to face the enemy, but there wasn’t time. The enemy would reach his ships well before he could get them there.
He checked the scanners, reviewing the data as it came in. The fighters were fairly close now, and he was getting more and more information. They appeared to be normal ships, equipped as they always were…but that didn’t make any sense either. Their torpedoes were best for use against other fighters. They weren’t really designed for attacking ships, except in large numbers.
Unless…
He stared closely at the image of one of the nearest enemy vessels. It looked the same, at first. But as it came closer, the quality of the image improved. Enemy fighters carried two separate torpedoes, normally…but these ships had only one, and it was considerably larger than normal. He checked the ships, and he could see they were a bit less maneuverable than usually, too.
The ships had alternate weapons. Could they be larger bombs, nuclear armed weapons designed to truly hurt his ships? That was possible, he realized. Still, the ships would take enormous damage attacking most of his vessels. Even if they had stronger warheads…wouldn’t they concentrate their attack, target a smaller number of ships? One or two hits per vessel still wasn’t enough, even if they were stronger weapons.
He stared for a while, studied the images as they continued to get better. His ships opened fire on them as they entered range. They didn’t hit a lot of them, not at first, but there were some explosions. He knew the closer they got, the more they would lose. Even if their weapons were high powered nukes, he couldn’t imagine that they would do enough damage to his fleet to justify the assault.
But he couldn’t think of anything else. He knew the enemy had to be desperate. Perhaps their judgment was beginning to fail. He couldn’t think of anything else…not for a few minutes.
Then, suddenly, he imagined something terrible. It was unlikely perhaps, but the more he thought about it, the more real it became. He directed his scanners to target several of the closest enemy vessels, to relay him all the information they could obtain. That was still somewhat limited, but gradually, he managed to get a clear picture. The torpedoes the enemy carried…they didn’t look like nukes. There appeared to be a very sharp and hard-nosed, and they held beyond that, what looked like a large…tank. It almost looked like it carried something, perhaps some kind of fluid that was flammable. That would make sense as a ground weapon, but not really in space.
He knew enough about the enemy not to discount what they were doing. He had done that several times already, and he wasn’t about to repeat it again. So, what could those ships be carrying, something important enough to risk half of their fighters, to put them in a position where perhaps none of them could even return?
Then, suddenly, it struck him. In an instant, he thought he knew what those fighters were carrying, what they had come for…and he was struck by fear. Those torpedoes carried the virus. This attack was a desperate attempt to prevail, perhaps not in the battle, but in the months that followed, to destroy his entire fleet, not by taking out his ships, but by killing his crews…all of them. And despite the desperation of it, the audacity involved in its organization and in carrying it out, he realized there was a chance that it could work, that it could take out most of his fleet, not now, perhaps, but in several months.
“All ships…” His first thought was to order evasive maneuvers, to direct his fleet’s ships to run for it. But with the velocity of the fighters, he realized he couldn’t escape the assault. It was too late. Besides, he had to win the battle. He couldn’t keep the news from Ellerax much longer, and he needed the glory he would achieve from defeating the humans to have a chance at survival. “…are to fire all weapons at the enemy fighters. I mean every gun they have…at 110% power.”
He turned and stared at the screen. His people were startled by his command, but they carried it out. He just watched as his force increased their rate of fire, as they shot with everything, even larger guns that were used mostly against major enemy vessels. They hadn’t figured it out yet, he figured, but was sure he had. And he realized the battle had just become even more important.
Chapter Thirty-One
CWS Omicron
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron looked across his bridge, tried to keep an eye on everything. But that wasn’t possible, not really. Not in a fight as large as the one happening all around him. He knew the battle in his vicinity, around Omicron, was the most relevant to him, but he had his ship positioned back just a bit, still in the fight, but not a huge target…yet. That wasn’t cowardice or anything of the like, but he knew that if his ship was taken out, if he died early, it would have a major impact on the already brittle status of his fleet. He didn’t like it, not one bit, but he had begun to realize how his people looked at him. He had become something set above even his peers at the top, and despite the fact that dominance was the last thing he wanted, he realized how much the fleet had come to rely on him.
He would advance his ship, stand with the rearguard and try to hold the line once he had given the order for the rest of his force to flee. If he could hold, for just a short time, maybe a portion of his force could escape, but for now, he sat just back from the front. That didn’t mean Omicron was immune from hits, though. He wasn’t that far back, and his ship had been struck a number of times, just fewer than it would have if it were forward, on the front line. And he knew that more was coming. Still, right now, his attention wasn’t on the situation around Omicron, or anywhere near the main fleet. It was on his fighters, specifically, the half of the force under Jake Stockton.
He knew that those craft were his best chance, his only chance, really, of this fight becoming anything approaching a victory. He didn’t really believe it could work, that even Stockton could achieve the nearly impossible task of hitting almost every vessel out there. There was no one he would rather have there, no one he could depend on more…but this was beyond even Stockton, he thought.
Still, he found himself watching. Stockton’s fighters were nearing the enemy, and Barron found his attention almost completely diverted, even from the ships around Omicron. He knew this was the moment, his only chance of anything approaching success. Once Stockton’s assault was done, he would give the orders for the fleet to flee. He would abandon Dannith and pull what he could back…if anything could escape. He hoped some kind of force might manage to retreat, to get away, especially if Stockton’s assault was a success. Just maybe it would be enough to delay the enemy, to hold them back until the disease took them out. But he didn’t really expect to be part of it. He wasn’t sure he would die, but he didn’t really plan on escaping either. Still, he had over 3,000 people on Omicron, and he realized they deserved at least a chance.
He watched Stockton’s ships. The vessels were scattering, moving against the vast array of the enemy. There weren’t enough of them, he knew, not to attack so many ships, not when they would have to get close…really close. But he also knew there was no other option, and he realized that if anyone could do it, could see it done, it was Stockton.
He watched as the enemy vessels fired at the incoming ships…and he saw his people beginning to die. The hits weren’t numerous at first, at least in terms of the size of the entire force, but still, over a hundred of the fighters were hit in just the first few minutes. That would get worse soon, even more so because the fighters were less maneuverable, carrying the large weapons they had, and also because they had to move to close firing range before they could launch them.
Very close range, he realized. He had been Stockton’s commander for twenty years, and he was sure he would take his ships in even closer than Barron had ordered. Stockton knew more about fighter combat than anyone else, and he would do his very best. Barron had tremendous confidence in the man, and it was fully restored, but he just couldn’t bring himself to accept that the mission, as crazy and insane as it was, could actually succeed.
He looked at the screen, watched as the ships blasted in toward their targets. They were going down at a greater rate now, the vessels being picked off as they moved closer and closer toward the enemy. But they continued on, pressing ahead. Not one of the pilots engaged backed off, gave in to the doubts that had to be pressing on him. They all pushed forward, many of them dying as their ships were hit…but most of them pushing onwards, toward the moment when they would launch.
* * *
Stockton sat, calmly watching the entire formation. In most circumstances, he would have collected a larger force as a reserve, at least a thousand vessels for an operation this size. But he knew his forces, as large as they were, remained far too small for the job. He held back some ships so he would have a second chance at any ships that weren’t hit but he realized that holding back more vessels would only increase that number.
He was quiet, deeply immersed in the operation, focusing on his ships, even as they all flew apart, targeting more than four hundred enemy ships. On the way, he had wrestled with the idea that the fleet would probably leave as soon as his ships had completed their attack. That made sense, of course, and he understood it—it was probably the only hope there was to pull out at least some of the ships—but still, it would leave most of his fighters behind. He knew that was a decision that would be difficult for Barron to make, but also that there would be no real choice. If they tried to hold out long enough for Stockton’s survivors all to return, they would lose many more crew members than whatever fighters managed to get back. No, it was worse than that. If the ships waited that long, they would likely be trapped, completely at the mercy of the enemy. And even if his people made it back, if any of them did, they would simply die after they had landed, along with everyone else on their ships.
None of that really mattered, not then. His only thoughts, or at least the only ones he allowed to dictate his actions were focused on the enemy ships right now, and on the fighters even then streaming toward them. He was watching, checking which ships they managed to hit, and which ones escaped. He hoped there weren’t too many of those. His reserves, three hundred fighters lined up behind him, were there to hit those ships again…and if there were too many of them, he wouldn’t have enough vessels to send against them all. But he put out of his mind, for just a few minutes. His ships were racing in against the enemy, and some of them were getting close to the point where they would launch. There were also a lot more of his ships that had been hit, probably close to five hundred now. Perhaps a hundred of those hadn’t been destroyed, but rather just knocked out…and he realized they were the least fortunate of all of his people. They had literally no chance of escape, and no choice but to remain where they were, and await death…or capture, which he realized was worse than death.
He realized that the rest of his fighters, even the ones that went in, scored hits and then pulled out were basically in the same situation. But now, he didn’t let that bother him, didn’t allow the thoughts to do more than appear in his head and then vanish again. He was determined to do everything he could do to spread the virus, to hurt the enemy. And that was all he allowed himself to think of.
Stockton had fought several enemies, but he hated the Highborn more than anyone. They were a foe, the worst one his people had faced…but for him, they were even worse. They had captured him, surgically altered him, placed him involuntarily in combat against his own people. He had escaped eventually, which was itself almost a miracle, he realized…but first, he had led the enemy’s fighters, and killed many of his people. That was something he knew he would never forget, something he would never forgive himself for…but he was determined to repay the enemy.
He watched as the closest ships came under attack from his fighters. There were far fewer of them than he wanted, especially minus those he had already lost, but he hoped for the best. He had a core confidence in his people, in the fighter corps in general, even though the ongoing loss rate had made certain that most of them—eighty percent—didn’t trace their histories back far enough to have served under him before he was captured.
He looked at the screen as his ships moved forward. About twenty of the enemy vessels were now within range. That was only the start, but he knew it would give him his first sign of the success or failure of the mission. He stared, jerking his eyes back and forth, from one ship to the next. His screen was focused on the vessels under assault, the first ships to face the assault. There were only six to twelve of his fighters attacking each of the ships, a vastly smaller force than was ideal…but it was what he had, and they only needed to score one or two hits.
He hoped.
He stared on, watched as at least a dozen of the fighters engaged were destroyed, but the rest of them continued. He knew the majority of them weren’t his pilots from years before—many of them, most even, were dead—but he recognized that Reg had trained all of them well, following in his footsteps. He had a bizarre relationship with her, one of respect, but also a rivalry. He was pleased with how she had trained and led his people, and he believed she deserved her role…except that he wanted it back. He knew there wasn’t a good answer, not really, and he felt sorry for Barron, who was the one who would make the decision…assuming through some miracle they both survived.
He was glad that Barron had escaped having to choose one over the other, at least for this battle. There had been two totally individual groups, each of which needed a separate commander. He realized that just delayed the choice, but he was certain Barron would be grateful, at least for the delay.
His eyes were fixed, staring at the fighters attacking. Several of them launched their weapons—from too far out, he guessed as he watched the missiles blast inward. Of the first ten shots, two hit…but they didn’t penetrate. They just struck the outside and exploded, their charges tiny, too small to cause any damage unless they hit directly. He understood why the pilots had fired when they had, but he knew the only real chance of victory was to launch from much closer in. He grabbed his commlink.
“All ships,” he said, “you’ve come this far, endured this much…but to succeed, you have to fire from close in. Really close. You’ll have to slow down, too, enough that you can get to 500 kilometers and still pull out in time. I know this is difficult, that it is deadly dangerous…but you are the only prospect, the last hope of humanity. Please, make your shots count. I cannot, will not, say that many of you will not die in the attempt, but think of the Confederation, of all of your relatives and friends. If we do not succeed, they will all fall. We are the last line, the final force with any chance at all of victory. Remember that, and go forward.” That was perhaps the first time he had said ‘please’ in orders, and he meant it. He was commanding his people to make themselves even more vulnerable to enemy fire, to throw everything they had into the fight…and probably to die.
Because he knew without every bit of strength his people could put in, he had no chance at all.
He watched as the fighters continued, and he could see that they were taking his orders seriously. Initially, they had been firing too early, but now, they held their shots, moved closer and closer to their targets. Then he saw as more ships reached their attack range, as they raced on below one thousand kilometers, practically touching the enemy vessels in terms of space combat.
Still, they pressed on, down to seven hundred kilometers, and even closer. They were decelerating, which made them even more vulnerable to the enemy’s fire, and many of them were hit. Several of those crashed into the vessels they were approaching, but most of them were simply obliterated. But still, the survivors came in, down to five hundred kilometers, and even below.
Then, they began to fire. He watched, and the tension was almost unbearable. He had told himself the weapons would work, convinced himself that the mission was at least doable. But, in actuality, he really wasn’t sure. His torpedoes had been made to penetrate the enemy hulls, but there hadn’t been any time to truly try them out or to use them on a test mission.
This was the test.
He looked, trying his best to check out the entire battle, but staring mostly on the closest vessels. He did everything he could to focus in, to see which torpedoes had hit…and if they had actually penetrated. It was difficult to tell. He could see that his people were firing from closer in, that they were scoring more hits…and better hits. But it was very difficult to determine if they had truly penetrated the enemy hulls, if they had actually injected the virus.
Then, he managed to get a close in view of one of the torpedoes that had hit. It was wedged into the ship. It certainly looked as though it had worked, as though it had spread the virus…but he still wasn’t sure. He realized there was no way to be certain, either that the torpedoes would work, or even that the virus was effective. But it certainly looked as though it had penetrated, at least that one had.
He looked around at other enemy ships, at the twenty or so vessels that were closest, the first to be assaulted. At least half of them had already been hit. While he couldn’t be sure the torpedoes had delivered their payloads, as he stared at one vessel after another, he decided that was the one thing he would have to assume. There was no way to know about it, to be sure. But the hits looked solid, like they had penetrated the hulls…and he realized that was all he would have to go on.
Still, he realized, not enough of the ships were getting hit. More than half was a good rate…but it was not good enough. He needed to get most of the vessels, and he didn’t have sufficient reserves to take on so many ships that escaped their first assault.
He grabbed his comm, and said, “That’s good, people…but it’s not good enough. We have to hit the enemy vessels, all of them. All ships that haven’t assaulted yet, you have to do even better…you have to hit them all!” His usual controlled voice when giving commands was stressed. “You have to…whatever the cost!” He stopped, and for a moment, he stayed on the comm, not sure if he had anything else to say. But then he just turned it off. There was nothing else he could utter, nothing he could do…except wait until the rest of his fighters assaulted their targets and see how many ships remained untouched. And then send in his reserve, in whatever sized groups the number of untouched vessels demanded…even if it was just two or three per ship.
Whatever it was, however difficult, he was determined to succeed.
Chapter Thirty-Two
CWS Omicron
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron moved his eyes back and forth, trying to watch as much of the battle as possible. His forces had done well at first, but now the enemy was bringing more ships forward, and the odds were definitely shifting. He was pleased with the spirit his people had displayed, with the determination they had shown. He couldn’t believe any of them were convinced that his forces could actually prevail, that they were doing anything except fighting to buy a bit of time.
He needed that time, though. He did have a hope, at least a small one. But unless Stockton’s attack succeeded, he knew his side had almost no chance, not in the battle currently underway nor in the rest of the war. He knew had to do everything he could to support Stockton.
He had seen more and more of his ships destroyed or badly damaged, and he knew it would just get worse. But he had to keep them fighting for a bit longer, at least until Stockton’s forces had completed their attack. Then, perhaps, he would begin to issue the orders to retreat, to pull back, and he would see if any of his forces could make it out to fight another day. He knew every moment he waited to do that made it more unlikely that many of his ships would escape, but he didn’t have a choice. He had to hold a bit longer…and Stockton and his people were even more exposed than his vessels and their escape was more unlikely.
He watched as a group of his ships, mostly cruisers and smaller vessels, suddenly moved forward, cutting between the enemy forces, as another contingent of his ships fired on the foe from the line. It wasn’t one of his orders, and it took him by surprise. He knew the smaller ships that moved ahead were likely to be badly hit, even destroyed in the next several minutes, as they became almost surrounded. But until then, it placed several of the major enemy vessels in a difficult position, taking fire from multiple sides.
It was Atara’s command, he realized almost immediately. Of course, he thought, she ordered it. His old number 2, and probably his closest friend—no, not probably…definitely—was quite possibly the best among all the senior officers he had. She had spent most of her early career as his number two, first as second in command on Dauntless, and later as his aide, but since he had finally placed her in command of her own force of ships, she had truly excelled. She and Clint Winters were his two main subordinates, and they each led a huge portion of his Confederation vessels. Winters was a brilliant commander as well, and an almost unstoppable admiral, but he realized that he thought Atara was even better. She was savage when it came to fighting, and she was ready to sacrifice whatever she had to…herself included. He knew that many of his people were ready to fight to the end, to die if he needed them too, but Atara had already been in that position more than once. She had survived only by the slimmest of margins, and he had seen her face her own death multiple times. Never once had the threat deterred her or forced her from doing exactly what she needed to do.
He tried to watch the rest of the line, the Hegemony and Alliance sectors as well as his own, but he kept moving his eyes back to the screen displaying Stockton’s assault. He stared at the display, and he watched as the fighters moved in against the enemy fleet. He knew even if the fighters succeeded, if they managed to hit most of the enemy vessels, an apparent victory still wouldn’t be certain. His people had designed the torpedoes hastily, and they were sure—fairly sure—that they would function. But there hadn’t been time for much testing, and he realized that they were different from most of the weapons his side had used before. There was a significant chance that even something that appeared to be a success might not be.
But it was the only real chance his side had, and he found himself hoping intently for success.
* * *
Chronos stared out at the screen. His force—all of the Hegemony ships that were left—had fought well, brilliantly, in fact…but the numbers were beginning to shift badly, and he knew that things would only get worse. But he had to hold, to find some way to make his people hang on, at least until the fighters had completed their attack. That was the true hope, he realized, the virus and not the damage his ships could do. He wondered what Barron would have done without the infection, without at least the hope—prayer?—that it offered. Would he have fought at all, or would he have simply retreated, abandoned Dannith and withdrawn to another place to defend?
No, he realized, there was no real point to retiring, not without causing the enemy fleet some serious damage. The Confederation was large, of course, more than one hundred occupied systems…but it was only half the size of the Hegemony, and that had been completely occupied by the foe. Simply retreating, pulling back to another world without causing significant damage to the enemy would only buy a matter of weeks. And even the considerable fixed defenses of the Confederation worlds wouldn’t hold out long, not without a significant deployment of the fleet. He realized, and he was certain that Barron did as well, that Stockton’s assault was the only real hope their entire allied force had.
He wasn’t a huge believer in the effort. Real success required Stockton to somehow hit almost every enemy ship and for the bombs to truly work, to spread the virus through the enemy vessels. It wasn’t that he questioned Jake Stockton’s abilities, or those of his pilots. In fact, he had been secretly glad that Barron had allowed Stockton to return to his duties. He knew that had to be difficult for Barron, that however much he had believed in Stockton’s recovery, he had to have some serious recollection of the days when his pilot had served the enemy and fought against him. Barron knew the details, of course, the fact that Stockton had been under the control of the enemy, but still, it had to be tough for him to give the greatest responsibility in the battle to him.
Chronos had a different viewpoint, of course. Before the Confederation and the Hegemony had been forced together to fight the Highborn, they had been enemies. That seemed foolish to Chronos now, strange that he had led his forces just a few years earlier against those he now considered close allies. He had never been wildly excited about the war against the Confederation, but he had taken his orders, and he had led large fleets against them. He had almost defeated them, too, he realized, come close to conquering the Confederation. That seemed almost unreal to him now, but it was only ten years earlier. The time since had passed slowly, and in many ways, he felt like Tyler Barron and his people had been his allies forever.
He was impressed with many of the Confederation’s leaders, but most of all with Barron. He had come to realize that the Confederation commander was special, a true leader, in every sense of the word. It was even more so, because he felt that the other senior officers all agreed with his assessment…and Barron didn’t see it at all. He knew he was a good commander, of course, but he didn’t realize the true extent of his influence, on the Hegemony and Alliance personnel as well as the Confederation. Chronos knew they might end up losing the war, that they probably would, but he understood that whatever chance they had was because of Tyler Barron. He couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if his people actually managed to defeat the Highborn. His old government, still technically his leadership, seemed strange, almost as though something vastly different had to replace it. His military had become almost one with its allies, and he too felt that way. Was it possible just to return to their old leadership, to move forward independently? A major part of him didn’t think so.
He turned his head suddenly, as his ship shook hard. It had been hit a number of times, and it was badly damaged, so much so that he was tempted to leave, to take his flag to another vessel. But he hadn’t. His fleet was there to fight, all of it, and whatever happened, he was prepared for it. He longed to survive, of course, to see Akella again, to spend time with his children. But he realized the severity of the situation, and the likelihood that he would die…and he was willing. He was there to struggle for the last chance his people had, and whatever that took, he was prepared to give. Even if it was his life.
“Order all ships to close even tighter. I want everyone firing from point blank range.” He spat out the order, and he nodded as his aide replied and then sent out the command. His ships were already in close, and the enemy forces were growing every moment as more ships advanced. But he knew he had to hold out, at least a bit longer. He had to give Stockton the time to complete his attack.
And he was determined to do his part in that, even if it cost him his life…if it cost every Hegemony spacer that was left his or her life.
* * *
Reg jerked her hand hard on the stick, bringing her ship around abruptly. Since the exchange of torpedoes, and the casualties that had caused to both sides, she had been in a nonstop dogfight. She had come out just about even in the exchange of torpedo fire, at least relative to the size of her force. That meant that her side had scored just about three hits for every one they had taken. That was good, she realized, but she wondered if it was good enough. Normally, she would now try and lead her fighters against the larger enemy ships, to cause some damage to them, and possibly to destroy some. But she was still outnumbered three to one by enemy fighters, and taking them on was as much as she could handle. Possibly a bit more.
She gripped her controls tightly, moving her ship around, looking for another target. She had taken out four enemy craft so far, two with her torpedoes and two with her lasers, but there were still many more of the enemy than her force possessed. Her side had taken out more than they had lost in the combat with lasers so far, too, but as far as she could see, they hadn’t quite met the three to one level there that they had with the torpedoes. That meant that their position was actually weakening, that the odds were becoming worse.
She angled her fighter, her eyes fixed on one of the enemy craft up ahead. She was tired, her mind switching between her own flying and watching her many pilots in the battle. There wasn’t much she could do to help her people, and she couldn’t retreat yet, no matter how badly her fighters were doing. Still, she couldn’t help but watch her people, even if that was all she could do.
She jerked her attention away, though, back to her own ship. She had a new target, one that was fairly close. She realized it had seen her, and that it was trying already to get away. But she was on it. She blasted her engines to full power, and her hand moved back and forth on the throttle, doing everything she could to counter the evasive maneuvers of her target.
She knew, on one level or another, that the pilot wasn’t really her enemy, that he was a human just like her, but with a Collar implanted. She understood that the device controlled him, that it made it impossible to resist, even if he wanted to. She knew that even better than most. Jake Stockton had also had one implanted, and despite being perhaps the least likely person to do it, he had served the enemy, fought against his own people…until his Collar malfunctioned, and he regained control over his actions.
Reg knew that Stockton still faced some doubts, some questions from many, but she realized that his recovery—so far, the only one—was nothing less than a miracle. She knew he was the old Stockton, actually even more so. However dedicated he was before, she couldn’t imagine the hostility he felt toward his imprisoners. Still, she couldn’t give up her position, not even to him. He was the only other candidate, the sole choice other than her to lead the fighter corps…but she couldn’t give it up, not even if she thought that he was better than her.
Her mind shifted back to the battle as she approached her target. The ship had tried to escape from her, but she was one of the best pilots in space. Once she had picked a target and closed beyond a certain point, it was almost a done deal. The enemy vessel jerked around, more and more desperation becoming evident, but she clung to it, gradually lowering the distance until she entered prime firing range.
She stared ahead now, her thoughts moved entirely from what she had been thinking about moments before. Now, there was nothing in her mind, save her target. She was close enough to begin firing, but she held, working her way in farther. She could see the enemy becoming ever more frantic in his efforts to escape, but she continued to work her way in, ever closer. She thought about opening fire, but she decided she would hold until she reached point bank range.
She jerked her hand all around, following the increasingly frantic maneuvers of her target. Her enemy was a good pilot, she realized, and he would probably have escaped from most of her own crew. But she was the very best—or second best, possibly—pilot in space right now, and the likelihood of any enemy escaping from her when she had worked her way in this close was tiny. Her eyes darted down to her display, checking the range. She was in close now, but she still waited. She continued to move her hand, almost unconsciously replicating the moves of her target.
She closed her hand slowly, getting ready to open fire. But then, just before she did, the enemy did something totally unexpected. Instead of continuing to evade, to try to escape, he turned his ship around and opened fire himself.
That caught her by surprise, and his first couple of shots came close to her. But she responded almost immediately, and she opened fire as well. The two fighters were now at point blank range, and moving toward each other, firing. She focused on her targeting, realizing that there was a possibility that she could die at any second. She had underestimated her enemy, and now she was in a real fight. She understood that she was still likely to prevail, that she doubted the enemy had any pilots as good as she was…but she also knew luck was a definite factor.
Three more shots whizzed by her, one of them coming so close, she thought she could see it. She fired again herself, her blasts coming even closer to her enemy…but he managed to evade them all, one of them by less than one hundred meters.
The ships were still moving toward each other, and the range was very close now. If they continued, they would actually pass each other, and begin moving away. She checked her display, saw that the two ships would reach that point in less than thirty seconds. She focused on her opponent, losing contact for a moment with everything else. She tried to think of how he would conduct his next evasive maneuver. She fired, almost continuously now, just as her opponent did. All of the shots were close now, as any would be when fired from so close. But despite her skills and ability, her adversary managed to evade…and his own shots were also coming close. In spite of her discipline, she began to realize that she could lose the fight…that she might die at any moment. That was always reality in combat, she realized, but now it was there, right in front of her.
She felt the tension, the stress growing, and she fired again and again. Her shots came close, very close, to the enemy, but he managed to evade them all, returning fire that was almost as good as hers. She told herself that she was the better pilot, that the enemy was just lucky…but she realized it didn’t matter. It only took one shot to destroy a fighter, and they were right on top of each other, less than fifteen seconds from crossing each other’s path.
She took a deep breath, did everything she could to clear her mind, to focus only on the fight she was in, the battle she had entered with great confidence, but now had become truly competitive. She knew any second could be her last, that her enemy was doing just as she was, trying to figure her next evasive move.
She knew the enemy was close, very close. She fired again, and this shot came the closest of any, less than thirty meters from the foe. But she still couldn’t connect. The enemy was shooting, too, and also coming close, though his fire wasn’t quite as tight as hers. Still, she knew it would just take one shot.
She continued to fire as the two ships came almost into contact and passed each other. She blasted her engines, spun her ship around and fired as her ship moved away. And she finally scored a hit!
It wasn’t a total blow, though. She had barely connected, and the ship survived. But it was damaged. She saw that its engines were hit, that it didn’t have the same amount of power that it had before. She felt excitement, the joy of victory, but she knew she hadn’t won, not yet. The vessel was impaired, but it wasn’t non-functional…and its lasers were still firing.
She shot again, several times, each of them coming within two hundred meters, but the enemy managed to evade her targeting. Its own shots were farther off, its targeting damaged by the hit, but still, it managed to evade her…barely.
Then, she tried again, focused hard, guessing on the direction the enemy would move in…and she finally scored a direct hit. The enemy vessel exploded, and she felt immediate relief. She had won the battle, but it had been far closer than she had expected. Far closer. She was soaked in sweat, and she knew just how close she had come to her own end.
After a moment, she turned and looked down at her screen, checking the overall status of her command. They were doing fairly well, she could see…but not quite good enough. Her force had to kill three of the enemy for every ship they lost just to stay even, but in actual fact, they were taking out about 2.75 to 1. That was almost sufficient, at least to maintain the same ratio of forces, but it wasn’t quite enough.
She knew she had to keep the enemy fighters occupied for at least a bit longer, and she figured the ratio might be just sufficient, that her people could hold out for long enough, despite the fact that things were actually getting worse.
But she just wasn’t sure. She realized that the enemy was getting stronger in relation to her forces, and that at some point, that would accelerate. There was a point at which the enemy numbers would overwhelm her people…but she was willing to bet her pilots could hold on a bit longer. Perhaps they could even increase their destruction totals, push them beyond the three to one level, and take control of the battle. That was unlikely, perhaps. She knew her people understood what they were up against, that they were all trying their best. But just maybe, she could push them a bit harder, force them over the edge.
“Attention, all fighters,” she said. “We are doing well…but not quite well enough. I need you to push harder, to take out more enemy ships. There is no time to return to our landing ships, to refuel and rearm. We’ve got what we’ve got, fuel and power…and we have to get even more from it. I have the utmost confidence in all of you. Please, do your best, your absolute best…until the end.”
She cut the line, and then she searched around for her next target. She checked her fuel gauge. She knew she was starting to run low, that her fighters all had to be…but they couldn’t break off, not as long as the enemy ships remained. They also had to be getting low on fuel, but as long as they stayed, she would stay too. That she promised herself.
She eyed another enemy fighter that was close, and she moved her hand, bringing her ship on a course directly towards him. She checked the range and her speed, and then she moved her fingers toward the firing controls…preparing once again for battle.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax was trying to remain calm, or at least to appear that way, but his realization—actually more of an assumption, as he didn’t have any proof yet that it was correct—had shaken him up. He had expected to win a tremendous victory, and he knew that was still in the cards, that his ships were doing well enough…but if those fighters attacking his ships were actually doing what he feared they were, spreading the virus, they were doing a fairly good job.
About half of his ships had been attacked by the fighters so far, at least half of those not right up on the battleline yet…and 80% of them had been hit. That was a lot, he knew, and the very small conventional damage the torpedoes inflicted seemed to only increase the odds that he was right, that their purpose was delivering the virus. He didn’t have any real verification of that yet, but he was almost sure—and he was uncertain what to do.
He considered pulling back, breaking off and regrouping before he came forward again, but he realized that time only aided the enemy. They had a weapon in the virus that was deadly to his people, and he understood that time was definitely not on his side. If he gave the enemy longer to work with the virus, they might come up with other ways to spread it around. No, he had to win the fight, and he had to do it now. His many concerns about a wider spread of the virus, of more of his military assets becoming infected were bad, but if he yielded now, pulled back, he was sure that the enemy would gain the advantage…and he knew he had to report to Ellerax right after the battle, that even adjusting what he said, making it seem a bit better, wouldn’t save him, certainly not unless he had defeated the enemy badly.
“Order the forces to accelerate…increase to 110% power.” He spat out the command, realizing that he had to do everything possible to destroy as much of the enemy…and as quickly as possible. “That’s every ship. Every vessel is to advance…except us.” He knew that decision wouldn’t be popular, that in a sense, it was nothing but clear cut cowardice. But he didn’t care. He would take some risk against the enemy, against their vessels, but not the virus. He had many people working on that while his forces advanced to the Confederation, and he knew they had made no significant progress, not yet. The truth was, the virus scared him, and he wasn’t going to take any chance on getting it himself, none that he could avoid. “Our ship is to pull back…toward the transit point.”
He realized that was cowardly, that his vessel was already fairly far back from the line, but the enemy fighters were back here as well, and eleven of them were moving in toward his ship. He cursed himself for launching all of his flagship’s fighters with the main force, and he knew he was too far back to recall any of them in time. He figured he might get his vessel back to the transit point before any other enemy fighters could reach him, but not the eleven that were almost there. Them, he would have to face.
His ship was large, the biggest class he had save the four Colossus copies. He figured he should be able to take out eleven fighters…but it nagged at him that even one of them getting to firing range could threaten his entire crew.
Threaten him.
“Prepare to face the incoming fighters. I want all of them targeted, well before they enter their own firing range.” He almost spat out why he was so anxious, his real fear of the enemy ships, but in the end he remained silent about it. The truth was, there was nothing he could do about it, not now. Nothing except continue the battle, destroy as many enemy ships as possible…and somehow make sure that he survived.
He knew his plans might have to change, that if an even larger number of his uninfected ships became infected he would have even more problems…but just then he was most concerned about himself. He wasn’t cowardly, he would face the danger of combat when it was necessary, but something about the disease shook him to his core.
He turned and looked at the display, watching as the fighters moved into his own vessel’s firing range. He turned and said, “Fire…all guns.” An instant later, all the weapons fired, targeting the approaching fighters. They scored two hits almost immediately, destroying one fighter outright, and apparently severely damaging another. But the other nine continued forward, evading all the fire.
He watched as they got closer. He knew they had to get very close to launch their torpedoes, and he realized that his weapons’ accuracy would increase. But a long while passed after the first two ships were hit until a third was destroyed.
He stared at the display as the remaining eight fighters got closer. He knew he didn’t necessarily have to destroy them all, that just firing their torpedoes didn’t guarantee a viable hit. But each shot one of them took was a chance of one, and he preferred not to allow any of them to get close enough.
He preferred that, but he realized there was nothing more he could do…nothing except wait and see how his batteries did.
They scored another hit, their fourth, but the remaining seven ships moved closer. Tesserax glanced at the display, checked his vessel’s status. The ship was moving into the system at a fair pace when he had changed his plans, and it had only just reversed its course and was now barely moving back. It would accelerate, increase its speed, but there was no way it would escape the vessels even now closing on it.
He stared at the fighters, each close enough now that they were shown individually on the screen. His guns were still firing, but the fighters were weaving wildly, making it hard to hit them. As he watched, another one of them was hit, but the other six moved on to close range.
He stared at the screen, calculated how long it would take for the attackers to close. It was well before he would reach the transit point. He could hope that his guns could target them, destroy them all, but he knew that wasn’t likely to happen. His guns had hit well so far, destroying a larger number of targets than average, but he knew hitting all eleven of them before they could fire was unlikely. Of course, not all of the survivors would score hits, but he didn’t like leaving his fate to chance.
He was sitting still, looking as though he was totally calm, but inside he was shaken up. He couldn’t believe he was worried about so few attackers, a scant force of fighters, one that could never seriously damage his ship with conventional weapons. He didn’t even know for sure that the attackers were trying to spread the virus to his ships. That was only his assumption, one he hadn’t shared with anyone else yet. But he was almost sure it was true, and the thought terrified him. It was bad enough for his whole force to be so imperiled, and it greatly upset the plans he had, but it absolutely terrified him to become infected himself.
He stared at the screen, watching as the six remaining fighters closed to point blank range. His guns were firing wildly, blasting away at them, and he scored another hit. But five of the fighters closed to firing range, at least what he thought was firing range. But they kept on closing, coming in even more, and as they did, they slowed down, blasting hard to decelerate. That made it a bit easier to hit them, perhaps, but he understood the purpose. They had to get close, very close, to score a hit, a meaningful hit that spread the virus into the target. And as he watched, he knew that at least some of the vessels would get through, that they would get a chance to score a hit.
A chance to kill him.
* * *
Ellerax stared at the screen, not really believing what he saw. There were forty-two…ships, he supposed…not an insurmountable force in raw numbers, but they were bigger than any vessels he had ever seen. Much bigger. And they had appeared from nowhere. One moment there was nothing, and the next the ships were just there.
He paused for a moment, his shock overwhelming him for a brief period. But then he acted, doing what he could to face the new threat. “Units A-5 through B-3…turn around, immediately. Face the new ships, while the rest of the fleet finishes off the existing forces.” He made the decision rapidly, and he was sure it was the best option…but now he wasn’t certain that either of the two forces he split into was powerful enough to take on their enemy. The new vessels were huge…and they were moving quickly toward him.
Ellerax understood what had happened almost immediately, and part of him realized that he should have known that the enemy might have technology his side didn’t know about. In two centuries of warfare, he had never experienced difficulty in detecting the enemy, or at least he had never been aware of it, but he quickly deduced that had to be what had happened. The enemy clearly had some technology that allowed them to remain hidden…it was either that or something worse, like the ability to simply teleport through space. No…he was sure the enemy vessels had been there, even as his force had advanced. And he knew that the fight had just increased in intensity. His forces had suffered fairly badly already, but they had hurt the enemy even more. He had been almost certain that he was on the way to total victory, but now he wasn’t sure. It depended on the armament carried by the new enemy vessels, about how strong they actually were.
Even as he looked, as his mind was trying to determine what was going to happen, the new enemy ships opened fire. They were heavily armed, more powerful by far than anything he had ever seen before, even than the regular enemy vessels. Their beams were powerful, more so than anything he had ever seen, and some of his smaller vessels were destroyed by a single shot. As he watched, he became immediately concerned about the battle, about how it would end. But the enemy ships, while extremely powerful, were still only forty-two in number. If he could destroy them all, quickly, just maybe he could still win the fight. He knew his losses would go up, that he would see more of his own ships destroyed, but he knew those—and his people too—were replaceable. All that mattered was winning the battle, taking out the enemy, and there was one thing he got from the ships, from their size and strength. He was sure now this was everything the enemy had. Once he destroyed it, their worlds would be open and bare…even as his were behind his enormous fleet.
He turned and looked at the display, at the large number of vessels slowing down and turning around. His plan would leave fewer of his ships fighting the original enemy, and that was somewhat problematic…but something told Ellerax that the key to defeating his foe, to really destroying them, was the new ships.
And he was going to do that, whatever it took.
* * *
Achilles stood on the bridge of his ship, silently staring, but saying nothing, doing nothing. His vessel had a fair number of his actual people on it, but just like every other ship in the fleet, the robots could run it in almost any situation. He realized that calling his people to the fight, exposing them to the possibility of destruction was illogical in one sense, but he needed their ships, all of them, and the option would have been to strand them on a planet or to send them off in tiny tenders until the battle was over. That seemed unfair to him, to assume that his people didn’t want to fight, even if their involvement wasn’t, strictly speaking totally necessary.
Besides, he knew that the battle was going to be to the end, and that he might actually need his people, that he might need everything all of them had. Achilles was very intelligent, and he had been right almost every time he had made a decision…but with the Highborn, he had been wrong. If he had decided to eliminate them two hundred years ago, it would have been almost absurdly easy. His plan, to match their growing strength, to tie them into an unending war until they reached a point of development where they realized the foolishness of conflict, had clearly failed. He had thought that every race that developed, at least those that reached a certain level of understanding, became less likely to wage war, but with the Highborn, they had become even more aggressive as time passed.
Achilles turned and watched his crew, both the robots and the actual Mules. He realized his people understood, and as far as he could see, not one of them resented his call to arms. It had been many millennia since they had been forced to actually fight themselves, but they all responded immediately.
They knew they had to win, that they had to destroy the Highborn…and he suspected they also realized that this would be their last actions as the protectors of mankind. Whatever happened, he knew a lot of them would die in the battle, and the survivors, however many there were, wouldn’t be enough to face the next crisis of humanity. They would simply head off into the depths of space, never to appear again to humankind. It was the way it had to be, the only chance humanity had to develop on its own, to someday, hopefully, reach the level of the Mules, to learn that conflict wasn’t a useful alternative, at least not to instigate it.
Of course, he realized that despite his beliefs, his own people were fighting once again too, and he fervently hoped it would be the last time, that the Highborn would be the final foe his people faced.
He turned toward the screen, stared at the fleet’s positioning, watched as his ships fired everything they had. He knew that this was the moment when his forces were able to fire, but they were not yet within range of the enemy. That wouldn’t last, he knew, and he could see a truly large number of Highborn ships closing on his force as quickly as possible. Soon, they would be within their own range. Then, the battle would really enter its final phase.
At least he had drawn a large number of the enemy craft from the attack on his fully-robotic ships, those that had been fighting the enemy for two hundred years. Those vessels had been likely to face defeat if they were left alone, but now, with fewer than half of the enemy ships now facing them, he realized they had a chance.
His ship fired again, the massive beams of force emanating from its guns, ripping across space toward the enemy vessels. Most of them missed, as the enemy ships engaged in their own pattern of evasive movement back and forth, but their fire was definitely better targeted than the Highborn’s, and more of his shots connected. And when they did, the effect was immense. Smaller ships were destroyed with one shot, blown to bits. The enemy battleships could endure several hits, but even the first one did massive damage to them. Still, Achilles realized that his fleet was smaller, far smaller than the enemy force. He believed that he would win, that his people would prevail against the Highborn, and sweep them out of history entirely, but he knew that they would suffer losses, too, and maybe a lot of them.
He looked again as his ship fired, and he stared for a moment at the display as his whole fleet blasted away at the enemy. But then, the range declined, and the Highborn fleet approached. Then they reached the point at which they could open fire, as well. At first, it was only a few of their ships, at the head of their formation, but then more and more of them closed. The fire, at first light and easy to evade became heavier, and despite his vessels’ better maneuverability, they started to take hits.
His ships, the massive ones occupied by his people, had screens, a technology unknown to the humans or the Highborn. The first hits that the enemy scored were absorbed by them. They caused no damage to the ships, but each of them wore down on the capacity of the generators. Achilles knew that, with the size of the enemy force, his vessels would see their shields taken down, that the ships would take damage…and some of them would be destroyed.
He just hoped, and he believed, that when the fight was over, some of his vessels would endure…and that the enemy would be completely destroyed. He hoped and believed that, but he wasn’t sure, not yet. All he could do now was sit and wait…and watch the battle unfold.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Stockton shook himself, getting ready to blast his engines, to lead his reserves in. His command had actually had some success, and his fighters had upped their game, scoring what appeared to be far more successful shots than he had even hoped for. He knew a lot of that was just a guess, of course, or at least half a guess—he didn’t really have the kind of visibility that allowed him to truly evaluate each shot—but he was pretty sure his ships had scored well. Whether those hits had actually worked, managed to spread the virus within the target vessels, he didn’t know. And he wouldn’t know either, not unless he somehow survived the battle.
Still, despite the increase in the number of vessels hit, he still counted thirty-nine at least among those he had targeted that were completely untouched. Whether those ships had been assaulted by lesser pilots, or were just lucky, it didn’t matter. He had already excepted the entire forward contingent of the enemy ships from attack, left them to conventional assault by the main fleet…he had to hit the rest of them.
Not the least of those were the four behemoths on the far side of the fleet, the Colossus copies. He had sent a significant force against each of them, more than he had deployed against any other vessels, but they were the farthest away from him, and his attackers hadn’t quite gotten there yet. He knew the four ships were a huge portion of the enemy strength, that it was essential to hit them all, but he couldn’t wait any longer to send in his reserves. He wasn’t running low on fuel yet, not very low at least, but he knew how much his reservists would expend in their attacks. Besides, despite the fact that Reg had somehow kept all of the enemy fighters engaged for a long while, he understood how outnumbered she was, and he was concerned that some of the enemy would break away from her and rush to take on his craft. That would be particularly dangerous for any of his vessels that still carried the torpedoes. Their maneuverability was badly affected by the size of the weapons. If enemy fighters, even ones low on fuel, came back and launched an assault, he knew the results would be bad.
No, whatever happened, he had to commit the reserve…and now. The units he had held back had a bit more fuel than his other ships that had been moving around more, but still, they couldn’t stay where they were for much longer.
He looked down, divided his three hundred ships among the 39 targets. Seven or eight fighters each…that was all. It wasn’t nearly enough, he realized, but it was all he had.
He issued the orders, divided his small contingent of vessels into 39 groups of 7. That left 27 ships…plus himself. Twenty-eight fighters, less than one percent of the total he had led out. A sort of reserve on the reserve…one last chance to hit any ship that escaped the second assault.
He reached out and grabbed his controls, pulling them back, accelerating his ship slowly. He snapped out a command to his tiny group of remaining ships, ordered them to follow him. He wasn’t sure where he would go, which ships would endure the second round assault and need a third effort, or how many of those his tiny remaining force could take on. He just knew that he had to succeed.
And he swore to himself that he would.
He looked out, watched as the vessels of his second assault moved forward. Thirty-nine ships, all spread out along the enemy line, was a lot to monitor at once, but he did his best. His eyes peeled back and forth, checking out all of his vessels as they moved forward. It was frustrating for him to sit, to be moving forward a bit, but otherwise just watching. But he had to see which ships his fighters hit, and which ones escaped again…before he led in his last few ships.
His approaching vessels were swinging around wildly, trying everything they could do to avoid being hit. But, still, many of them were struck and destroyed. For an instant, he wondered if any of them would get close enough, if they would score hits…but then some did.
He watched as the vessels continued in, as they completed their assaults. Only having seven ships attacking each target increased the concentration of the fire on them. He couldn’t keep up a reasonable count so spread out, but he guessed that half of his vessels were destroyed. Possibly even more.
But despite the losses, his survivors continued on in, and they launched their torpedoes. One by one, he saw that the enemy ships had been hit, and that it appeared, at least, that most of the shots had been successful. He couldn’t be certain, of course, that they would work, or even that the enemy was still vulnerable to the virus…but he knew it was his only real chance. His entire side’s only opportunity to win.
He moved his eyes quickly, back and forth, checking out the ships, deciding which ones had been hit, and which ones were still untouched. In the end, he figured six weren’t struck. That was a good result, as well as he could possibly have expected, and he knew six vessels was not nearly enough to move the tide of battle. But he wanted them all. He was already leaving over a hundred ships totally untargeted, all the forward vessels of the enemy fleet. But he wanted everything else, and he felt something inside of him, some strange force that pressed him on, told him he had to succeed. And to him, success meant hitting as many enemy ships as possible. He was sure some of the hits wouldn’t work, even if others did, that some of the vessels would escape the effects, or manage to isolate them to a portion of the vessel. But all of that was beyond his control. All he could do was to hit every ship he could, to make sure there was at least a chance.
He spoke, gave orders. He sent four or five of his remaining few fighters against each of the enemy vessels that had escaped two rounds of assault, one last effort to take them down. If it actually worked, if the disease spread and was truly effective, he realized that he might have already done it, that he had hit most of the vessels already…but he wanted them all.
He brought his own fighter out, following his forces into battle. He wasn’t sure which ship he would attack. He realized the absurdity of holding a single vessel in reserve, to try and hit whichever enemy ship was the first to endure the second assault, but nevertheless, that’s what he intended to do.
Until he picked up something else on his scanner…a single ship, pulling back from the fight, racing toward the transit point. In an instant, he understood, and he pulled his ship away from its course, and blasted directly toward the retreating ship. The vessel appeared to have avoided a hit, ship number forty. It had escaped his notice earlier because it had pulled back so far, away from the rest of the fleet. He saw the ships of the attack force that had gone in against it, and only three appeared to have survived. That was far worse than the teams that had attacked most of the enemy ships. Losses had been severe everywhere, but all but three was very bad. Worse, none of the three seemed to have scored a hit.
Those fighters were heading back now, trying to make it to the fleet, to any chance to land, however unlikely it was that there would still be craft there by the time they reached its current position. He wished them well, as he did all of his people. Perhaps some, at least, would make it back in time, though he realized that saving any of his people would probably come at a much larger cost in the crews of more damaged and destroyed ships.
He checked his fighters, thought about ordering a few of them back to follow him, to move against the single enemy vessel that was retreating. But his ships had already accelerated toward their targets, and he realized that he couldn’t get any of them back, not in time to hit the enemy ship before it reached the transit point. He left them alone, to score their hits or to miss, to live or die depending on their abilities, and their luck. But he accelerated at full speed toward the enemy ship, alone, one fighter against a large battleship. It was foolish, insane even, but Jake Stockton was sure of one thing. That vessel, the only one moving away from the fight…it had to have Tesserax on it. And he had a price to repay to the Highborn leader, more even than the rest of his people. He realized his chances weren’t good, and that even if he somehow succeeded, he would be far away from the fleet, from whatever chances the rest of his people had at escape. But he didn’t care.
His mind was consumed with the desire for revenge, with the need to infect Tesserax. He had no proof the Highborn leader was on that vessel, of course, but he was convinced he was right…and he intended to do everything he could to take him down, to spread the infection to his ship.
He blasted his engines at full speed, knowing that made it even less likely that he would retain enough fuel to make it back…but that wasn’t his priority, not now. Jake Stockton wanted revenge, against any of the Highborn, of course, but especially against Tesserax…and he would die, if necessary to deliver it.
His eyes were wide, his thoughts single minded. He was going to take his torpedo, and he was going to deliver it right to the ship. He was going to do everything he could to infect Tesserax…to kill him.
At least if he could reach the ship before it transited.
* * *
Atara sat on Dauntless’s bridge, watching silently as the vessel, and most of the ships in her section of the fleet, were battered by an enemy that was increasing its firepower almost every minute. Her side had the edge at the battle’s start, and then it had been even for a while, as the enemy moved up more and more of its forces. But that was all past now, and the Highborn had the numbers all up and down the line. Her ships were facing almost two to one odds, and while she thought she had it the worst, at least at the moment, she realized that all of her side’s commanders were outgunned. And it was getting worse with every passing moment.
She checked the latest stats on her vessels, and she saw that the number of ships with considerable damage was increasing…quickly. She hated the idea of retreating, of pulling back, but she realized that if she was going to make any effort to withdraw even some of her ships, it had to come soon. Even another hour would be too much, she realized…at some point within those sixty minutes, whatever chance she had of getting some ships out would be gone.
She wasn’t sure she had a problem with that. Whatever might escape, the next fight would be even darker, and whichever ships made it through this battle would only face worse, and probably very soon. Part of her, a large part, figured she would be better off fighting to the end right here, of dying heroically…before the fleet’s survivors were hunted down and destroyed.
But Jake Stockton had rallied another part of her. His forces had attacked the enemy fleet, and it looked like they had scored hits on a large number of the ships. There were still an almost immeasurable number of ifs in the theory that his mission would work, that it would actually spread the virus to many of the enemy, most even. But his forces had done better than she, than anyone, probably including Stockton himself, could have expected. Whatever doubts she had, she realized that Stockton had greatly exceeded her—and probably anyone’s—expectations.
She still had doubts, immense ones, but she found hope kindled inside of her as well. And as much as that made her want to pull back, to get as many ships out as she could, she knew she had to stay, for a while longer at least. The fighters were still out there, both Stockton’s and Reg Griffin’s. It didn’t really make sense to wait for them. She knew the fleet would lose far more people than it could gain by waiting for the pilots, that the crew of just two battleships exceeded the sum total of all the fighter jocks out there, including all of those who were already dead. But that didn’t matter, not to her. The fighter pilots had the toughest jobs in the fleet, and they suffered by far the highest casualties. They deserved at least a chance to return, and she would give it to them if it was her call.
But it wasn’t, she knew. It was Tyler Barron’s.
She figured Tyler would want to do it as badly as she did, but also that he had to think of the future, of the entire war, or at least what was left of it. Things were bad enough already. To wait to hopefully scoop up a few surviving pilots, at the potential cost of thousands and thousands of spacers…it didn’t really make sense, especially not when there was at least some hope that the assault had gone well, that the enemy was heavily infected with the virus. She knew that was still a longshot, that everything from the torpedoes working, to the virus spreading, to the enemy even being vulnerable to it, had to go exactly correct. But it was a chance where there had been none, and even she found herself hoping that it would prove to be a route to victory, or at least to survival.
She had half expected a command to withdraw, for Tyler to come on the line and order her—and everyone else—to begin to pull back. But there was nothing, only silence. And as long as she didn’t have orders to flee, she was going to fight, with everything she had. She had already ordered several of her cruisers forward, and they were shooting, firing on the enemy from multiple sides, even as they were themselves blasted hard.
“All ships…advance. Close to point blank range of the enemy.” She knew the order was counter to the ones she expected to receive eventually, but until she heard otherwise, she was going to fight…and to her there was only one way to do that. With everything she had.
She felt Dauntless accelerate, and she knew the rest of her vessels were doing the same. The time when her fleet had the advantage was long gone, and the period when the two sides were equal had passed as well. But things were only going to get worse, and she figured she might as well get into the fight now, to hurt the enemy as badly as she could while she still had the chance.
Dauntless shook again, taking another hit. But her ship, all of her ships, continued forward, closing the range from short to point blank. She saw one of her cruisers destroyed, and almost immediately after that, one of her battleships as well. But the enemy suffered as well. She saw no fewer than four of their ships, including two battleships, vaporized.
She was excited, anxious. She knew that she could be called back at any moment, ordered to begin a retreat. When that command came, she would do everything she could to obey it. But until then, she would fight as fiercely as she could.
She leaned forward, looking at her bridge crew, watching as they went about their tasks, appearing calm, though she realized they were anything but. She was pleased with them, proud of how they maintained themselves. She realized most of them had to understand that their chances of surviving the day were grim enough, but that they had almost no chance of making it another month, or two or three. Still, they stayed at their posts, grimly continuing the battle. Whatever happened, however the fight finally ended, she knew her people deserved immense credit. She just didn’t know if anyone would be left to give it.
Dauntless fired again, blasting at one of the enemy’s large battleships, just as it was firing at her. The two vessels were locked in battle against each other, each of them part of a larger command, but for the moment fixated solely on the single enemy. Dauntless took another hit, and she shook hard, losing a pair of guns, but she maintained her fire, blasting the enemy with everything she had. She hit no less than four times in the same period, and the enemy vessel, though a bit larger than Dauntless, was in worse shape.
Atara felt the excitement growing, pushing aside the grim thoughts about the battle and what followed, and focusing solely on the matchup her ship was currently in. She knew she might get withdrawal orders at any moment, that she had many ships that were her responsibility, all of them engaged in the battle she was now fighting. But just for a moment, there were only two ships…Dauntless and its current opponent.
She mostly just sat and watched, but she muttered out a few commands, directing her remaining guns, desperately trying to destroy the enemy ship before it did the same to her. For the moment, the titanic battle then being fought was gone, her vessel and its current foe all that she could see. Her mind raced, trying to come up with any more commands, any strategies that could give her an edge. But she realized there was nothing she could do, nothing except rely on her people, her gunners and engineers and others…and watch and wait.
That came easy to her, at least in one sense. Wherever she had been, she had mostly had good people under her, and even more now that she had reached the heights of command that she had. Her people were among the very best the fleet had to offer…no, they were the best. She knew that, and that allowed her to simply watch, to rely on her people to get the job done. To destroy the enemy ship. For them, for her crew members more than for her, she hoped she got a chance to escape, to allow them to continue the fight, somewhere else, wherever it went after Dannith. She knew they would, certainly the crew of her flagship, with or without her. And despite the stress, the terror of battle all around, that made her smile, just for a moment.
She stared ahead, watching as Dauntless and its opponent fought, tore into each other like they were alone, as if there were only two vessels in the entire system. She knew it wouldn’t last, that one of her ships, or more likely one of the enemy’s, would move up and join in the battle. But for now, it was one on one, and Atara planned to finish it.
“Keep moving…right at the target vessel. Bring us in beyond point blank range. No…bring us close enough to reach out and touch it.” She knew that wasn’t the smartest move, or at least not the most conservative, but she wanted the enemy vessel…badly.
Dauntless’s guns fired wildly, as quickly as they could be rearmed and redeployed. The enemy ship was the same, though their crews were a little bit slower. Still, it was bigger than Dauntless, and it had more guns. Atara guessed that the effective fire rates, the amount each ship blasted at its opponent, were very similar.
Her ship had better targeting, though, and the ability to evade incoming fire better…at least she believed it did. Her confidence in her vessel, her crew, were unshakable. All things being equal, she guessed that the enemy ship would likely prevail, that it would destroy her flagship. But there was no way that was going to happen, that she swore silently to herself.
She sat in her command chair, responsible for much of the fleet, but right now focused on Dauntless and its deadly fight. She thought about the battle, tried to come up with anything else she could do…but there was nothing. She had given every command she could. Now she just had to sit and watch her crew carry out their duties.
Dauntless trembled again, harder this time as she took a massive blast right in the midsection. The vessel shook hard, and several of the workstations on the bridge erupted in showers of sparks. Atara turned her head, her eyes focusing on the worst hit areas. She felt pain, too, and she realized that she had been hit by a flying piece of metal. She glanced down, checked it out. It wasn’t that bad, certainly not life threatening, but it hurt like hell.
She started to feel worry, concern that her ship might lose the fight it had gotten into, that she and her crew would die right here…but that only lasted, perhaps a few seconds. Then, she saw the enemy vessel take a hit, one even worse than the one Dauntless just had. And an instant later, a second one, almost as bad, struck.
The enemy was still firing, but Atara could see that the number of weapons was down, probably around fifty percent. The Highborn vessel had started with more weaponry than Dauntless, but now she guessed it had a bit less still functional than she did. She didn’t know if any other vessels would join in the battle, but for now, all of the other ships nearby were engaged.
She watched as her ship fired, and as the enemy vessel shot back. The two ships went several minutes without either of them scoring a hit, their evasive maneuvers succeeding in avoiding incoming fire. Then, almost suddenly, her target shook hard as three shots struck it, almost in rapid succession. Then, another shot struck Dauntless just before two more hit the enemy vessel.
Five hits, right after each other, had struck the ship hard, and now only a quarter of its initial guns were still firing. Dauntless now had the edge, and Atara could feel victory coming. She leaned forward, every fiber of her body tense, as she watched the battle continue. She checked the screen, tried to confirm that no enemy ships were coming, that the fight would continue between just the two vessels. There were several enemy ships within range, but each of them was heavily engaged with one of her other ships.
She felt each shot fire, longed for the next hit. But thirty seconds passed, and then a minute. The enemy ship still had much of its drive left, and it was pouring all it had into evasive maneuvers, just as Dauntless was. The vessels shook around, even as they were very close to each other. They both fired every weapon they had, blasting them as quickly as possible. Another thirty seconds went by…and then Dauntless connected again. The shot was a dead on hit, and the enemy vessel suffered significant damage. Perhaps twenty seconds later, Dauntless scored another hit, perhaps even worse than the first. There were secondary explosions now, systems of the target vessel exploding, adding to the damage from the shot.
Atara guessed that the vessel was down to twenty percent of its guns able to fire, versus perhaps forty-five of her own. She was excited about it, and she began to truly believe that Dauntless would win, at least the duel it was currently fighting. She had fought years on her ship, engaged in countless situations like the one she was in now…but she also realized it wasn’t certain, that a couple of lucky shots could still equalize things quickly.
But it was the thrust more than anything that told her she would win. Dauntless still had sixty-seventy percent of its prebattle power…and the enemy ship seemed to have far less, perhaps twenty-five percent. Her mind raced, considering the reduced capacity of her target for evasion. She was tempted to intervene, to tell her people how to fire, to hit the enemy vessel. But she knew her crew was among the best out there, that the smartest thing she could do was to shut up…and watch. So, she did.
The fight continued, both ships blasting hard at each other. But the fight had turned, and Dauntless scored three more hits before the enemy vessel managed one. Her ship shook hard from the hit, and it suffered more damage, including another gun, but her three hits savaged the enemy craft. Its velocity was down again, perhaps as low as ten percent, and it only seemed to have three guns left operational.
Atara felt the excitement of imminent victory. Her ship was pretty badly shot up, but its opposition was almost torn to pieces. Still, it continued to fire at Dauntless. Atara knew that the vessel didn’t have any significant thrust left, that it had no chance of escaping…but still, she was surprised at its endurance, at the fact that it didn’t even try to back down. She hated the enemy, despised them with all of her heart, but she had to admit they were courageous enough. She wasn’t sure how much of that was the Highborn themselves and how much was the Collar-controlled people who formed most of their forces. She wanted to say it was the enslaved humans, but she recognized that the Highborn themselves had also fought in large numbers, and many of them had died. She had to accept that they were courageous, despite whatever other problems she had with them.
Her attention was drawn back to the display, first by two more hits on the enemy vessel, and then she saw another two battleships, closing on her position. She had to pull back, she knew, get away before the two untouched vessels got into range and battered her into submission.
But first, she had to destroy the vessel that she had battered almost to a hulk.
She leaned forward, staring at the screen, watching as her remaining batteries blasted the ship. Its engines were almost gone now, and that substantially reduced its ability to avoid hits. But the Highborn ships were still tough, and destroying one took a lot of firepower.
Dauntless was down to about half its normal weaponry, but it was still shooting at 110% of normal power, at least on the guns that were untouched. It fired repeatedly, targeting the almost helpless enemy vessel. The two approaching ships were moments away from entering firing range, and Atara wondered whether she would be able to destroy the current enemy vessel and pull back to her line before they arrived and began blasting her vessel to a wreck.
She wasn’t sure.
She saw an explosion inside her target ship, and it rolled over, a huge hole in its side. It was not firing at all anymore, nor blasting any thrust. It was effectively destroyed, at least for the battle…but that wasn’t enough for Atara. She knew on one level that by continuing the fight she was only risking her own ship, and that most of those she would kill if she destroyed the vessel were humans like her, only enslaved by the Collar. She realized that the fight against the Highborn was actually much more than just a straight battle, that if her side somehow won—truly won—they could possibly liberate billions of humans who were enslaved. At least they could if they managed to figure out how to remove the Collars on so many, and to somehow teach them how to be free.
She shook her head, pushing the thoughts away. It was too much to consider when it was far likelier that her people would fall, that the Highborn would end up ruling everything. No, she understood that the humans serving the Highborn were helpless, that they didn’t have a choice…but to her they were the enemy, at least for now, and Atara had only one goal, to kill as many of them as possible.
She looked up at the screen, watched her guns batter the enemy ship. She also stared at the approach of the two new vessels. They were both battleships, and they appeared to be unengaged, still coming up from the rear. Atara had a lot of confidence in Dauntless, in its fighting ability, but she knew in its current condition, it couldn’t defeat both enemy ships, and probably not even one. She had to pull back, now…but she couldn’t, not until her present adversary was completely destroyed. That didn’t make sense, she knew. The target vessel was definitely out of the fight, but she needed to see it blown to bits.
Dauntless’s weapons continued to fire, most of them scoring hits now that the target ship didn’t have any thrust. She knew it would go any second, but she wasn’t sure it would be fast enough for her to return to her line, to pull back before the new enemies closed. And she couldn’t bring herself to leave the hulk behind, to issue the command to withdraw until the target vessel was gone.
Then, almost as if in answer to a silent prayer, three large shots hit the vessel nearly simultaneously. It remained there for a few seconds, as multiple explosions began shaking its tattered hull. Then, suddenly, it erupted into a massive cloud, and a few seconds later, it was gone.
“Pull us back…110%…no, 115% of available thrust.” She knew that Dauntless was far below full power. She wasn’t sure just how fast her ship could pull back, but she wanted every drop of power her people could push through.
She looked at the screen, watching the enemy ships approaching.
Every drop…
Chapter Thirty-Five
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared at the screen, checking the distance to the point, to where he could jump back to the adjacent system and escape. He wasn’t a coward, not usually anyway, but right now he was gripped by fear. The virus had been a problem already, a worry that consumed him almost night and day, but now it was worse, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Should he tell his people what he feared, warn them of the contents of the enemy torpedoes…even though it was only speculation? That would possibly trigger a panic, result in his ships losing their focus on the enemy…or even rushing back, fleeing away from the battle. His people were tough, and they had courage, but the virus was a weak spot, and finding that most of them might be infected could override their bravery, and even cause them to panic, at least in the short term.
Should he remain silent, allow his fleet to do the best they could, and try to see if he could end the fight with the humans before the virus spread? That was what he was planning initially, when only thirty percent of his fleet was infected, but now there was the possibility that as much as ninety percent had been exposed. There was no assurance that the torpedoes were all effective, or that they would reach every one of his people aboard each ship. In fact, it seemed almost unlikely to him, even if he was correct about the weapons and their contents, that they could be that effective. Perhaps only a portion of his people would be affected…and there was always the possibility that his medical teams could invent a treatment in time.
Still, if he was right, if his fears were correct…the situation was bad.
But his own reaction had been no better. The fleet flagship rushing for the transit point was going to spread concern through his whole force. He knew he should countermand the order, return to his position, especially since his flagship had endured the assault against it and come through without a hit. There were no more fighters free, none coming toward him.
Save for one. He barely picked it up, and he almost discounted it, assumed that his anti-fighter weapons would destroy it. But something bothered him as he looked at the tiny vessel coming on toward him, making wild evasive moves. The ship had finally come within range of his guns, but despite all of them firing, blasting all around trying to hit him, it still came on.
Its evasive maneuvers were wild, almost uncanny, and as the time passed, as the vessel came closer and closer, he began to notice it more and more. There was something strange about it, about the way it flew, the almost uncanny way it avoided all of the fire. He knew it was absurdly unlikely, almost impossible, but the ship made him think of a pilot…of Jake Stockton. He realized it was unlikely that it was him, of course, that it almost certainly was just another extremely gifted pilot, but still, it nagged at him.
“I want that fighter taken out. There’s only one of them…this ship’s entire defensive array should be able to take out one fighter!” He had conducted himself calmly throughout the entire fight, even when he gave his orders to withdraw, to escape to the system beyond, but he knew now his edginess came through. Simply focusing on a single fighter, something he, as the fleet commander, would never do, not in normal circumstances, made it clear there was something going on. Even if there wasn’t.
He tried to force his point of view elsewhere, away from the single one-man vessel chasing his ship…but he kept coming back. Every moment that passed went by with the fighter still coming on hard, and the closer it got, the edgier he became. It was flying through a blizzard of incoming fire…and somehow it managed to avoid it all.
Tesserax watched again, finding it hard to remove his eyes from the screen. Whether that was really Jake Stockton or just another pilot, the vessel was getting in close, now. His batteries had perhaps another minute to target it, to blast it to bits, and then it would get its chance to fire.
To hit his ship, possibly to infect it with the virus.
He was anxious…no, he was scared. He had already ordered his vessel placed on alert, every airlock that could be sealed slammed shut. But without any idea of where a torpedo might strike, his preparations were limited at best. If he was right about the enemy’s actions, he knew much of his fleet had already been infected. It was a disaster, one he couldn’t even fully contemplate, and he wasn’t sure what he would do if he was correct, if the enemy was indeed spreading the virus throughout his fleet. But for the moment, his mind was focused almost solely on his own safety, on escaping the scene. He knew it would be upsetting to his forces to see his ship moving quickly to the rear…running, there was no other way to put it…but he was afraid of the virus, more than he had been about the enemy themselves. More than he had ever been about anything.
His eyes moved to the single fighter, still moving toward his ship…and still avoiding every shot. It was almost unbelievable, his massive battleship unable to target a single fighter. It was beginning to upset him, and despite the odds, the fact that he knew it was incredibly unlikely, he began to believe that it was Jake Stockton. Was that possible? He had somehow overcome the Collar’s influence, but could he really have come far enough that the humans would restore him to his old position? It seemed impossible, and yet, something told him that it wasn’t, that it was true.
He longed to snap out orders, to issue commands, but he knew his people were already doing everything possible to take out the fighter. That one craft was the only enemy that could reach his vessel before it made it to the transfer point, before it—and him—at least, were safe.
He stared at the screen, at the tiny dot that was even then closing to short range. Still, his guns fired all around it, scoring at least a dozen near misses. But the fighter whipped around, its evasive maneuvers brilliant, and it somehow avoided being hit.
Tesserax became angry, upset with his gunners. He couldn’t believe that one fighter could avoid the massed fire of a battleship, even if that was Jake Stockton. He had crewed S’Argevon with only the very best of his people, and the senior gunners, those in charge of the fire, were Highborn, not humans. But they still missed.
He checked the distance to the transit point, and he just confirmed what he already knew. He was close to it, very close…but not nearly enough. The enemy craft would close, and it would fire. Unless his gunners managed to hit it first.
Tesserax almost lost his composure, but then he found some inner strength. He regained control over himself, and he watched the battle, stared out as his guns all fired, blasting all around, close to the target…very close.
But it still survived, and it closed, reducing its range, coming in to attack distance. It was within firing range already, he realized, but it didn’t shoot. It just came on, bouncing around wildly, avoiding the massed fire from his battleship, even as it slowed to a virtual crawl. It was close now…very close…and it was still coming on. It was slowing down even more, its speed greatly reduced from its earlier velocity, but still, none of the guns hit it. One came within a hundred meters, and at least ten blasted within two hundred. But none had hit directly yet…and the vessel was now down to two thousand kilometers, closer than Tesserax had ever seen a fighter come.
He knew his guns had to hit, that the slow speed of the fighter, combined with the closeness made it almost a certainty. But he was also aware that the tiny vessel was going to fire at any second, and that there was a good chance of it scoring a hit from such a close range.
Which would happen first was the true question…and he simply didn’t know.
* * *
Ellerax stared at his screen, looking at the new enemy vessels, the giant craft that had appeared from nowhere, and even then were firing at his vessels, destroying many with just a shot or two. He thought about withdrawing, fleeing the fight, but he realized that the enemy would have to be dealt with sooner or later…and there was no time that would be better than the present. He was unnerved, worried about the new vessels, and what they meant to the fight, but he wasn’t driven by fear. He suppressed that, pushed it aside, and focused on the fight.
He stared at his screen, checking the enemy, now in two sections. He had left a fair number of ships still engaged with the original force, but he had taken almost two thirds of them, and himself, to meet with the forty-two vessels that had recently appeared. That seemed almost excessive, and it would leave the force left behind to face the original enemy fleet in a difficult battle…but something told him the forty-two vessels, all very large, the biggest ships he had ever seen, were now the core force in the battle, that defeating them was the most important thing that he could do.
He looked ahead as his ships raced to the rear, moving against the enemy. He would have thirty or forty ships for every one of the foe. He believed that would be enough, at least until the enemy opened fire, at a range that greatly exceeded his own. Their range even exceeded that of their other vessels, the ones he had faced for two hundred years.
Great pillars of energy lanced out, and when they hit, they caused massive damage. The other enemy ships had powerful enough weapons, much stronger than those his own vessels possessed…but these new ships were even stronger, and their beams ripped out, devastating their targets. He knew the time when they his own ships could fire—they were advancing at full power, and their batteries were ready to shoot—but he knew it was bad for morale to endure the barrage of incoming fire they couldn’t return, even for a short time. That was not something he usually considered much, the morale of a fight. His humans were all controlled by their Collars, and that made them essentially immune to fear. And his people were courageous, ready to fight the enemy savagely. But against these ships, these immense vessels of war, he became worried that even his Highborn would be shaken.
Still, as powerful as they were, there were only forty-two of them. When his fleet finally entered range, there would be many ships against each of the enemy. Perhaps that would be enough to overcome them, to win the battle.
To win the war.
He breathed deeply, counting down until his forces entered their own firing range, until the battle became two sided. Then, he would get a better look at the true odds of the fight, at the chances each side had of prevailing.
Of winning the war…and then he could decide what to do next.
* * *
Achilles sat, almost unmoving. He was edgy, nervous about the battle, but he knew there was nothing for him to do right now. His robots were perfectly capable of operating on their own, and this time, on his forty-two massive vessels at least, they had Mules over them, all watching the fight, issuing any commands they deemed appropriate. There was nothing for him to do, save sit and watch…and wait for the moment when a fleetwide order seemed appropriate.
That would be when he deemed victory was within reach…or defeat was coming. Which it would be, he wasn’t certain.
He had to win, of course, he knew that. The Highborn had developed into a true menace, and they had to be stopped. If they defeated him, they would likely become even worse…and humanity would suffer.
No, he could not retreat under any circumstances…he and his people would die here if they were unsuccessful. He was far from certain his side would prevail, but still, he found cause for moderate optimism. His ships, the forty-two major vessels that the enemy had never seen before, were immensely powerful, more so than anything the foe had ever encountered. But they were also vastly outnumbered. The enemy had assembled more vessels than he had thought possible, and they had placed all of them in this invasion fleet, countering their strategy of the past two centuries…and taking him by surprise.
He was edgy, worried in a way he hadn’t been in thousands of years, not since the early days when humanity, and his very young people, faced the second Regent. That war had been costly and incredibly dangerous, but in the end his side had won…and he told himself he would prevail this time, too.
He knew he had made a mistake, that he had allowed the Highborn to develop too far, too fast. Worse, perhaps, that he hadn’t realized that their attitude was not improving with their development, that they were, in fact, becoming worse.
He was aware now, finally, that they had to be destroyed. He still hated that, the waste of it, the brutality. But he knew it was necessary. He couldn’t risk the fates of billions and billions of humans on the fading hope that the Highborn would change suddenly and become a fitting successor to the Mules. And he was determined to see things through, to win the victory, even if it cost him most of his relatively few survivors.
He looked over the display, watching his forty-two vessels engage the enemy. They had enjoyed a period when their longer ranged guns were the only ones that could shoot, but now the fleets became close enough for the Highborn to open fire. Their weapons weren’t enormously effective against the huge craft, not individually, but in the hundreds, no thousands, that the enemy possessed, they were a terrible danger.
His vessels began to take damage, and several of his ships began to lose weapons and their operational speed was reduced. But they all continued to fire, and they continued destroying enemy ships. His mind was perhaps the best that existed, certainly one of the best. His force was ahead for the moment, and if the battle continued as it had been going, they would win…but many wouldn’t survive to see it. He guessed that perhaps half of the 42 ships with his people on them might survive, but many of those would be seriously damaged. He was about to witness the deaths of a large number of his people, perhaps most of them that had managed to survive for so long.
Perhaps himself. He felt strange about that prospect. He had lived for a long time, and he had lost Callisto, and many other friends…in many ways, he was ready to depart, to see what, if anything, lay beyond. But first, he had to see that the Highborn were destroyed, utterly destroyed. He had to make up for his error, for his earlier thoughts that the Highborn would develop into something that might take his people’s place as the guardians of civilization. That was perhaps the worst mistake he had ever made, and he was determined to correct it, to restore to all humanity the right to go forward, without the Highborn—or his people—ruling over them.
He checked the battle, watched as the ships closed, as their fire increased in accuracy. He stared as at least a hundred enemy ships were destroyed…and then his attention was drawn to one of his own massive vessels. It was one of the ships the farthest forward, and it was surrounded on three sides now by at least eighty enemy ships. It fired wildly, destroying a number of its attackers, but it was inundated with fire. At least half its guns were silenced, and its thrust was down by 60%. He felt the urge to order it to depart, to pull back, but he realized the fight was going to be to the end, that every vessel had to fight, had to stay in the battle until it was over.
The ship blasted its remaining guns, but the incoming fire from so many vessels was almost overwhelming. Achilles felt he had to try to aid it, to bring some of his other ships forward to reduce the pressure…but they were all occupied too, fighting their own groups of the enemy. None were in quite as bad a situation—yet—but not one of them could just rush to their other ship’s aid. Achilles just watched, silently, as the vessel was battered, blasted to hell…and ultimately destroyed.
By then, the battle had progressed farther, and he had a number of other vessels that were in trouble now, too. His flagship was still in fairly good condition, but the fight was going on all around. His ships were killing many of the enemy vessels, but they were taking damage as well. Achilles tried to get a sense of how the battle was proceeding, whether his side was winning or not…but he couldn’t get a real feeling of how things were going, at least not enough to make any firm decisions. Not that it mattered. He knew he had to fight, to the end if necessary…the end of one side or the other.
He knew he was fighting mostly for humanity, that he could just as easily have ordered all of his ships to take off for the uncharted depths, to leave behind the fight between the humans and the creatures that they themselves had created.
On one level, he felt that it wasn’t really his people’s fight, that his survivors should just head away, into the depths of space, never to be seen again. But he never forgot that he too, and all of those like him, were also the result of human experimentation, that they came from the work of regular people, just as the Highborn did. That in his earlier days, he had fought side by side with the humans, against the Regent. He even wondered if that massive struggle, the desperate fight they had found themselves in, had served to push his people from a path that might have been much more like the one taken by the Highborn.
His people were an amalgam at least, with some of the First Imperium’s blood mixed in with their humanity, making them at least partially aliens, but the Highborn were made exclusively from regular humans, with all the changes that made them what they were done by human scientists. He considered his own people a different race, as he also thought of the Highborn, but he recognized that they each came from the humans, that they were both the products of work done by those they viewed now as inferior creatures.
They were both human too, at least in a way, and he found the idea of conquering the regular people, of taking total charge of their future development, to be repulsive…though he hadn’t always thought that way. In his youth, he had considered it, but only for a short while. Avoiding the ongoing temptation to conquer the humans was a major reason why he and the Mules had left, had gone off on their own so many years ago. But they had always kept a watch on the humans, and the creation of the Highborn and their resulting actions drew his people back. At first, they engaged the Highborn to prevent the new people from taking over humanity entirely, at least until they developed normally and gave up the effort. But they never did, only becoming more fixed in their view of their superiority…and their right to rule over everything. Achilles and his people had realized that they were not developing in a standard way, and finally that they had to be destroyed.
He looked out at the battle all around him, at the monstrous confrontation even then going on, and for a moment, he wondered if he had made the right decision, if the Highborn were truly the enemy, or if they were just slower to realize their place, and that of the humans. But he understood almost immediately, they had become worse, not better, that their arrogance had only grown. That was counter to his own people’s development, and to any realistic idea he could conjure of proper development. It told him that they were somehow defective, that they had to be destroyed. And he had brought all his forces along, everything he could, to destroy their fleet, to begin the elimination of the Highborn.
There was nothing else to do now except continue the fight…and do everything he could to win. Everything.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Stockton was soaked in sweat, staring out of the screen of his fighter, his focus 100% on the target ahead of him. He was close—insanely so—and he was determined to come in even closer before he fired. That had been impossible for most of his career. Coming in this close required his ship to be moving much more slowly than it usually was, and that was begging to be hit by one of the target vessel’s guns. But now he did it, shaking his fighter all around, realizing that at any second he could be blasted to bits, that any one of the ship’s weapons could tear his tiny vessel apart.
He had seen several shots come close to him—very close. Still, somehow, through skill, ability…luck…not one of them struck his ship. He knew that could end at any time, but he figured he would launch his torpedo in less than half a minute. Until then, he could only hope he continued to avoid the incoming shots.
Then, when he had taken the shot, whether it hit or not, he would blast his engines and do everything possible to escape. He realized that he didn’t have much of a chance, that even if he managed to clear the enemy ship’s weapons and hurry his way back out to empty space, he was a long way from the fleet…the force he suspected had remained in place long enough for his fighters to attack but couldn’t wait any longer. He didn’t know if many of the vessels would escape, and all he could do was wish them the best, before he was tracked down and ultimately killed. He couldn’t really see any other result, but he shut his mind to it and focused solely on the shot it was almost time for.
He angled his vessel, directed it right at the enemy ship. He knew the torpedo had to connect dead on, that to have any chance of spreading the virus, it was essential to score a direct hit. Nothing else would insure that at least he injected the virus. Whether it would spread as it was supposed to, reproduce as quickly as stated, and infect most or all of the Highborn aboard, was out of his hands. He knew the scientists that created the torpedoes had done their best, but he also realized they hadn’t had much time, that the weapons were, at best, rush jobs…and almost completely untested.
But he believed that people did their best in such circumstances, that there was something that truly gifted personnel always managed to do when truly pressed. He had always found that to be true.
He looked ahead, and he realized it was time. He could see the enemy ship now. It was so close it almost seemed unreal. Even in his wild career, he had never gotten so close to an enemy vessel. All of his fighters had closed to very tight ranges in an effort to fire, but he was taking it to an almost absurd standard. He was literally moving beyond point blank range, to a distance that had seemed impossible before. The only way he could move so close was to dramatically reduce his speed—and that made him even more targetable by the enemy guns. But he did it, mixing in his own evasive maneuvers, and somehow managing not to get hit.
He was down under 500 kilometers now. His instruments were almost useless, designed as they were for ranges many times the distance that now lay between him and the enemy vessel. He was moving slowly, very slowly, and he knew it was likely he would be hit, that it was a miracle that he hadn’t been yet. But just a few more seconds, and it didn’t matter. His shot would be off, and assuming it worked, and the virus spread…and the ship was really Tesserax’s flagship, which was just an assumption, he realized…just maybe, Stockton would get his revenge. He didn’t want to die, he wanted to live, but if he had to be killed, that was as good a reason as any.
He jerked his hand, directed his ship inward, directly toward the target…and he fired.
The torpedo launched, jerking his ship as it did so, and it accelerated quickly, heading toward the target. The transit time was short, very short, but Stockton wasn’t sure he would survive to see if it hit. He had grabbed his controls the instant he fired, blasting his vessel away from the target, as quickly as he could. He jerked his hands back and forth, doing everything he could to make his ship a difficult target, even as his eyes were almost locked on the display of his torpedo…as it hit the target vessel.
He felt excitement almost immediately as he saw the details coming up on his screen. His shot was perfect, at least it looked perfect. The torpedo was wedged into the hull. Hopefully, it had begun to spread the virus, though he realized that was at best an assumption. His whole mission, all of it, had relied solely on the theory that if the torpedoes were delivered properly, they would work. But he knew that was mostly just a guess, that his entire force might have been thrown into desperate danger for nothing at all. Still, he chose to believe in it, to accept the fact that his ships had delivered the virus to most of the enemy fleet, that they had scored the greatest attack of the war.
He looked down at his controls, realizing he was still barely moving, that it would take time to get back up to a reasonable speed…and all the while, he had an entire battleship still firing at him, shots blasting all around his vessel. He jerked his throttle back and forth, did everything he could think of to randomize his movement, but his speed was still slow, and there was only so much he could do.
He saw a laser blast right by his ship, no more than 50 meters away. His scanner told him there had been at least six shots, all within one hundred meters, in the past minute, but miraculously, none had yet hit him. He couldn’t imagine the odds, and despite the fact that he knew he was a gifted pilot, and his evasive maneuvers were very good, he figured his odds of escaping, of getting out past the ship’s shooting range in one piece were very slim. It was enough of a miracle that he had managed to close and shoot, and he remembered that was what he had prayed for, not to actually return. He had always been fixated on the mission, not on the escape…but now, he had done everything he could against the foe. His only goal that remained was to get back, to return to Omicron, or any other ship in the fleet, with his ship in one piece, or at least largely in one piece.
He glanced down at his fuel display, realizing that escaping the enemy fire was only one of the things he needed to actually escape. He knew that the fleet had been waiting until his ships attacked, holding as much of the enemy’s attention as they could, but now, he figured that they would attempt to withdraw. He wasn’t sure they would even be able to get away, but if they waited long enough for all of his fighters, especially those that were the farthest from them, to return, they would have no chance at all.
He jerked his hand, to the right then back again, almost immediately to the left. He was still moving fairly slowly, but he somehow managed to avoid the enemy fire. More laser shots ripped by, close…very close…but none managed to hit him.
He looked up, checked his position. He was still within range, and he knew any second could be his last. He was far from Omicron, from any of his fleet’s ships, possibly the farthest out of any of his fighters. He knew his chances of making it back were tiny, infinitesimal, and for an instant he thought about giving up, of turning his ship around and ramming the enemy flagship. But Jake Stockton wouldn’t give up. He couldn’t yield, not if the odds were a thousand to one, nor a million to one.
He focused now on trying to get back to the fleet, somehow, even as he still dodged the incoming fire from the enemy vessel. His mind focused on only one thing, on somehow escaping…and he was determined to give it his all, everything he could come up with…even if it seemed difficult.
Even if it seemed impossible.
* * *
Barron looked at the multiple screens, watching the fight taking place all around. But most of all, his eyes kept going back to the long range scanners, to the images of Stockton’s fighter groups and their attack. He was pleased with the result of the assault, at least with how it appeared to have gone. Whether the devices that were implanted had actually worked, whether they would spread the disease throughout the enemy vessels and to all of the Highborn aboard was nothing but a theory to him. But that’s not what was troubling him right now.
He was pleased with the results of the operation, and hopeful it had hurt the enemy…perhaps hurt them badly. Still, most of his thoughts just then were reserved for Jake Stockton and his pilots. He knew he should give the withdrawal orders right now, that he should do everything possible to extricate as many ships as he could, and do it as quickly as possible, but that would mean abandoning Stockton, and most, if not all, of the pilots in his command.
He had known all along that it would come to this, that he would be faced with this situation, but still, having it actually occur was far different than speculating about it. He knew what he should do, understood what all his people expected, but actually giving the order, abandoning most or all of Stockton’s survivors—and that’s what it would be, abandoning them—was incredibly difficult for him to do.
He sat, watched, knowing each moment that went by only made the escape more difficult, and it lessened the number of his vessels that would at least have a chance to escape. He checked the screens, tried to do a calculation of how many of Stockton’s ships could make it back in half an hour, and then he did the same analysis of an hour. He figured close to 40% of the fighters were already gone, destroyed or damaged too badly to return. That was bad enough, he decided…he had to give the survivors, some of them at least, a chance to come back, however small it was.
He stared at the display, checking the overall situation. The enemy outnumbered him everywhere by now, but most of his forces were still more or less holding their own. Still, every minute more enemy ships advanced, joined the fight, and he had nothing left to send forward. All of his forces, every ship he had, was already fully engaged.
His eyes stopped for a moment on the far right of his position, on Colossus and her four opponents. He marveled at the fact that the ship was still there, that she was fighting four vessels of her type, and somehow still keeping them all occupied. He knew that Sonya Eaton was one of his best officers, that she was a real fighter…but the job she was doing, the fact that she still had all four of the enemy monsters tied up, exceeded even his expectations.
But he knew that she was doomed, that there was simply no way a damaged Colossus could defeat four of its kind, all new and in perfect condition when they entered the battle. That there was even no way she could escape. Colossus entered the battle with damaged engines, with its thrust at a reduced level, and unless she managed to inflict enough on all four of her competitors to reduce each of them to the same level, there was no escape. He knew that when he finally gave the orders to retreat, many of his ships would be trapped, unable to escape…and Colossus was, perhaps, the most vulnerable. She was at close range with all four enemy vessels, and every one of them, or at least three, he thought, realizing that Eaton had managed to do considerable damage to one, had more thrust than Colossus. He realized that the situation was bad across his fleet, that many of his vessels would be destroyed before they could evacuate, but none was in worse shape than Colossus.
Still, he watched, noting how the vessel fired with every gun it had left, blasting one of its enemies hard, even as it jerked around wildly, doing everything it could to escape the massive incoming firepower. For a moment, he focused on that fight entirely, his mind taken by Sonya Eaton’s incredible performance. She knew she was likely to die, that there was no real chance of Colossus escaping from its fight, but to watch the battle, to see the incredible effort, the amazing job she was doing, both battering her target and evading incoming fire, was amazing. Barron tried to imagine that his subordinate would find a way to survive, a method of breaking free, of escaping. But he knew that was unlikely…hell, that it seemed damned near impossible.
He stared for a few more seconds, and he imagined Eaton in his mind, remembered the last time he had seen her…and he wondered if that would be the final moment that the two of them spent together. He tried to imagine that it wasn’t, that she would find some way to escape…but in the end, he knew she wouldn’t.
* * *
“Come on, all of you…” Eaton paused for just a few seconds, and then she continued. “…I know you’re afraid, that we’re up against more than we can handle…but remember that we are holding all four of the ships of our class right now. Imagine what they would be doing to the rest of the fleet if they weren’t here, battling against us. We are doing an immensely important job, and we have to continue it, for at least a bit longer. We need to dig a little deeper. We have to hold out, to fight these ships, at least for a while more.” She knew Colossus didn’t have much chance of escaping, of surviving the battle, but that didn’t mean she was going to give up—or that she was going to admit it out loud. Her ship had pummeled the enemy, mostly one of them, and that ship was showing enormous damage. She had been directing everything, blasting hard in an effort to destroy that vessel before Colossus herself was overcome.
She knew that would happen, too. Sonya Eaton was a realist, and she realized her chance of surviving the fight, of escaping with whatever portion of the fleet managed to get away—if any of the vessels did—was almost non-existent. This was her last fight, she was almost sure of that, and she was determined to make it one worth remembering.
She checked her evasive routines. She was pleased at their results so far, but she realized that she was now within point blank range of all four of the enemy vessels. Her maneuvers could reduce the amount of damage she took, spare her ship from some hits, but with the amount of fire now raging, she knew her time was severely limited. She had accepted that, mostly at least, and she had struggled to remain focused on the battle, on her goal of destroying the vessel she was focused on.
Before Colossus itself was destroyed.
She issued some orders, but mostly, she just sat quietly, watching as her ship fought on. She was ready to intervene, to try and talk her people back from panic…but mostly, they all did their duty, her gunners firing—and firing well—and all the rest of them focused on the tasks they had to do. She couldn’t imagine that many of them believed they had any chance at survival, not really, but they continued to do their duty, showing very little emotion. She had hand-picked many of them, selected much of her own crew, and now she realized that she had done that well.
Very well.
It was sad that her reward, that all of their rewards, would likely be death.
Colossus shook hard, as the enemy scored a hit, a damaging one, and a few seconds later, a second shot struck the vessel, tearing into her hull, ripping out huge sections. But Colossus was large, very large, and even as she took damage, she continued to fight, her surviving guns lashing out, ripping into her target. She had scored many hits on the ship she was focused on, more in fact that all four enemies had managed on her. But her ship had gone in damaged, and she figured the two vessels were now in roughly similar condition. That was just a guess, she realized, but she figured she had a chance, at least, of taking it out, of destroying one ship…before Colossus was blasted to bits.
Her attention was suddenly diverted, drawn to the screen as Colossus scored a massive direct hit on the enemy. She could see that there were internal explosions now, several of them, and a large portion of the hull was covered in plumes of fire, as oxygen from inside leaked out to sustain them for a few seconds. Now she was sure she had a chance to destroy the enemy, and to do so before she was finished off. She felt the urge to issue commands, to tell her people what to do, but she was well aware that they already knew. So, she just sat back and watched the battle continue.
She stared at the ship Colossus was targeting, trying to get a feeling for just how badly damaged it was. She knew it was hit pretty hard, perhaps very hard, but she realized that on a vessel so big, it took a lot of damage to actually destroy it. And her own ship, while she guessed that it was not yet in quite the same condition as the enemy vessel she had been pounding away at, was also badly damaged. And she still had four ships bombarding her, from point blank range now. She had worked miracles so far, avoided the vast majority of the incoming fire…but she knew that couldn’t continue, not with the enemy ships so close.
Colossus shook again, even as she was thinking that her vessel had been lucky, that she had managed to avoid the vast majority of the incoming fire. She took two more hits, in rapid succession, but just as Eaton was about to check and see what damage had been done, her own ship fired again, and scored a direct hit on the enemy vessel. She saw a huge plume of fire erupt from deep within, and then a whole series of follow up explosions. She focused on the images as they came in, watching as more explosions followed. Even as Colossus shook again, suffered another major hit, her eyes remained fixed on the display of the enemy ship. She could feel that it was almost there, that it was nearly destroyed, and then she saw that it was attempting to flee, that it was firing all that remained of its engines, struggling to escape, to pull behind the other three vessels on its side.
But she wasn’t going to allow it!
“Keep up with that ship…don’t let it get away!” She knew her own engines were basically in a shambles, but they were better than the ones her enemy had. She heard her words repeated, the orders transmitted to the engine rooms, and a few second later, she felt the thrust as her ship moved, following the target vessel.
Even as she pursued the ship, chased it down, she could feel a mix of feelings…excitement at what she realized may be the impending doom of her target, but also fear, panic that her own ship wasn’t much farther from destruction. Her target ship didn’t seem to have many guns left, but the other three were all there, firing at full. Her ship dodged them as well as possible, but as her engines deteriorated, so did he ability to avoid getting hit.
She felt her ship shaking hard, realized that it had been hit several more times, but her attention was completely diverted now, not even checking her own damage, but focusing solely on the crippled enemy vessel.
She watched as her weapons targeted it. Now, it was almost devoid of thrust, moving on virtually an unchanging course. Her shots were hitting it now, almost half of them connecting. She knew that was the end, that the vessel’s lack of the ability to conduct any kind of evasive maneuvers basically served it up for destruction. The ship was very badly damaged, its weapons and drive almost completely destroyed…but still, the Colossus’s class were huge vessels, and despite the catastrophic mutilation it had suffered, it somehow hung on, at least for a moment more.
Her ship blasted away, tearing its target apart, but at the same time, the other three ships fired on Colossus, and they began to score more hits. One by one, her remaining weapons were knocked out, and the output of her own fire decreased. She stared at the screen, amazed that the targeted enemy craft, now completely devoid of fire or engine power, blasted by literally hundreds of shots, somehow hung on…barely.
She was tight, her body tense, staring at her target, ignoring her own ship’s condition. She knew Colossus wasn’t in far better shape than the ship she was blasting now, but she still had some thrust left…and some weapons. Colossus fired at the enemy ship, hitting again and again…and finally, the target shook hard, and then it began to explode. It started as a series of blasts, one right after the other, and then, suddenly, there was a huge explosion. The image of the ship was covered up by it, and for at least thirty seconds, it dominated the screen. Then, it started to diminish, just a bit at first, and as it became smaller and smaller on the screen, there was nothing behind it.
The ship was gone, nothing left of it but a bit of debris, and the remnants of a massive explosion. She looked, for just a few seconds, feeling contentment of a sort at the victory, at the destruction of the enemy craft. But it only lasted a few seconds, as Colossus shook hard yet again. Her attention was wrested away from the ship she had just destroyed, to her own badly damaged vessel. Her war to take out one of the enemy ships was over, and it had been a success, but now she realized that her joy at the accomplishment only lasted for perhaps a few seconds.
Now, her mind whipped back to her own ship, and to the other three enemies, all firing from point blank range…and tearing Colossus apart. She tried to think of what to do, of how she should proceed, but nothing came to her, not at first.
Then, an idea popped into her head, a thought at what she could do. It was dark and terrible, but as she thought about it, she realized it was her best option…her only option.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax was trying to focus on the battle, on destroying the enemy ships…all of them. But his attention had been taken by a single fighter, one well flown, very well flown. It had penetrated against his ship, coming through the blistering array of defenses—alone, a fighter against a battleship—and despite his greatest efforts, it had scored a hit. Not just any hit, but one with the new torpedoes, the ones Tesserax suspected contained the virus.
The enemy’s development of that virus, one his people thought had died out, was bad enough, and his plans had been increasingly affected by it. He had accelerated his efforts, put his very best professionals to work to try and cure it, and done everything he could to defeat the enemy before the rate of infection he had already suffered became clear. But now, if those torpedoes were what he expected, and if they worked, most of his fleet might have been infected.
Including him…or at least his flagship.
He had ordered the interior of the ship to be closed off, as many of the inner sections as possible shut from the others. He realized that was no guarantee against the spread of the virus, no assurance that many on his flagship—including him—would survive, but it was all he could think of.
He knew that some of his people must at least suspect what was going on. He couldn’t be the only one who suspected the true purpose of the enemy fighter attack, the one that made no real sense in normal battle terms. He had already done everything he could to hide the fact that 30% of his fleet had been infected even before the battle began. But now, he realized that as much as ninety percent, even a bit higher than that, was potentially affected.
The fact that the virus was in play, that the enemy possessed it, was a well-known fact. The more he thought about it, the more he imagined that many of his people had suspected the exact same purpose of the enemy bombers as he did, but so far, no one had spoken of it, at least not to him. That would likely change as his crews realized just how much of the fleet had been hit, but perhaps it would allow him to finish off the enemy fleet first, to win the war. The foe had remained in place longer than he had expected—now he knew why—and at least he could take advantage of that, inflict absolutely crippling losses on them. He tried to focus on that, tried to put the virus out of his mind.
But he wasn’t very successful. The virus was a disaster, assuming of course that’s what it was. He wasn’t sure of that, it was just his assumption. But he felt fairly certain he was right.
His attention returned to his ship, as his eyes moved to the display, tried to check on his ability to cut off the point of impact, reduce the number of sections of his ship that were affected. That wasn’t particularly easy, though. The torpedo had clearly been designed to spread the virus, and it blasted out numerous small internal rockets, clearly intended to spread its payload. They weren’t particularly powerful, but they were strong enough to blast through internal walls. The inside of a ship wasn’t built to withstand much of an assault, and he could see that the rockets had cut into much of it, breaking through many of the compartments that were cut off. It looked to him like the bridge was still protected, at least it appeared to be so, but at least 70% of his ship had been exposed, potentially at least, to the virus. He didn’t even begin to know how badly hit his other ships were…or even if it was the virus, for sure. It was still only conjecture, but despite that fact, he was almost sure it was.
He was trying to think of what he could do, how else to proceed. His fleet was so large, it took a long time to get through the transit point, and as a result, much of it was still moving forward toward the enemy. The fight had turned to his favor already and was becoming even more so as newly arrived ships pulled into the line. He had expected the enemy to withdraw by now, to try to pull out before his forces got so many of their ships into the fight. But now, he realized what the enemy had done. They had stood and fought…all to deter whatever attention they could from the attacking fighters. Now, he suspected, they would try to leave. He wasn’t sure why they hadn’t started already, and he looked at the screen, stared at the vessels standing in the battle line, firing wildly, even as they jerked all around, doing everything they could to make themselves difficult to target.
Tesserax was sure his fleet would win the battle conventionally, but even more so, he was concerned about the virus, about how to handle the enemy assault that may have spread it widely. He worried about the reactions of his people, especially since he knew he could no longer hide the facts, that as soon as the battle was over, he would have to make an announcement, to come clean with all of his crews.
And also with Ellerax.
He dreaded that communication, and the results it would have. Maybe, if he could crush the enemy badly enough here, leave them with very little to continue the fight, he could somehow retain his rank…but he doubted it. His mind was moving at an incredible pace, his desire to destroy the enemy tangling with his worries about Ellerax, about what would happen to him when he reported the true situation. That would have been bad enough, but if 90% of his fleet was actually affected by the virus, it would be absolutely terrible.
He tried to push it all aside, to focus on winning the battle…on literally tearing apart the enemy, allowing as few ships as possible to escape. He doubted he had a positive future, but he knew that whatever hope he had relied on a complete victory. Perhaps he could even obtain a surrender from the enemy, get them to realize the hopelessness of further fighting and yield. He might even negotiate with them, give in a bit if they agreed to surrender.
But first, he had to crush them as much as possible. He looked up, and he said, “All ships moving forward…increase to 105% thrust levels. It is time. It is time to end this fight, to end the war!”
* * *
Ellerax stared out, watching the enemy ships as his fleet entered range and opened fire. There were literally thousands of shots, and despite the enemy’s ability to evade most of them, the forty-two vessels began to take damage. But they fired as well, and his own ships were hit hard, many of them blasted to bits.
He watched, trying to figure out who would win, which side had the edge. That was difficult because he had never before seen the new enemy ships, or any vessels as large and powerful. He wanted to say that 42 wasn’t enough against his massive force, regardless of how strong each of them was…but he had begun to doubt that as he watched them fire their gargantuan beams, tearing his vessels apart.
His forces were blasting away too, firing an almost unimaginable amount of energy toward the foe, but the enemy was dodging well, avoiding most of it. Still, his scanners showed that several of the target vessels had been hit a large number of times. They were showing damage, a few of them a good bit, but hundreds of his own vessels had been destroyed. That was uneven, he knew, but it also reflected the period of time when he had been within the enemy’s range but out of his own. It was still bad, still far more deadly to his own ships, but it was also a lot closer to an exchange rate he told himself could work.
He glanced back at the other fight, the one between the original enemy force and the vessels he had left behind. He had been winning that battle decisively before he pulled out the majority of his fleet to face the newly arrived ships. The vessels he had left behind weren’t doing as well, but the enemy was badly battered too. He wasn’t sure which side would prevail, but as long as it was close, as long as his forces blasted the enemy to ineffectiveness, it didn’t really matter.
The real battle was around him, he knew, the 42 enemy vessels against all of the ships he had brought into the fight. He was sure that if he managed to destroy the small group of very large ships, he would prevail, in the war as well as the battle. His own losses wouldn’t matter. He had more than enough on the human front to win there, whether Tesserax accomplished it, or he had to go there next to finish it. Then there would be no more enemies, no one else to fight. Even if his forces were worn down to a nub, he would have plenty of time to rebuild.
So, the fight he was in now was the one, he realized. If his forces won, if they defeated the enemy, who were showing no signs of withdrawing, he would win the war. Then, he would be the master…of everything.
He turned back to the screen, watched as his ships blasted the enemy, and as they took massive incoming damage in return. For an instant, he tried to figure out who was winning, who was ahead…but his mind wouldn’t let him see things clearly. Though he could think about the ultimate outcome, imagine in a way, losing, he couldn’t really think that he would be defeated. His mind kept coming back to victory…the only outcome he could truly envision.
He stared straight ahead, focused on the display, watching as more and more of his ships were destroyed. But the enemy was being hit, too, and badly. And just as he started to despair again, to struggle to maintain his demeanor, one of the enemy vessels exploded. He had lost several hundred ships, and he knew he had a long way to go to achieve victory.
But now he understood that the enemy vessels, however strong they were, could be destroyed…and he was sure now, they would be.
* * *
Achilles sat and watched the fight. He knew there was nothing for him to do, nothing save sit and see what happened. His subordinates, those in command of the 42 ships of his fleet, were all Mules. They were forty thousand years old, honed over that time from their start as superior creatures, to the most brilliant minds ever known. He knew there was nothing he could add to their abilities.
He guessed that his side had the edge, that they would win the battle, but he wasn’t sure. As he looked out at the vast size of the enemy fleet, he realized that he had waited too long, that he had allowed his robot forces to merely offset the foe for two centuries, waiting for them to grow, to become less hostile. Now, he realized that would never happen, that the Highborn were somehow defective, that they were becoming more, not less, aggressive. But he reminded himself that their defect was a moral one, not anything that took away from their combat abilities.
He understood now that he had made a grievous error, that the Highborn had advanced far more quickly that he had expected. His people could have easily destroyed them two hundred years earlier, but he had decided to give them time, to intervene and hold them back until they developed and became more rational, and hopefully took their place peacefully as humanity’s new guardians. He hoped—expected—that they would learn to guide the humans, to take the place of his people, who were gradually dying out.
Now, he realized he had been totally wrong. His assumption that all people, all of human descent at least, would eventually develop along similar lines was clearly incorrect. He understood that the normal people, the vast array of humans, weren’t developed enough yet to hold to those standards. But his research, and that of all of his people, suggested that once they achieved a certain level of maturity, they would recognize their ability, and they would try to aid those less developed. But despite clearly having a development level high enough that they should have quickly improved, the Highborn had gotten steadily worse. They seemed interested in only one thing, conquest, and the more time that passed, the more they became focused on ruling over everything.
Achilles was uncertain about his ability to complete his plan—to kill the Highborn, all of them. He had known that losses that would occur from fighting them, more of his few remaining people gone, but he had recognized it was the essential nature of the battle. It was his people’s fight…their last one. And they had to win it. They simply had to.
He hated the idea of eradicating the enemy, of hunting down and destroying every one of them…and yet, he knew he had to, that there was no other good choice. But as he looked around, as he saw the first of his massive ships destroyed, twenty-three of his people killed there after four hundred centuries of life, he wasn’t entirely sure if he would win or not. And if he lost, his people would be wiped out, and the Highborn would quickly replace the vessels they had lost, and they would, unlike his own people, produce more of themselves. They would rule over everything, quickly concluding the conquest of humanity, and their dominance would last for thousands of years, and perhaps forever.
No, he couldn’t allow that. He had to win the battle. There was no other way.
None.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Eaton stared ahead, her gaze unmoving, focused on the enemy vessel. The ship was the closest of the remaining three to her, the one most within her reach. She didn’t have a prayer of outfighting the ship, and she knew that. But that wasn’t what she intended to do.
She was going to ram it.
She had gone into the battle hoping to destroy just one of the enemy vessels. That had seemed almost impossible at the time, but somehow she had done it. There was no hope of escape though, no chance of getting away…but a thought appeared in her head, bouncing around at first, then quickly solidifying. Maybe she could take out a second vessel, not by exchanging fire…but by driving her ship into it.
The enemy vessel had far more engine power than her battered ship, but its current velocity was slow, and it was toward her, as hers was mostly toward it. The two ships were close, very close, and she was betting that she could reach it before it could clear itself. That was just a guess, but she was fairly certain about it. She was more concerned about keeping her own vessel together until it managed to reach the target vessel.
Until it crashed into it, destroying both ships…and killing all of her crew.
She tried not to think about that. They were going to die anyway. It might as well be in the process of seriously damaging the enemy.
She pushed it all aside, discarding any worries, any doubts…and she gave the orders in a calm and clear voice. But, of course, her people would know exactly what she was trying to do, and she half expected them to rise up, to refuse to commit suicide. But they didn’t.
Her people were largely all chosen for their tasks, and while this was not the exact type of mission they might have expected, they had clearly all expected to be destroyed. Still, she realized that entering a mission where there wasn’t much chance of survival was a bit different from actually entering the last moments of your life. Even she was upset, barely clinging to her plan. She couldn’t imagine her people were any different. They all had to be thinking about their families, about those they would never see again. And yet, every one of them, at least on the bridge, sat quietly, conducting their duties as if the situation was normal.
This wasn’t the way Eaton had wanted the last moments of her life to go. She had envisioned many things if she survived the war, if she returned home, but she realized that her death was only going to come moments before that of many of her colleagues. She was certain that a lot of them would die in the current fight, and those that survived, if any, wouldn’t survive long. They would be hunted down and killed, she assumed. She couldn’t imagine that the enemy would be kind to the warriors who had fought against them so fiercely. Unless, of course, through some miracle, the virus actually worked. But even if it did, it wouldn’t take effect for a number of months, and that was likely enough time for the enemy to completely destroy the remnants of the defenders’ fleet. Whatever happened, it wasn’t going to be pretty, and while she knew she would fight fiercely as long as she lived, part of her felt like it was a good time to go.
She looked ahead, staring at the main screen. The target was dead center, and it was close. It hadn’t maneuvered right away, not realizing her intentions for a moment, but now it was blasting its engines at full power, reducing its speed first, and then accelerating away from her vessel’s approach. But her ship had started with a higher speed, and it would take a bit of time for the enemy to escape.
Too long, she realized. Barely.
The ship was firing at her, too…along with the others. She was fairly sure Colossus could catch the enemy ship, but she was less certain that it could survive long enough, that it could reach its target before it was destroyed. She had dodged much of the fire directed at her, done a magnificent job in the fight so far, but her engines were almost battered to dust, and she had to pour what thrust she had left into a course right for the enemy. That meant less evasion…and more hits.
Colossus shook again and again, as more shots slammed into her. She lost more systems, but somehow, her remaining engines stayed operational. She needed them, some power at least, or the target ship would simply push to the side of her vessel and watch her slide by.
She was immersed deeply in the situation, and for a moment, she had forgotten that her life was now measured in seconds. Whether she died in a massive collision, or simply by incoming fire, she realized that her time was almost over. Images appeared in her head, family members, those she had left behind. She didn’t have a large family, but they had been close. She prayed that her sacrifice, that of all of the crews lost in the battle, were for something, that it bought more than a few days delay before the Confederation, before all humanity, was conquered.
For an instant, a barely perceptible time, she almost panicked…and she nearly ordered her vessel to change the direction of the remnants of her thrust, to not collide with the target ship. But she realized, almost immediately, that Colossus was doomed, that she and all of her people were as good as gone, whatever they did. Then, her coldness returned. She pushed aside the images of her family, her few real friends, and she focused on the enemy vessel. She was close now…very close. Less than a minute away. But Colossus was coming apart now.
The ship was torn to shreds, more than 90% of its weapons out, bleeding oxygen from at least three dozen places. Somehow, miraculously however, its engines were still working. Barely.
Eaton looked around at her people, half expecting them to lose control, to insist that she abandon her target. That wouldn’t accomplish anything, of course. Colossus was finished, whether it crashed into the target or it pulled away at the last moment. She wasn’t even sure she would make it, that her vessel could survive for another minute.
But she was determined to try…and as she looked, she saw her crew was the same.
She stared ahead, watched as the enemy ship grew larger on the display. She was insanely close now, and she realized that she had less than thirty seconds. But her ship was literally falling apart. It was hit, half a dozen times in rapid succession, and there were numerous internal explosions. But, miraculously, it retained a minute portion of its drive, not much…but enough.
She felt many things, fear, rage…but in the final moment, she also felt determination. She looked at her screen, now almost entirely filled with the image of the enemy vessel. The target ship was blasting at full away from her…but it wasn’t going to make it. It was firing, too, blasting away at full power…and that was likelier to save it than its flight. Eaton realized her vessel was very close to destruction, that in many ways, it was coming apart already. As damaged as it had been in the last battle, it was worse now. Far worse.
But she was close now…very close. She stared for a few more seconds, and then she closed her eyes. She had done everything she could do. Now, for the last few seconds, all she could do was hope. Hope that her ship, that the strange old construct that she had now led for a number of years, could survive for just a few more seconds.
There was an explosion behind her, one of many she knew were even then tearing her ship apart, but she ignored it. It didn’t matter what it did, as long as it left her remnant engine still blasting for just a few more seconds.
There were explosions coming in from all sides, literally tearing he ship apart, but somehow, its engine kept blasting. It had very little of its original force, perhaps 2 or 3%. But she was almost there, and as much more power as the enemy vessel had, it wasn’t going to be enough to escape. Not unless Colossus was destroyed in the next few seconds.
She knew that was a possibility, that her vessel was essentially obliterated. She had no weapons left, and very little power. She looked around the bridge, saw that many of the stations were down now. Even the lights above, the basic illumination, was barely functioning. But the main display was still working, at least partially. It was completely covered now by the target ship, and she knew that her life was now measured in seconds. She wondered what it would be like. Would she go in a massive explosion, be destroyed in an instant, or would she die more slowly, as the oxygen vanished and the cold from space came in?
She was still thinking that when Colossus struck the enemy vessel.
* * *
Barron watched as Colossus moved to her doom. The battle was incredibly violent everywhere, dozens of places calling for his attention. But just then, it was all on Eaton. On Colossus.
The great ship had been an incredible find, perhaps the most amazing discovery ever. Barron realized that he probably wouldn’t have gotten as far as he did, survived so long, without Colossus. But now, he knew, it had reached its end.
He had watched, and when he realized what Eaton was doing, he had almost contacted her, told her not to. But something had stopped him.
He realized that the ship was doomed, that even if he ordered the fleet to begin to attempt a retreat, Colossus could never escape. Its engines were too worn down, and it was as good as destroyed no matter what actions Eaton took. In the end, he just sat and watched, as Colossus, by far the greatest ship he had ever seen, crashed into its likeness.
He was impressed with Eaton, amazed that she had found a way to take out two of her kind. He watched for a few seconds, confirming that Eaton’s ship, and its counterpart, were truly destroyed. The explosion was incredible, absolutely massive, but finally it began to abate, and when it cleared, there was nothing left. Both ships were gone, utterly destroyed.
Barron felt excitement at the results of the battle, at the unexpected destruction of not one, but two of the great enemy vessels, but he quickly realized that the other two would be coming now to the rest of the battle, that they would be unleashing their incredible destructive power on his other ships.
And he realized that Eaton was gone, that all of the crew of Colossus had been killed. He’d known all along that he would lose people, that almost certainly some of his top commanders would die in this battle, but Eaton was the first of those to go.
He felt it slice into him, and on top of the pain of Eaton’s death, it made clear to him what it would feel like to lose others. He had always been sorrowful for those killed in any battle. He had often thought about all the warriors who had died following him into fight after fight. But this battle was going to be the worst of all. He had realized that before it had even begun, in a manner of speaking, but only now did he understand what it would truly feel like. Eaton was the first of those close to him to go…but he knew she wouldn’t be the last.
He shook his head, pushed aside the thoughts that were even then trying to force his attention from the battle. He had to stay focused, regardless of who was killed. His fleet needed him, it needed his mind to be clear. Absolutely clear.
He realized that he had to give the retreat order, that he wasn’t even sure how many ships would make it now, but that whatever chance they had, it would be completely gone in a short while. Not only did he have the two imitations of Colossus moving against his fleet now—and as amazing as Eaton’s performance was, taking out two of them, the two that remained had been barely hit—but there were dozens more vessels even then moving up to join the battle. The enemy fleet was larger even than he had expected, and he hadn’t anticipated any ability to defeat it. He realized that he had to give the order to retreat, and he had to do it right now.
He checked the status of the fighters. None of Stockton’s ships had returned yet, though perhaps 25% of them were fairly close. Reg Griffin’s fighters were in better shape, at least in terms of their proximity to the fleet. About 20% of them had already landed, and if he could give them an extra fifteen minutes, that total would reach 75%, maybe 80%. That was 80% of the survivors, of course. Griffin’s squadrons had fought an immense force of enemy fighters, and despite doing an amazing job, killing three or four times as many as they lost, they had seen an enormous number of their own destroyed. Barron had lost count, but now, as he looked at the screen, as he checked the numbers of fighters, he realized that her forces had lost almost forty percent.
Forty percent! That seemed almost impossible, but he realized the enemy had suffered as much, or perhaps a greater percentage, and a far larger gross number. Griffin’s people had fought hard, harder than he had ever seen anyone fight, and they had only broken off when their fuel supplies became critical.
Most of them would make it back in just a few minutes, perhaps even all of them. But Stockton’s ships were another matter. At best, maybe a third would make it in that time frame, and as he looked at the screen, at the various groups of fighters making their way back, he knew that even waiting just half an hour more would further reduce his force, that even fewer of his ships would make it out. He was faced with a near certainty of losing more people than he would gain. Clearly, the smartest thing to do was to break off now, to order every ship to go on the run, leaving behind most of the fighters.
But he couldn’t do it. The pilots had served his fleet for years, and throughout all of that time, even for years before he had risen to the level of command, they had suffered the greatest loss rates of everyone in the service. They knew that they were expendable, that they were susceptible to abandonment if a battle went badly. They were even taught that in flight school, when they were told again and again, that they were the last priority of a fleet commander. It just came down to numbers…and there were a lot more spacers at risk than just the pilots.
But Barron couldn’t do it, not again. He knew he couldn’t wait for all of them to return, but he decided he needed to give them at least another half an hour…regardless of the effect that had on his fleet.
He turned to his communication station, and he said, as firmly as he could, “Advise the fleet—and all fighter squadrons—we will maintain our positions for another half an hour. Recover all fighters it is possible to…but in 30 minutes, we will blast away at full speed.” He stopped for a second, and then he added, “Send that fully encoded.” There was no reason to announce to the enemy what his plans were. His escape was going to be enough of a problem without giving the enemy an announcement of exactly when it would begin.
His officer responded, but he was barely listening by then. His mind was awash, with how many fighters would manage to return, how many ships he would lose in the half hour he had decided to wait…and whether any of his vessels would ultimately manage to escape.
Perhaps most of all, he wondered if any of the ships that did escape would face a chance, badly battered as they were and horribly outnumbered…or if they would only survive for a short while until hunted down and destroyed.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Stockton blasted his ship back toward Omicron, pushing its almost spent resources as hard as he could. He knew he was too far away, that he didn’t have any real chance of returning in time, but he had to try. He couldn’t give up, it just wasn’t something he could do.
He wondered if his attacks, those of his entire command, would truly work. He realized the assault had been astonishingly successful, that his vessels had done better than anyone, including himself, had expected. But he also knew that bringing the weapons in, launching them correctly and apparently hitting the enemy vessels was only one component of the mission. The weapons were new, never used before, and the truth was, he didn’t have any idea if they would truly work or not.
He tried to put it out of his mind, to focus now on his effort to get back, however hopeless it seemed. There was nothing he could do about the attack anymore…it would either turn out to have worked or not…but he was still in control of his ship. He realized he was far from Omicron, from any of the ships he could land on, but he had to try. He was certain of one thing, however…he would not allow himself to be captured again. He didn’t know what the enemy would do to him, execution being the very best he could hope for. But he was well aware that they might simply install another Collar in him, and he was absolutely certain he would prefer death. He wanted to believe that he could resist the Collar, fight off its control, but he knew better. His Collar had been damaged, a freak accident, but before that it had been inviolate. He obeyed his orders, all of them, and his ‘self’, the part of him that was ‘him’, remained utterly cut off, there, but unable to exert any control over his actions. And he was sure that a new Collar would be the same.
No, he swore that he wouldn’t be captured again, even if he had to destroy his own ship. He thought about doing that now, accepting the fact that he basically had no chance, but that he couldn’t do. As long as the fleet’s ships were still there, he would try to reach them. Whatever the chance.
He wondered why the ships were still present, why they were fighting the enemy and not fleeing. He knew Admiral Barron couldn’t expect to prevail, and that staying, extending the fight would almost certainly cost more casualties than all of the pilots combined.
But he knew Tyler Barron as well, and as he watched he became more certain. He realized he was far away, that it wasn’t likely he would make it back, but he was happy that some of his pilots might survive…assuming any of the ships actually managed to escape once they blasted their engines. That was a problem that got worse with every moment the ships remained in the battle. But he knew Tyler Barron, and he was well aware of the absurdity of wasting time trying to change his mind.
Stockton checked his board, altered his course slightly to avoid several enemy ships. He didn’t think he would make it, but he decided he was going to try to the end. When his fuel ran out, when the ships he was racing toward evacuated, then he would do what he had to do, and not before.
He looked at the screen, at the display of the fleets, the battle still raging. No, he thought to himself…I will not give up, not while there is a ship left.
He looked down, checked his speed, and his fuel. It was low…very low. But he pressed on.
No, Sir, he thought. I will not give up, not while there is any chance of escape.
* * *
Chronos sat on his flagship, watching the battle going on, wondering if Barron was ever going to issue the orders for the fleet to leave…or more accurately, to attempt to leave. He knew that the escape would already be difficult, that the battle had gone on for longer than he had expected. He had thought the word would come by now, but the main fleetcom had been silent. He understood, of course, and deep down, beneath the concern and the doubts, he agreed with Barron. They had to give their fighters, some of them at least, a chance to land. But every few minutes that passed probably cost more ships, meant that fewer vessels would get away…assuming any could.
Moreover, he wasn’t even sure what he wanted. He knew that any chance of future combat, of continuing the war, relied on getting at least some of the fleet out of there, keeping enough of it together to offer battle once again. But he also realized that next struggle was likely hopeless, even more than the current fight. Chronos had fought hard, every chance he got, and he would continue to do so, but he was almost sure his side was going to lose…unless, of course, the virus actually worked.
And maybe they would lose even if it did have an effect. They might hurt the enemy more, kill more of their people, but he realized all of the chances, even if the viral attack on the enemy fleet was successful, were temporary. The Highborn attacking them were only part of their forces, that much he knew. Even if the humans somehow managed to defeat them, to survive long enough for the virus to wipe them out—assuming it did—what could they look forward to? Another invasion? One stronger than the last, against humanity’s own battered forces? They would rebuild too, of course, but more than half of their systems were occupied by the enemy. That was dozens of shipyards, and a massive number of factories that were no longer producing. The Confederation had been building ships at an astonishing rate, but even so, it couldn’t replace all of the Hegemony…and soon it would start to lose its industry too, as the enemy continued to advance.
Perhaps the virus would be the difference, the key to victory. But even if the enemy didn’t manage to develop a cure—and there was a definite possibility that they would, or already had, he realized—they would certainly handle things differently next time. Their forces would engage in new ways, cautious about a repeat of what had just been done. Even if his side managed to return to his own nation again and began to address the damage that had no doubt been done—the number of his captured people who had been outfitted with the Collar being the worst thing he could imagine—he knew they wouldn’t be allowed much chance to even begin to rehabilitate their planets and people. The enemy would be back, sooner probably rather than later, and when they came back, they would almost certainly prevail.
And that was, by far, the best scenario he could put together.
Stockton’s forces had managed to do an incredible job, and they had very likely infected many of the enemy vessels. At least they appeared to have. But whether it proved to be functional, whether the torpedoes, which had been designed hastily, actually managed to seriously infect the enemy fleet, he just didn’t know. He had enormous faith in the pilots, and in Stockton, but in the end, he just couldn’t believe that the crazy plan had worked, that his people would gain even the temporary reprieve that it offered.
He stared at the display, at the battle, wondering what could escape, even if the orders came now. He didn’t plan to survive the war, not if it was lost, at least. He wasn’t going to try and make some kind of life under the rule of the Highborn, even if they captured him and allowed it, which seemed very unlikely. Nevertheless, he suspected that some of his people felt differently. None of them wanted to be defeated, of course, but some of them would likely make the best of it, they would learn how to live, under the Highborn—as slaves, he thought. He disapproved, but still, he wondered, despite his own feelings, if they didn’t deserve that chance, that if death were the only other option, perhaps he owed his people an opportunity to survive, to make whatever lives they could.
That was defeatism, he knew. He usually tried hard not to think that way, to consider the possibility that his side would fail, that they would be conquered. But he knew that was likely, more than likely even, and it was hard to push it away, to try and look on the bright side. Especially when there wasn’t really any bright side.
Your nation is already conquered, he thought grimly. You are just hanging on to the remains of your fleet, dependent upon your allies for everything.
He suddenly felt himself pulled back to reality. He was in the middle of a fight, and whether he thought victory or defeat lay at the end, he was going to give it everything he had.
Everything.
* * *
Vian Tulus was hunched forward, checking the status of his ships. The Alliance forces were, for the most part, behind the other allied forces technologically. Actually, save only for the tiny units provided by the small countries off its far border, it was dead last, at least in the sophistication of their vessels. But their crews were among the best. They fought hard, very hard, and despite their somewhat lower technology, they managed to do more than their share of damage to the enemy fleet.
Still, they took losses, too, often very bad ones. A quarter of his ships were already gone, and more than another third were badly hit, still fighting as well as they could, but many of them were probably unable to leave, or at least to make it all the way out of the system. He knew they would fight to the end, even if they couldn’t escape, that the Palatians would fight until their last breaths. That made him proud of his people, very proud, but nevertheless, there was something else there too. He realized that the end was coming quickly, that the Alliance would likely be conquered along with the Confederation. He knew his people would fight hard to the very end…but also that it likely wouldn’t matter. If the Confederation fell, if the front pushed on to the edge of space, to the Alliance and the small kingdoms beyond, the end would come quickly.
He turned back toward the fleet, to the moment at hand. Even in the best of circumstances, he realized that fewer than half of his ships would escape, and probably a lot fewer. And if the order didn’t come soon, he figured that none of his vessels would make it.
That would have upset most commanders, and Vian Tulus was somewhat unnerved, but the Alliance was different than the other powers. Their entire culture was based on war, and dying in combat was the highest honor. Tulus had come to realize, at least in part, that some of the Palatian attitudes were probably not as true as he had once believed. Still, he was the ruler of his people, and fundamentally, he was more convinced that they would fight—and die if need be—than he ever had been. He wanted to survive, to endure the battle, of course…to make it to the next struggle. But he was more than ready to die if that was necessary, and he knew his people felt the same way.
He watched as his flagship fired, along with three of his other vessels. They were all targeting the same ship, one of the largest of the enemy battlewagons. They had hit it at least three dozen times, but it still fought on, firing back, and hitting his ships too. The enemy fire wasn’t as accurate as his, and they didn’t hit as often as his own ships did. That was probably due to the advanced systems of movement his fleet used, the ability to make their ships difficult to hit. Despite the superior technology of the enemy, that was one area where the Confederation excelled, and they had shared the ability with their allies.
He stared at the screen, anxious to see the enemy vessel destroyed. One ship wasn’t that meaningful in a battle like the one currently going on, he realized, but he was trying hard to think about the specific fight itself, and not the overall situation. He knew that things were bad, but he was also aware that Stockton’s pilots had flown the true mission, that all his fleet could accomplish was to keep the enemy busy while they did it. Which they had.
He had expected Barron to issue a command to withdraw, or to try at least, but so far, he hadn’t. Tulus understood the commander wanted to give the fighter pilots a chance to return, but he was well aware that every moment spent in the line cost more ships, not only vessels destroyed in that time, but also ones just battered enough that they wouldn’t be able to run when the word came, at least not effectively. It didn’t make a lot of sense to wait, but Tulus understood, and despite his rationalization, he agreed with it. If death was his destiny, so be it, but he would not pull back a centimeter, not until the orders came.
His attention was pulled away suddenly, from his thoughts about the battle to the fight right in front of him. His ship had scored another hit on the enemy vessel, and two of his other ships had as well. There were explosions now, massive ones, and a few seconds later, the enemy vessel blew up. The screen became bright for a moment, and then, as quickly as it happened, it faded, leaving nothing except blackness.
He looked for a few seconds, feeling excitement…joy. Then his ship began firing at another target, one located farther away, and he turned his attention to that. He was the leader of the Alliance, the commander of its entire fleet, but right now, all he could do was sit and watch his ship fighting and wonder when—if—he would get the order to flee.
* * *
Barron stared right at the displays, and as he did, his head was awash in a mix of temptations. For himself, he was willing to stay where he was, to endure, or at least try to, until every fighter returned…but he knew that would be insane, that it would almost ensure his entire fleet would be destroyed. Still, he had to stay a bit longer, at least to allow some more of the fighters to return. He knew he wouldn’t even get half of what he had launched back, that the casualties had been terrible, among both Stockton’s group and Reg Griffin’s. Reg’s team had at least begun to return. They would all be back aboard in ten minutes, perhaps fifteen…but Stockton’s fighters were spread all over the place. The ones that had been closest would reach the first ships in perhaps twenty minutes, and maybe half of them would be back in forty. That wasn’t a very long while, but as he looked at the screen, he realized it would only make his situation that much worse. Giving the order immediately, telling his ships to turn and run right away, would offer far from a guarantee that any of the vessels would make it. Adding another forty minutes only made things worse. Much worse.
Unless…
He was thinking, wondering about the enemy, and their reaction to their own situation. He didn’t know that Stockton’s torpedoes would have done the damage he expected, spread the infection across the entire enemy fleet. It would be several months before he knew that for sure—if he lived that long—but he wondered if he couldn’t use the possibility to escape, to gain a little more time.
The torpedoes, they were his only hope, but they were also somewhat of a mystery to the enemy. He knew it was likely that some of those on the targeted vessels would suspect what they were, but he imagined it would take some time for those thoughts to spread. The enemy fleet was in the middle of a fight, and that would take precedence.
Unless…
“Get me an outgoing line…no code at all. Maximum power.” He spoke, his voice surprisingly stern. He knew what he was going to do. He glanced over at his communications officer. “You heard me…no code.” He wanted the enemy, as many of them who were listening, to get the transmission he was going to send, and to get it as quickly as possible.
“Um…yes, Sir…” The officer didn’t understand why Barron wanted what he had asked for, but the admiral had made himself clear. He turned toward his board, and a few seconds later he said, “You’re live, Sir…no code at all, maximum power.”
Barron looked down at the microphone in front of him for a couple seconds. Then he said, “Attention…this is the commander of the United Fleet…” He had never referred to the fleet by that name, by any name, really, nor to himself as the overall commander, but it just came out. “…the torpedoes we have fired at you, the ones that have hit most of your fleet…they are loaded with the virus. I repeat, they are loaded with the virus, the infection that is deadly to you.” He still didn’t know that the enemy didn’t simply have a treatment, but he was betting that they didn’t. “We have infected you, many of you. Most of you…” He paused, allowing a few seconds for his message to sink in. Then he said, “We have done this only to defend ourselves, to challenge your invasion. Retreat now, and we will not attack again…remain, and we will battle on.” He knew that wasn’t really true, that the most he hoped for was time to retrieve some of his fighters, but he said it anyway, and to his surprise, his voice was firm. If the enemy was already upset about the news of the virus, he thought they just might listen. They may not retreat, but even if he could just buy some time without them pushing forward…every moment he could stay meant more of his fighters had a chance to return. And he had a chance to get some of his ships out.
He stared straight ahead for a few seconds, not expecting any kind of response. Then, he turned toward the communications station, and he jerked his hand, signaling for the channel to be cut. He didn’t know if his effort would accomplish anything, give him some extra time, but his attack with the virus was over, so whatever damage was going to be done had been done.
Now, he just stared ahead, watching the various viewscreens, trying to get an idea of an enemy response. He didn’t expect an outright retreat, in fact, he was somewhat concerned that the commander might even respond with an increase in the severity of his assault. But maybe, just maybe, his message, broadcast in the open on a wide beam, would instill some disagreement among the enemy fleet, that it would reduce the effectiveness of their assault. Besides, he thought, there wasn’t much downside. The enemy couldn’t really increase the power of their attack, not much at least. They were already moving their reserves forward at close to full speed.
Maybe, just maybe, his message would cause concern among the enemy, enough to interfere with their operation. He wasn’t shooting for much, just a short time to gather up more of his surviving fighters, and then to get away…at least for some of the fleet to escape. He would consider that, the flight of a battered fleet—that was still a fleet—a victory. And he had done his best to accomplish that, perhaps buying some time with his message.
But he knew he still had to give the orders to withdraw, and very soon. Nevertheless, he just sat silently, staring at the battle raging all around, knowing he should issue a fleetwide command to flee immediately, but just sitting and watching, as his force battled on, and as more and more fighters made it back.
Chapter Forty
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared ahead, shocked at the message he was listening to. The enemy transmission was made in the clear, no encoding whatsoever, and it told everyone in his fleet exactly what had been done to them. The torpedoes were filled with the virus. He had suspected that, but now he was sure. And he was concerned that most of his people, not just a few who had pieced together concerns as he had, now knew it.
He realized suddenly that his concerns had been tempered by doubts…until the enemy had sent the transmission. He knew it could still be false, of course, some attempt by the humans to confuse his forces, perhaps to facilitate their escape, but in his heart, he knew it wasn’t. The enemy had badly damaged his fleet with the virus, perhaps very badly…and they had just made it worse by telling everyone. His plans to hide the truth, not to tell his people, not during the fight at least, were gone now. They all knew.
“Put me on fleetwide comm…now!” The volume of his voice increased as he continued the sentence, and he was practically yelling when he finished. He realized it, and he tried to exert control. It wouldn’t help in any way if he sounded unnerved when he addressed the fleet.
“Um…Yes Sir.” His communication specialist sounded a bit shaky, but he turned and worked his controls. “You are on fleetwide comm, Sir.”
Tesserax could hear the tension in the officer’s voice, and he knew if his people on the flagship were feeling it, things would only be worse on the rest of the ships of the fleet. He pulled the microphone to his mouth, still not entirely sure what he was going to say.
“Attention, all personnel…” He spoke as calmly as he could, trying to ease the concerns of his people. “…the enemy communication is not confirmed and is probably untrue.” He didn’t think there was a chance of that, but if it helped to calm some of his people, he would say it. “And even if it is true, our researchers are now very close to developing a cure.” That was an outright lie, but he figured it would help to calm some of his personnel. “That transmission was sent for one reason, and one reason only…to scare us, to try to intimidate us into backing off, when we are on the verge of destroying the enemy fleet. All of you, every member of the Highborn, this is our moment. We are on the threshold of victory. Do not allow the enemy to distract you, with what is probably untrue…and even if it is correct, it is something that we will soon be able to treat. Go now, push forward, destroy the enemy. After the battle, we will be dominant, and with the treatment for the virus in our hands, we will be untouchable. Fight! Destroy the enemy, show them our very best, and win the fight…now!”
He flipped the switch, turned off the communicator. He had done well, he thought, said the words with a dominance, with an assurance. He didn’t know how his people would react, but he had done everything he could.
At least everything he could think of.
* * *
Ellerax looked out at the screens. His forces had destroyed six of the enemy vessels now, and seriously damaged more of them. But at least half of his own vessels were gone, and many of those that remained were badly damaged. The situation was confusing, and he wasn’t sure…but he started to think his force might lose.
That was a difficult reality for him to accept, and even as the thought crossed his mind, he began to fight back against it, to argue with himself, with his earlier deductions. His fleet was blasting hard, shooting the enemy with everything it could. He told himself that they would prevail, that they would defeat their adversaries. His side was going to be badly hurt, savaged…but as long as they won, it didn’t matter. He already had enough ships deployed against the humans, and he was perfectly aware that he could build many more vessels over time…as many as they would need.
But as he watched the fight, as he realized his adversary was much more accurate, its fire hitting with three or four times the precision of his own weaker but more numerous weapons, his intellect began to clash with his confidence. It was impossible for him to imagine defeat, at least for more than a few seconds at a time, but the thought kept coming back to him, floating around like a dark reality.
He thought about calling for a retreat, pulling out and running. That would be bad, he thought, accepting defeat, turning and fleeing. But if he did manage to escape with at least some portion of the fleet, he could put the remaining ships on the defensive, some vessels to fight alongside just the fixed installations in the various systems he controlled. If he remained, and if his force lost, nothing might escape, and he realized that his fortresses alone would be relatively ineffective against the enemy forces, which had an advantage in range, and the ability to mostly bombard and destroy them.
Worse, he thought, if he lost his whole fleet, he would be killed as well. Ellerax wasn’t a coward, or at least he had never been, but the thought of dying now, of being blasted into oblivion along with his entire fleet, struck him hard. He struggled to remain in the fight, to stand and lead his people to victory. But he felt his resolve slipping away steadily.
He kept telling himself that his forces would win the fight, that they would prevail…but the longer it went on, the more doubts crept in. He saw another of the enemy vessels destroyed, and that gave him a boost…until he added up how many of his own ships had been destroyed in just the past few minutes.
He began to lose control, at least inside his head. He was worried about how the fight was going, even as something inside him pressed on with the assertion that he couldn’t lose. He had been defeated years before, of course, driven from the empire, but in the intervening centuries, he had come to view that differently. He had been young then, and he hadn’t had the time to create enough of his people. And moreover, while he and the rest of the Highborn were driven away, beaten in a sense, they escaped to a place where they could develop and grow…and the empire was left to die just a few years later. Over the years, he had come to view that more as a victory, albeit one that took a while, and since then, his people hadn’t lost any fight. They had grown, become more powerful, and despite the difficulty the Others had inflicted on him, he had never even seriously considered losing.
Until now.
He looked perfectly calm, that much he could still manage, but inside he was becoming worried. He realized, at least in little snippets of reality that interspersed with the mostly positive thoughts that bombarded his brain, that he was losing the fight.
Worse, he knew there was no escape. The enemy ships were faster than his, and they could catch his fleet if he tried to withdraw. He realized, at least in little bits and pieces, that he was trapped, that his only chance was to somehow prevail, to turn things around and pull victory out from the jaws of defeat.
But what else could he do? His forces were already fully engaged, fighting with all they had. He almost took to the comm, sent a message to his people, to spur them on to their greatest ability. But he didn’t. He wasn’t sure what he could do or say…and he was worried that his fear would come through, that in spite of what he said, his uncertainty would spread.
He sat where he was, staring at the viewscreens, watching the battle and hoping his people could pull it out, that they could win…but his doubts only grew.
* * *
Achilles watched the battle unfolding, calm, sitting in his chair and staring out as his people undertook their duties. Even on his extra-large craft, the 42—originally 42, now he had 33 left—massive ships that carried his actual people, most of the work was done by robots. But those huge ships were commanded by his personnel, his actual living people, and the most important tasks were under their direct supervision.
They were immortal, or at least they certainly appeared to be, at least in terms of natural illnesses and death. But they had been shrinking in number, nevertheless, for thousands of years, dying out gradually as accidents took them. All those who remained, every single one of them, was here now, fighting with all they had, struggling to defeat the enemy, along with thousands and thousands of the robots they had built, by far the most advanced such creations he knew of.
He wasn’t positive yet, but he was starting to believe that his side would prevail. The losses would be enormous, he knew, many of his huge vessels destroyed, not to mention the casualties among their other ships, the entirely robotic ones, even then fighting against a portion of the enemy fleet. But as he reviewed the scanner reports, and tried to extend them forward, he came to the conclusion that his side would likely prevail. He knew that was based on his own assertion of the battle, on what he personally made of the condition of his surviving ships and the enemy’s, but he was reasonably content that he was right. He calculated the odds, and he was surprised that he came up with an eighty-nine percent chance that his side would win. He had expected somewhat less.
Still, eight-nine percent wasn’t one hundred, and he knew the fight was still going on. He felt the urge to speak up, to say something on the comm, to push his people forward. But they were all forty thousand years old, and they all knew what was at stake, every one of them. He knew that there was nothing he could say to them, nothing he could do except continue to watch…and know they would do their best. His place was as commander, to decide when to retreat or conduct other major moves. But he had already decided that he wouldn’t withdraw, that if victory wasn’t the result of the battle, then his people would be annihilated. This was it, the battle he had long anticipated would never happen…but which had occurred, nevertheless.
He remembered dealing with humans closely, back in the days of his youth. His people weren’t in charge back then, they were just one of several groups, joined together the fight the Regent. He knew he had felt pressure then, to keep his own people together under him, and to maintain a relationship with the regular humans. Back then, he could recall—barely—his expectations. He had believed then that his people would eventually rule over humanity, though not in the aggressive manner the Highborn were trying to. He had also expected that his people would find a way to reproduce, to vastly expand their numbers. None of those things had come to fruition. His desire to rule over mankind faded quickly and was replaced by the realization that the normal humans would be better off, not only figuring the way they would be ruled themselves, but without his people even being around, at least without them in the open. And all of his people more or less came to agree with him.
He had since interfered in human development a number of times, but always from the darkness, and he had always kept his people’s presence a secret. Humanity quickly forgot about the Mules, and his people vanished entirely from known history…but they had never left them, not entirely.
Until now.
Achilles realized that his people were now engaged in their last bit of interference, win or lose. Whatever happened after this, whether his forces were defeated and the Highborn gained control over everything, or they prevailed, destroyed the enemy, he knew it was the final time the Mules would interfere in human development. His survivors, if there were any, would depart, hopefully after destroying the Highborn and leaving the future to humanity. Even in the most optimistic of scenarios, he realized that his people’s numbers would be too reduced, that they would be entering into their final stage…and that was something they had to do alone.
He realized that either way, victory or defeat, the result for his people was largely the same, the difference being death now, or later, as accidents continued to take them one at a time over the coming millennia. He had long ago given up on the idea that his people could reproduce, or even on finding more of the genetic material from the First Imperium that would allow the production of additional members of his kind. He had spent many thousands of years trying, to no avail.
He understood that if his people prevailed, if they defeated the Highborn, they could survive for a long while, as a race at least, the last of them enduring perhaps even longer than they had already. But whether it was ten thousand years or a hundred thousand…or a million…at some point, the last of his people would die. And at that point, or soon after, no one would remember that they had existed. When the last of their equipment stopped working and decomposed into dust, there would be no signs at all that they had ever lived. But if the humans endured, if they continued their growth, just maybe they would evolve to the level of the Mules, and perhaps even beyond.
He hoped that would happen, that they would get past their childish ways and develop into a truly mature species, one that could colonize the entire galaxy and live in peace. That sometimes seemed hopeless, he realized, and after thousands of years, humanity was still fighting almost constantly, with the Highborn and, to be honest, with itself. But he believed deeply, that given enough time, sufficient room to grow and develop, mankind could develop into what he wanted it to be. What he truly believed it could become. And they deserved the chance.
He knew his people were sacrificing themselves, many of them at least. They could have run, escaped into the depths and lived there forever, or at least until the last of them died of physical injury. But he was tired, and he figured his people were, too. They had worked for millennia, uncovered many new technologies, but he realized that he was done, or nearly so, that there was a point at which life and fatigue were the same.
And they were at that point now, or at least very close to it.
Chapter Forty-One
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron looked out at his fleet…and the opposing ships. The enemy up on the line greatly outnumbered his ships now, and there were still more coming up. And the two surviving vessels of Colossus’s class were also free now to engage the rest of his fleet. He had to give the order to retreat. It was one thing to allow extra time for fighters to return, but if all that would mean was they would die after landing, along with everyone else, what difference would it make? He might already be there, he might have waited too long, but if there was to be any chance of escape, it had to be now.
He had made the announcement, told the enemy that they had been bombarded by the virus. That hadn’t been his plan, he had just done it on the spur of the moment. He had hoped, perhaps, it would cause some trepidation in the enemy, perhaps give some of his people a chance at escape. He realized that was still possible, that it would take a while to determine exactly how the enemy reacted to the news. But he was out of time.
“Put me on fleetcom, to all ships.” It was time…time to order the fleet to withdraw. He wasn’t sure if they would be able to get away, and he realized that probably had more to do with the enemy than with his own fleet. If they pursued diligently and aggressively, he had probably waited too long for most of his ships to escape, but if there was a gap, a period of uncertainty among the enemy, then maybe a decent number of his ships could make it. He wasn’t sure what that would mean, whether they would pull back only to be pursued and forced into another battle, or whether the enemy would be slowed by the spreading of the virus. Perhaps, even, they would be intimidated, distracted from their pursuit, at least for a while.
Or they would pursue him wildly, utterly infuriated by what his people had done. There was no way of knowing, but he realized he had to do what he could to give his people a chance.
“Attention…I am issuing an order to retreat. All fleet sectors, please obey your commanders, and conduct your retirements well, in strict accordance with their orders. I wish you all the very best of luck, and possibly we will all meet again.” He turned toward the communications section. “Now get me direct lines to all of the unit commanders.”
“Yes, Sir…” A few seconds passed. “You are live, Sir.”
He paused for just a moment. He knew in most circumstances, he would leave behind one of his commands, spread it out to try to hold the entire line while the rest of the fleet retreated. But now, he wasn’t going to leave anyone. He was hoping that the enemy would be distracted by the news he had delivered, that their responses would be muted, delayed. He didn’t know that would happen, but he was almost certain it was his fleet’s only hope.
“All of you, I want you to turn around your ships, to blast for the transit point as quickly as you can. Fire as long as you are within range of the enemy, but otherwise, try your best to escape with as many ships as you can.” He realized that a large number of the vessels were damaged, some of them badly. “All ships are to proceed at their own maximum speed…more than maximum. Blast everyone capable up to 110%. Go, do everything possible to escape, to get out of here and carry things on.” He paused for just a few seconds. “Go to the next system, and then proceed immediately to transit point three, without any delay, and jump again. Take the point to the next system, and then…then follow whatever orders you get…from whoever is in command.” He stopped for a moment, fighting back emotion. “Go now. Do the best you can…and good luck.”
He shut down the comm. He had good relationships with all of his subcommanders. They weren’t even officially under his command, beyond Clint Winters and Atara. His international position as commander in chief was purely informal, though all of the leaders had accepted it as though it was official. His comments about “whoever was in command” were serious. He had ordered his entire fleet to depart, but he wasn’t going. Not yet. He was going to stay, to remain long enough for the remaining pilots to have a chance at landing.
For Jake Stockton to have a chance.
He knew it was a longshot, that even if he managed to pick up the last of the pilots, he would be alone among the enemy vessels. He checked the screen again, looking at the pilots that were farthest off. There was one all alone, and it was the farthest out. Most of the others were in groups, the survivors of attacks on enemy ships trying to return together…but this one was all by itself, and it was the farthest away.
Barron reached down to the small keyboard on his command console, and his fingers clicked on it. He knew who that farthest fighter pilot was, even before he checked, and there was no surprise when it came back as fighter number one. Jake Stockton.
The battle was an immense affair, and Barron hadn’t followed every step of Stockton’s attack…but he wasn’t surprised to see him all by himself, and the very last of his people to come in. He knew Stockton wouldn’t make it back, not while there still was any ship capable of landing him left.
Unless…
He thought about the enemy, about what they were doing, even now. They were disciplined, certainly, and very good at conducting their duties…but the realization he had just handed them, the notion that just possibly, most of them were going to die, would likely hit them hard. Perhaps it would slow their assault, distract them somewhat. Barron hadn’t been looking to win the battle, or even to keep any of his ships in the line for any longer. But he did want to see them escape, to get as many of them out as possible. He calculated the damage done, roughly at least, and he was fairly certain his force had done more damage to the enemy overall than they had taken, so far. That wasn’t exactly a victory, of course, but if he could get it, he would take it. All he needed was a bit of distraction, a period of uncertainty among the enemy.
But his ship was not going back…not yet. He was going to pick up the last of the pilots, the ones that couldn’t make it back to the other withdrawing carriers. Right up to Stockton. He calculated that he would have to remain for at least thirty more minutes, and possibly as much as forty-five, and he wasn’t sure how he could survive that long after the rest of the fleet had begun its withdrawal.
But he had to wait for Stockton.
He realized just what his subordinate had been through. He was still the only human being to have a Collar installed and then removed. He knew that some of his people still had reservations, about what Stockton had done when in Highborn control, and about the Collar removal and its effectiveness. But as Barron watched the fighters struggling to return, and he realized the number of enemy ships that had been hit, he understood that Stockton might have accomplished more than anyone else to destroy the enemy, to score a blow that might be meaningful. There were a number of things that had to go right—the disease had to spread, the enemy could not have a cure, and a bunch of other things—but Barron realized that Stockton and his pilots had probably been his people’s last real hope for something that might resemble victory.
“All ships are to withdraw…except us. We are going to drop back 500,000 meters, and then we are going to go to the left, at full speed.” He turned toward the communications station. “Send a message to all of our fighters still out there, on targeted transmissions, with maximum encoding.” He paused for a moment, until the comm officer turned and told him he was live.
“Attention all fighters…” He was counting the symbols as he spoke. There were about 150 of the ships still coming in. For an instant, he thought about how ludicrous it was to risk three thousand crew on his ship to save 150 personnel, when tens of thousands were already dead in the fight. But he pushed that aside almost immediately. The fighter pilots had struck the desperate blow, they had scored, if anyone had, a meaningful hit against the enemy. Barron didn’t know if it would work, if there really was any chance, but he was sure they deserved at least the possibility…whatever opportunity they would have of escaping on Omicron.
That probably wasn’t much, but whatever chance he could give them, he was determined to do it. Even if it cost him his life. He felt worse about his crew, about the others on Omicron, but he was determined to do everything he could to at least give the pilots a chance, however small it was.
“…change your courses now to…” He was calculating as he spoke. “320.123.023…you are all to come and meet Omicron there. We are the only vessel that is remaining, so all of you make your course to us. Repeat, Omicron is the only ship that is remaining, so adjust your course accordingly…and hurry, come as quickly as you can. Every second counts.”
He knew the whole thing was probably a waste, not only of time, but of the three thousand personnel on his ship. But the fighter pilots had struck the major blow, and whether it worked or not, they had done a tremendous job. Barron had sacrificed people before, thousands and thousands of them…but he had decided that the pilots deserved at least a chance, whatever opportunity he could provide. It didn’t make sense, he knew, risking—seriously risking—over three thousand crew, but he didn’t care, and besides, the survival of those people, the escape of his ship even if he raced back immediately, was far from certain.
Far from it.
“Bring us around, as quickly as possible.” He calculated the coordinates, as quickly as he could, and then he said, “230.165.355.” They were set back a bit from the fight, just out of the enemy’s range. That may not amount to anything, he knew. The enemy could easily adjust, move forward in pursuit, but just possibly, if they were disrupted, if they were distracted by the rest of his fleet withdrawing, and by the spread of the virus, maybe he could survive for half an hour. The spot he had chosen was outside the bounds of his fleet, off to the side. It wasn’t a great chance, perhaps, but it was all that he had. He was going to give the pilots an opportunity, at least, however small, however slight.
He felt his ship moving, blasting all of its thrust back away from the enemy, to the spot he had declared. It wasn’t far, but it was outside of the enemy’s firing range, at least unless they responded and pursued him. It was also away from the rest of the fleet’s course, and if the enemy did pursue his retiring forces, they just might ignore one vessel, distracted as they were by the great withdrawal.
He knew it wasn’t a great hope, not even a good one…but it was a hope, nevertheless. And he was determined to give his pilots—all of his pilots—at least a chance to land. Whether or not he could escape with them if he did manage to pick up some of the fighters was another matter entirely…but one thing at a time.
* * *
Atara was busy, checking every one of her ships, making sure they were all retreating at their maximum velocities. She knew many of them were badly damaged, travelling at half speed, even a quarter or less in the case of some of them. But she wouldn’t give up on any of the ships. She would do everything she could do, all that was possible, to allow as many of her vessels as possible to escape.
She knew that none of her ships were likely to make it if the enemy pursued them smartly…but she had listened to Barron’s message transmitted to them. She didn’t know if it would get to them, make a serious impression on the enemy, but she figured there was a good chance that it might. The enemy was brave, as much as she detested them, she had to admit that, but the possibility that many of them—hell, most of them, perhaps—were infected with the disease was unexpected. And very upsetting. Maybe, just maybe it would give her ships, some of them at least, a chance to escape. She didn’t need that much time to get ahead of them, at least not with her ships that were lightly damaged.
She looked at the monitor, saw that all of her ships were already falling back, beginning their retreat. The enemy was still firing, blasting away at the entire line, but they hadn’t conducted any real movement yet. That wasn’t decisive, she knew, her own force had just begun to fall back, but it was good. As good as she could expect right now. Every minute, every second that went by without the enemy responding was good.
But wait…
She saw every ship, all along the line falling back, every command, every vessel…except Omicron. The flagship, the command vessel of the entire fleet had also begun to pull back, but just out of range of the enemy. Then it had stopped.
For an instant, she was afraid that there had been equipment failure, that Barron and his people were stuck…but then she realized what was going on. There were still fighters returning, around 150 of them. And Barron was going to try to remain in place long enough to retrieve them, to collect them all. She was sure of that the instant it entered her mind, but then she checked the fighters, too, and she confirmed it. They were all changing their vectors, moving toward Omicron.
She felt the urge to contact Barron, to argue with him, to try and tell him that the relatively small number of still-returning fighters was not worth the risk he was taking, to urge him to order another ship to do it, if he felt it was really necessary. But she realized that would be pointless. Barron knew exactly the chance he was taking, and he understood perfectly the risks. He would not back down, and he would never order another vessel to take his place, to endure the risk that he himself was avoiding.
She still wanted to contact him, to speak with him, perhaps one last time. She had known going into the fight that the chance of at least one of them being killed was significant…but now, the odds of Barron, of everyone onboard Omicron, being obliterated had gone up dramatically. Still, she just stared at the comm, and she didn’t move. She couldn’t bring herself to call Tyler, knowing as she did that he would never change his mind. So, she just sat for a moment, thinking about him, about the years they had spent together, as officers…and as friends. Best friends. Then, she held back her tears—barely—and she returned to her duties. Her own chances at escape were perhaps better than Tyler’s, but they were still problematic…at least if the enemy began to pursue her.
* * *
Stockton stared straight ahead, mystified by what he was seeing. The fleet was retreating, backing away as quickly as possible, and so far, the enemy hadn’t begun to pursue. The entire force was pulling back at the fastest available speed of each vessel…except for one.
Stockton had listened to Barron’s communiques, first the one broadcast uncoded. He thought that one was brilliant, that it just might spread enough confusion among the enemy to allow at least some of the fleet to escape. He was pleased about that, glad that some of the combatants might make it out, but he knew he faced his own almost certain death. But then he heard the second message, this one deeply encoded, sent via direct transmission to his fighters. The entire fleet was evacuating…except for Omicron. That vessel was positioning itself to the side of the battle, where it would wait for his fighters. All of them.
He was glad about that, for a few seconds. He had been a pilot his entire adult life, and if he understood one thing, it was the position of fighters on the priority list. Last. It wasn’t that they weren’t important, but in almost any situation where pilots were trying to return to a retreating fleet, the risks of delaying a withdrawal endangered far more trained personnel that a few pilots. But his pleasure at the orders, his joy that his last fighters—even him—might have a chance to return, only lasted a moment though. He couldn’t imagine the added risks that Tyler was taking, and even with just one ship involved, he realized there were more than twenty crew aboard for every pilot that was still racing back to try and land. It just wasn’t worth it.
He almost tried to contact the ship, to reach Tyler and tell him to go…but he realized that would be a colossal waste of time and effort. He knew Barron, too well, perhaps, and he was sure that the decision being made, it was like iron. No one would change Barron’s mind, urge him to retreat with the rest of the fleet. All he could do was try to get everyone back, as quickly as possible. He realized that was only part of the problem, that his fighters would not only have to land, assuming the ship was still around that is, but then Omicron would have to manage to escape somehow. Still, it was his part of the problem. Getting the ship out of there, actually making good on the escape, after the fighters landed, that was Barron’s job.
He checked his fuel status. It was low, very low. He already had his fighters at maximum speed, and most of them they were actually slowing now, bringing themselves in for landings. There wasn’t a thing he could do to reduce the time it would take, not that he hadn’t done already. He just sat still, and counted the time going by, each second seeming like an eternity. He realized that Barron’s crazy plan gave his people, and him, at least a hypothetical chance, but there was nothing else he could do about it, nothing except sit in his cockpit and wait until he got to Omicron…or until the enemy did.
Chapter Forty-Two
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stared at his screen, watching the enemy fleet withdrawing…and the highly imperfect advance of his fleet. Some of his ships, a few, were moving forward, chasing the enemy, but most of them were remaining in place. They were still firing, for the most part, at least until the enemy ships backed away from their range, but many of them, most of them, were clearly uncertain of what to do.
Tesserax had done his best, sent a message, but it had clearly been less effective than he had hoped. He tried to imagine what his people were thinking…and what they were going to do. They were all well-trained, and the humans who occupied most of the positions were not affected, and they were essentially immune to fear anyway. He had become accustomed to being obeyed implicitly, to any orders being carried out swiftly. But the transmission his entire fleet had received from the enemy had been particularly unnerving. The attacks by the enemy fighters, the strange organization of it, didn’t make much sense, at least to most of them…until the transmission. Before the communique, sending eight or ten fighters against almost every vessel seemed a strange operation, all the more because the impacts hadn’t been particularly strong.
Actually, they hadn’t really exploded at all, they had just wedged into position, and then blasted smaller rockets inside the ships. That didn’t make much sense at first, except to Tesserax, and anyone else who had already suspected the virus…but it was perfectly rational. It extended the reach of the virus, the smaller interior projectiles cutting through the weak, inner walls of the ships, spreading their content around wildly, and dramatically reducing the effectiveness of bulkheads in blocking the virus. Tesserax was fairly sure that S’Argevon’s bridge, at least, had not been penetrated, but he knew that was just luck…and he suspected that many of his people, perhaps most, had been exposed to the virus.
And now they all knew. He had tried to spread some doubt, and he had stated that the research being done had progressed much further than it had, but now, as he looked out at his fleet, and at the enemy’s, he realized that many, perhaps most, of his people were at the very least, confused.
And at the worst, rebellious.
His crews were courageous, he knew, but there was a difference between engaging in battle, fighting and taking the chance of dying, and being, in essence, doomed. He could see the uncertainty, the delays in taking the required actions…and he didn’t know what to do. He thought about sending another message, more orders, but what could he say that he hadn’t already? If his people blamed him at all for their situation, maybe he would do better by simply remaining quiet.
He stared at the screen, watching as the enemy continued their withdrawal. He had hurt them, badly, but he realized that enough of them were likely to escape to at maintain a fleet-sized presence, at least if more of his people didn’t start to pursue. That would mean another major battle, but before that, he would have to regain control over his force, and somehow compel his people to advance quickly, to finish off the enemy while they still could.
Before they started to die.
That wasn’t how he would put it, of course, but he didn’t doubt it himself. It was very unlikely that a cure would be developed, certainly in time to save his people. There were likely others who weren’t infected, certainly those in the few ships that weren’t hit, as well as others in sections of his vessels that remained cut off, that weren’t penetrated by the internal parts of the torpedoes. Still, he realized that it was likely that seventy to eighty percent of his crews—his Highborn crews—were now infected. Possibly even higher, maybe as many as 90%.
That was a disaster, and even if he cleared out the humans, somehow managed to finish them off, he knew that there was almost no chance of making a case to Ellerax. He would almost certainly be removed from command at the very least…and possibly worse. Those thoughts danced around in his head, but he pushed them aside. He realized there was nothing he could do about them now, that even if he had once thought his strength, his force, was strong enough to at least stand up and face at least part of the home fleet, he now doubted that his people would follow him…not against Ellerax. He was fortunate enough to maintain command now, against the enemy fleet, but there was no way he could exert the level of control to stand up to Ellerax. But the more he could damage the humans, the closer he could bring them to ruin, the better case he would have when it finally came down to dealing with Ellerax, even if the best he could get was just to be relieved but otherwise not punished.
That wasn’t much to seek, he thought, but it was probably all he could hope for now. It was a long way from his earlier expectations, when he had imagined becoming a clear number two in his society, even in replacing Ellerax.
He sat quietly, looking calm…but inside, he was beginning to lose control. He didn’t know what to do, and he wasn’t sure there was anything at all that could be done. Except throw himself before Ellerax, try to convince the ruler of the Highborn that he had done the best possible, that the enemy’s discovery of the virus, their aggressive deployment of it, had been unexpected and wasn’t his fault. That much was true, at least. It wasn’t his doing…not unless you looked at the time he had given the enemy, and you felt that they should have been long-conquered by now.
That was a problem, but perhaps the greatest issue was the fact that he hadn’t reported the enemy’s possession of the virus immediately. He thought about the situation, considering it from every perspective. He couldn’t come up with anything he could do, except a realization that he had to destroy the enemy, that he had to at least complete the conquest of them. He didn’t figure that would alleviate all of the punishment he would probably get, but no matter how he figured it, that was the only thing he could do.
And yet, his forces were in disarray, his Highborn commanders and crew reacting to the news that many of them—most perhaps—had been infected with the disease. He almost sent another message, urging them to stay focused on the battle, to finish off as many humans as they could…but something stopped him. He wasn’t sure how his people would react, whether they would obey, and he didn’t want to risk creating more problems than he already had. He told himself that the humans were already badly hurt, that he would be able to follow up after he reestablished control…but even as he thought that, he could feel something else growing. Doubt. Worries that his people were badly hurt, that their conduct was going to remain focused on the infection, on the possibility that many of them—most of them, perhaps—were going to die.
He realized his people had never faced defeat, not really. Even in the beginning, when they were driven out of the empire, they had endured, and they rose back up quickly, even as their foe declined and was destroyed.
He looked up again, watching the enemy force, badly battered but still sizable, retreat. He knew his forces could hurt them very badly, could possibly even virtually destroy them…but he realized they weren’t willing at the moment, not most of them. The enemy was retreating. They were defeated, and that was enough for most of his people right now.
He wasn’t even sure he could retain effective command, at least until word arrived from Ellerax removing it. To do that, to maintain his position, he was sure he had to pull back now, give a chance for the shock the enemy had inflicted to dissipate, at least somewhat. Many of his people were going to get sick, very sick, but he recognized that they were courageous too, that once the surprise wore off, they would fight, perhaps even more aggressively for a time. He even told himself that if he could follow up very quickly, score another victory, perhaps the final one this time, maybe he could even convince Ellerax that none of what had happened was his fault, that the humans had proven far more capable than any of his people had expected. That seemed unlikely at least, but in his current mindset, he at least accepted it as a possibility.
He would order his fleet to pull back. He would show concern for all those infected, and then, when the time was right, he would call on them to remain with the colors, to follow up quickly on the retiring enemy fleet. He counted on the anger his people would feel at the spreading of the virus, and he intended to do everything he could to exacerbate it. He would incite his people to want vengeance, and he would lead them forward again.
But not today.
He reached out for his communicator, turning his eyes over to his communications officer. “Put me on fleetcom,” he said, trying his best to sound calm.
He waited for a few seconds, while the officer set up the link. “You are live, Sir.”
He looked down into his microphone, pausing for just a few seconds. Then he began, “Attention all fleet units…pull back. We have badly damaged the enemy, but we have also been hurt by them. We will reorganize and get a feeling for how much damage we have suffered, and then we will go forward again. We will not let the enemy retreat far, and we will be on the move very quickly, leaving behind our most damaged vessels and continuing after the foe with everything else. I realize that many of you are concerned that you may have gotten the disease, and possibly, some of you have, but that changes nothing. We must end this war, and we must do so quickly. With any luck, the cure will be developed very soon, fast enough to help all those who are infected.”
He didn’t believe that at all, but he said it anyway. He needed cooperation from these people…people who would likely be dead in six months, and giving them some level of hope only increased his chances of gaining their assistance. “I ask all of you, please, whatever your opinions, whatever your thoughts…remember that you are Highborn, and that you all have a mission. We must conquer these humans, and we must do so now. I urge you all to remember that, to stay focused. We will conduct whatever repairs are possible very quickly. Then, we will leave in a matter of days, and this time we will stay on the human’s tail…until they turn and fight again, or we reach the Confederation capital!” He said the words, even speculated some degree of success in persuading his people to go along, to stay the course.
But inside, he was a mess, worrying about maintaining control of his fleet…and scared that Ellerax would strip him of its command…and possibly worse. Much worse.
* * *
Ellerax stared at the display, trying the best he could to maintain his outer demeanor, but inside he was coming apart. The enemy was winning the battle, he couldn’t debate that, not anymore. His forces were hurting them badly, no question, but it wasn’t going to be enough.
Worse, even, he realized that the enemy forces, particularly the remnants of their truly large vessels, were almost certainly faster than his own ships. Much faster. The thoughts were still dancing around in his head, fighting with almost four hundred years of confidence, of certainty of victory. He realized, in a sense, that he was going to lose, even that there was likely no escape, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to accept that. He was the lord of the Highborn, the most exalted individual, and the smartest, the most capable entity ever born. At least to his way of thinking. He couldn’t understand how he had come to this point, what had led him to such a disaster. He had reviewed endless records, evaluated the enemy’s forces…but he hadn’t known about the hidden vessels, the vast ships that had been somehow kept for him for two hundred years of war, and were released at precisely the right time.
He still believed that he was the ultimate creation, the most intelligent of everyone who had come before him, but that now crossed paths with the clearly better technology of the enemy. The advantages of the vessels his people had fought for two centuries were bad enough, but he could explain those by presuming the enemy was older than his people, that they had put many more years of research into their fleet. But the new ships were so vast, so superior…they were in another realm. Each of them could face dozens of his own largest vessels, and they could win. He couldn’t explain it, and his mind sank deeper into despair as he watched more and more of his ships destroyed.
He tried to calm himself, to consider what he could do. He was the smartest individual ever. There had to be something he could do, some way he could turn things around…but he came up blank. His own ship was pulling back, trying to escape, as were all of his vessels. But even as he watched his force trying to withdraw—to escape—the enemy ships blasted their own engines, moving faster than his, coming even closer than they had been and shooting the entire way. More of his vessels were being destroyed, and as he looked out, watched what was going on, he realized that he might die, too.
That was a strange realization. Of course, he could have been killed in the fight at any time, destroyed by one of the enemy vessels. He had positioned himself back a bit, left a little room between his ship and the enemy, but he realized it hadn’t been enough. His ship was still within range, firing at the foe, and that certainly meant that the enemy was close enough to blast him. His vessel had suffered damage, and he realized it was luck more than anything that had spared him so far, while so many of his people had been killed. His survival was nothing more than good fortune, he realized. He could have been hit and killed at any time. It was just luck that had allowed him to survive so far, to escape the fate to which so many of his people had already succumbed.
He stared at the screens, checking the enemy vessels, even then blasting their engines, following his ships. Some of his vessels would likely escape, he realized, but as he looked, he realized that most of them wouldn’t. The few that did pull back, the fortunate ones, in a manner of speaking…they might end up actually being the unluckiest of all of them. They would be hunted down by the victorious enemy, destroyed one by one…and they would lack the numbers to put up any serious fight.
He thought about it, tried desperately to come to some conclusion, some analysis that told him anything else. But there was nothing.
His ship shook hard, suddenly. The hit was not a direct one, but it still caused considerable damage. His speed had been reduced, to at best half his normal velocity, and he realized that only took away from his already small chances at escape.
He looked around the bridge, saw that his people, his Highborn, were all on the edge, trying to keep things together. Some succeeded, and others less so, but every one of them stayed at his post and conducted his operations. The humans were all calmer, their Collars pretty much removing fear from them, at least in terms of their actions. He realized now that his enemy had been far stronger than they had appeared. That didn’t really make sense to him. If they always had so much strength, why didn’t they just deploy it all and end things once and for all?
His eyes went up to his screens, checking on his fleet. More ships had been destroyed in the last several minutes, and he realized as he watched and once again checked the distances and the known velocity of the enemy vessels, that he wasn’t going to escape. A few ships might get away from the other fight, the one against what he’d originally thought of as the whole enemy fleet. His entire force had faced that at first, and they had inflicted immense damage before they had been forced to divert a significant amount of their strength to turn and engage the new arrivals.
No, he thought. They are not “arrivals.” They have been here throughout the entire fight, invisible to my ships until they attacked. Their ability to remain hidden while so close…it is another technological advantage they have.
His mind was going crazy, his insurmountable feeling that his people were unbeatable, invincible squaring off against the impending doom they faced. He struggled to keep his external look as calm as he could, but even that started to fade a bit. He was losing. Worse, he was probably going to die. He had considered that before, of course, occasionally, but he had never really believed it would happen. He was immortal, at least he had seen no sign that his people aged…but they could still be killed.
He realized, on one level, that he was responsible for the current situation, that he had started all of the conflicts. He had turned that around, built up the thought that the enemy had attacked him, or at least provoked his own actions…but deep down he knew the truth. He was immortal, intelligent, vastly capable…and yet he had led his people down the road they had taken. To ruin.
* * *
Achilles felt strange. He was certain now that his forces would win the battle, that they would prevail and completely destroy the enemy fleet that was present. That was good, he knew, despite his own very considerable losses…but still, he was conflicted. He knew now that he had to destroy the enemy totally, their fleets, their population centers…everything He had to hunt them down, every one of them, and he had to kill them.
That was a foreign type of thought to him. Millennia before, when he was still young, he had fought to destroy the Regent, to eliminate it from space. There were similarities to that, the feeling of a conflict that was to the end, that could only be concluded when one side or the other was totally eliminated.
But the Regent had been a machine, and all of its fleets and minions were also robots. He had never fought against living creatures before, not with the intent of committing genocide. But he was certain now that he was correct. The Highborn were defective, and the chance they would change was very small, if it existed at all. In the end, humanity’s freedom, their ability to grow, to develop and reach their own status where they would become something like his people were, depended on it.
He detested the thought of committing genocide, of hunting down every member of the Highborn and killing them. But it had to be done. He was certain of that now. Any of them that were allowed to survive would eventually grow in numbers again, and they would make another try to conquer all. He was sure of it.
He watched as his forces continued the battle, blasting away, destroying Highborn vessels. The enemy was shooting back, of course, and they had taken out some of his ships…but the incoming fire had diminished strongly. Sixty-five percent of the enemy fleet was already gone, destroyed. And the rest would soon follow. He hadn’t been checking the reports of his own damage, of the losses his fleet had suffered, at least not carefully. It was too painful for him. But he knew they were bad…very bad. Still, they weren’t enough, not for the enemy to prevail.
He sat totally still, watching as the foe began to realize they had lost the fight. Some of them fought hard, even more aggressively than they had before, but more of them began to try to flee, to escape. He saw that, and he turned and issued orders for his vessels to pursue. He knew he wouldn’t get every enemy ship, that some at least would escape. But he wanted as many as possible. He wanted to break the enemy here, leave them with nothing but a few badly damaged ships scattered around. He knew what would follow the battle, and as much as it upset him, he realized it was necessary. He had to send his forces to every planet occupied by the Highborn…and he had to kill every one of them, both in their ships and on the ground. However long that took, to hunt them all down and destroy them, anything else was just begging for a return, for the Highborn to rise again and return in a couple centuries. And that, he knew, he couldn’t allow.
He felt strange, content that it appeared that his people were indeed going to prevail, but also upset, horrified by what he knew he had to do. It was one thing to take on the enemy fleet, to fight like crazy to destroy as many ships as possible, but to visit planets, dozens of them, no hundreds, and to systematically eliminate the Highborn, to kill all of them, both military and civilian. It was like nothing he had ever done before, and he felt sick when he thought about it. But he knew it had to be done.
He turned and looked up at the display. Yes, he had a long and incredibly difficult task to carry out, but first and foremost, he had to destroy the enemy fleet, to blast as many of their ships to bits as possible before they could escape. That was his first goal, and he tried his best to put everything else out of his mind, to focus on the fight at hand.
He was successful at that, at least enough.
Chapter Forty-Three
Inside Pegasus
Corvallus System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Andi sat on Pegasus’s bridge, staring out as she blasted her way back toward the fleet. She hadn’t wanted to leave the force, to leave Tyler, but she had gone back to get her child, and Akella had gone with her, to retrieve her two kids as well. The children were all asleep now, but that was something that had been difficult for her for quite some time. She got an hour here and there, but mostly, she spent the nights staring out, wondering about what she could do, to help Tyler in the desperate fight…and to retreat to the depths of unknown space, to try to salvage some kind of life for Cassie.
She had tried to tell herself the emotions she felt were the result of the time she had spent away, the fact that she missed her daughter—which she did, of course, terribly—but she knew as well as Akella did that the primary reason for the trip, for both of them to go, was that they were preparing to escape…to leave the Confederation, all known space forever, and to try desperately to flee from the Highborn.
That seemed impossible, and maybe it was, but she was going to try anyway. Perhaps there was an inhabited world that had been forgotten about, located somewhere far off, away from the others…or even a vacant but habitable one distant enough away to remain undetected. She hadn’t thought that far ahead, and part of her was still hoping for victory, for the virus to work. But she had to get her daughter first, she had to be ready to flee on a moment’s notice. But now that she had her, before she took off, fled across unknown space, she was heading back to the fleet, to see what had happened.
To find out if Tyler Barron had survived…and to beg him one more time to come with her.
She knew Akella had much the same thoughts. For her, there was also her position as the senior member of the Hegemony Council to consider. That was, of course, far less than it had been. Every planet of the Hegemony had been conquered, and all that remained free was the remains of the fleet, and a relatively small number of people who had escaped. While the escapees included the entire council, the truth was they had very little to do. More than 99% of the people she once ruled over were now prisoners. Worse, the enemy had the ability to install Collars, to take full control of any individuals. Andi guessed that hadn’t been done on the worlds of the Hegemony, at least not in any real numbers. Yet. But she imagined that Akella was very concerned about it, and she understood why. The science about the Collars was very hazy to her people, and only one had ever been removed successfully. That was, of course, Stockton, but his Collar had been malfunctioning. To date, no one had ever had a working Collar removed, not successfully…and, in truth, Andi just didn’t know if it was possible.
She had just jumped into Corvallus, a system adjacent to Ventica…where she had left Tyler, and most of her other friends, behind, waiting for the Highborn. Whether there had been a battle there yet or not, she didn’t know, at least at first…but then ships suddenly began appearing at the warp point, the one that led to Ventica. At first, she wasn’t sure it meant anything…she was still far away, and her scans were poor. But more and more ships came through, and as they did, she started to get some more precise readings. Many of them were damaged, most in fact. She quickly realized that she had come back just as the fleet had finished the battle…and retreated.
She saw that a considerable number of vessels had apparently escaped, which meant, at least, that the enemy had not destroyed the fleet utterly. That was good, she realized, at least reasonably so. But the retreat to Corvallus confirmed what she had expected. The fleet hadn’t managed to hold in Ventica, and there was nothing else she could assume from that except that the war had entered its final phase. They had already been driven through the entire Hegemony, itself twice the size of the Confederation, and through all of the abandoned space in between the two powers. And now, they were being pushed back into the Confederation.
She realized that even farther out sat the Alliance, and beyond that the small independents…but if the Confederation fell, she realized it was over. Whatever scraps might remain of the Alliance fleet—and she doubted there would be much by then—they wouldn’t be able to make a stand. They might fight, indeed if any of them survived the fall of the Confederation with their ethos intact, they would battle to the end. But that would come very quickly, and then all known human space would be conquered.
Unless the virus worked…really worked. She knew that creating the virus from the imperial records of it had been an amazing job, that it had given her side at least something they could fight with. She had led an expedition, one of three, and all of them had returned, seemingly successful at completing their mission of infecting many enemy worlds. But even then she had realized that the planets they had reached were only the forward outposts of the Highborn. Where the Highborn had come from, their “home,” she thought, realizing that they had actually started in the empire but then were expelled and ended up somewhere beyond the imperial borders, was unknown to her.
She had been in favor of the operation to infect as many of them as possible, but in the intervening time, she had become more despondent, realizing that even if she was successful, if the attacks killed every Highborn on all the planets they had hit, it would only buy her people some time. The enemy would likely respond again from their home worlds, and probably with even more force than they had the first time.
Perhaps they would even change their purpose, from conquest to destruction. She realized that would upset many of her people, but to her it didn’t matter. Being a slave was no better than being dead, not to her. It was probably even worse. Even her childhood, as brutal as it had been, was better than subjugation by the Highborn. She had clawed her way out of her earlier situation, and even if she had strayed a bit beyond the bounds of the law to do it, she had come a long way since then. She had met Tyler, who’s background was as different from her own as it was possible to be…but she loved him dearly, and she was sure he felt the same way about her. But she also doubted that he would accept her pleas, that he would leave with her. She knew he doubted that the fleet could prevail, perhaps even more than she did, but she was just as sure that he would remain with them, that even his love for Andi couldn’t pry him from the obligations of his command.
Still…she had to try once more. Perhaps if the fleet had been defeated badly enough he would accept. She didn’t really believe it, but she had to give it her best effort. Assuming, of course, he had survived the battle. That was a real question that she did her best not to think about.
She began checking her scanners, searching for Omicron. She didn’t expect to find it, certainly not yet. One thing she knew about Tyler Barron was that he would not be at the front of a retreat.
She finished checking all of the vessels that had come in, and she confirmed that Omicron was not there…yet. She took a deep breath, fought back against the fear that Barron was already dead, that she would never see him again.
No! That wasn’t possible. She had to see him again, had to have one more chance to persuade him to go with her, and even if she failed, she needed one last opportunity to see him, to spend some time alone with him, even a few moments. She hated herself for even being willing to leave him behind, and she wouldn’t in any other situation…save for Cassiopeia. Whatever she had done in her life, whatever Barron had done…Cassie was innocent, and she deserved at least a chance at living. And Andi defined living as something other than existing under the boot heel of the Highborn.
If that was even possible.
* * *
Atara sat in her command chair, silently watching her ships transit to the adjacent system. She was glad to escape, and a little surprised, but her thoughts were heavily with Tyler. He had ordered the entire fleet to depart, to blast toward the transit point at their maximum speeds. But he hadn’t come. His ship was waiting for the last of the fighters…alone. She knew Tyler was an amazing tactician, and she wouldn’t bet against him in any reasonable conflict, but this was literally hundreds of enemy vessels against Omicron. Even with most of the enemy force pursuing the rest of the fleet, which hadn’t happened yet, not for the most part, she couldn’t imagine Omicron surviving long enough to pick up the last few fighters and then making it all the way back toward the transit point. It just seemed impossible.
Unless the enemy didn’t come after him. There was a chance that the enemy would be preoccupied by Barron’s announcement, that they wouldn’t focus on taking down a single ship. Her own retreat had been far easier than she had anticipated. A few enemy vessels had followed her, but most of them remained in place. Even those that had pursued her at first backed off when they realized that the rest of the fleet hadn’t come. Whatever else Barron’s announcement—and of course Stockton’s desperate operation that had preceded and allowed it—had accomplished, it seemed that a decent portion of the fleet would actually depart the battle. Her losses were terrible, all of them were…but she still had a halfway decent force, and so did the other commanders. Of course, once the enemy got over their shock and truly decided what to do, she was almost certain they would come after the fleet, almost assuredly with vengeance on their minds.
And they would get it too. The enemy had lost more ships than her side had, but still, they vastly outnumbered the combined human fleet, and her vessels—all of them actually, not just hers—would be hunted down and destroyed.
She thought about pulling back far, abandoning numerous inhabited systems to the enemy, but even that wouldn’t work. Few of the human vessels had anything like their full maneuverability power for use, and while the enemy force had suffered considerable damage as well, many of their vessels had barely fought. There was enough power left in their fleet to destroy the human remains, even without their damaged vessels.
“All of our ships have transited, Admiral. There is just us remaining.” Trotsky spoke, doing his best to retain a calm demeanor, but she could hear the fear. Trotsky was relatively new to her command, but he had served right at her side…and he clearly wasn’t sure if she intended for Dauntless to transfer now, or to wait for the last few ships outside of her command—and most of all, Omicron—to make it back. He knew what she wanted to do, she figured…but Atara was a senior officer of the navy, and she had been Barron’s junior for more than twenty years. She had to obey him, to do what he had ordered her to do.
“Bring us through, Garvus…” She said it in a somewhat dejected tone, as if it didn’t matter whether they made it or not. That was more or less how she felt, she realized, but she remembered her obligation to duty, and the fact that her people were listening to her, deriving some level of support—or the reverse—from her. “Bring us through,” she said again, this time doing everything she could to shore up her voice, to sound hopeful. Even though she, largely, wasn’t.
“Yes, Admiral.”
She looked up at the screen, checked on the position of the other ships in the fleet. The Hegemony had all transported already, except their badly damaged ships, as had most of Clint Winter’s formation. Vian Tulus’s ships were most of those still there. That was partially because of Tulus and his Alliance warriors sharing the code they did and hating to retreat, but it was also that their ships were generally the slowest in the fleet.
Most of the vessels in decent condition had already transited, and she was surprised to see that even the battered vessels, the ones with thirty percent or even less of their engine power looked like they were going to make it. Whether they went any farther than the next system, if Barron’s words, the upset they had clearly caused among the enemy, faded away and they seriously began their pursuit, was a question she couldn’t answer.
Or maybe she just didn’t want to.
Chapter Forty-Four
Near Planet Dannith, Ventica III
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron looked out, almost stunned at what he saw. The enemy was pulling back. Most of his fleet was already out of range, and much of it had begun to transit through the warp point. But even his own ship, by now the most forward one by far, was largely being left alone. He had taken Omicron ahead, to give Stockton and the others a chance, though how much of one he hadn’t been sure. Still, he’d had no choice, not as he saw it. Once again, his pilot had carried the ball, had delivered the primary blow. He wasn’t sure how effective it would be long term, but between Stockton’s assault and his own announcement of the effects, it seemed they had at least bought some time. The enemy’s fleet appeared to be disrupted. It wasn’t moving forward, not in any kind of formation at least, and that gave him some hope.
He watched as the last enemy vessels within range of him pulled back and cut their firing. His ship was battered, fairly badly, but her engines were still at 80%, and once the last few fighters had landed, he intended to see if he couldn’t nudge that up to 90%. He started to even believe he might get away. He knew it was still a chancy result, that just a couple enemy ships could finish him off quickly…but they all seemed to be occupied for the moment by issues apart from his single vessel, sitting just outside their range.
He looked up at his screen. Most of the fighters would be landed in the next three or four minutes, but to get all of them would take at least fifteen, a quarter of an hour. That didn’t seem like much, but he realized it was up to the enemy, not to him. If any of the nearby vessels decided to come attack him, they could be there in two or three minutes. But whatever happened, Barron had decided that Omicron would depart only with the last of the fighters aboard. His future depended more on the enemy’s actions that anything else.
He understood that his decision, risking over three thousand crew to wait to retrieve fewer than two dozen pilots now, really didn’t make any sense. But to him it was essential. He knew the only reason any of his vessels were getting a chance to leave was the desperate assault that the fighters had led, and he was determined that all of them would get a chance, at least, to land. Whether they just died a few moments later, as Omicron was destroyed trying to escape, was still an open question. But as he stared at the screen and watched the enemy movements, he had some hope that he would escape, after all.
From this fight, at least. But he knew that even if Stockton’s attack had been successful, if most of the enemy vessels had been hit and infected, it would take months for the disease to appear, and even longer for it to begin killing the Highborn. If they managed to remain organized once the shock wore off—assuming they simply didn’t have a cure, which was still a question—they could probably take down the Confederation in that time.
But what if they didn’t? What if the virus did affect most of the fleet, and it made them less willing to spend their final months of life chasing after the free humans? Perhaps they would even begin to argue with each other, to fight among themselves. Certainly, those infected would have a different view than those who had escaped…perhaps there could even be some kind of civil conflict. He knew his thoughts were going wild now, that there was no way he could know how the enemy would react. But he had begun to get some hope, at least, that Omicron would escape, that all of the remnants of his fleet would. That was enough for today.
He turned to check out the fighters coming in, to update his estimate on when the last of them would be aboard. There were fewer than ten still out, and he understood the argument that he should leave immediately, that such a small number of pilots simply wasn’t worth the risk he was taking. But he had to stay. He believed he would have, whoever was still out there, but he had checked the final ship, the one farthest away. It was Stockton.
Barron had a long history with Stockton, and despite their relationship always having been one of command on his part, he realized that the pilot was one of his best friends. They didn’t spend much time together, perhaps, not outside of duty, but still, he was a friend…a good one.
And Barron was going to stay put, to give him a chance to escape.
He looked up as three of the fighters that were still out made their way back and landed. There were six of them still out there now, all of them coming on as quickly as they could. Barron knew the farthest one was Stockton.
Just a few minutes, he thought, watching as two more of the incoming vessels landed. There were only four left, and he realized the absurdity of putting the flagship and its thousands of crew members at risk for four pilots…but he did it anyway. He had been convinced already that Jake Stockton was back—really back—to duty, and now he was sure of it. Whatever Stockton had been through, and he knew he would never truly understand that, his fighter commander was back…truly back. He was fond of Reg Griffin, and pleased that he had possessed a fighter commander as good as she was when he lost Stockton, but he had decided. Jake Stockton had been the commander of his entire fighter corps for many years, and he would be again. Reg Griffin would have to accept the number two slot, and as much as he was sure she would be disappointed, he told himself she would understand…perhaps even that on some core level, she would agree.
That was assuming Jake made it back. As Barron stared at the screen, as more data from the craft transmitted back, he could see Stockton’s fuel was almost gone. Even as the other craft reached Omicron and landed, leaving Stockton as the only fighter left in space, Barron realized that his ship was running out of fuel. He told himself that his pilot would manage it, that he would make it back…but as he watched, he wasn’t sure. He had the utmost confidence in Stockton’s flying abilities, but if he ran out of fuel before he was aboard…even the greatest pilot in the Confederation service would die.
He knew there were enemy ships fairly close to Omicron…but so far none had advanced. They were clearly dealing with their own problems now. His transmission had been successful…at least in securing time for his fleet to escape. He wasn’t sure that would apply to Omicron, if his vessel would somehow complete its mission and return, or if some of the enemy ships would wake up and move in on him. It was only one vessel, he realized, and perhaps the enemy would just ignore it. Destroying it wouldn’t make a huge difference in the fleet’s remaining strength, at least not in the ship itself. He hadn’t really thought about that…he had just ordered his vessel to do what he felt he had to do. But now, he realized, he was surprised by his survival, by the chance that he might actually escape.
Whether any of that really mattered, if it only bought him a few days or weeks of life before they were engaged again and destroyed, he decided he wanted every day he could get. He had gone into the battle not expecting to survive it, and the possibility that he might actually make it, even for just a few days, was suddenly overwhelming. He wanted to live, to claw his way to the next day, and the one after that. He hated the history he had lived through most of his adult life, more than twenty years of almost endless conflict. He fought off the feelings he was having, the thoughts of another life, the one he might have if his father and grandfather hadn’t been in the military. Perhaps he would have run a business—or anything else. Anything but killing people.
Of course, that wouldn’t have changed anything. Someone else would be wearing his uniform, and the enemy would still be there. And, if the choice was being one of the fighters, struggling to somehow endure or being a civilian, sitting and waiting to see if he was conquered, he realized that was no choice at all, not to him. He was in the right place, he realized, though he might have chosen a different time to live.
None of that mattered, though. He was who he was, and he had done it well. He knew that, but he also realized that no matter how well he had done, all that really mattered was the ending. If he fought bravely, if every spacer under him did, but they lost, the histories would be written by their enemies. They would be cast as the villains, as the evil side…if they were mentioned much at all.
He shook his head, struggling to bring his mind back to what mattered right now, to retrieving Jake Stockton, and then doing everything he could to escape. Tomorrow, and every day after, depended on that. He was having some trouble restoring his focus, but then he saw the ship approaching, getting ready to land. He was tempted to contact Stockton, but he realized that any distraction now was likely to reduce his chances. He knew he was low on fuel…very low. But he was almost back. Another minute and he would be aboard, and Barron’s problem would then move on to somehow getting his ship out of there, back to the system where the rest of the fleet was even then transiting too. Then he could think about tomorrow, about what to do next…but not until.
He stared at the image on the screen, looking at Stockton’s ship even then moving in. It seemed to be going a bit too fast, at least to his eyes. But Jake Stockton was the best pilot he had, hell, the best that had ever lived, likely.
He can do it, he thought to himself…but, in truth, he wasn’t sure. He wasn’t sure at all.
* * *
Stockton stared straight ahead, trying to force everything from his mind…except flying. His ship was almost back. He had come across much of the system, flown farther than any of his people, but even as he approached Omicron, he wasn’t sure whether he would make it or not.
He was tempted to blast with all of his remaining fuel, but he knew he needed some to slow down for his final landing. He had brought his speed down considerably, and he had mostly brought the vessel to a direct course for Omicron. But he needed to make some adjustments…and he wasn’t sure he had enough fuel left for that and for slowing. Or for either.
But it didn’t matter, not really. He had to do both. If he didn’t have enough fuel, if he couldn’t land, then he would die. And he didn’t like that option. He wanted to survive, badly, perhaps more than he had in a long while, but he was also prepared to die if there was no other option. Most of the pilots had a dark streak running through them. The good ones, at least, were ready to die if it was necessary, and most of them even assumed they would at some point in their duties. He was no exception. Stockton had always assumed that he would be killed carrying out his duty, that his last seconds would be at the controls of his ship. The fighter corps had the highest casualty rate of the entire service…by far. And he had long outlived most of those who had begun their careers alongside him. Most of the pilots he had first launched with were dead now, and he wondered if he was about to join them.
Still…he wanted to survive, even if it was just for a while longer. He wanted to see Stara again, even if it was just for a short time. And he wanted to lead his fighters again, to have at least one more chance to lash out at the enemy.
He nudged his controls, barely putting out thrust, as little as he could to adjust his course. He knew his life depended, among other things, on the smallest amount of fuel he could imagine. Every last drop of the stuff was vital now. Without enough to alter the angle of his thrust, he couldn’t reach the ship. But if he didn’t save enough to finish his deceleration, he would crash into the landing bay. That would possibly cause more damage to Omicron, of course, but it would also be the end of him.
He looked out from his cockpit. He could actually see the ship, now. He was less than a kilometer away, and he saw the damage, the battered guns and the rents in the hull. He knew the vessel had been hit fairly badly in the fight, and he wondered how much engine power still remained to it, and whether it had any real chance at escape. Normally, he would say ‘no,’ there was no way it could…but he could see the enemy fleet, and it appeared that much of it, at least, seemed to be reacting to Barron’s message, that he had at least caused disorder among them.
Even though he realized how far he had come, how much behind the rest of his fighters he was, he was glad that Barron had waited for him. He wasn’t sure he would have done the same thing, put the lives of three thousand crewman at stake to save a few pilots. But he knew Barron well, as well as almost anyone, he supposed, and it actually made sense. Tyler Barron was a genius, perhaps the very best commander in Confederation history, but despite that—or possibly because of it—he occasionally made decisions that seemed impossible to justify. Like putting his flagship, and himself, in a deadly situation, only to try and retrieve a few pilots. Whether that was a strength or weakness—or both—he wasn’t sure, but he was glad for the chance it gave him…whatever that was.
Even as he was happy that Barron had waited, he still figured his chance of making it, of his fumes of fuel being just enough to get his vessel into the dock safely, at roughly fifty percent. That was actually much better than he would have assumed earlier, before he realized that Barron was staying in place, waiting for him, but still, it was terrifying. There was one chance in two, he figured, that his life would be over in the next minute. And even if he made it, he would still be in the ship, the last vessel of the fleet, making a mad dash for escape. If any of the enemy vessels decided to pursue, what were the chances of actually surviving the battle, of living to see tomorrow? One in three? One in four?
Less?
He struggled to put the thoughts out of his head. He focused on his landing, and nothing but. He blasted a bit of thrust to the side, bringing him to a direct line of sight to the launch bay. Most pilots weren’t as accurate as he was. They needed to be even closer before they made their final adjustments, but to Stockton it was almost automatic.
Now, he was almost guaranteed of making it back into the vessel, though whether that would be at a manageable speed or not depended on if the last bits of fuel were enough for his slowdown. His monitor showed that he was out of fuel, but it had shown the same reading when he had blasted the engines a moment ago, and he hoped he had enough left for one more push.
He looked out, realized that he was coming in at a slight angle, but it was not enough to cause him to miss the opening. He knew he should blast just a touch, straighten out his approach, but he wasn’t sure about his fuel. He stared ahead, waiting for the very last minute to blast—hopefully—his engines, to slow down, if not to a total stop, at least to a survivable speed. His ship was moving slowly by normal “in space” standards, but it was still at a pace that would slam hard into a bulkhead and probably kill him.
He reached the point where he would usually slow down, but he didn’t do it. Not yet. He waited, coming in quickly. He could hear beeping, his fighter warning him of the ship he was approaching, but he ignored it. He was waiting until the very last second.
He didn’t know if he had any fuel at all left, but his hand was on his joystick, his finger atop the controls that would—or would not—blast the thrust he needed. He was coming in quickly, faster than usual, but he wanted to wait. Either he would get one short blast, enough to survive, or he wouldn’t. But at least he wouldn’t have long to think about it if things went badly.
He was down to the last few seconds, moving far more quickly that a normal landing. Conventionally, he would have slowed down several additional times as he moved closer, but he realized that was less fuel efficient than a single blast…slightly. And he needed everything he could get.
Hs ship approached Omicron, the battleship obscuring almost his entire view. He thought he could see inside the landing bay, at least a bit. But still, he waited.
And then he pressed his finger hard, and he hoped he had enough fuel.
He felt his body jerk, and he was glad that he had any response. For an instant, a fraction of a second, he felt good. He was going to make it. He still had fuel.
And then, halfway through the brief pulse, his engines went dead.
He was coming in, but his speed was still too high. It wasn’t as bad as it had been, but it was still too much. And there was no way to pull out now, to avoid the bay. He thought about reaching down, sending a warning via the comm. But there wasn’t time. He only had a few seconds left.
His ship sailed into the bay…at least his targeting of that was on. The next second or two dragged on, seemingly forever. He realized there was nothing he could do, but he pressed down on the fuel button anyway, praying that there was just a bit of fuel left. Nothing happened.
He took a deep breath, and he closed his eyes. He was going to die, he was almost sure of it. He had always known he would be lost in a fighter one day, and he realized that day was finally here. He thought of his career…and of Stara. He had always been a challenge, he realized, a difficult one to date…but he did love her. He thought of her at his funeral—he hated the idea of such a waste of time, but he realized that he would have one if Omicron made it out of the system—and he felt sorry for her. She was loyal to him, she always had been, and in his own way, he had been the same to her. He wished he could see her again, even just to say goodbye.
But then, his ship landed…hard. It came down on the floor of the bay, and the front stand gave way almost immediately, jerking him forward. There were sparks all around his ship, but there was no fuel to catch fire…that, at least, was a blessing. But the fighter had come in with considerable speed, and even the friction it experienced wasn’t enough to stop it, not immediately.
It struck the wall at the end of the bay…hard. It split down the length of it, and his ship started to come apart. He was thrown—with enough force to tear out his safety harness, and he flew forward. He could feel the injuries, the damage done to him as he was thrown forward. Broken ribs, certainly, and a lot more. He was conscious for a few seconds, and he could feel the pain, intense…and everywhere.
Then, he drifted off into unconsciousness.
Chapter Forty-Five
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Imperial System Q11-2539
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax looked out at the array of forces still deployed in the system. They were almost entirely his. The enemy had retreated, and most of them had already transited, left the system. Worse, his people had let them escape. He realized his forces could have savaged the enemy much more than they had, that they could have prevented many, even most, of them from escaping. But there had been no way to rally them, to get them to obey his commands…not in the short time he’d had. He had thought seriously about trying anyway, pushing them as hard as he could, but he had been too afraid they wouldn’t obey. Then what could he do? If many, even most, of his people refused to obey his commands, he was finished, he realized. That kind of thing tended to grow, to become more and more dire. No, he had decided it was better to back off for the moment, to allow his people to absorb the news of the enemy’s actions.
He understood that his people were all worried about whether they had gotten the virus…whether they would die. He was fairly certain he hadn’t been infected, that the bridge of his ship had remained secure, but that was just luck, he realized. And while he wasn’t terribly concerned that he had contracted the disease, he had a massive number of things to worry about. Ellerax, and his response to what had happened was number one, of course, but it was far from the only thing he had to be frightful of. The spread of the disease was another, not just what the enemy had already done, but what could happen in the next fight…or even in the subsequent contagion. He wasn’t sure there was anything he could do to save himself, to endure the future, but he was certain of one thing.
He was going to defeat the enemy, and he was going to do it as quickly as possible…at least if he could get his people, all of them, infected or not, to fight on, to finish the war. They were scared, of course, worried about the disease. There would be no way to hide it now. Everyone would demand an immediate test. Even those in the remaining ships of the forward command, the ones who weren’t assaulted by the torpedoes, but had already been infected, would find out. They were even in worse shape, having been infected several months ago. They would start to show signs of the disease very soon.
He was shocked, too, surprised at the continued resilience of the enemy. They were defeated, outnumbered, outgunned, with many of their systems occupied, and yet they were still fighting. And fighting well. He couldn’t quite explain it. His judgment of the humans suggested that they might fight fiercely at the beginning, but that they would quickly realize that they were outmatched, and that surrender was their only option. Instead, they kept on fighting, regardless of how many of their worlds he occupied, how far he pushed them back. He had been fighting a war to conquer the humans, not eradicate them, but now he questioned that. Perhaps the way to secure a surrender was to increase the losses they suffered, to give them a clearer choice…surrender or die.
He turned his head, looked at the display of the planet. It was occupied, with an estimated population of three hundred to five hundred million. That didn’t place it in the top tier, of course, but it was a sizable collection of humans.
A good start.
He turned toward his aide, and he spoke clearly. “Contact the ships that are obeying orders, the ones still moving forward. Order them back.” He paused for a moment. He knew, in a sense, that his command, the orders he was about to give, would change the rest of the war. He figured it would make it clear to the enemy that any further resistance was futile. “Tell them to move to the planet, into orbit.” He was going to show the humans what the alternative to surrender was. And he was going to make sure they saw it all, every moment of it. “Bring us to the planet as well…and set up the scanners. Prepare to launch an array of cameras.”
Yes, he was going to do it. He was going to bombard the planet’s surface, destroy it utterly. He was going to kill every man, woman, and child down there, and then he would send the video to the humans…along with a simple message. This would happen to every planet his fleet reached. Every inhabited world would be bombed to oblivion. Until the remaining humans surrendered.
He stared out as his comm officer followed his orders. Then he turned, looking toward the large screen, his eyes wide, his mind seething with anger toward the humans. They dared to continue fighting, to launch the virus at his people? They were going to pay now…they were going to suffer like nothing they had ever seen before.
* * *
Ellerax sat in his chair motionless. He couldn’t understand what had happened, how he had led his people to defeat. The enemy was stronger than he was, that was totally clear now, but he still couldn’t really accept it. His mind kept falling into a trap, thinking there had to be a way out, some method of pulling victory from the jaws of defeat. But even as that thought came to him, he realized it wasn’t true. He had been created 400 years earlier, and his first defeat, the one at the hands of the empire, was largely the result of his having no prep time, of he and his people being defeated before they could put together a true defense.
That wasn’t the case now. His people had 400 years to build, to expand their forces, and he had been certain that they were now the most powerful force in space. His fleet had numbered well over two thousand vessels, vastly more ships than his enemy possessed, and that didn’t even include the hundreds of ships deployed against the humans. But the opposing vessels were better than his, and the new ones, the truly enormous ships that had emerged for the first time had sealed his fate.
He wondered what he should have done. If he had called back the vessels fighting the humans, would that have been enough? He didn’t know, but something told him ‘no,’ that he would have battered the enemy even more than he had, but he still would have lost. What if he hadn’t launched his massive, concentrated assault? In two hundred years, he hadn’t seen the larger enemy vessels, not once. He couldn’t understand why, what purpose the foe had to hold them back so long. Perhaps if he had just stayed the course, continued fighting normally, in multiple locations, things would have continued as they were. He couldn’t understand why the enemy had not just deployed their truly vast ships earlier, why they had kept them in reserve for so long. It didn’t make any sense, not to him.
He looked around at his people. He could feel the fear growing, the terror. They were probably going to be killed in a few minutes. He knew they were trying to escape, to make it back to the transit point they had entered from. But he was also aware that the likelihood of his making it, of any of the ships, at least those he had led deeper into the system against the larger enemy vessels, escaping was nil. A few of his other ships, the ones he had left back to face the original enemy force, might make it back, but he didn’t fool himself. He had led his people’s massive fleet, their huge force, almost all of their strength into battle…and he had lost.
He tried to think of something to do, to say. He had been the uncontested ruler of his people for 400 years, and now he had led them to disaster. He left a large civilization behind, many worlds with thousands of his people—and billions of humans—on them. In time, they could rebuild, replace the ships he had lost. But as he sat there he knew that the enemy wouldn’t allow that. They would invade, sweep through all of his planets, crushing his orbital defenses—easily, he knew, since they outranged them and there were few ships that would be left to support them—and holding his planets hostage. What they would do, what their intentions were, he didn’t know, but he realized they would very likely be able to destroy his people utterly if they wanted to.
He could feel the sweat all over his body. He realized that he had reached the end of his time. He had imagined a future that spread far and wide, that he would rule all space for a vast period, but he knew now that wouldn’t happen. He couldn’t even escape, he realized, run away with just one ship. He was too far into the system.
He knew his only hope, the only chance he had. Surrender. That was almost impossible for him to consider, but now it was in his mind. Perhaps the enemy would agree, perhaps they would spare his life. Maybe he could negotiate something, create some time to rebuild his fleet.
He turned toward the communications board. “Put me on a wide transmission…no encoding at all.” He wasn’t even sure the enemy could understand him. In two hundred years of war, they had never communicated. But it was all he could do.
“You are live, Sir.” His comm officer managed to answer him, but it was clear that he was as confused and upset as Ellerax was.
He sucked in a deep breath, struggled against his conflicted thoughts. Despite his realization that he couldn’t win, some part of him kept thinking there had to be a way, that if he just thought about it, he could come up with a plan. He knew that was nonsense, that there was no way, but still, it kept hammering at him.
He finally reach out and grabbed the microphone. “Attention…attention…this is the commander of the Highborn fleet. We surrender. I repeat…” He struggled for a few seconds, trying to say the words again. “…we…surrender.” He turned and said to his comm officer, “Order all ships to stop firing.” He wasn’t sure it would work, that the enemy would accept. But he realized that it was his only hope.
He still couldn’t believe it, couldn’t really accept defeat. But now it was a question of survival, and deep down inside of him, his fear of dying, of the entire fleet being wiped out, was even stronger than his confidence, his point of view that he and his people were superior to all.
He stared at the screens, watched as his ships began to abate firing. He hoped the enemy would follow up with the same action, that they would accept his surrender. That would stop the assault, at least, and give him some time…some time to figure a way to betray the foe, to pull victory from the jaws of defeat.
* * *
Achilles stared out, watching the battle coming to its end. He realized he should have done this years before, destroyed the Highborn before they had grown so powerful. He hated the idea of destroying a race, of taking that kind of responsibility into his hands, but he now believed there was no other alternative. The Highborn weren’t just young and still developing. They were evil…and he had come to believe that was a part of them, one they couldn’t outgrow.
They, of course, didn’t see things that way. They believed that they were created to rule, that it was only natural for them to be on top, to command everyone. And there appeared to be no chance they would change that view, not even if they were defeated.
Achilles might still have questioned his analysis, given in to some hope beyond hope that they would change their course, become more like he had originally thought they would be by now. But the problem was, he was out of time. If he was going to do anything about them, it had to be now. In another century, and quite possibly less, the Highborn would become even more powerful than his people. The Mules had been the strongest people for a long time, but unlike the Highborn, they were limited in numbers…and that had become a real problem. There hadn’t been another of his people “born” in almost 40,000 years. He’d had just over a thousand Mules left before the fight, and fairly close to half of them had just been killed in the battle. If the Highborn had possessed another thousand of their vessels, he realized, the fight would have gone a different way, and with it, the struggle for the entire future of the galaxy.
He tried to imagine the Highborn being totally in control, of ruling over all humanity. He attempted to convince himself it would end well, that the Highborn would eventually develop from what they were to something else, beings that sought to help the humans, to bring them forward in a way that was beneficial to them. But he realized his initial assumption was correct. The Highborn would make slaves of the humans, and they would never show them any respect.
“Achilles…we are receiving a transmission from the enemy.” The voice was Leander’s, one of the Highborn in Achilles’ command team. “They are surrendering.” He turned and looked at Achilles, and it was clear he didn’t know what to do.
But Achilles did. He hated it, and inside of him, everything called on him to accept the surrender, to spare the enemy. Still, he refused. The enemy had to be destroyed, however much that might upset him, and his crews. There was no other way. They had to be killed. Otherwise, they would eventually regrow their power, and they would strike again…and Achilles knew his people were at the end of their time as humanity’s guardians. They could defeat the Highborn now, and likely destroy them if they acted quickly enough, before they built more ships, but this was their last chance. The Mules might live for a long while, some of them possibly enduring for tens of thousands of years more. But this was their last real use of their power. Already, 40,000 years of accidents had taken most of them, and in all that time, there had been no success whatsoever in creating a breeding program…or even finding more of the First Imperium genetic material that had been used to create them. Achilles had assumed for a considerable period of time—a long while—that his people would eventually discover one way or another to produce more of them. But he had given up on it many thousands of years before, as had all of his people. They were immortal, at least to normal aging, but there would be no more of them once they were gone, through accidents or fighting.
He turned toward Leander. He knew what the answer was, what it had to be…but he still struggled with it. As he had grown over the centuries, as he had matured, he had become more and more merciful, thinking that people—humans—needed some time to adapt. The humans were less developed that his people, or the Highborn, and that meant their road was going to be longer. Much longer. But he was sure they would get there.
But the Highborn wouldn’t.
“No response, Leander…just continue with the bombardment. We will not stop while there is an enemy ship present in the system. Our mission is to destroy them…to kill them all. Understood?” He barely got the words out, but his tone was fairly solid. He detested what he was doing, and even more what he was going to do to the Highborn worlds, but he was certain now that it was the only way.
He stared at Leander, and his eyes met his compatriot’s. It was time to finish this, to truly finish it…no matter how terrible it was.
* * *
Ellerax stared at his comm unit. There had been nothing, no response whatsoever. And the enemy ships were still firing, despite his own fleet silencing their weapons. He had surrendered…and the enemy had ignored him, totally ignored him.
He struggled to decide what to do. He could order his fleet to open fire again, but he knew that wouldn’t do any good. He had no chance to win, none at all. All he could do was surrender.
But the enemy didn’t even respond.
He turned, stared at the display. All of the enemy ships were still firing. He didn’t know what to do. He grabbed his comm again, repeated his earlier words, “We surrender. I repeat, we surrender.” He checked his equipment, and it appeared to be working. His communications were going out, completely unencoded…but still, there was no response. The enemy was still firing, still destroying his remaining ships.
He checked the status again. All of his vessels were running now, desperately trying to make it back to the transit point. A few of his first group had at least some chance of escaping from this system, but no matter how he figured it, his entire second force, the largest of the two, was doomed. They were too far from the transit point, from any of the points.
They were going to be destroyed…all of them.
He listened again, hoping beyond hope that the enemy would respond, that they would accept his surrender. But there was nothing…nothing except the continued fire from the enemy. He was losing ships all around, and he had less than three hundred left.
He didn’t know what to do. For four hundred years, he had been absolutely confident in the superiority of his people, in their destiny to rule over everything. Now, he realized that he had come to the end of his time, that he was going to die. He had always known that some of his people would be killed in war, but he had been absolutely certain that he would survive…forever.
No! He couldn’t die. Not him. There had to be a way to survive.
But there wasn’t.
He stared at the display, watching the enemy forces batter his remaining ships. He almost ordered his force to resume their fire, but there was no point. Most of his vessels that survived were damaged now, and the guns they had remaining wouldn’t make any difference.
He tried to remain as calm as possible outside, but inside he was losing control. How had this happened? How had he led his forces to absolute ruin?
He looked at the display. Perhaps twenty or thirty of his ships were going to make it out from his first group, but the second—his force—was going to be totally eradicated. He had less than a hundred vessels now, and he could tell that widespread panic had overtaken his people. All of the ships were blasting hard, trying desperately to reach the transit point, but there was just no way.
An explosion erupted behind him as his vessel was hit. The enemy weapons were powerful—very powerful—and, for an instant, he thought he might be dead. The ship was badly damaged, virtually gutted, but the bridge survived, at least for another moment.
There were alarms sounding all around, many systems knocked out. He sucked in a deep breath, but otherwise he remained in place, not moving at all. His mind was shocked, utterly stunned that he had encountered an enemy he couldn’t conquer. He didn’t know what to think, and he continued to try to think of something, of some way to pull a victory from the jaws of defeat.
Then, his ship was hit again. For an instant, there was immense damage all around him. He could see that most of his stations were inoperative now, that many of their crewman were dead. He had another thought, wondered just how this was possible, how he could be defeated.
Then his ship exploded, leaving nothing behind when it cleared.
Chapter Forty-Six
Celizar System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron stared at the screen as his ship blasted off toward the warp point. He had initially assumed that he would be attacked, and truth be told that he probably wouldn’t make it, but as Omicron blasted with everything she had, the enemy appeared to still be distracted. He had hoped that would happen, that his announcement would take the foe’s attention, at least from most of his vessels as they retreated. But he was still surprised that Omicron had made it as far as she had. It was one thing for the enemy not to mount an attack on his whole fleet, to be so distracted that they failed to pursue when his forces had run. But Omicron had stood almost where the battle line had been, just out of range of many of the enemy vessels. It would have been very easy for them to advance slightly, to blast his ship out of space.
But they hadn’t.
He was glad, thrilled that his announcement had at least distracted the enemy. If it had been enough to save Omicron, too—to save him—he would be enormously grateful. He knew that he took great risks, that he had placed his life on the line numerous times, but that didn’t mean he wanted to die. He had mostly given up on the idea of surviving the war, of fighting to an ending that was satisfactory…and he still felt that way. But right now, escaping this fight, possibly even seeing Andi and Cassiopeia one more time, was as much as he could hope for.
And he wanted that…desperately.
He stared down at his comm unit. He had stayed so long to retrieve Stockton and the other pilots, and he had done so. Now, he had to escape. All of the pilots had managed to land, but Stockton had run out of fuel in the final seconds, and he had crashed, hard.
Barron was still waiting to hear from his rescue team. He had imagined—hell, he had expected—Stockton’s death many times. But he had always thought it would come in battle, not in running out of fuel on landing. He knew the ship had come in hard. He had even felt it up on the bridge. But he couldn’t believe that was Stockton’s end.
His eyes moved up to the screen, watching as his ship raced for the transit point. There were still no enemy vessels moving toward him. They had apparently decided one ship wasn’t worth the effort. If they had known that it was the fleet flagship, he suspected they might have decided differently, but whatever the strengths and weaknesses of both sides were, he realized that the enemy commander would never have remained behind to land a few fighters. And he doubted he would even think about the human leader doing it.
He glanced down at the comm unit again, realizing that only a few seconds had passed. He had been terribly clear that he wanted an update as soon as there was one. But so far, nothing.
He could see that being a good thing. If Stockton were just dead, he’d have heard about it quickly. The longer he went without a transmission, the more time that passed, the better.
Then, he heard the sound of comm.
He scooped it up, putting it on his head as quickly as he could. “Yes?” he said.
“This is Dr. Manse, Sir. I wanted to update you on Admiral Stockton’s condition.”
Barron listened, trying to read the doctor’s tone, his words. Anything to find out what was going on, even a half a second sooner.
“He is in bad shape, Sir…very bad. But he is alive. Whether we can keep him that way, I just don’t know yet. But I wanted to tell you, he is still with us now.”
Barron felt relief, of a kind. He was half convinced the call would come, and the doctor would tell him Jake Stockton was dead. He was aware the message had still been fairly bleak, but he knew Stockton, too, and if he had a chance, Barron somehow believed he would make it.
“Thank you, Doctor…I appreciate it. Please keep me informed.” He turned and looked out at the bridge. There were no enemy vessels following him, and despite his somewhat reduced speed, he would make it to the warp point in just over half an hour. It was still just possible that he could be caught in that time, overrun by enemy ships, but it was becoming more and more unlikely the closer he came to the point. And the enemy was starting to fall back slightly, not to chase after a single vessel.
He knew if they were aware that he was onboard, that the last human ship to transit was the commander’s vessel, they would come after him, virus or not. But to the Highborn way of thinking, any ship left behind to conduct some crazy, risky operation would be the least important one, not the most crucial. That wasn’t why Barron had chosen to do what he had done, but he knew it had been there in his mind when he had decided. He didn’t pretend to understand everything about the enemy, but after years of war, he had developed a fairly accurate view of them.
Another ten minutes passed, and the enemy still hadn’t sent any ships after him. He would be able to make it, to transit, at least. And once he had, he would be back among his fleet. That wouldn’t do much if the whole enemy force was coming on, but it was more than enough to quickly eliminate a few ships.
He looked down and felt strange. He realized, suddenly, how little he had expected to survive the fight. He knew going in that it was dangerous, that any or all of his people and ships could be blasted into vapor, but he particularly had not believed he would make it through. But as his ship came closer and closer to the transit point, to escape, be realized that he was going to survive, for at least another day. Any more than that, he wasn’t prepared to even consider.
* * *
Andi looked out at the fleet, at all of the ships that had come through the warp point. There were a good number, more than she had expected, but still, unless there were a lot that hadn’t come in yet, she realized that the losses had been severe. From the shape of the ships she saw, she could tell that the battle had been very difficult, which was no surprise…but despite her looking through the vessels, she couldn’t find Omicron.
She had become very good at hiding her emotions, about appearing unmoved by the increasingly dark events surrounding her, but now she could feel that control failing. She had come back to the front to see Tyler, to beg him one last time to come with her. She was doubtful that she would prevail, but at least she would see him again. And so would Cassie. She knew how much Tyler missed his daughter, how excited he would be to see her again.
If he had survived.
She knew him, well enough to question that. The fight that had just occurred had been a fierce struggle, with many losses…and she was well aware that Tyler Barron would have been at the front. What if his ship was destroyed, if the enemy discovered that it was the fleet commander’s vessel? They would have made sure to attack it vigorously.
They would have destroyed it.
She started to doubt that he had made it, that she would get to see him, even once more. The number of ships coming through had slowed dramatically. That didn’t necessarily mean that Omicron had been destroyed…but it wasn’t good.
Her hands moved to her controls. She had identified Dauntless, and she figured Atara would know…if anyone did. “Dauntless, this is Andi Lafarge, calling for Atara Travis. Repeat, Andi Lafarge calling for Atara.” She held herself in place for a few seconds, as the pulse made its way to Dauntless, and the response came back. She was still fairly far from the end of the system where the fleet was, and there was a ten or twelve second delay in communications.
She looked at the fleet while she waited, and she realized that, while a large number of vessels had obviously made it back, most of them were badly damaged. They had been hit hard, very hard, and she was surprised that they had escaped at all. She had expected them to flee sooner than they had…and she wondered what had happened, what had caused the fleet to remain in battle for longer.
“Andi…is that you?”
She could recognize Atara’s voice, even over the comm. She was glad that at least one person she knew, that she trusted, had made it.
“Yes, Atara…it is me.” She paused for a couple seconds, finding it difficult to ask the question she wanted to. Then, she just blurted out, “Tyler…is he…?” That was as much as she could say, but she knew it would be enough.
She waited while the signal transmitted to Dauntless and Atara’s response made its way back. She expected it to come through sooner than it did, and the fact that Atara had probably paused made her nervous. She knew Tyler’s death was a possibility, but for an instant, she suddenly believed it was true, that the love of her life was dead.
But then, Atara said, “I don’t know, Andi. He stayed back, to retrieve the last of the fighters. He was in a tough position…but the enemy wasn’t seriously pursuing any of us, including him.” She hesitated again and then she said, “It is possible he is still coming…” Another pause, longer this time. “…but it is also conceivable that some enemy vessels moved in on him…and destroyed Omicron after we transited.”
Andi didn’t know what to think. She just stood there for a period of seconds, and then she asked, “Why weren’t the enemy chasing you?” That didn’t make any sense to her. One thing she was sure of was that the Highborn would do anything to damage the fleet as much as possible.
“Tyler…after the fighters made their assault—which went very well, apparently—he sent out an uncoded transmission. He told the Highborn exactly what we had done, and that seemed to confuse them…or upset them. They didn’t pursue us…at least not in the time it took us to depart. Whether that worked for Tyler, whether the enemy just ignored him long enough to grab the last of the pilots…I just don’t know yet.” A pause. “There is still some time. He would probably be back right about now.”
Andi turned and stared at the warp point, or at least the dot that represented it on her screen. Then she closed her eyes for a moment, thought about Tyler, about whether he would make it. She might have been angry that he had waited for the pilots, that he had imperiled his entire crew, as well as himself, for the last few fighters. It didn’t make sense, not in numbers, not in the assessment of the risk. But she realized almost immediately that it was Tyler at his core. He would risk his own life, the life of the fleet commander, on a task that he wouldn’t command anyone else to do. And his people, the crew of his ship, would go with him, without so much as a question or hesitation. That frustrated her about him, but as she thought, she wondered if it wasn’t one of the things that made him so easy to follow…and a big part of why she loved him so much.
“Thanks, Atara.” The thank-you was for her time, which Andi figured had to be in short supply right now. She knew Atara had to have her hands full at the moment, just trying to organize her remaining ships…and to prepare just in case the enemy had decided to advance.
“Of course, Andi…just wait. I’m sure he will be through in a short while.” But her tone, despite her greatest efforts, said that she wasn’t sure at all.
Andi stared for a while, several minutes at least, but there was nothing. All of the ships that had escaped, all except Tyler’s, had already come through. The area right around the transit point was strangely calm. There were no enemy pursuers at least, that was good. But there was no sign of Omicron either.
She stared for a long while, but finally she started to turn away from the screen, to try and find something else to do, something to distract her. But just as she was turning, her eyes caught a faint blip as it appeared on the screen, right next to the transit point.
It was a ship, she realized, one that had just transited. For an instant, she didn’t know what it was, whether it was Tyler or the first vessel of the enemy fleet. She had assumed the Highborn would be aggressive after the battle, that they would press on diligently. But then, she hadn’t considered Tyler’s action, his outright declaration of what they had done. Maybe it was Tyler after all.
She stared at the display, watching for the system to update, to include the vessel’s identification…or for more ships—enemy ships—to follow. She knew it would only take a few seconds, but it seemed to drag on forever.
Then, she saw it. The system updated, replacing the white “unknown” status with a bright blue image. A Confederation ship. She felt excited, joyful. Atara had indicated that all of her ships, all of the fleet ships, which were likely to make it had transited already, but Andi knew there could still be a stray, another vessel, perhaps one that had been considered lost that managed to make some makeshift repairs.
Still, she felt the excitement growing in her, and tears began to stream down her face as the vessel’s name appeared on the screen. Omicron.
She would see Tyler again, and so would Cassiopeia. It didn’t change the status of the war, of the great conflict that was raging all around them, or the fact that she knew her pleas for Tyler to go with her, to run away from everything, would be pointless. But just then, all she could think about was seeing him again…perhaps for the last time.
She stared at her screen, at Omicron as it began to make its way into the system. Then, she turned toward her own controls, and she blasted Pegasus onward, right toward the flagship.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Highborn Flagship S’Argevon
Year of the Firstborn 392 (330 AC)
Tesserax stood opposite Phazarax. He had decided that he was glad that his—number two, he guessed, though there wasn’t any official relationship between their ranks—had survived as well as he had. And by survived, he especially meant that he had escaped the contagion. Neither of them had gotten the disease, at least yet, and he was glad about that.
He was less happy about the totals throughout the fleet. Over 85% of his strength had tested positive. That was brutal, certainly, to what was left of his plans, and more even than he had anticipated.
His fleet had, at least, begun taking orders relatively well. There were ships that had been slower than others, and he was concerned what would happen if he issued a command that was truly unpopular. Still, he had developed somewhat of an idea what his people wanted…and they sought vengeance. They had grown angry in the days since the battle, somewhat toward him and the command element, he knew…but mostly against the humans. And that was useful.
He had ordered a portion of the fleet to bombard the planet Dannith, and they done it even more aggressively than he had hoped. His intention was to kill everyone present there, to wipe out the planet’s entire population, and they had done that…and more. The world was so bombarded, so battered by nukes, he doubted it would ever be habitable again.
His latest estimates were a population of four hundred fifty million, and every one of them was dead. That was impressive, but it was also what Tesserax called, a good start. He had decided, with certainty, that he was going to increase the intensity of the war, that he was going to kill every human being he encountered until their forces, all of them, everywhere, surrendered.
That wasn’t what he’d been sent to do, but he didn’t care anymore. The pressure he felt, from what Ellerax might do to the continued resistance of the enemy had finally been too much for him. He had danced around it for a while, but now, he was determined to end the fight as quickly as possible. He wasn’t sure that his crews were that fond of him, but one thing he was certain of was that they would all attest that the humans were a tougher opponent than had been expected.
Much tougher.
The more he thought about the humans, the more he thought that destroying some worlds made sense. His people had billions of the creatures already under their control, and billions more in the conquered worlds of the Hegemony. Perhaps it was time to leave a message for all of them, to demonstrate the punishment for trying to stand up, to fight off his people.
Perhaps he should destroy all of the planets that were still in rebellion. They were mostly the worlds of the Confederation, along with the Alliance. The Confeds had been a massive problem since the beginning. Perhaps it would be better if they were scraped away entirely, if they were eliminated.
He would take more care than he had on Dannith, stop his forces from rendering the planets utterly uninhabitable. He would transfer humans from home, and even from the Hegemony, and repopulate the worlds on the Rim, as well as all of those that lay between the Confederation and the Hegemony.
He looked up, his eyes almost glazed as he looked at…his friend, rival, compatriot? “I have been considering the situation, Phazarax, and I believe the humans need to be treated somewhat differently than we have to date. I believe we need to…” He was just about to say they should kill all of the humans on the Rim, or at least most of them, but just then, the buzzer on his door went off.
There was a brief pause, and then it buzzed again, and for a very long period. He had planned initially to ignore it, to continue to tell Phazarax his plans, but now he turned and opened the door. “What?” he said, not exactly a yell, but not patient either.
The Highborn standing there was clearly upset. He looked up at Tesserax, and for an instant, he didn’t say anything. Finally, he managed to spit out some words. “Sir…Ellerax, the entire fleet…they’re…” He stopped for a moment, unable to speak.
Tellerax and Phazarax were both staring now, waiting for him to say what he had come to report. Tellerax wondered if there had been a major crisis back home…one which had…
He couldn’t even think about it, but then an instant later, the officer resumed his report. “They were all destroyed, Sir…Ellerax is dead.”
Tellerax’s mind went crazy. His natural feelings as one of the Highborn were overcome with shock, of course…but even as he stood there, he began to see how he might survive after all. If Ellerax was destroyed, if much of the fleet was…who would be the natural successor?
And who would be left to hold him to account?
Even his own forces, what would be left of them, at least, after the disaster that had befallen them, weren’t exactly positive about his leadership…but what choice did they have now? What would they do when they found out that their supreme leader, and most of their forces back home, were destroyed?
Tellerax turned and stared at Phazarax. He looked shocked—of course, he was shocked, too, whatever advantages he might also be considering—but his companion was clearly stunned, worse even than he was. He spoke, trying to cover up his thoughts about how much he thought he could turn this to his advantage.
“That is…unbelievable…” Inside, his hope was actually growing, thoughts about how to proceed even then rising up, swirling around in his head. “What are the details?” As he asked, he realized that the enemy had done this, and his excitement began to wane. If the foe, the real enemy, not the humans, had proven strong enough to destroy the main fleet, to kill Ellerax and obliterate his forces, what would he do against them, even if he somehow managed to retain command of his much smaller force. By the time the disease had worked its way through his ships…not to mention that many of his planets were dealing with the affliction even now…he would probably lose half of the Highborn he had brought with him, and possibly more. He would be in almost as bad shape as they were at home, and the enemy that had slain Ellerax, that had decimated the main fleet…they would almost surely press onward.
But still, despite his realization of all of that, he viewed what had happened as an opportunity. He knew the dangers, but he figured perhaps he could negotiate a peace with the enemy, to give them planets, whatever they wanted, whatever it took to gain a truce. That would give him time to rebuild, and when he was ready, he would lash out against them, strike even harder than before. He would prevail against them, he was sure of that…but first, he needed to defeat the humans. He needed them behind him, so he could put all of his attention into rebuilding, into preparing to face the true enemy.
Whether that was a valid analysis of the situation or just more of the Highborn’s way of seeing things never even occurred to him. Even when the enemy had destroyed the main Highborn fleet, when there was no real defense standing between them and most of the Highborn worlds and they could advance at will, he still somehow considered them to be the lesser ones, the ultimate losers. He would negotiate with them, make whatever deal he could, he figured, and then, in twenty years or fifty or a hundred, when he was ready, when his new fleet was large enough, he would strike, and he would restore things to their natural status, with the Highborn at the top…and now with him the supreme leader of everything.
Even as he sat where he was, his mind running wild with possibilities, he realized his first goal was unchanged. He had to defeat the humans, even more than he’d had to before. He had previously assumed that was his only chance with Ellerax, but still that it was a longshot. Now, it was everything. If he defeated the humans, and killed many of them, he would avenge the spreading of the virus. He would build up his appeal with those in his fleet…and he would detach a team to contact the enemy, to extend the offer of peace, giving up many, even all, of the previous home systems of the Highborn.
This area of space, the human inhabited sections, were going to be the key to the regrowth of his people. He was almost sure the enemy would conquer the Highborn’s old home areas, that they would enslave or even kill many of his people. This was now the new home of the Highborn, the areas that had once belonged, some of which that technically still belonged, to the humans. His war had started as an effort of conquest, but now, he realized, it was much more than that. It was a war of survival.
And the first thing he had to do was defeat all of the humans, bring them into line.
He had to push forward, with the ships he had, whatever shape they were in, and in the next fight, he had to make certain that the humans didn’t pull any more tricks, that they didn’t manage to spread the virus any more completely than they already had.
Most of all, he had to make sure the next battle was totally decisive. He had to completely destroy the enemy fleet and secure their surrender…and he had to do that soon.
Very soon.
* * *
Achilles sat on the bridge, his eyes almost fixed on the screen. He wasn’t exactly happy about the battle’s conclusion, even though his side won decisively. He considered the entire operation, everything to do with the Highborn, to be depressing. Although he had decided that he was right, that the Highborn would never recover from their desire to pursue power, he still detested what he was doing. He wondered how he would have approached it as a younger Mule. He was sure he would have accepted things better.
Back then he was still highly capable, of course, but he hadn’t developed the knowledge and wisdom that his very long life had since bestowed on him. And most of all, among what he had learned was that all living things eventually reached a certain level, and they became desirous of helping others of less developed races. They became less interested in conquest. They saw their role as advisors to any growing races they encountered, not as masters.
But that turned out to be wrong…at least in the Highborn.
He wondered why it had taken him so long to realize that the Highborn weren’t getting any better, that they were always going to be focused on themselves, on dominating every other life form they encountered. For two centuries, he had fought a war against them, designed to keep them occupied until they developed sufficiently to change their views. But they had only become worse as his people slowly declined, and he had come far too close to allowing them to prevail. Now, he was determined to finish his task, however much he detested it, to hunt down and destroy all of the Highborn, wherever they were.
But first he had to move quickly and destroy the other force, the one fighting the humans. That was currently the only force the Highborn had of any size. He had detached some of his ships to begin to move against the Highborn’s worlds, to intercept and destroy any vessels that escaped from the battle or weren’t there. He knew their progress would be slow at first, that he had more than two thirds of his surviving ships in his force…but they would be enough to hit the Highborn, to destroy their largest shipyards, to do whatever had to be done to keep them from rebuilding. Then, he would return with the rest of his forces, and he would seriously begin the wholesale eradication of the enemy.
Still, every time he thought about what he knew he had to do it was upsetting. He hadn’t even been fond of the war against the enemy, and he had insisted that the forces deployed be matched equally to those of the Highborn. He had really believed that they would develop, that they would realize that their actions were evil, and their failure to do so put his entire theory of development at risk. Were the Highborn some one of a kind exception, some million to one creation, or was his theory about the growth of intelligent species just flatly wrong? He didn’t know, and he was finding it difficult to stop thinking about it. If he was so wrong about that, what else that he, that his people, had considered absolute truth was also incorrect?
He shook his head, trying to put such thoughts out of his mind. His prior attitudes, the results of centuries of consideration, were not going to be replaced now. He would destroy the Highborn, he had already decided that, and his people agreed with him. After that, his people, any who survived, would depart human space forever.
But first, they had to destroy the last enemy fleet. That was all that mattered now…that and making open contact with the humans. The Mules had done that before, they had even begun their existence as the creation of humans, but for thousands and thousands of years, they had existed in the shadows, occasionally doing things to guide history, but mostly standing by and watching. But now, they would have to make their presence known. They would become exposed again to the humans, if only for a short while, and Achilles found that to be relatively unnerving as well. He told himself he had been born into their society, that he knew it well…but still, he found the idea of emerging again, of meeting humans who didn’t know of him or his people, very intimidating.
He looked up again at the display. His ships were moving quickly, very quickly. He had taken the vessels in the best shape, and he was pushing them hard, much harder than any vessels of the Highborn or the humans could travel. He didn’t know exactly what was going on between the Highborn and the humans, but he suspected that the sooner he got there, the better things would be. His last reports had suggested that the humans were losing, that the war wouldn’t last much longer.
Yes…he had to get there quickly, before the Highborn won the war. Existing human nations would be far easier to deal with than the destroyed leftovers that would remain when the conflict was over.
He hadn’t thought much about what he would do once the Highborn were defeated. His considerations had been mostly that his people would leave mankind, that they would blast off for uncharted space. But he knew he had to leave humanity in some form of order, some shape that at least gave them a chance to escape from the course the Highborn had put them on.
He had to consider that, too, he realized, and think about it seriously. But the first goal was completing the destruction of the Highborn.
Chapter Forty-Eight
Celizar System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron reached out and grabbed Andi. He pulled her to him and held her as tightly has he ever had. He truly hadn’t expected to see her again, whether he died in the battle or he survived. He figured she had set out across space as they had planned, did her best to put the lightyears between Cassie and the looming darkness. He knew she didn’t want to leave, that she wanted to stay and fight on, but their daughter had pulled her away, and despite his own desire to have her with him, he had been glad to see her go. He didn’t really expect to survive the ongoing fight, but it gave him some peace to think of his wife and his daughter escaping.
He wanted to say numerous things to her, to tell her how much she meant to him, but he just remained silent as he pulled her toward him.
She clearly felt the same way, and she was gripping him as tightly as he was her. But then she suddenly pulled back, and she smiled. Standing in the door was a girl, about seven years old. Tyler knew her, very well, though it had been a couple years since the last time he’d seen her.
“Cassie!” he said, not sure if she would even recognize him. But then she ran forward and threw her arms up around him.
“Dad!” she said, barely managing to get the word out amid the tears she was shedding.
Tyler had worried that she wouldn’t really remember him, or that she would be angry that her parents had sent her away. They had done that for her own safety, but she was very young, and he didn’t know if she would understand the situation completely.
But she ran to him, and she jumped up, put her arms around him. She buried her face into his shoulder, both crying and smiling. He extended his own arms around her and pulled her in close. Tyler Barron was the senior admiral of the Confederation and the informal head of the entire alliance. He had seen millions of his colleagues killed in the war, and he had almost died a number of times himself. But in that moment, Cassiopeia cut through all of his armor, and reached his core. He could feel all of the years of warfare fading away for a moment, and all that was left was the man himself, holding his daughter.
“Cassie…” He had intended to say a lot more, but nothing followed except silence. He longed to spend time with her, to resign and give her a full time father…but he realized that he couldn’t. The Confederation, all of free human space that remained was under threat, terrible threat, and whatever he wanted to do, he knew he had to remain, to do whatever he could to fight off the enemy. He didn’t really understand it, not completely, but he had become the center of the coalition, the one man who had a strong relationship with all of the others. Whatever chance Cassie had of a normal life, however small it was, it depended on Tyler doing everything he could to fight, to try to find a way, somehow, to win.
If that was the situation, if Tyler Barron had to fight, and probably had to die, to give her whatever chance she could have, then he would do it.
Andi moved back toward Tyler and Cassie, and the three of them were clasped together, for a few moments, not as the great admiral and his accomplished wife, but just as a family. The duty that hung over everything, that placed so much pressure on them was gone, just for a short time. Tyler knew there were things he should be doing—it seemed there always were—but for the moment, he just enjoyed the presence of his family.
He knew he would have to say goodbye to them, and soon. The enemy was very likely to move quickly on them, and before that happened, he was determined that both Andi and Cassie would be gone, that they would move away from the battle zone…and prepare to escape totally if the war was finally lost.
But for the moment, he just clung to them, as though he would never let go. Just for a few minutes, he was a husband and a father…and nothing else.
* * *
“Tyler…the enemy is approaching. It is almost time.”
Barron looked up at Atara. Then he turned his head, checking out the others in the room. He had called all of his key personnel together. He had directed them to come to Omicron, to meet in person, even though he knew that wasn’t necessary. The truth was, he just wanted to see them all, one last time. And he was sure it would be the final time.
He had considered trying to fight some light actions, of battling for a short while and then fleeing as soon as the enemy managed to get much of its force into the system. But that had been a very short lived plan. Three of his vessels, ships he had assumed were lost, but had managed to repair themselves enough to escape. That was good, very good, but the news they brought back was terrible.
The enemy hadn’t pursued them, which was why they had managed to get away, but what the foe had done was attack Dannith. Truly attack it.
Barron had expected them to occupy it, of course, and he was certain that would be hard on the population, but at least he knew that the enemy was not out to commit genocide, that they wanted to control the humans, not eradicate them.
Until now. The attacks on Dannith were massive, and it was obvious that the enemy’s plans had changed. Barron didn’t know whether their intention was now to destroy humanity or not, but he knew something had changed. He didn’t think the enemy had altered their plans so much to decide to eradicate all humanity. Still, he feared that every system that they gained would face the same treatment until the war was over. It was the closest Barron had ever come to surrendering…but there was another option.
He knew now that he couldn’t retreat any farther, that yielding planet after planet to outright destruction was more than he could do. His forces, everyone determined to fight or die, would make their stand right where they were. They would not pull back, not retreat a millimeter. They would fight to the end here…theirs or the enemies’. And he knew the odds told him it would be theirs.
He stood up. He knew that though they had discussed the odds, the coming battle—and the plan to hold fast, no matter what happened—they could just have easily accomplished all they needed to on the comm. But Tyler could see that they all knew why they were called to his ship…and that they all agreed.
“Well…I think we have said all there is to say. Go back to your ships now, and take your commands. And fight hard. Very hard.” He said the words, but in his mind, all he could think about was that this would be the last time he saw them. He knew that some of his ships in the fleet would probably escape, or even surrender, but he was sure that would only happen once his commanders were dead. Once he was dead.
He stepped over to a spot next to the door, and he turned to face his people. “I know you will all serve well, as you always have.” He looked at each of those present, and one at a time, he held out his hand, and they shook. No words were exchanged, and none were needed. He knew they all understood, and that they felt the same way he did. The enemy might conquer all humanity, rule over them with an iron fist, but they would never control the men and women gathered there.
It took a moment for the room to empty out, but finally, there was only one left. Atara.
“Tyler…it has been a long time. I have known you most of my career, and I have reached heights I never dreamed of.” Atara Travis, long known as a rugged person—actually, as a “hard ass”—was barely clinging to her control. “I want us to win, to somehow prevail, but if this is really the end, I want to tell you that serving under you, knowing you, has been one of the greatest joys of my life.”
Tyler stared back at her, not hanging on by much more than she was. He tried for a few seconds to think of what to say in response, and then he just reached out his arms and he hugged her. She returned the hug, and the two of them, companions in over twenty years of almost nonstop war, remained clasped together for perhaps thirty seconds. Then she took a step back, and she delivered a salute, as perfectly as she could.
She stood for a few more seconds, and then without another word, she turned and left.
Tyler just stood where he was for another minute, struggling to hold on to himself, to maintain the look he knew his people needed to see. Then he took a deep breath, and he set out for the bridge.
* * *
Stockton looked up, his eyes open for the first time in a week and a half. He didn’t realize where he was at first, but then he suddenly remembered everything. His fighter coming in, the fuel running out just a second too early. He vaguely recalled entering the tube, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember the actual crash.
He realized he was in the hospital, and he suddenly dawned on him that meant he was alive. He had been very uncertain that he would survive when he brought his ship in, and he was happy to be there. But then he realized almost his entire body was wrapped up in one manner or another of casts, bandages, and the like. He could barely move.
He was alive at least, he thought, but the more he came to, the more he looked down at himself, he realized that he had barely survived. Still, he had made it, so far at least…but he wasn’t entirely sure he would live through it.
“Admiral…I’m so glad to see you awake!” The voice came from outside his view at first, but then the doctor walked into his limited field of vision.
“What shape am I in?” Stockton went right to the point. Then he said, “Give me the truth.”
“You’re in bad shape, Admiral. You were very touch and go for a while…but you’re going to make it. You face a fairly long recovery period, but in the end you’re going to be just fine.” She hesitated a moment, and then she added, “You will probably even fly again, Sir.”
Stockton listened, and he took her words at face value. He felt, not pain exactly, but discomfort in a number of locations. He tried to imagine what it would be like without the immense amount of painkillers he was probably on, but then he decided he couldn’t. “Thank-you, Doctor…” It was all he managed to say.
He was tired, and he could feel himself drifting away again. But the doctor had told him it was all in hand, that he would recover, and despite how he felt, he believed her. He felt himself slipping back into sleep, and he stopped fighting it. He was exhausted, and he felt as horrible as he could ever remember. One thing he was certain of…he needed sleep. That was the first step…the first step to getting back into the cockpit. And that was what he wanted, more than anything.
He felt the deep sleep coming over him, and he drifted off, back to the place he had been for almost two weeks…but this time he knew one thing.
He would be back again.
Chapter Forty-Nine
Celizar System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron sat on the bridge, as calmly as he could. He had said his goodbyes to Andi and Cassie, and he’d resisted his wife’s urges that he come with them, that he retreat. He wanted to, very badly, but he just couldn’t. He knew the effect that he had on the others in the fleet, and he couldn’t imagine anything more harmful than his leaving.
The enemy fleet was approaching. He had formed up similarly to the way he had in the previous battle, but the foe had learned from his mistakes. Their ships stayed back, out of range, until all of their fleet had come through. Only then did they begin to advance.
Barron wondered if he should have deployed closer to the transit point, if he should have tried to hit the enemy as they came through, but he decided it didn’t really matter. His fleet was totally outmatched, and despite his intent to fight like hell itself, he knew this was the end. He would not retreat, not under any circumstances. There were two occupied planets in this system, with a billion and a half people living on them, and he knew what awaited them, possibly in any event, but certainly if he pulled his forces out, if he maintained a serious resistance. He couldn’t surrender…he wouldn’t…but he knew that if his fleet was destroyed, if all of the defenses were gone, the people on the occupied worlds could reach out to the enemy. They could surrender and hope for the best. It was nothing he would ever do, nor even understand, but he knew it would be the only choice for them, the only one except death.
“All ships, prepare armaments. I want everything ready to fire.” He knew that the enemy would shoot first, that their longest ranged weapons exceeded the distance his own could cover, but that was only a small advantage, just a moment before his own vessels were also in range. And he intended to have every weapon, every gunner, at the ready. He didn’t believe he could win the fight, but he was going to give them one hell of a battle before they killed him.
Before they killed all of them.
“All vessels report they are ready, Sir.” His aide spoke well. All of his people had to know this was the last fight, that few if any of them would survive. But they all seemed to be ready…ready to give the enemy one hell of a battle before he got them.
Barron stared out at his bridge, and he drew strength from his people, as he hoped they did from him. He knew his life was measured in mere hours, perhaps even minutes, but he didn’t think about that. A portion of his mind was on Andi and Cassie, as it would be as long as he drew breath, but the rest of it was focused on the battle, on giving the enemy one nasty fight.
“Fighter status?” He thought about Stockton. He was the hero of the last battle, and his tenacity had been almost awe inspiring. Barron would have liked to see more of him—as it was, the last time he saw Stockton he was unconscious. He hadn’t been entirely certain then that he would survive, but the latest reports were actually very positive. He would even return to duty, he suspected…assuming there remained a fighter force by the time he recovered.
Which there wouldn’t.
Barron tried to imagine Stockton surviving just to become a slave of the Highborn. That was unthinkable for him, for Jake Stockton it was unimaginable. To fall back into the hands of the enemy, the people that had possessed him, made him do things that ran against his every desire. He knew that Stockton would never go back, not willingly. But he was on a hospital ship just then, basically immobile. Barron realized that pulling him out of his wrecked fighter, keeping him alive, might turn out to be the worst thing he could have done. If Stockton had died in the crash, he would be an even greater hero than he already was…and he would have escaped from the enemy.
“I’m sorry, Jake,” he said softly, wondering if his well-meaning efforts to save him had only reconciled him to a worse fate. He couldn’t even run now or hide. He thought about that for about thirty seconds, but then his attention was suddenly taken away.
The enemy had opened fire.
* * *
Tesserax stared forward, looking at the enemy fleet, at the legions of spaceships he was going to destroy. When he had started the war, he had planned on taking the enemy out quickly, on being merciful to his conquests. But now, years later, with everything that had happened, he planned to kill them all, at least all of those engaged in battle. There would be no surrender, no yielding. The enemy’s ability to resist would be eradicated. In a number of hours, he knew every ship they possessed in the system would be eliminated. He would follow them up closely, regardless of his own ships’ conditions, blast them until every one of them was destroyed.
Then he would take out the inhabited planets, just as he had Dannith. He would kill every human being who lived in the system. He knew that the end of the enemy fleet would make that, strictly speaking unnecessary, but he intended to leave no doubt. He wanted to make it clear to the rest of the still-free human worlds that their choice was simple and immediate…absolute surrender or death.
He watched as his vessels opened fire. Unlike the previous engagement, where he had sent his forces forward as quickly as they came through, this time he stayed back until everything had transported. The volume of fire ripping out from his fleet was astonishing. He doubted the humans would last a few hours, even with their almost uncanny evasive maneuvers. In well under a day from now, the enemy fleet would be gone, and the two planets would be graveyards. He was done playing around. He needed this war over, and he needed that now. Then he could concentrate on the enemy that had destroyed Ellerax’s fleet.
His vessels weren’t hitting as well as he had hoped. The enemy was engaged in every manner of evasive maneuvers possible, but even at his low rate of hits, he was beginning to tear into the opposing vessels. Many of them, most in fact, were already damaged even before the start of the fight. In many ways, he knew, this was just the second half of the battle that had occurred two weeks before.
And it would be the end of it.
His ships advanced, as did the enemy, and soon, they were both in range. The enemy fire was deadly, the targeting far better than that on his ships. He couldn’t understand that, how the inferior craft of the humans somehow managed to hit better than that on his ships. That the personnel on the human vessels were free, that they were fighting for everything they believed in, while his own ships were manned mostly by Collar-enslaved individuals didn’t occur to him.
Even with their advantage in marksmanship, the enemy was hopelessly outnumbered. As the battle progressed, both sides started to lose ships. The humans were taking almost two of his vessels for every one of their own that went down, but even as the struggle continued, he started to feel victory in the air.
He was going to win, to emerge victorious…and he would conquer all of human space. He thought that, sat for several minutes believing it to be true…but then he was surprised. No, he was stunned.
At least two dozen of his ships suddenly exploded. First, he didn’t know what caused it, where the fire had come from. But then he realized that there were ships behind his, lined up and firing. And those vessels were almost absurdly large, bigger even than his two Colossus drones.
He couldn’t understand at first. He read the scanning results on the output of the enemy guns. It was immense, far stronger than anything he had ever heard of. It was impossible that the humans had anything of the sort…if they had, they would have used it earlier. So, what was attacking him?
He had assumed that the enemy, the real enemy that had destroyed Ellerax and his fleet, was still too far away to be here already. But suddenly, he realized that the vessels were beyond his own in weaponry…why not also in drive potential?
His mind went crazy. He wasn’t sure what to do. He had put together plans for dealing with the enemy, for defeating the humans and then making some sort of peace, even one that was negative, with the aliens…but they were already here now, attacking his fleet.
He looked up, at the Highborn on his bridge. They were equally unnerved at the events, and they were all looking up, ignoring their controls. The humans kept at their work under the influence of their Collars, firing, but all of the Highborn were stunned, unable to explain what was happening.
And Tellerax, the one who had just imagined victory, who had planned to overthrow all of independent mankind before he dealt with his other enemy, was no better. He sat in his chair, looking out at the screen, at the sudden assault…and he didn’t know what to do.
* * *
Achilles looked on, staring at the enemy fleet. He had taken them totally by surprise, approached them with his stealth systems on when the enemy was totally focused on the human forces. His first shots had been utter surprises—and devastating—taking out almost forty enemy vessels in less than a minute. He was pleased, glad that he had taken the enemy unaware, but he knew it would only be over when the entire fleet was gone.
He had expected the enemy to turn on him, to begin firing, but for perhaps another minute they remained where they were, shooting at the human ships. He took advantage of every second that surprise gave him, and he allocated his ships based on the defender’s strength. He checked on the two biggest ships of the enemy fleet. They were smaller than his main units, but they were the largest he had ever seen in the enemy’s forces. That surprised him, and he directed two of his ships to move over, to join the attacks on them. The sooner they were gone, the better.
Several of the enemy ships were starting to fire at his vessels now, but still, most of them remained engaged with the humans. He had reminded all of his vessels to be careful, to not target any of the human ships. He knew he would have to communicate with them, explain who his people were and how they were not a threat to them. From the looks of their fleet, they were very close to destruction, and he hoped that they realized that his people had saved them. It had been many years—thousands of years—since he had communicated directly with a human, and he wasn’t sure what to expect.
He watched the battle progressing. About half of the enemy ships were destroyed now, and as he looked up he saw one of the two larger enemy vessels explode. His own fleet was starting to take some damage as well as more and more of the enemy ships turned and started firing on them, but there were fewer and fewer of them left.
He knew his forces would win the battle, that they would destroy the enemy…and that is precisely what he intended to do…to kill every Highborn he could reach. That was step one of his plan, to remove all of the force from the enemy, to reduce them to scattered worlds, with populations but without defenses. Then would come the more difficult stage, where his ships would bombard helpless populations. Perhaps worse, the enemy had billions of humans enslaved, and they were living among them. Many of them, most of them, would probably be killed in the attacks. They were totally loyal to the Highborn, but he knew that was the result of their Collars, and not any rational decision. Nevertheless, his need to kill all of the Highborn would most likely take out billions of regular humans.
Achilles had pushed for a long time to avoid destroying the Highborn, but now he realized that he had been grossly in error. It was his fault that they’d had the chance to grow so powerful, to come so close to imposing their will on all of humanity. Now, he would do whatever was necessary to give mankind a real chance to grow, to develop into a suitable race to spread throughout the galaxy.
He stared at the ships of the remaining free humans. They weren’t firing at his ships. That was good, but he realized he would have to communicate with them eventually, to tell them who his people were. He had once lived with humans. Humans had created him. But now, after many thousands of years, he didn’t know exactly how to speaks with them. He had directed their development, in a sense, but he hadn’t really spoken with one of them in many thousands of years.
He turned toward the enemy fleet, now mostly firing at his ships. He knew his side would prevail, that the total surprise he had inflicted only made that more inevitable. But he didn’t want to lose any more ships than he had to. He had already seen many of his remaining people killed, and he wanted that to stop. And the only way he knew to do that was to utterly obliterate the enemy.
He would focus on destroying the Highborn ships first…and only then would he contact the humans, and try to explain who he was, and what relationship his people had with them.
* * *
Tesserax didn’t know what to do. One of his massive vessels was already gone, as were more than half of his ships. He had prepared for a total conflict, one where his entire fleet would be in action, destroying the human ships completely. And they had been on the verge of doing just that…when out of nowhere emerged the other enemy fleet.
He had gone from a total commitment to fight until the battle was utterly over to his present wish to just run, to get away somehow. But the enemy vessels were right on top of his ships, and he was certain that they were faster. For an instant, he told himself that his vessels could somehow win, that they could take out both fleets attacking them, but almost immediately, he realized there wasn’t a chance. The enemy vessels were too strong, and they had totally surprised him. There was nothing he could do, nothing save fight.
And die.
He turned and looked at his ship’s crew. Their faces were as white as his, stunned by the sudden development. They were firing now, most of his weapons targeting the newly arrived vessels now, but it was too late. More than half of them were gone already, and the humans were still blasting away at them from the other side.
Tesserax didn’t know what to expect when he had set out to command on the human front. The years of the war, of command, had been difficult on him, but he believed, at least, that he was on the verge of victory…and until less than an hour before, he was. But now, everything had changed.
He understood now, what had happened to Ellerax. The enemy clearly possessed some technology that made it difficult or impossible to detect them, as well as thrust capabilities that dwarfed his own. He had planned to defeat the humans and then yield to the mysterious enemy, to make some kind of deal that allowed him to rebuild. He could show patience, expend the time that was necessary to rebuild enough forces to challenge them again.
But now, the foe was here already, destroying his forces utterly. The enemy that his people had fought against for two centuries had suddenly unleashed massive hidden forces, and not only destroyed the home fleet and Ellerax, but they had blasted across space rapidly to take him on, too. If the enemy had such capability, why hadn’t they used it earlier?
He tried to regain control, to figure out what to do. His vessels, most of them, were already firing at the new enemy, but he knew that wouldn’t make a difference. It was too little, too late. He tried to think of some strategy, some way of fighting back, but he couldn’t come up with anything. He was defeated, and he knew it.
Finally, he reached out, grabbed his communication device. He turned toward his comm officer. “Get me a broad signal, one that will reach every enemy vessel. No code.”
The Highborn at the comm unit was as taken by the enemy as Tellerax, but he managed to focus on his equipment enough to do as his commander had ordered. “You are live, Sir,” he said, barely managing to get the words out.
“Attention…attention…this is the Highborn commander.” He looked down, almost unable to say what he had intended to say. “We…surrender.” He turned toward his comm officer. “Order every ship to cease fire.” He set his view forward again. “I repeat…we surrender.”
He stared ahead, waiting for the signal to reach the enemy, and for enough time to pass for a response to arrive. But there was nothing. He looked out, seeing the enemy fire still blasting, and he turned back to the comm. Perhaps they were discussing what to do. His surrender might have been unexpected. But still, there was nothing. No response at all.
He felt himself losing control. He had no idea what to do. He barked out a command for his remaining ships to open fire again, but he realized that wouldn’t accomplish anything. At least sixty percent of his vessels were gone already, his once mighty fleet battered almost to insignificance. He understood now how Ellerax had been defeated, how he had lost the fight against these ships. But he still couldn’t understand what the enemy had done all of these years. If they had this much force, such considerable power waiting in reserve, why had they held it back, fought on for almost two centuries in a nearly equal matchup with his side? And what had happened now, what had made them suddenly bring all their force to bear?
He didn’t know. He had no idea what to do…or if there was anything at all that could save him.
* * *
Barron stared out, watching events unfold, but not believing what he saw. The enemy was under attack, not only by his ships, but by a force of truly massive vessels, bigger even than Colossus was. What was even more astonishing was, the ships had somehow just appeared where they were. One instant there was nothing there and the next, huge vessels were suddenly in place and firing.
He stared for a moment, utterly shocked. He had expected to lose the fight, to be killed, but he had also considered some lesser possibilities, such as somehow prevailing, winning the fight. But in none of his wildest dreams had he imagined what he was watching.
The enemy ships were going down rapidly, the large new ships blasting with one or two shots vessels that could take 50 or more hits from his own weapons. He knew almost immediately that the new fleet could destroy his own forces just as easily as they were taking out the enemy fleet. But he wasn’t sure they were hostile to him. At least, they hadn’t fired at him. Yet.
His own forces continued the bombardment of the enemy fleet. With so much of it already destroyed, and the bulk of the rest of it turning to face the new arrivals, his forces actually had the edge. At least for the moment.
He thought about the new arrivals, about what he should do. Were they aliens? Was this an actual contact with another race? Or were they other humans, perhaps that his own people had forgotten about? He even considered opening fire on them, joining with the enemy to try and fend them off. But the Highborn were still battling him, and whatever the new ships were, they still hadn’t fired at his forces.
He tried to ignore the new arrivals, to focus on his known enemy. This was an opportunity, a chance to actually see the Highborn defeated. Even if the new arrivals proved to be hostile to his forces as well, he wouldn’t be any worse off than if he’d been killed by the Highborn.
He was worried, very worried about what would happen, but he put all of that aside, and he focused on the ships in front of him. He had done everything he could to defeat the Highborn…but all he could do about the new arrivals was hope for the best. If the entire Highborn fleet couldn’t defeat them, he knew there was nothing his badly battered force could do.
His fleet was in terrible shape, but he looked out and saw that all of his ships were fighting hard. He had to assume his people were wondering about the new arrivals, both grateful that they were attacking the enemy, and very concerned about what they would be next. But their firepower was all focused on the Highborn, their only known foe.
He communicated out to his ships, told everyone to blast the Highborn with everything they had…and not to fire at the unknown forces. And he hoped against hope that the Highborn’s other enemy, the ships attacking them even now, would be friendly to his own vessels.
He tried to focus on the Highborn, to put all of his attention into the fight with them…but he kept thinking of the new force, wondering who they could be, and whether they would open up on his forces once the Highborn were eliminated.
* * *
Achilles stared out at the battle. He didn’t want to watch. He had come to detest combat, and the terrible losses it caused. His force was winning decisively, as he was sure it would, but to him, it was just casualties. His own, of course, though thankfully, with the complete surprise he had achieved, that total at least appeared to be fairly low. He had only lost one vessel so far, but he had two others that were badly damaged. He ordered them to pull back. The rest of his force was sufficient to conclude the fight.
But, of course, every one of his people was thousands of years old. The loss of each of them was a horrifying cost…and half of all his people had died over the last few weeks. He knew he would mourn that greatly, that it would wear him down even further than thousands of years of leadership had. But for now, he knew, he had to stay focused. The sooner he defeated the enemy, the quicker his own people would stop dying.
The enemy was down to less than twenty percent of its starting numbers. In another ten minutes, perhaps fifteen, they would all be gone. Then, save for a small number of scattered vessels all around, the Highborn would be helpless.
After that, they would be destroyed.
But first, in just a few minutes, he would have to contact the humans…and somehow explain.
He stared at the screen, checking the remaining Highborn vessels. He identified one of them, the one that had sent out the message he had ignored. That was the flagship, he was certain of it.
“That ship there…number seventeen on our display. Bring our ship around, and concentrate all fire on it.” Even as he finished the words, his ship was already moving, closing on the target. In a moment, it was dead center, right ahead. His vessel fired at it, again and again. It had a very good crew, much better than the average vessel the enemy possessed.
It dodged like crazy, avoiding every shot. But his ship closed, and as it moved in, its shooting became more accurate. Finally, his main guns struck it head on. He could see explosions ravaging all throughout the ship. It was obviously terribly damaged. But it still remained in place.
Achilles knew it was over. In addition to the flagship being crippled, the enemy had less than ten percent of its vessels left. Unlike the previous fight, where at least a few ships had managed to escape, here the destruction was complete. The battle took place in the center of the system, and the distance to any of the transit points was considerable.
He stared forward, looking at the enemy flagship as it drifted along. Its engines were almost gone, and its weapons were crippled. For a brief instant, perhaps twenty seconds or so, it just continued on its way. It was still there, evading destruction, though it was clearly crippled.
Then, his vessel fired again, hitting it three times. It erupted into a massive cloud of smoke and debris…and then it was gone.
Achilles looked on, staring for a moment. Then he turned his head, looking for another target to concentrate on. But the remaining enemy ships, now no more than a dozen and a half, were all under fire from his other vessels. He just watched, for perhaps another minute and a half, as his ships blasted the last of the Highborn ships. Then, suddenly, there was nothing left, save the battered human fleet.
He called out for a comm line, uncoded and wide transmission. “Attention human fleet.” he began. “We are not hostile to you. We will not attack your vessels. Please allow a small group to come aboard your flagship…to explain who we are.”
He stared out, waiting for the message to reach the humans, and for their response to return.
Chapter Fifty
Celizar System
Year 330 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron stood nervously, waiting for the—whatever they were—to come out of the transport. He had expected to be dead by now, and the sequence of events, what had transpired over the past several hours, had been utterly amazing. He had no idea what was going on, but it seemed the enemy could have destroyed the remnants of his fleet, relatively easily…and they hadn’t. He was still utterly mystified by the fact that the enemy, the Highborn, had been destroyed, and he knew these strangers were responsible for most of it. That alone was enough reason to greet them, to quickly change into the dress uniforms his people had but hadn’t worn for a long while.
He was at the head of the group, but behind him were all the fleet’s senior officers—except for Vian Tulus. The imperator of the Alliance, the sole head of his government, had been seriously injured during the battle. Tyler was fairly confident that he would live, at least, but his condition was serious. Terus Venulus stood in his place. He was one of Tulus’ chief aides, though Barron only knew him slightly.
He turned and looked out at his delegation. He had thought about the wisdom of bringing all of his people together, about exposing them all in one place, but if this group wanted to destroy them, they could do it almost as easily if they were all separated and in their ships. In addition to their massive technological superiority, his forces were very badly battered. He had seen the giant ships destroy the entire Highborn fleet, and he knew that his force would have been a fairly simple addition. If whoever they were had decided they just wanted to destroy him, he would have been destroyed.
He saw the door on the shuttle begin to open. The ship was strange, made of a material that seemed foreign, a metal he hadn’t seen before. Whoever they were, they were definitely far advanced from his people.
He stood, uncertain what he would see. If they were aliens, at least they breathed the same atmosphere his people did. They hadn’t mentioned any special requirements, at least.
He thought like that for a few seconds more, but then, suddenly, a human being emerged from the ship, followed by several more. At least, they looked human. He appeared to be young, almost perfect, he realized as he looked at him. They were all the same, he realized, not exactly, but fairly close. They all looked to be about twenty-five, and all of their features were perfect.
“Hello,” the lead figure said. His language was the same as the humans—the other humans, Tyler realized as it occurred to him that those speaking also appeared to be human. “My name is Achilles. To answer the first question, I am certain you have, I am…a mixture of human DNA, and material from an ancient group, one that was called the First Imperium. Despite my appearance, I can also assure you I am old, very old. We were created by an ancient, long gone civilization. My people have been watching yours for a long while.”
Tyler listened, and while almost everything the individual said seemed insane, he actually believed it all. He stepped forward after a few seconds, and he said, “I am Admiral Tyler Barron. These are the assembled heads of our militaries.” He paused, struggling to maintain his calm. “Welcome.” He didn’t know what else to say. The visitors were clearly more advanced than his people were, and he wasn’t sure what to do. Finally, he moved forward and put his hand out.
Achilles smiled, at least a bit, and he reached out and took Tyler’s hand, shaking it.
Then he said, “We obviously mean you no harm, but I do wish to discuss the future with you, what you will do, how you will move forward.” He turned a bit, waving for his others to come up. “But first, allow me to introduce some of my colleagues. This is Freya, one of our very best.” He turned slightly to indicate one of his people. She stepped forward, and she extended her hand as well. Achilles continued, until he had introduced all of his people. Then he said, “Perhaps we can go and sit somewhere…and discuss the Highborn, and the only way to deal with them permanently.”
* * *
“I appreciate what you are saying, Achilles, but you are talking about genocide. No, something even worse. You’re suggesting that we hunt down and kill every one of them…anywhere they are.” Tyler Barron had been fairly quiet. He was still somewhat intimidated by the Mules. But the suggestion that Achilles had made was too much for him to remain silent any longer.
“That is just what I propose. And with good reason. I can assure you, I am no fan of genocide, but I have reviewed the situation from all sides, as have all of my kind. We all agree. The Highborn are defective. They will not progress to become less so over time. In fact, they have become worse and worse throughout the two centuries we have fought them. We could have easily annihilated them at the start, but we assumed that if we could give them the time, they would begin to develop…but they didn’t. I do not want to destroy them utterly…but it is the only way you can be free from their domination, not now, perhaps, but in 50 or 100 years. They will rebuild if we give them the chance. Their sole desire is to rule…over everything. And it is you that I am concerned for, not my people or me. We will leave as soon as the Highborn are no more, and we will not return. The question is a simple one…will you aid us in destroying the Highborn, in utterly eliminating them?”
Tyler still wasn’t convinced. It was almost impossible for him to accept genocide as an acceptable solution, to any problem. But as he looked around the room at his colleagues, even as his wife, he could see that they were all much closer to accepting…if they weren’t already there.
He turned and glanced at Andi. He knew her opinion. She had been in favor of eradicating the foe already, and the appearance of the Mules had only incited her more. But as he looked around the table, he realized that everyone was in favor of the plan. Even those who had been uncertain were moved by Achilles’ speech.
He knew he should be, too, that he should want to destroy the Highborn, but he had trouble accepting genocide, of acknowledging that it was justified in any case. But then he thought about the future, about his daughter’s life, about future generations. Was it right to spare the Highborn now, only to have them come back, to try again—and without the Mules, to very probably succeed—in conquering humanity?
“Tyler, I understand your doubts. I truly do. I feel much the same way…emotionally. It was my failure to follow through, to destroy the Highborn years ago that enabled them to come very close to prevailing. Do you really want to subject your people to another war like the one they just had? No, one far worse. My people will be gone, and you humans will face it alone…and I assure you, the Highborn will come back stronger than they were.”
Tyler listened to Achilles’ words, and despite his desire to continue to disagree, he began to realize that what the Mule suggested was essential. As much as he hated the concept of killing them all while they were more or less helpless, the idea of leaving another war to be fought by his descendants, even by Cassie, was just too much.
He finally just nodded his head in agreement. He couldn’t even speak any more for a moment, but he would maintain his position, lead the fleet forward again…and he would help the Mules hunt down and kill every Highborn they could find.
In fact, he might even be able to help them. He looked up, and he managed to say, “We have a weapon to use against the Highborn…a bioweapon.” He knew that despite the gross difference in numbers, the Mules were definitely the senior partners in such a venture. But the virus was one thing he had that he assumed they didn’t have…and it was perfect for the kind of mass killing that lay ahead.
* * *
Tyler Barron was still upset, still troubled by his fleet’s plans, but he had accepted it as necessary, and now, as he had done all his life, he moved on. He had spent the past two weeks giving commands, ordering hasty repairs done to his ships, checking on the status of new vessels under construction. But now, he had one thing to do, something he hadn’t done during the last few fights with the enemy.
“Gaston Villieneuve,” he said. Barron was a warrior who had led his people to the deaths of millions, but he tended not to let his emotions take control of him. He was hard when viewed in public. But this was an exception. “You were the enemy of my people before the Highborn, and even during the war. You wear the Collar now, I see, which makes you a slave of the Highborn. For that, you could be forgiven, as what you have done in that regard is not your fault. But for your myriad of crimes committed before the installation of the Collar you can and will be held accountable. I admittedly have very little true comprehension of how the Collar works, but I do have some, and my understanding is that you—the real you—can see and feel, even though you cannot respond. So, while we will have to do without listening to your pleas, your whining, we will know it is going on inside.”
He turned, and he nodded to the two black clothed men. They moved decisively, and they carried him over to the gallows, and put him up on a stool with a rope around his neck. Barron was impressed at the Collar’s persona, by the complete lack of emotion it showed. But he knew that deep inside Villieneuve was going crazy, all the more because he couldn’t even communicate.
“For all of the Confederation personnel killed by you, in war and in your various plots, you are hereby sentenced to death, to be carried out immediately.” Barron moved up, looking right into his eyes for a moment. Then, he suddenly extended his hand, and the executioner kicked out the stool he was standing on.
Tyler Barron, and a number of others who were present, including Atara and Andrei Denisov, stood still, watching as the life drained from him. Then, when he was sure he was dead, he said, “Dispose of him through the airlock, and let’s not think of him again.” Then he turned toward Denisov. “The Union is now yours, Andrei. Organize it how you see fit…and do a better job than Villieneuve did.”
Then Tyler Barron turned his back on Gaston Villieneuve’s lifeless corpse, and he never looked back.
Epilogue
Year 338 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Barron stared out into space. He had spent most of his life there, almost all of it since childhood. It was beautiful to look at, but to him, he could see only the bodies he had strewn across a whole region of space. He had taken his people through the war with the Highborn, and then he had reluctantly joined the effort to eradicate them, to destroy every one of them that existed. And as he looked out, beyond the beauty, he saw Geserius. It was a planet, just one of hundreds he had visited. And like almost every world he had come to over the past eight years, he had come for one reason. To destroy the Highborn.
And that he had done. He had blasted the planet with the virus, spreading it around everywhere, as he had done before on hundreds of worlds. But this one was special. Geserius was the last hiding place that he knew of, the final refuge of a few surviving Highborn. And now, as far as he could tell, as far as the Mules could either…in a period of months, the last of the Highborn would be gone. Was he sure that none had escaped…no, he couldn’t be positive, but he knew the search that had been put out, the intense effort to find anywhere that the enemy could be hiding, had been the most diligent one ever conducted. Whether they had indeed totally eliminated the race, destroyed every last one of them, or if a few had escaped, he knew one thing. Geserius was his last target…the final planet he would attack. As far as he knew, when the few Highborn hiding on the planet died, they would be extinct.
Now, he would go home. Not back to the fleet, not to some base somewhere…but home, where he would live out his life amid peace and quiet. He realized he hadn’t had a normal life, that the legions of men and women who had died under his command would always haunt him, but whatever he could manage, he knew the one thing he didn’t want anymore. His clear and overriding goal was he wanted to be left alone.
The last eight years had been a different sort of war. The Mules had run through the Highborn’s planets right away, blasting every shipyard, every factory they could find. But the goal wasn’t just to win the war…it was to destroy the enemy utterly. That had been a goal that had come to Barron with great difficulty. He had killed many of his enemy, that wasn’t the problem. But genocide was.
He had argued against it, but Achilles had finally convinced him. In fact, he had come to understand Achilles fairly well, and he had realized that the Mule was just as disgusted by the need as he was. But he knew it was just that, a need. The Highborn were not going to get any better, in fact, in all likelihood, they would only get worse. And leaving even a small number of them alive just meant that in a century, or two or three, the problem would resurface. He understood that, which was why he had remained in his position, as the head of the group of nations fighting as allies. But he still didn’t like it.
He turned and started to walk away, but Andi and Cassie were standing in the entrance. Cassie was now fifteen, almost grown up, and he was glad at least that his eight extra years of war hadn’t required him to send her away. The Highborn had no ships left, and after the first series of Mule assaults, all of their fixed defenses were gone, too. For most of the eight years, he had simply been spreading the virus around each planet and setting up a blockade to insure that no one escaped over the months it took for the disease to develop and kill all the Highborn. For that, Cassie could be present. She had grown up surrounded by warriors, but she had developed well, and she was extremely popular among the service members.
He knew, the effort on the planet, the last planet he believed, had just begun. Masses of ships came in, and they landed medical teams and security. The humans present on most of the Highborn worlds had been slaves for hundreds of years. They all had the Collar, but Confederation medicine had advanced to the point where they could remove it. The process was intricate, and afterwards, those who had been slaves all of their lives faced a very difficult prospect of living normal lives. Many committed suicide, and some went mad…but most of them gradually adapted. Whatever happened, Tyler knew it was better than life in service to the Highborn.
“Ah…my two favorite women!” Barron was down, beaten in by eight years of a war he didn’t agree with but knew was necessary, but Andi and Cassie always cheered him up. “What do you say we head back now…back to Confederation space. Back home.” The thought of retiring, of finally hanging up his stars truly excited him. He wasn’t sure he knew how to just live, that thirty years of constant duty had made him used to being obeyed. But he was ready to give it a try, to hand off the navy to someone else, Atara or Clint, and to disappear, to vanish into obscurity. That thought was the only thing that had kept him going.
Cassie stepped forward and gave him a big hug. “I’m glad this is finished finally, that the Highborn are gone,” she said. Cassie was determined to follow in his footsteps, to go to the naval academy when she was old enough. He wasn’t crazy about the idea himself, but he kept that quiet. He had done as his father and grandfather had, and it didn’t really shock him that his daughter wanted to follow in his footsteps.
Well, she didn’t want to follow his footsteps, exactly, perhaps. Cassie had become good friends with Jake Stockton, and she had been determined to become a fighter pilot for years now. Barron didn’t like it, any of it, really, but he believed that everyone had to make their own choices.
He stepped forward to Andi, and he reached out and hugged her. He had expected her to be calm, relaxed, especially since she had been wildly in favor of eradicating the Highborn, but there was something wrong. She was stiff, bothered by one thing or another. He almost asked, but he figured he would wait until they were alone.
“Come on…let’s go. This is the last planet. Our fight is done…and soon we can return home.” He said the word “home,” but he realized that he hadn’t been there in a very long time. It was home in his distant memories, but whether it would still be he wasn’t sure. He turned and looked at Andi, and he could see again that something was making her terribly uncomfortable. Now, he was getting uneasy.
When Cassie had left them, he took her aside. “What is it, Andi? I know you well enough to be aware that something is bothering you.”
She looked down. “I’m sorry, Tyler…I really am, but I also believe it is the only way we can go forward.”
Tyler was confused. “You mean you and me?” He couldn’t believe that. They were closer now than ever.
“No, my love, never that. But…” She started to try to explain, but then she just took his hand. “Come with me, Tyler.”
She led him to the largest conference room on the ship, and to his surprise, it was full. And not just with anyone. Achilles was there, as were Atara, Clint, Gary Holsten, Jake Stockton, Chronos, Akella, Andrei Denisov, and Vian Tulus. It was a reunion of sorts, of all of the important leaders of the nations, and he hadn’t even realized they were there.
He became edgy, wondering what was going on. He turned back to Andi, but before she could speak, Achilles stood up. “Tyler…we all wanted to have a word with you.”
He turned and looked at Achilles. He had been intimidated by the…man, he assumed was the right thing to think, though he knew that Achilles was actually a combination of humanity and another, ancient race. But he had long since come to trust him, even to like him. Still, he was very curious what he wanted, what they all wanted.
“What is it?” He looked on, edgy, nervous about what would be said. Had they discovered a new hideout of the Highborn? That would be upsetting, surely, but enough to assemble the group that now sat before him?
“We have been considering the future. The future of mankind.” Achilles spoke slowly, clearly. “As you know, Tyler, this entire area of space, through to the Rim, and all the way back to the edge of the Hegemony’s homeland, including every system in any of your nations, was all part of the galactic empire.”
Tyler knew that, of course. His civilization didn’t have extensive details on the empire, but it was common knowledge that it had existed. “Yes, of course…but what does that have to…”
“Please, Tyler…allow me to finish.” Even Achilles sounded somewhat apologetic. That really made Barron tense. “We have discussed the future…the future of mankind. As I told you eight years ago, my people will be leaving soon. The Highborn are eliminated, and the last four hundred twenty seven of us will depart. We will go…forever, leaving your future in your hands, entirely. But before we leave, we want to leave you in good shape, in a strong condition for moving forward. If you remain in independent polities, you will only end up fighting with each other, perhaps not now, but in thirty years, or fifty or a hundred. You may not believe this easily, being such close allies as you are, but please, take it from me, who has seen more human history than you can imagine. Even if no one here goes back on the promises you have made to each other, you will have heirs, followers…people who did not go through the war together.”
Barron had been silent, waiting for Achilles to make his point. But suddenly he said, “What can we do about the future, about what our successors might do?”
Achilles paused for a moment, and then he said, “You can combine into a single entity.”
Barron heard the comment, and he understood…but he didn’t believe it was possible. “I understand your thought…but our nations have been apart for centuries now. Many of us have been enemies, even in our lifetimes. I don’t see how it could work.”
“You’re right, Tyler…mostly. Ideally, the government would be a republic. It would be wonderful to see such a form of government take hold…but your people aren’t ready for it, not yet. However, we could restart the empire, build a second version of it.”
Tyler almost laughed. “Sure…all you need is someone to be the emperor.” To him, that was ridiculous. There was no way he could imagine every country accepting anyone as emperor, even if they would consider the overall idea.
But Achilles just stood where he was. He said, “Yes, Tyler, you are correct…at least to a point. But I have already discussed this with your comrades—and despite the Senate of the Confederation and whatever other bits and pieces of government your nations have, we both know that after so many years of war, the military is currently in control. Everywhere. And there is one person everyone agrees to accept as the emperor.”
Barron felt sick. All he wanted to do was run, to escape and hide. But he just stood where he was.
“It is you, Tyler. All of the nations, or at least their de facto leaders, have agreed to accept you as the emperor.” He paused for just a few seconds, and then he added, “The emperor of all mankind.”
Barron was already shaking his head. “No…” he said. “I have done enough. As soon as we can make whatever adjustments are necessary, I plan to resign my commission…and live the rest of my life in peace.”
“Tyler, you are the only hope of a long period of peace and development. There is no one else that everyone will accept. You are the only choice.” Everyone in the room was nodding their heads in agreement.
“Look, I appreciate the offer, I really do…but the answer is no. I don’t want it, I don’t want any authority, not anymore. I just want to go back home, and…” He stopped, feeling everyone in the room staring at him.
“Tyler…I don’t want this either. I would love to go back with you, to live the life you talk about, but how realistic is it? Really? The Confederation is a mess, as is every other nation. Can you really just go home and ignore all the suffering? Can you sit at home and ignore strife, even civil war? At least, as emperor, you would be able to make a difference, you would be able to start to help to pull things together.” Andi said the words, and he knew as she spoke that she hated the idea as much as he did…but she was still arguing for it. “What if Achilles is correct,” she continued, “if in fifty years we are back where we were, enemies, fighting each other? Then all of this, the terrible conflicts we have fought, would have been for nothing.”
Tyler shook his head, but even as he did, he could see all of the others staring at him.
Achilles spoke again. “Tyler, you are the only one everyone will accept. We have already discussed it. Every military leader is willing to bend the knee to you, to follow you. And only you. And it is the one way humanity has a chance, a real chance, of advancing, of reaching a level in the future where they can truly become an advanced species.”
Tyler Barron just stood for a moment, trying to think of a way, any way, out this. He just wanted to be left alone, and after almost forty years of service, he felt he deserved it. But the eyes in the room, those he had fought alongside for so long, all stared at him. It wasn’t fair, he thought. He had given enough, more than anyone could be expected to.
He knew, as well, that declaring himself emperor wouldn’t be the end of combat. If all of the military leaders were on his side he knew it could be done, but that didn’t mean there would be no resistance, no opposition. Could he really put his people through more, even to save them from a future that was dark and cold and full of wars?
He turned away from the crowd, and he put his hands up to his head. It wasn’t fair…it just wasn’t fair.
* * *
Tyler Barron stood where he was, feeling absurd draped in the elaborate costume that had been crafted from the scattered records his people had of the empire. He hadn’t wanted the coronation…he hadn’t wanted to be the emperor at all. But here he was, sworn in and official. He had accepted the loyalty of every senior member of the militaries, even from Vian Tulus. Vian had been his close friend for years now, but the thought of the head of the Alliance surrendering his worlds, terminating his own title, seemed almost crazy. But he had done it, just like Akella and everyone else. It was real, truly real, but as many times as he told himself, he just couldn’t quite grasp it all.
Eight years after the last real battle, his fleets—no, he realized, his fleet, one and undivided—was massive. The frantic building pace of the war years had continued, and as the Hegemony worlds were reclaimed, their own production had rejoined that of the other powers.
He turned and looked at Andi. She seemed just as uncomfortable in the empress’s garb, perhaps even worse, but she had gone through the process just as he had.
Now, of course, the real work was in front of him. Some fighting perhaps, though his popularity ratings were fairly strong pretty much everywhere. But the real effort would be to rebuild the shattered economies, and to begin to merge them into one. And while he was at that, he knew he should encourage people to colonize many of the vacant planets. The empire was so large, larger in fact than the first one had been, that it boggled his mind. He didn’t even begin to realize how he could do any of the great mass of things he had to do. But he knew he had to. He would be busy until the day he died, and his heirs would as well. It would take generations, he knew, before the empire was truly developed, its vacant planets repopulated, and everyone, whether they lived in the Alliance, or in the old Highborn planets, over a thousand light years away, were imperial citizens in their minds.
He walked up to Achilles, who was standing at the end of the room. “I hope you are right, Achilles…I hope I can do this job, but I am not sure,” he said, feeling very doubtful.
“It is that which makes you perfect for the job. You don’t want it, and you doubt your effectiveness. That means you will push harder…and I am very confident that you will succeed.” He paused a second, and then he continued, “Part of me wishes to remain, to see how you do, but I know now, after all the years my people have watched over yours, now it is time for you to truly be alone. My people are leaving…tomorrow.”
Barron was startled. He knew the Mules had planned to leave at some point, but immediately?
Achillies turned to face Barron. “You will do well, I am sure of it. For us to remain, to give you advice and then to leave, in a year, or in ten…no, humanity needs to create its own future now. And I’m sure you will do better than we managed to do.”
He stepped back. “It has been a pleasure to know you. I know you are not terribly confident in how you will do, but I am certain you will excel.” He was silent for a moment, and then he said, “Goodbye, Tyler.”
“Goodbye, Achilles…may your people find whatever it is you seek.” He stood for a moment and looked at the…human…alien…something in between. Then Achilles just nodded, and he turned and walked away, out of the room.
Out of his life, he knew.
He turned around and stared out at the crowds, but all he could think of was what he had to do. He had envisioned returning home, to actually relaxing if he could manage it, but now he had so much to do, he wasn’t even sure where to start.
He felt something on his back, and he spun around to see Andi standing there. He turned toward her, and he smiled. He had barely managed to bring himself to the coronation, and without Andi he didn’t think he would have managed it.
“We have to make this work now, Andi,” he said softly. “We really have to make it work.”
She turned toward him, and she managed to smile. “We will, Tyler…somehow.”
That is the conclusion of the
Blood on the Stars series
I hope you enjoyed it
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
Some Later Vessels: Omicron, Nordstrom, Valiant
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.
Books by Jay Allan
Invasion Series
Invasion
Crimson Worlds Series
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Marines (Crimson Worlds I)
The Cost of Victory (Crimson Worlds II)
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The First Imperium (Crimson Worlds IV)
The Line Must Hold (Crimson Worlds V)
To Hell’s Heart (Crimson Worlds VI)
The Shadow Legions (Crimson Worlds VII)
Even Legends Die (Crimson Worlds VIII)
The Fall (Crimson Worlds IX)
Crimson Worlds Successors Trilogy
MERCS (Successors I)
The Prisoner of Eldaron (Successors II)
The Black Flag (Successors III)
Crimson Worlds Refugees Series
Into the Darkness (Refugees I)
Shadows of the Gods (Refugees II)
Revenge of the Ancients (Refugees III)
Winds of Vengeance (Refugees IV)
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Red Team Alpha
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Blood on the Stars Series
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Duel in the Dark (Blood on the Stars I)
Call to Arms (Blood on the Stars II)
Ruins of Empire (Blood on the Stars III)
Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars IV)
Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars V)
Dauntless (Blood on the Stars VI)
The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars VII)
Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars VIII)
Invasion (Blood on the Stars IX)
Nightfall (Blood on the Stars X)
The Grand Alliance (Blood on the Stars XI)
The Colossus (Blood on the Stars XII)
The Others (Blood on the Stars XIII)
The Last Stand (Blood on the Stars XIV)
Empire’s Ashes (Blood on the Stars XV)
Attack Plan Alpha (Blood on the Stars XVI)
Descent into Darkness (Blood on the Stars XVII)
Empire Reborn (Blood on the Stars XVIII)
Andromeda Chronicles
(Blood on the Stars Adventure Series)
Andromeda Rising (Andromeda Chronicles I)
Wings of Pegasus (Andromeda Chronicles II)
Into the Badlands (Andromeda Chronicles III) – Coming Soon
Flames of Rebellion Series
(Published by Harper Voyager)
Flames of Rebellion (Flames of Rebellion I)
Rebellion’s Fury (Flames of Rebellion II)
The Far Stars Series
Shadow of Empire (Fars Stars I)
Enemy in the Dark (Far Stars II)
Funeral Games (Far Stars III)
Far Stars Legends Series
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Blackhawk (Far Stars Legends I)
The Wolf’s Claw (Far Stars Legends II) – Coming Soon
Portal Wars Trilogy
(Available on Kindle Unlimited)
Gehenna Dawn (Portal Wars I)
The Ten Thousand (Portal Wars II)
Homefront (Portal Wars III)
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The Dragon’s Banner (Pendragon Chronicles I)
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