Chapter One

Report from Admiral Winters to Naval HQ on Megara

(Intercepted and Delivered to Provisional Command, Archellia)

Work to repair the fleet and prepare the planetary defenses to resist any renewed assault by the still-unnamed enemy is proceeding at the maximum possible pace. Dannith’s remaining industry has thus far proven capable of meeting the fleet’s material needs.

Under my authority as Sector C Fleetcom, I have assembled additional forces from Fortress Grimaldi and several of the supporting bases rearward of the Union border. Coupled with the arrival of the remnants of the White Fleet, Dannith is now defended by a naval force vastly superior to that which resisted the initial invasion attempt.

We are, however, almost entirely without orbital fortress support. We have managed to repair a small number of damaged facilities to partial operability, and have constructed a series of temporary orbital fighter platforms from the hulls of private freighters seized for the purpose. I have also issued transfer orders for ten fighter wings to replace the loss of virtually all of Dannith’s permanent squadrons. I have tapped the sector reserves of new, crated fighters, and I have commandeered available freight craft to carry them to the system.

Work also proceeds on the ground defenses. Colonel Blanth is now officially in command on the surface, and I have been able to form a second ersatz division with detachments from other area bases to supplement the Dannith forces and the survivors of Peterson’s division. Colonel (previously Captain) Blanth cannot be sufficiently recognized for his performance in fighting off the previous landings. However, I have grave concerns about the colonel’s chances of withstanding a fully-supported ground assault in the event the fleet units are defeated. My past reports detail the enemy’s heavily-armored vehicles and the strange exoskeletal implants on its soldiers. I have approved the colonel’s request to authorize extensive tunneling operations to create an infrastructure to support a prolonged campaign of guerilla resistance, should a conventional defense fail.

The included dossier provides a detailed analysis of our current readiness, as well as my own rationale for expecting the enemy to return in the near future. Nevertheless, for all my concerns and trepidations about the return engagement, at this time I am pleased to report…all quiet on the Dannith front.

12,000,000 Kilometers from CFS Dauntless

Variag System

Two Transits from Archellia

Year 317 AC

“Move that damned thing! Shake it up. At least make him work for it if he wants to kill you!” Commander Johannes Trent was shouting into his comm, as if the intensity of his voice alone could somehow stop the tragedy he saw unfolding on his screen…save the doomed pilot on the other end of the line.

“I can’t lose him, Commander. He’s matching every move I make.” The pilot’s voice was shrill. The man was scared to death, and he was beginning to lose it. That was the worst thing that could happen. Whatever chance the young officer had—and his voice sounded even younger than the twenty-four years the AI’s records indicated—it depended on him flying his fighter with cool, focused intensity.

“I’m on the way, Weaver…just hold it together a little longer. You’re going to be just fine.” It was a lie, and one for which he felt immediately guilty…though he would have done it again if he’d had to. Trent had seen enough combat during the war to know there was no way he was going to get close enough to help Weaver, not before the bird on the terrified officer’s tail blasted him to plasma. If the young pilot was going to make it, he was going to have to do it himself.

And, as much as Trent was committed, as aggressively as he screamed into the comm, he didn’t believe his pilot had one chance in ten. He’d seen too many rookies blown to atoms before they’d mastered the art of dogfighting.

“I…don’t think I can…sir.” There was raw fear in the man’s voice, but something else too, a calmness Trent found especially unnerving. Acceptance. Weaver knew he couldn’t escape…and he was beginning to give up, to yield to death’s embrace.

“Hold it together, Lieutenant. That’s a damned order!” Trent was a celebrated pilot, an ace with thirty-two kills in the war against the Union…but he hadn’t reached the level of raw egotism he’d seen in many of the other aces. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself he could save Weaver by willing it to be so. The panicked and beleaguered junior pilot wasn’t the only one yielding to seeming inevitability.

For a few seconds, he just watched as three more shots zipped by Weaver’s ship, the last one close enough to give the young pilot a sunburn. Then an idea popped into his head.

It was crazy, so out there his first reaction was to push it aside. But he had nothing to lose.

“Fighter at coordinates 123.301.223…this is Commander Johannes Trent, assistant strike force commander CFS Defiant, temporarily assigned to CFS Dauntless. I fought through the entire Union war and amassed thirty-two kills. You can confirm this by checking your warbooks. The pilot you are pursuing is inexperienced, and you will no doubt succeed in destroying his ship.” He paused for an instant, and when he continued, his voice dripped with menace. “If you do that…I promise you this. I will pursue you, and nothing will stop me. I will avenge my pilot, and no force in this universe will prevent me from completing my mission. I will follow you back to your mothership. Into the landing bay itself, if need be. And, whatever it takes, I will blast you to a cloud of dust and gas. I have thirty-two dead Union pilots behind me who would testify I can do what I say I can.”

He almost laughed at the sound of his own voice. He’d thought he was less of an uncontrolled egotist than many of his comrades, but now he wasn’t so sure. What he’d just done was about the most pompous and self-aggrandizing display he’d ever witnessed.

But he was betting the pilot on the other side was fairly junior, too. A more experienced flyer would have obliterated Weaver’s ship long before.

And it was the only thing he could think of.

He brought his ship around, adjusting his course directly toward the targeted ship. He’d already been blasting at full thrust, but now he threw off his safeties and drove the reactor past the redline. He needed every g he could get…and watching as he raced recklessly forward would only make his words hit that pilot harder.

He didn’t expect his adversary to pull up and openly allow his quarry to escape. That wasn’t Trent’s plan. He just needed to get into the man’s head, to distract him and buy time.

Time to get there. Time to save Weaver.

His hand tightened around the throttle. He was close to firing distance…at least extreme range. He almost fired, but he held back. He’d been in enough fights to know that even if he scored an unlikely hit at such long range, the impact on the target would be more like a flashlight than a deadly laser. He had to get closer.

He watched as Weaver’s ship gyrated around, wiggling wildly—if a bit predictably. He didn’t know yet if his words had affected their target, but it was apparent they’d had an impact on Weaver. Trent wasn’t sure if it was inspiration, or just a last grasp at hope for survival, but the rookie was giving his pursuer a little more of a challenge.

That was all Trent needed. That, and maybe forty-five seconds.

He held the controls tightly, his fingers turning pale white as his grip closed like a vice. He was in action again, quite a change from the protracted time off he’d expected. He’d started a long leave the day he’d been discharged from Archellia’s naval hospital, but Tyler Barron had come to Archellia that very day, and he’d asked for help. Trent had served alongside Barron’s Dauntless, and on days when his ego and pride allowed him to admit it, he knew he owed his life to none other than Barron and his legendary strike force commander, Jake Stockton. That had been another day, another battle, one where he’d met his own match and almost paid the price…but such debts were taken seriously in the fighter corps.

Trent had been disappointed to find that Stockton wasn’t with Dauntless, but Barron himself had asked for help and support, and that was all it took…even after Trent came to understand the disturbing details, that other Confederation forces were after Barron and his people. That rallying to the famous admiral could very well mean fighting other Confederation spacers.

Civil war was not something Trent had ever seriously considered, certainly not in the Confederation, but if such a tragedy had indeed come, he knew one thing for sure. He was on Tyler Barron’s side.

And now you’re trying to kill one Confederation pilot to save another…

Trent had come to Archellia to convalesce, and the prospect of combat had never entered his mind. After spending weeks in the hospital, he’d expected to return to Defiant and the crushing boredom of peacetime duties. Even the story behind his injuries was an uninteresting one, at least to anyone who hadn’t been through it. Flying Lightning fighters had never made anyone’s list of safe occupations, even in peacetime, and it had been an unlikely malfunction at just the wrong time that had come a hair’s breadth from killing the veteran pilot.

Leave on Archellia had seemed somewhat of a dim prospect at first, certainly for a fighter pilot accustomed to recreational activities that were a touch more…unrestrained…than what passed for excitement on the sleepy Far Rim capital. Archellia was in the most remote end of the Confederation, a stretch of space filled with sparsely-populated agricultural and mining worlds. The naval base itself was a significant installation, though it had never really been necessary, and had been rendered even more pointless by the treaty with the Alliance.

And now it’s Tyler Barron’s headquarters for what? To fight a civil war against other Confederation forces?

Trent had already made his decision, whatever concerns or doubts might be drifting through his thoughts. Whatever was happening, whatever might yet come…he was with Barron. But that didn’t stop the whole thing from making him sick to his stomach.

His eyes darted around the screen, his thoughts snapping back to the moment. He was seconds out of effective range, and against all odds, Weaver was still alive. More than that…the ship that had been chasing down the rookie had modified its course and setting.

It was coming for him.

Trent jerked his arm to the side, angling his fighter’s thrust sharply to the side, another evasive maneuver…and a manifestation of his realization that he had a real fight on his hands. His enemy hadn’t broken and run…but he’d been shaken enough to focus all his attention on the approaching threat.

Trent could feel the tightness in his cheeks as a thin smile appeared on his lips. He would feel sick later for any Confederation colleagues he killed, but for the moment, the predator inside him was in control. He stared at the screen, eyes fixed on his target, noting the move of Weaver’s ship out of immediate danger…even as his fingers tightened on the firing stud, and the loud whine of his lasers filled the cockpit.

*

“All fighters are to return to base.” Atara stood alongside her chair, one hand on the armrest, steadying herself as Dauntless’s evasive maneuvers shook the bridge.

“Yes, Captain.” Eliot Cumberland sat at the tactical station, three meters from where Atara stood. She was used to having the rock-steady Sonya Eaton at the position, though Barron had assured her Cumberland was a reliable and gifted officer…and she always took her oldest friend’s words as the unchallenged truth.

“Make sure they come in at once,” she added, perhaps thinking more of the impetuousness of Dauntless’s regular squadrons…and less of the pack of misfits and rookies Tyler Barron had found on Archellia to refill the battleship’s empty flight decks.

Most of the pilots were green, but Johannes Trent had been a pleasant surprise. She’d just watched the veteran pilot take out three enemy—if that was a word she could use against these opponents—fighters, saving one of his own with the last kill. Trent was a true veteran wing commander, one who’d never even have been on an out of the way planet like Archellia, save for a freak accident that had sent him to the base’s huge hospital for treatment.

Barron had found the officer fully recovered—more or less—and already bored mere days into a four month leave on the Rim capital. He’d been straight with the officer, as he had been with all he’d approached. There was no point in lying to them…and having them bolt or switch sides when they found out they were as likely to be facing their own comrades as the invading Hegemony.

Trent had jumped on board almost immediately. He’d fought in many of the same battles Dauntless had, and he’d led his fighters next to Stockton and his squadrons. It would take more than the accusations of a band of corrupt politicians to convince Johannes Trent that Tyler Barron was an enemy. And Barron had rewarded—if that description was applicable in such an upsetting situation—Trent’s support by putting the commander in charge of all the fighter strength he’d been able to rally. That was some job…filling Jake Stockton’s shoes, and without the pack of veterans that had followed him into battle. She didn’t figure Trent could replace Stockton—no one could—but she was damned glad to have him when Stockton and the rest of Dauntless’s pilots were…

She stopped the thought cold. The truth was, though there had been reports of a battle on the frontier involving at least part of the White Fleet, she had no idea what kind of losses that force had suffered, or if Stockton, Anya Fritz, or either of the Eaton sisters were still alive. Years of war had taught her there was nothing to be gained by spending hours guessing.

Dauntless shook again, a bit harder, restoring her focus to the situation at hand as the evasive nav plan she’d ordered moments before started to kick in. The ship was out of range of the enemy, she was sure of that. But the opposing vessels were closing hard, and she wasn’t about to take any chances.

She did, however, slide around to the front of the chair and drop down into her seat. It wouldn’t do any good for those present to see Dauntless’s captain end up sitting on her ass in the middle of the bridge if the next vector change caught her by surprise. She wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances of getting injured, either. Atara had never been timid, but she’d spent quite long enough in sickbay on the way back from the deep Badlands, and she was determined to stay the hell out of the place for a long while.

“Set a course to the transit point, maximum evasive maneuvers. As soon as the fighters are in the bays, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

Atara’s orders were clear, and she was one hundred percent sure of them. She’d fight other Confederation ships if she had to, and she’d kill their spacers too, if there was no other way. But Barron’s instructions had been to surprise the approaching force, to disorder its formation, and to inflict damage on its vessels, causing as few casualties as possible. Her fighters had done all of that, with impressive success, considering the relative inexperience of the pilots at her disposal.

She agreed with Barron’s reticence. The situation in the Confederation could very well turn into outright civil war, but there was a chance that the threat of an outside enemy could create a route for a truce between Barron and the fleet units that had rallied to him…and whoever was pulling the strings on Megara.

She’d been involved in a lot of desperate encounters, but she’d never imagined a situation so desperate that she’d look to an overwhelming invasion as the way out of an even worse nightmare.

At least we’d all get to die together, on the same side…the way it should be.

*

Tyler Barron looked out the window, across the…skyline…of Archa City. At least, that was what the locals called it. Barron had seen the immensity of Troyus City and a dozen of the Confederation’s other vast metropolises, and Archa’s small cluster of tall buildings, not one of them so much as half a kilometer in height, failed to amaze him. He was in a room atop the highest and grandest of them all, the plush ego trip the planetary government had constructed to house its employees, politicians, and military commanders.

It wasn’t a very militarily defensible headquarters. But with the Alliance treaty, the possibility of war with the Palatians—the only group that could even remotely threaten the Confederation from the Far Rim—had receded to insignificance. It had given the planet’s citizens cause for relief…and stripped the naval base of its last, shaky claim to importance.

At least until Barron had come and rallied both the spacers and the locals to his cause. Barron had, as so often was the case, been aided by the immense benefits of his name. Though in Archellia, it was his own achievements that stood out, beyond even those of his famous grandfather. He’d been shocked to discover that the Archellians viewed him as almost a savior for his victory eight years before. It was a triumph that left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable, but one the locals believed had prevented an Alliance invasion that would have hit them first.

He leaned back in the plush chair, feeling almost guilty at the degree of comfort it offered him as Atara and Dauntless were out fighting. They were executing a series of lightning strikes intended to harass and delay any forces Megara had sent to apprehend him…and crush what he could only imagine the Senate considered a treasonous rebellion. He’d planned to go himself, but Atara had let him have it with both barrels, reminding him that he was the face of the resistance. He had to stay on Archellia, to be there when more ships arrived to join his growing forces…and to ensure that the Archellians remained committed to the cause. The Far Rim wasn’t the ideal place to prepare either for civil war or to resist an enemy approaching a distant border, but there were significant naval resources there. And it was a damned sight better than being locked away in some Senate prison complex.

Sending his people to fight while he remained behind was a nightmare for him, one he’d endured all too often since he’d set out in command of the White Fleet. But he’d known instantly that Atara was right. He had to stay on Archellia until he’d assembled enough forces to accomplish something of value. Gary Holsten had been sending out messages to his old espionage network across the Confederation, helping in his own way to spread the word…to find out what, exactly, had happened on Megara and who was behind it.

And to get word to the Confederation’s naval and Marine commanders that Tyler Barron needed their help to stop it.

Barron glanced back down at the tablet on his desk. The communique was another small victory. It was a report from Dannith to the Senate, from Admiral Winters. There had been a battle between Hegemony invaders and a force Winters had managed to cobble together, and one that had been reinforced at the last instant by the returning White Fleet.

Barron’s eyes had frozen on the accounts of the battle, and he’d felt a wave of relief amid the crushing stress, as Winter’s report made it clear Sara Eaton, Jake Stockton, Anya Fritz—most of his top people—were alive, and back in Confederation space.

And victorious…at least against whatever force the Hegemony had sent to Dannith. Still, Barron didn’t let his exuberance get out of control. A victory was a welcome surprise, but he suspected the Confederation had seen only a small fraction of the Hegemony’s true strength…that the worst by far was still to come.

That meant he had to resolve the discord in the Confederation…and he had to do it quickly.

Before the Confederation fell to the invader without a fight.

Chapter Two

Sagamore System

Two Transits into the Badlands from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“Let’s go…we need to hold those things back, and you all know how to do that by now!” Olya Federov shouted the—command, encouragement…both?—into the comm unit. The Hegemony ships were coming on hard, blasting at thrust levels she could barely believe she was seeing. The forward line of moderate-sized escorts was coming in at over 100g. The Hegemony had always had a clear advantage in ship thrust levels, but these were the fastest vessels she’d seen yet.

It wasn’t likely the maneuverable enemy ships mounted heavy weapons of the kind the Hegemony battleships did, railguns and massive laser cannons that could quickly disable or destroy Repulse. Still, she wasn’t going to take any chances, and she was sure Captain Eaton would agree. The Hegemony warranted extreme caution, which was why Captain Eaton’s sister, Sara, and Admiral Winters were back on Dannith now, preparing the planet’s defenses for the renewed engagement that virtually every spacer in the fleet knew was coming.

And from the looks of things here, it seems like that assumption is dead on…

Admiral Winters had been convinced all along the enemy would be back to Dannith, and probably sooner rather than later. Federov had held a bit less conviction, at least at first. But then, strategy wasn’t her area of expertise, fighter tactics was. Now she was just as sure as Winters was, perhaps even more so as she looked out at the rows of symbols on her scanning display. There were more ships on the screen than the last Hegemony scouting mission had brought, just weeks before, and more than had invaded Dannith’s system months before.

The enemy had withdrawn from that battle after the White Fleet arrived to bolster the battered defenders, but they hadn’t gone far. This system was just two transits from the Confederation border. With the power of Hegemony engines, the ships on her scanner could be back in the Ventica System in less than a week, launching a renewed attack on Dannith’s hurriedly replenished defenses that, despite her grim determination, Federov knew in her gut was likely to succeed.

Perhaps worse, there were detectable installations on two of the system’s natural satellites, ongoing construction projects that looked very much like the Hegemony was building massive bases…and there were more enemy ships coming from every direction. Every scouting mission had reported more hulls than the last, and more construction completed on the moons. The Hegemony was clearly massing for something, and, this close to Dannith and the Confederation, Federov had no doubt what that was.

A new attack on Dannith at the least. At the worst, a full-fledged invasion of the Confederation.

Captain Eaton had launched a vast spread of drones, intending to gather as much intelligence as she could, but she’d been compelled to order her forces to retreat before she’d gotten significant data from any of them. The enemy was just too close…and too goddamned fast. Repulse was a strong ship, but she and her escorts were essentially a scouting force…and no match for what the Hegemony had massed in the system.

Olya Federov had served under Tyler Barron for a long time…long enough to become spoiled and used to fighting alongside the very best. Still, despite her continued opinion that Barron was the best naval officer in the Confederation—and perhaps the best that had ever lived—she had nothing but praise for Sonya Eaton’s skill and coolness under fire. She’d been surprised when Commodore Eaton had approved her younger sister’s transfer from being her aide to active command duty. That had most likely happened at the insistence of the junior Eaton…and most likely also because the commodore and Admiral Winters were desperately short of reliable senior personnel.

Federov jerked her hand suddenly, reacting to vector changes in the closest enemy ships. The Hegemony escorts were as fast as her fighters, and damned near as maneuverable. She was used to focusing her efforts on heavy ships of the line—far easier targets than she faced now. The escorts were dangerous, something she’d found out the hard way on the last scouting mission. She’d lost a dozen fighters two weeks before, half of them because she’d let herself become cocky, and underestimated the ability of the smaller enemy warships. The Hegemony didn’t have fighters—thank God—but they did have defensive batteries, and they were getting better at using them with each passing engagement.

She swung her thrust vector around almost ninety degrees in the X-Y plane and brought her engines up to full power. She’d been ready for the enemy to engage her squadrons, but now she realized they intended to blast right by…and hit Repulse and the other ships of the task force. It was dangerous for the enemy to ignore her fighters, but that didn’t mean it wouldn’t work. If the escorts could damage Repulse’s engines, cut the battleship’s thrust just long enough for a force of the Hegemony behemoths to get into shooting range, Eaton’s flagship—and Federov’s current mothership—would never make it back to Dannith.

She checked her weapons status for the third time. Fully charged and ready. She had a plasma torpedo in her bird’s bomb bay, ready to arm and launch as soon as she got in range of a target. Federov had spent most of her career flying an interceptor, but in this war, every fighter went out fitted for bombing missions. The dogfights that had dominated her war service before were completely missing from this conflict, and she and the Confederation’s entire fighter corps were going to have to come to grips with a vastly changed doctrine if they were going to win the struggle being forced on them.

She angled toward the closest target, resisting the urge to micromanage her squadrons. Most of her pilots had been with the White Fleet, and they were the closest thing the Confederation had to veterans at fighting the Hegemony. They didn’t need her shouting out commands like they were a bunch of new flight school grads.

She was focused on the fight she was in, but she was also frustrated. In all her actions against this new enemy, she’d gone after massive vessels, seeking to knock out the Hegemony battleships and their deadly railguns. But the big ships were a million kilometers or more from Repulse, and they wouldn’t become a factor unless the escorts could damage and slow down the Confederation battleship.

Unless her people let them reach Repulse with enough strength to damage the big ship…

Her eyes narrowed on her chosen target, and she tapped her controls, adjusting her vector and bringing her ship right at the target. The enemy’s velocity was high, close to two percent of light speed, and that meant she wouldn’t be able to keep up once they’d gotten past her. It would take hours to get her fighters up to that kind of velocity…and she had, at best, ten minutes.

She activated her targeting computer, adjusting the parameters based on her observations, her scanner readings…and the feeling in her gut. She was going to come in close—that had become the new doctrine against an enemy that lacked its own defensive fighters—but she couldn’t close to the insane distances her people had in some of the other engagements. The targets were moving too fast for that kind of precision. All her pilots could do was plot out interception points…and struggle like hell to compensate for any enemy evasive maneuvers. They’d have a chance to hit the escorts, but it wouldn’t last long…and then they’d have nothing to do but watch the ships they’d let past them close on Repulse. The battleship’s primaries far outranged anything on the small attacking ships, and Eaton and her crew would take their toll…but there were a lot of vessels coming in.

“It’s almost showtime…everybody better have a target picked out by now.” The impulse to give her people one more reminder had been too strong to ignore, and the flood of enthusiastic replies made her feel a little better. Her pilots were on the ball, and, from the sound of things, as focused as she was.

Her head snapped around as a warning bell went off in her cockpit. The scanners had picked up enemy weapons systems powering up. She’d already known she would have to run a gauntlet past the fire of her target’s defensive turrets, but that expectation didn’t stop the tension from taking her in the gut. She was a longtime veteran, but you never got used to blasting straight into a web of incoming fire.

It wasn’t more than a few seconds before the scanners updated, and flashes on the screen showed the enemy laser pulses. They were far away, and they didn’t look like much on her small display. But any one of those beams could vaporize her tiny fighter.

She increased the intensity of her evasive maneuvering, shaking her head and complaining silently to herself about how sluggish the fighter was with the bombing kit installed. She longed for the precise responsiveness of her interceptor, and despite the fact that she’d led torpedo-armed ships against the Hegemony many times by now, she still wondered how any fighter that handled so badly could possibly get past the enemy’s fire.

She swung her arm to the side, sharply changing her thrust angle. Her hand tightened on the throttle, and she could feel her heart beating in her chest, like a drum banging out some desperate march. The cockpit, despite her knowledge that it was perfectly maintained at ideal room temperature, began to feel hot, stifling. She remembered her days as a newly minted ensign, a rookie pilot so scared she could hardly keep her hands from shaking. She’d looked around then at the more experienced pilots, and wondered how long it would be before the fear left her, as it so obviously had vanished from those vaunted colleagues.

She was still waiting for that. But now she knew those cocky fighter jocks hadn’t learned to banish their fear…they’d learn to lie about it, to hide it, even from themselves.

A pair of laser bursts blasted close by her ship, less than three hundred meters away. She couldn’t actually see them, of course, and she wouldn’t have been able to, even if she’d opened the blast shield over her cockpit’s small forward window. The lasers were invisible, save for where they passed through a dust cloud or some other area heavy with particulate matter. But her scanners could pick up the energy, and the readings confirmed the blasts were as strong as those she’d encountered fighting the enemy’s battleships. The escorts were faster and more lightly armed in general…but it seemed they carried the same point defense guns.

She swung around again, a move based on pure instinct, and she looked over at the display again. Thirty thousand kilometers. Within range. A perfectly respectable distance from which to fire…against an enemy that had interceptors nipping at the bombers’ heels. But doctrine for fighting the Hegemony had quickly evolved into desperate torpedo runs closing to unheard of, seemingly impossible ranges. It was reckless, a tactic that would never be formally accepted by the Academy, or by the stuffed uniforms that wrote the “book,” but her pilots—all the fighter jocks of the White Fleet, and those who’d served under Admiral Winters at Dannith—had written their own rules, the ink drawn from the blood of their comrades who’d come in just a little too close, or failed to pull out in time. Federov knew exactly how many that had been in the White Fleet, but she had no idea how many of Winters’s pilots had slammed into the vessels they’d targeted.

The crashes caused massive damage to the affected vessels, but the Confederation’s fighter corps, as wild and daring as its cadre was apt to be, had not adopted suicide runs as standard tactics. Not yet, at least. She wondered if that would change if the enemy cut through the Confederation’s defenses, plunged forward to planets that had been safe from any enemy for a century or more. If millions died. Billions. Desperation was a grim rallying cry, but history was full of examples of the deeds it could inspire.

She stared straight ahead, her eyes locked on the vessel before her, growing rapidly on her screen. She was under twenty thousand kilometers now, and the enemy fire was getting thicker, closer. She was leaning forward in her seat, her muscles tense, tight…her whole body sore. But she worked the controls, brought her ship in on a wild zigzag, maintaining her overall course, while doing all she could to confuse the enemy’s targeting systems. More fire zipped past her ship, but she managed to evade the enemy’s fire, even as the range counter dipped below ten thousand.

The attack run was different from most she’d done. She wasn’t coming on at an approaching enemy so much as trying to intersect one whipping by her position. It was harder than usual to respond to the target ship’s vector changes, and the efficiency of her own evasion techniques had suffered…that those of all her squadrons had. She could see the casualty figures growing, the number of pilots—her pilots—who had been shot down already. The losses were bad, worse than in most of the White Fleet’s engagements with the Hegemony, and the attack wasn’t over yet.

The thought of growing casualties distracted her, but only for an instant. She was too old a veteran, too much of a professional, to let such things interfere with the mission. Getting herself killed because she wasn’t paying attention wouldn’t bring back one of her dead pilots.

Five thousand kilometers. Close…very close.

But she was going to go in closer yet. She knew damned well what a single torpedo hit could do to a ship the size of the escort in front of her…but she also knew just how maneuverable those vessels were, how able to evade her shot. The massive velocity would actually help her targeting to an extent…a ship moving at two percent of light speed couldn’t alter its vector much in a short time, even with a massive burst of thrust.

She felt her hand tightening almost on its own, her index finger moving, feeling the cool metal of the firing stud. Her eyes were fixed on the screen, her focus becoming all-consuming. A moment before, she had been part of the fleet, the commander of seventy veteran pilots…but now, there was only her, and the chunk of metal she was heading for, the one she was going to blast to wreckage.

She saw the range display out of the corner of her eye as it dropped below three thousand. Then, almost without conscious thought, her finger tightened…and the fighter lurched as the torpedo blasted out of the bay, on a course directly toward the enemy escort.

Normally, at such a short range, she would have converted the warhead to pure plasma at once, but these targets were too maneuverable for that. She had to take the risk, allow the projectile to retain its physical form for as long as possible. She could see everything on her screen as her arm ratcheted back, changing the angle of her engines and blasting at full power to clear the target ship. The torpedo’s engines were also firing, its onboard AI responding to the enemy vessel’s attempts to escape and dodging the incoming fire that had stopped targeting Federov’s fighter, and was now focused on trying to blast the rapidly-approaching warhead.

Seconds had passed…five, perhaps six or seven. She could see clear space ahead of her, and she knew she was clear. If a collision with an enemy ship lay ahead of her, it was in the future. Unless a last-ditch shot from the enemy point defense took her ship, she would survive this latest attack.

In a few seconds, she confirmed that her enemy wasn’t so lucky. She watched as the torpedo struck the escort vessel, feeling a rush of elation as she saw the positioning of the hit. Her gut told her it had been a solid impact, perhaps a critical one. That was far from confirmation…for another eight seconds, at least.

Then she saw the power surge on her screen…an instant before the AI confirmed the target vessel had lost containment…and turned into a tiny sun before slowly fading away to a cloud of radiation and atomized dust.

Chapter Three

Planet Calpharon

Sigma Nordlin System

Year of Renewal 262 (317 AC)

The room was immense. Vast, grand, titanic…nothing seemed remotely adequate to express the enormity of the chamber that stretched out before Akella. As an example of advanced materials and engineering it was without equal. As a display of the incredible wealth and resources of the Hegemony, it defied all comparison.

Save, perhaps, for all that lost long ago…that which even we have not yet fully regained.

Akella was forty-two, still quite young to be the ruler of so powerful a realm as the Hegemony. In fact, she was not just the monarch of the systems the Hegemony actually controlled, she was the leader of all humanity. Her sovereignty extended to wherever mankind existed, whether small groups clinging to survival on worlds not yet rediscovered…or out on the Rim, where the most recent intelligence reports confirmed billions of humans had indeed survived the Great Death. The Hegemony’s doctrine on such matters was clear. All humans everywhere were its subjects, and they would submit.

The Hegemony had begun centuries before, emerging early from the ruins of the great empire that had, for so many millennia, ruled all mankind. Many years had passed before it had grown strong and taken its rightful place ruling the battered and damaged survivors. The disasters that had ended the original empire’s reign had come close to snuffing out the entire human race, but people had proven to be surprisingly resilient, and as the Hegemony grew, it discovered more and more pockets of survivors. It absorbed them all, taking its people into its rigidly structured system. It drew from the scattered population pools the few whose genetics were strong, and utilized the rest in whatever capacity their limited abilities allowed.

The Hegemony’s founders had decreed but one commandment, a single tenet to be held highest and most revered, above all others…that the very best of mankind’s survivors should rule over the others, protecting them from their baser instincts and leading the young polity forward to fulfill its goal of ensuring humanity’s survival and its prosperity.

Akella had risen to such unimaginable power at a young age through the simple act of scoring the highest-ever results on the genetics rating test, an achievement that had, in an instant, made her the supreme ruler of the Hegemony. There had been no violence, no election, no dirty political deals made in shadowy corners. She simply became Number One, the unquestioned leader of the massive state, and her predecessor accepted his new role as Number Four, yielding without rancor not only to her, but the two others who advanced beyond his stature.

She was, in terms of Hegemonic law, the most perfect human being alive anywhere…and, as such, the natural ruler of all the others. At least until someone bested her score, proved themselves a more ideal human specimen. It was a seemingly inevitable development she had long expected, but one that had, as yet, failed to materialize.

She was fatigued as she stood on the raised dais, looking out over the multitudes gathered below. It had been less than two days since she had given birth, to a child born of her own genes and those of Thantor, known otherwise as Number Two. He had scored higher on the genetic testing than any human being alive, save only for Akella herself.

The pairing had not been one born of emotion, nor even of passion. Indeed, such primitive mating rituals were the ways of the lesser humans, the Inferiors. She did not particularly like Thantor, nor did she enjoy his company. In truth, she considered him boorish and he grated on her when she was forced to spend too much time with him. But there was no doubt about his intellect, nor his physical attributes. He was strong, healthy, as much an image of the perfect human male as existed anywhere known to her. He was extremely attractive, as well, and she had been disappointed to find his skills in the relevant area had not been a match for his striking appearance and physique.

Emotions were not a factor, however, in breeding among the Masters. Nor, for that matter, was sexual gratification. She could have any lover she wanted for such routine purposes. Indeed, she had several in her household at the moment. But her duty to produce the next generation of Masters was clear…and at her level there could be no thought of anything but pursuing the very strongest pairings. Genetic matches were not immune to the effects of fortune and randomness, but there was every reason to imagine that the newborn now sleeping in her villa would one day be of the highest level of leaders in the Hegemony…and, perhaps even a future Number One.

With only a single child, Akella was well behind a normal schedule for a female Master of her age. Masters were expected to produce significant numbers of children, and for her to have her first at forty-two verged on scandalous. But her position, so easily attained, had proven to be a demanding one, allowing little time for duties outside those of running the state. Fortunately, her constitution and nearly perfect genetics put her on a timetable apart from most other humans, even most Masters. She would be capable of bearing children for another twenty years, and perhaps longer. That gave her enough time to have the eight that were expected of her…at least if the looming war could be concluded in a reasonable time.

That was a concern, however. Though she expressed the expected confidence in public discourse, she was nervous about this new enemy. She didn’t doubt that the Hegemony would prevail, but she was concerned that the war would prove to be longer and costlier than any of her colleagues believed. She had watched the video from the battles, analyzed the tactics and conduct of the Rim dwellers in combat. Almost all of them were inferiors, but they were brave and capable fighters, and they appeared to be extremely independent in nature. She had tried to analyze their conduct, to extrapolate how they would behave when they were defending their own worlds. Her conclusions were not reassuring, at least not in terms of a speedy end to the conflict.

Akella pulled herself from her thoughts, focusing again on the podium, and on the masses gathered in the great hall. Keretes was still speaking. That was hardly a surprise. He was among the very highest in the Hegemony, Number Six by ranking, and he specialized in oratory and language. He was among the few of her peers Akella really liked, and she counted him among her small circle of true friends…but he had never known when to shut the hell up. Given any kind of a forum, he always droned on, almost endlessly…as he was doing now.

Akella was vastly different in temperament from her friend, and when Keretes finally introduced her, she had a very few words to say. Then she planned to make good her escape from the stage and from the public displays she despised even as she understood they were sometimes necessary.

“And now, I am pleased to step aside and bring our esteemed Number One and sacred leader to the microphone.” Keretes turned and looked back at her, bowing his head slightly as he did. “Highest…all await your words and wisdom.”

She sighed softly, keeping it as quiet as she could as she suppressed the urge to shake her head. There was virtually no place she would not have rather been, but in so many years as her people’s leader, she had learned to accept the tasks duty pushed on her.

Even the ones she despised.

“As all of you now know, we have encountered another group of humans who survived the Great Death. Indeed, it appears the area of space known in imperial times as the Rim, contains by far the largest and most diverse population we have ever encountered. Though our intelligence collection and scouting operations have barely begun, there is cause to believe that the combined population of the Rim worlds is vast, perhaps even on par with that of the Hegemony itself.” She paused. She knew those last words would annoy some of her colleagues on the Council. The Hegemony had been founded on the premise of honesty and rigid adherence to facts, yet with each passing year she had seen pride and corruption find its way even into the highest levels of the government. As she had watched, she saw behavior in the other High Masters more worthy of the politicians of the old empire, whose connivance and blind pursuit of their own greed had brought the Great Death upon humankind. She had said only what she believed…but she also enjoyed poking at those whose pompous nature made it difficult to hear such words.

“That is, of course, of no matter. Our sacred purpose is clear, to bring enlightened rule to all humanity, wherever it remains in the galaxy…and to seek out ever more advanced genetic lines, to continue the evolution of mankind. Though pain and loss and strife no doubt lie before us in the conflict to come, we should rejoice at this discovery, embrace with gratitude the news that so many others survived the Great Death, and look to a future where an enlarged Hegemony spans across thousands of light years of the galaxy, and hundreds of billions of human beings strive together to push boldly into the future.”

Her discipline slammed into place. She despised the kind of pointless inspirational drivel coming from her mouth. But she understood her duty, and she would see it done. It troubled her that Masters of the Hegemony needed such rallying, that her peers had not advanced beyond such displays…but there were men and women in the crowd who, though they had achieved Master rank, were in the tens of thousands, and even hundreds of thousands, in overall genetic rankings. They were to her and her immediate colleagues, in many ways, as the Kriegeri and the Arbeiter—and even some of the Defekts—were to them. She had long thought the standards for Master class should be tightened…though she had always held back, aware of the inevitable disruption of forcibly demoting current Masters to Arbeiter status.

“I look forward to a bright future as we absorb this vast new population, and as we continue to advance our knowledge, our technology, back to and beyond the levels of the old and lost empire…to a new dawn of humanity, and an endless march into a bright and hopeful tomorrow.”

She didn’t believe much of what she was saying, but she had to secure a united Hegemony for the struggles that lay ahead. She understood the need for the Hegemony’s manifest destiny, and she supported that goal in every way. Yet she saw the decay setting in all around, and she imagined it had been thus even in the days of the empire. Did the Great Death begin like this? With arrogance and growing hubris? Are we on our stated path, or merely following the road that led before to such suffering and death?

Perhaps a new enemy, a war of conquest crowned ultimately with victory, and the infusion of billions more humans into the Hegemony, might alter the troubling trajectory she saw her people taking.

“It is for the purposes of seeing our noble mission succeed that I have ordered the full mobilization of the Grand Fleet and called to arms all levels of our vaunted military forces. We shall strike the Rim with all of our strength, and we shall bring these wayward humans into the fold.” She paused. Mobilizing the entire Grand Fleet would seem extreme to many…and would reignite fears of the Others.

Those abominations, once human, but twisted into nearly unrecognizable form by the generational effects of radiation, biological, and chemical weapons, had struck only once, more than one hundred years before. They had come from nowhere, from the icy depths far beyond the old borders of the empire, and they had nearly destroyed the Hegemony. Akella’s review of the highly-classified records had convinced her they would have done so, utterly, if they had not simply ceased their attacks without apparent cause or explanation, and withdrawn into the depths of unexplored space.

That had been a century ago, and yet it remained the sole shadow casting shade on the bright confidence of the Masters and the Hegemony. It was the reason the shipyards had worked ceaselessly for so long, that millions of Kriegeri had been mustered, that the exos and implants that made them such fierce warriors had been made ever more powerful. Now she was sending that force, virtually all of it, a hundred years of tireless work by billions, far off to the Rim, leaving the heart of the Hegemony undefended.

It was a gamble. She was not sure if she believed the Others would one day return, or if they even still existed, but her calculations had been accurately and correctly done. A long, slow, costly war on the Rim would be a greater danger to Hegemony security. She would leave the central worlds weakly protected, but with all the might of the Hegemony’s armed forces, she had every reason to believe the war could be accelerated, that victory could be attained quickly. The Hegemony would again be at peace, vaster and more powerful than ever before, ready to face the Others if they one day returned.

The Rim polities were chaotic entities by all accounts, their citizens breeding with little or no regard to genetic profiles…with no apparent effort whatsoever to ensure the advancement of future generations. Yet, despite this lack of discipline, they appeared to have produced impressive military assets, and created a solid core of warriors to man their ships of war. Akella was resolute, but confident nevertheless. She dare not underestimate them, nor the resistance they could offer. So, she would unleash the Hegemony’s full might on the new enemy.

She was Number One, and the decision had been hers, and hers alone. She did not know how long she would retain her office, how many years it would be until another eclipsed her position…but until that day, she would do as she determined best for her people.

The orders had been given…and she knew what she had done would be the defining moment of her time as the Hegemony’s leader, however things went.

Chapter Four

CFS Repulse

Sagamore System

Two Transits into the Badlands from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“Primaries, open fire.” Sonya Eaton sat on Repulse’s bridge, feeling strange in the captain’s chair. She had held the rank of captain for two years, but she’d spent most of that time serving as a fleet commander’s aide, first under Admiral Barron, and then for her sister, Commodore Sara Eaton. She’d been in the thick of most of the fighting that had occurred since the Hegemony had been discovered, but this scouting mission at Repulse’s helm, and the one that had preceded it by several weeks, was her first in command.

She watched as John Fuller, her tactical officer—sitting at her station, by the way, or at least what she still thought of as hers—turned to respond, but stopped when the bridge lights dimmed, and the faint, high-pitched sound of the particle accelerators announced that the primaries had fired before he was able to report so verbally.

Eaton nodded, silently relieving Fuller of the need to make the now pointless report, and then she turned toward the display, waiting for the hit assessments to come in.

Seconds later, she saw the results. Two of the four beams had struck one of the approaching enemy ships…and blasted it to atoms. The primaries were designed for battles against other capital ships, for pounding multi-million-ton monsters into submission, not for shooting at light escorts. But the enemy battleships were still out of range, and there were nine of the smaller vessels heading for her small flotilla.

“Status on landing operations?” She knew already, but her impatience pushed the words out of her mouth. Olya Federov and Repulse’s squadrons had shattered the Hegemony forward line, taking out thirty-one of the small escorts…and buying Repulse and the other vessels of the scouting force time to slip through the transit point before the enemy heavies were in range. The nine—now eight—remaining escorts weren’t strong enough to stop Repulse, not without a near miracle in terms of targeting.

And there won’t be eight by the time they get into range…

“Flight control advises all landings should be complete in six minutes, Captain.”

Eaton could see the gauge next to the main display. The primaries were already recharging. They would get another shot before the escorts’ smaller guns entered firing range, perhaps two shots. And at least a third before the small vessels got close enough to do any real damage with their weaker lasers. By that time, the fighters would be aboard, and Repulse would be blasting her own engines at full toward the transit point.

The escorts were a poor match for a battleship like Repulse, but Eaton was concerned about the crews of any of the handful of her own support vessels. She couldn’t imagine the enemy throwing so many ships away, even their smallest craft, for such a poor chance of stopping Repulse.

Though, what do we really know about these people?

Still, there was one saving grace. The failure of any of the enemy’s capital ships to close alongside the escorts suggested strongly that she had seen the limits of their thrust capabilities. The Hegemony ships had more engine power than comparable Confederation vessels, but it looked very much like there was a limit to that edge. That was still supposition, but she felt strongly enough about it to report her findings to her sister and Admiral Winters as soon as she got back to Dannith.

If we get back. Those battleships are faster than we are, and if they chase us through to Vendilar, we might not make it back to the final jump point before they can hit us.

She pushed the thoughts away. There was nothing she could do about that possibility…and it looked like the Hegemony forces were still massing, not ready for any major operation yet. That was bad news for the fleet and the Confederation—the last thing the defense of Dannith needed was a further increase in enemy strength—but it also meant they weren’t likely to disrupt things too much to chase down one battleship and a handful of escorts. Hegemony thinking and doctrine were mostly a mystery, and she couldn’t imagine they thought they were maintaining any kind of secrecy just two transits from Dannith.

“Captain, we’re picking up more energy signatures. Incoming ships from the Calavar transit point.”

Eaton held back a sigh, and she turned toward the display. And froze.

There weren’t just energy readings. She was looking at numbers she’d never seen before, and she wracked her brain, trying to calculate the level of transiting tonnage the figures implied. A mistake…it had to be a mistake.

Only it wasn’t.

Ships began emerging, and appearing on the display. Not one at a time, but in groups of four or five, one followed almost immediately by the next. It was too far for detailed mass readings, but from what she could see they were all large…probably battleships. There were dozens on the display already, and they were still coming through, showing no signs of slowing.

She’d been worried enough about what she’d found in the system already…but as she watched more and more ships pour through the transit point, she found herself fighting off a wave of panic.

“Commander, advise flight control I want all fighters landed in two minutes.” She paused for an instant. “Because in two minutes and five seconds, we’re blasting the hell out of here. Admiral Winters has to know what’s happening in this system.”

*

“Colonel Blanth, Administrator Cantor would like to have a word with you.” Blanth didn’t know the name of the man speaking to him, though he thought he’d seen him around Cantor’s office once or twice before.

“Tell the administrator I am in the middle of something, and I will be there as soon as possible. If that isn’t sufficient, he will have to come here.” Blanth had found Cantor to be a sniveling coward when he’d first arrived, and he’d come close once or twice to taking Admiral Barron up on his permission to shoot the politician. But something had changed during the desperate fighting of months. Cantor had found his courage, or some semblance of it, and he’d actually become somewhat of a dedicated leader. It had been a bit of a shock to Blanth, and he was grateful for the transformation of Dannith’s elected leader into a useful part of the planet’s defense…though less so for the boost in ego that seemed to accompany it. Blanth was not part of Cantor’s chain of command, at least not beyond the crossover in directing the local defense forces. Cantor may have toughened up some, but if he pushed Blanth too hard, he would find out just what a Marine officer was made of…and the arrogant fool hadn’t found that much courage.

“Yes, Colonel.” The assistant’s tone was respectful, almost obsequious. Whatever sense of entitlement Cantor may have felt toward total command, his aide appeared to have the same reverential attitude toward Blanth the Marine had seen in most of the other Dannites. As a general rule, he seemed to be regarded as the planet’s savior…though he himself credited Jake Stockton and the repeated sorties of his fighter squadrons. He had no doubt his forces would have been wiped out without the air support. And, while he was pleased the invaders had been repelled, he regarded it as unseemly to pat himself on the back when so many of those who’d served under him had died.

Also, he was still getting used to being called “colonel.”

He wasn’t even sure he was a colonel, technically. Cantor had signed off on the promotion, as had Admiral Winters and all the senior Marine officers present, but none of them really had the authority. Winters was the closest, and Blanth figured it was fifty-fifty the new rank was legit. Under Confederation military law, the senior commander in a theater had a fairly extensive, and somewhat fuzzy, list of powers. He didn’t doubt a bump to major would have stuck, but Winters had pushed him up three levels, and he was now the highest ranked Marine on Dannith.

He turned back to what he’d been doing before Cantor’s assistant had interrupted him. The enemy might have been defeated, but Dannith had suffered badly. The planet’s infrastructure was in a parlous state, and it wasn’t likely to get significantly better for a long time. Blanth had taken control of most transportation lines, and the supplies of just about every militarily significant resource or manufactured item. Such actions had helped him restore the combat readiness of his battered forces, but they had only added to the miseries of a shaken and terrified civilian population.

“I want these shelters finished in two days, Lieutenant…is that understood?” The order was unreasonable, he knew that. There was little more than a hole in the ground now, and even a rush job would take close to a week.

He also knew that if Dannith was going to be ready for the next attack, there was no room for pity or excuses. The planet would be prepared…or it would fall almost immediately if—when—the next enemy attack got past the fleet and landed once again.

The engineer looked as though he was going to argue, but he just paused for a few seconds, and said, “Yes, sir.” Blanth was enormously uncomfortable with his new hero status, but he had to admit, it had its uses.

He stood where he was for another few seconds, and then he replied simply, “Very well, Lieutenant.” Then he turned and walked away. The shelters were part of his new battle plan, designed to endure orbital bombardments and situated away from the main urban areas. His forces had run low on ammunition and supplies in the first invasion, and he was determined to do everything possible to prevent that from happening again. If his forces had to withdraw to the undeveloped areas, the supply bunkers would form centers of ongoing resistance. Blanth had endured dreams about the enemy’s massive tanks…and their soldiers, with the strange, surgically-implanted exos. The Hegemony was a deadly enemy in space combat, but their ground forces were truly the stuff of nightmares.

Though he hadn’t exhibited anything but unceasing confidence to anyone around him, he knew he’d never be able to defeat a full-scale assault—not conventionally. He’d done what he could to beef up the forward defenses, but most of his effort had gone into preparing for a sustained guerilla struggle, one that would take place after the planet’s populated areas, and millions of its people, had been taken by the invaders.

He sighed softly as he walked. It was time to go see what Cantor wanted. The administrator had poured out an endless flow of suggestions and ideas over the past several months, most of which had served to confirm that he hadn’t found any fresh stores of knowledge or intelligence along with his newfound courage.

*

“What the hell is going on at HQ?” Clint Winters growled like a cornered wildcat, but his words weren’t directed at anyone in specific. Nor did he expect an answer. His people were at his side on the frontier, with no more access to the information he wanted than he had himself. They’d all been working with him, laboring around the clock to turn the assortment of ships and small task forces into the kind of fleet that could face—and defeat—the Hegemony when they came back. The word “if” never entered into Winters’s calculations on that score. He knew, as surely as he did anything, that the enemy would return, and with far greater strength than last time.

“Still no word from Admiral Striker?” Sara Eaton was sitting immediately to the admiral’s right, and she was the only one in the room who looked less than terrified at the foul mood of their leader.

“No, nothing. And that’s not like Van Striker. I half expected to get word he was on his way out here…but instead, nothing at all. All I’ve gotten are…orders…from Torrance Whitten.” Eaton wasn’t sure if Winters was trying to hide his distaste for the officer, but if he was, he wasn’t doing a very good job of it. “What the hell is that fool doing answering communiques sent to Van Striker? And why the hell is he telling us he’s naval CINC now? How the hell could that have happened?”

Eaton didn’t reply. She didn’t have an answer. She was as confused as Winters, and like her commanding officer, she was starting to get a bad feeling…about more than just the prospective return of the Hegemony. Something was wrong on Megara. Terribly wrong. And whatever it was, it couldn’t have picked a worse time to happen. She had the urge to rush back to the capital, and she was sure Winters felt the same way. But neither of them could go anywhere. Their duty was to protect the Confederation and its citizens…and Dannith faced a clear and present danger. Eaton knew, perhaps more than anyone in Confederation space save Barron, just what a threat the Hegemony presented.

And Dannith was just the first target in what she had no doubt would be a full-scale invasion of the Confederation…if not the entire Rim.

She’d pieced together all she could about events on Megara, but every detail she discovered only added to her confusion. Tyler Barron had been arrested? She still classed that as a rumor, though she’d heard it now from multiple sources. It just didn’t make any sense. She’d also heard that Gary Holsten had been taken into custody. That, at least, was more than a rumor. The arrest had apparently taken place right on Dannith, and the intelligence chief had been rushed back to Megara in a Senatorial transport.

Eaton had spent years fighting the Confederation’s enemies, and before that, she’d worried about conflicts and dangers she knew were out there, somewhere. But she’d never really considered the possibility of revolution or civil war. The government was corrupt—deeply so, she suspected—but by most standards, it was preferable to any she’d seen elsewhere, or even those she’d read about in the history texts.

She was silent for a while. She wasn’t sure what to say or suggest, but finally the quiet in the room became too oppressive for her. “We have to send someone to Megara, Admiral. I know we can’t spare any significant forces…but we have to know what’s happening, not the least because of the vague replies to our requests for reinforcements.” She paused. “I don’t think detaching a couple small escorts or scoutships will make any material difference in the coming fight, do you?”

Winters’s face was twisted into the same scowl it had been throughout the meeting, but now she saw the slightest relaxing of the tension. “You’re right, Commodore. Our first concern must be the Hegemony, but we cannot remain in the dark about the situation on Megara.” He paused, and then he said what they’d all been thinking but hadn’t dared utter. “If there is some kind of civil discord—or a coup—we need to know…as soon as possible.” He hesitated, looking as though he was going to add something. But he remained silent.

Eaton was sure she knew what he’d held back. If there was some kind of fracture in the Confederation’s government, it would be beyond catastrophic in the face of the Hegemony threat.

And it would make Dannith, the planet they’d expended so much time and so many resources to defend, very expendable…very quickly. If the Confederation fleet was going to end up fighting itself, that had to be stopped at once. In the brutal calculus of war, losing Dannith was nothing next to defending the Confederation itself. The lives of hundreds of billions of citizens hung in the balance.

“Admiral…” She didn’t get a chance to finish. The comm unit crackled to life, and a voice blared through the speaker, one she recognized as belonging to Constitution’s communications chief. The officer sounded worried. “…Repulse and her group have just transited into the system. I’ve got Captain Eaton on the line, sir.”

Winters looked around the table, until his eyes met Sara’s. She knew what he was thinking. Repulse wasn’t expected for another two days. Sonya must have pulled back early and practically burned out her engines heading back. Or both.

“Put her on the main speaker, Lieutenant.”

Winters glanced back at Sara, and waited. Repulse was well over two light minutes from Constitution, and that made communications sluggish, at best.

Sara could feel the edginess in the room. Sonya was her younger sister, and she had trouble sometimes thinking of her any other way. But Repulse’s new commander was brilliant and tough. Sara had always known her sister had solid granite inside her, and her lack of independent command experience didn’t take away from that at all. Sonya Eaton was not easily rattled…if she’d come running back at a wild pace, it was for a reason.

“Admiral Winters…” Sonya’s voice finally came through the comm unit. “…I have to report massive increases in the Hegemony forces in Sagamore. I am transmitting detailed scanning files, but we confirmed over two hundred capital ships alone…and there were more coming in on the far side of the system as we transited.”

Sara was sitting silently, trying to pull herself from the stunned state that had taken her—and, from the looks of things, everyone else in the room. Two hundred capital ships? In an instant, her worries about Dannith faded, replaced by a greater fear. If the enemy could mass more than two hundred battleships, she wasn’t sure the entire Confederation navy could stand up to their assault, even if it could be assembled in time.

And, right now, she wasn’t even sure the navy wasn’t getting ready to fight itself.

For an instant, she longed to wake up, to discover that the last year had been an unrelenting nightmare. But she was still there, sitting in Constitution’s conference room, listening to her sister’s voice describe an ever more daunting view of the enemy’s forces.

She turned and looked over at Winters, and in an instant, she knew the admiral had no more idea of what to do than she did.

Chapter Five

ITN Headquarters

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Desiree Marieles let out a long sigh, and then she took a deep drink from the—very full—glass in her hand. The whiskey was harsh, and it hit the back of her throat with a bite that made her wince. She didn’t know her way around hard liquor at all, and she’d taken the first thing she’d been able to find. What she wanted from the stuff now, she could get from the finest thousand-credit bottle or the worst spacers’ bar rotgut.

Marieles had never been much of a drinker—and she still wasn’t, most of the time—but her stress level had moved from constant and relentless to straight out unbearable. Her operation had been a stunning success—for a brief moment, at least—but then Tyler Barron and Gary Holsten had made good their escape. She cursed Whitten for allowing two of the most dangerous men on the Rim to escape custody…but as much as she tried to focus the blame on her lover and patsy, the fault was hers. She’d been aware from the beginning that Whitten was a stuffed uniform. He wanted to give orders and wave to adoring crowds—as he’d probably been doing in front of the mirror since he was a child—but he didn’t have the mettle to stand firm and do what had to be done. Certainly not in a rapidly evolving, emergency situation.

She shook her head. She should have realized Barron’s people on Dauntless would be loyal to him. She hadn’t even thought seriously about it. Oh, she’d suspected many of them would complain, and file petitions for the admiral’s relief, but she hadn’t extended that to an entire crew mutinying against the high command.

That had been a mistake, one probably born in her own history in Sector Nine. The Union wasn’t the kind of entity that created great displays of patriotism, and its officers and leaders certainly didn’t enjoy the adoration of their followers the way a Barron or Striker did. One’s subordinates in the Union were more likely watching for a chance to betray a superior to Sector Nine and clear the way for themselves to advance. The fact that she’d been neck deep in a hundred other things didn’t excuse her failure to recognize just how different the Confederation was. Yes, it had its own share of political corruption and deceit, but there was something else there, too, and she’d let it slip past her guard.

She’d been busy, stressed, with a million things to handle…deep in the middle of inciting a coup of sorts, and through it all, she just hadn’t imagined Barron’s people disregarding orders and regulations…and doing whatever they had to do to rescue their commander.

She leaned back and took another drink, sucking down the whiskey like it was a cool iced tea on a hot day. She’d never indulged in that sort of self-medication before, not while on the job, but she honestly didn’t think she could get through another hour without dulling things a little.

Not too much, Desiree…you’ve still got to salvage the situation…

Barron and his people were enough of a problem. From what she’d heard, they had set up a headquarters of sorts on Archellia and were rallying forces to their banner, claiming there had been a coup on Megara and calling on the Confederation’s naval forces to unite and right things. That was a threat, a serious one. It was possible that enough officers would flock to Barron’s banner to return and put an end to all her machinations. But the reason she needed a drink—several drinks—wasn’t just that. Barron and his efforts alone, she could handle. Or she had convinced herself she could.

The problem was Dannith. What the hell was going on there? She’d read Admiral Winters’s initial message that he was taking a task force to the frontier to meet some vaguely defined threat, but she’d mostly ignored it, figuring it was just as well to have the admiral, a likely ally to Barron, busy chasing some phantom on the frontier. Then his follow up arrived, a detailed battle report that depicted a major invasion force and a virtual holocaust among the fleet units involved.

A report that ended with words that twisted her guts into knots. The White Fleet had returned, and joined in the fight. Indeed, from Winters’s report, it was Barron’s old command that had saved the Confederation forces from total defeat, if by the slimmest of margins.

There was nothing good about the White Fleet being back, not from her perspective. Certainly not saving some Confederation frontier planet. The only question was, what was the worst aspect? That a powerful force was back in Confederation space, one that would almost certainly rally to Tyler Barron’s cause? Or that whatever had come to Dannith from the deep Badlands—whatever might return there at any time—was strong enough to send the mighty exploration fleet running back home.

She had to deal with Barron first, before she seriously considered lobbying her allies in the Senate to send forces to aid Admiral Winters. If she left the famous admiral alone, the danger he represented would almost certainly increase. For all the propaganda she was spewing out through ITN and all the government information nets, the typical Confederation citizen’s love for the Barron family, and for the clan’s newest hero, was a powerful force. And the idea that Torrance Whitten was any kind of match for Barron almost made her laugh…and spit the mouthful she’d just poured from the bottle all over the desk.

Worse, perhaps, Barron had Gary Holsten with him. She’d seen that the former head of Confederation Intelligence was relieved from all his posts, something Ferrell and his Senate allies had been only too happy to do, but he had hidden resources still at his disposal, probably all over the Confederation. Data files, equipment, secret funds. Making matters worse, four of his top deputies—men and women she’d intended to speak with Ferrell about sacking along with Holsten—were missing. Worse, perhaps, from the initial reports of Ferrell’s—and her—handpicked replacement for the top intelligence post, they’d done one hell of a job scrambling the agency’s data banks. She didn’t think there was much doubt they would try to help Holsten. For all she knew, the deposed spy chief was already back on Megara, working against her from the shadows.

“Admiral Whitten is here to see you.” The AI’s voice was soft, soothing…a bit of reprogramming she’d ordered herself. She needed some semblance of calm around her, and, however insignificant it might be, the AI’s tone was about the only thing she controlled totally just then.

She leaned back and sighed. Whitten was supposed to be dealing with Barron, not hanging around outside her door. He’d sent out ships, given orders to all units near Archellia to mass for a move on that border world…but most of the captains within five jumps of the Far Rim border world had already rallied to Barron. Whitten was going to have to do more than send ineffectual orders that amounted to little more than sending reinforcements to his adversary. He had to take everything he could scrape up around the capital and the other Core worlds, and go do what had to be done. Before Barron got stronger.

But the fool had procrastinated, and now she was fairly sure she could add coward to the list of unflattering descriptions that went through her mind when she was sweet talking her hapless pawn. Even his physical attractiveness, which she’d considered a perk of the job, was beginning to lose its luster as she struggled to keep the increasingly hapless officer on target with the plan.

She gulped down the last contents of her glass and slipped it into a drawer. Best case, if Whitten saw it, she’d get a longwinded presentation on wine vintages from the Whitten estates, and an overly emotional promise that he would send her something better than whatever she’d been drinking. Worst case, she’d get a lecture on staying focused and not allowing herself to be distracted…and she wasn’t sure she could control her temper if he started giving her that shit.

“Let him in.” She had half a dozen assistants in the outer room, three of them actual Sector Nine agents…but she preferred to have the AI monitor her visitors. At least she could just erase the damned thing if she had to, instead of having to redecorate the wall with a large red stain.

“Desiree…” She could tell immediately from his whiny tone that he’d come trying to find a way to further delay some kind of decisive action. “…I’ve reviewed the reports from Admiral Winters at length, and I’m not sure we should divert so much strength to pursuing Admiral Barron at this time.”

Because you’re afraid of Admiral Barron…and you haven’t yet figured out you should be at least as afraid of whatever is threatening Dannith.

And of me, too…

“Alex, please…sit.” She was the only one who used his middle name to address him. It had been a deliberate bit of tradecraft at first, a way to make their relationship seem to be a closer, more personal one, but now it was just habit. “I understand there is a significant threat on the Badlands frontier. I have read the reports as well. But that just makes it more crucial to deal with Barron’s insurgency now, so…you…can be free to focus entirely on whatever is coming.” She reminded herself that she was just advising Whitten, that she had no power of her own.

“But we need to send reinforcements to Dannith. Admiral Winters says…”

“Admiral Winters is your subordinate, Alex. He’s on the scene, and he’s overreacting. Whatever the threat is, he allowed it to take him by surprise, and he was almost defeated. He’s covering for his near-incompetence, can’t you see that?” She wasn’t sure she really thought Winters had overstated the threat. What she knew of Winters from Sector Nine’s files suggested the man was thoroughly competent…and about as likely to play political games in the chain of command as Whitten was to challenge Tyler Barron to a one on one duel. But it was what Whitten needed to hear just then, and that made it true enough for her purposes. “He just fought a battle against some invader from the Badlands. The mere existence of a power out in unknown space is a disturbing one, but don’t you think it’s natural for an officer like Winters to overstate the strength of the enemy, especially when his fleet suffered such great losses?”

Whitten stood for another few seconds, looking moderately confused, and then he sat down in one of the chairs facing Marieles. “The Badlands are supposed to be dead, Desiree. If there are other survivors out there…we don’t know how many there are, or how strong. You’re probably right about Winters, but still…” He paused. “I don’t know what to do.” That was probably the truest thing he had ever said. And the last words the top naval commander should be uttering when facing both a widespread mutiny and a dangerous new enemy. Still, it was just about what she expected from him. And she was sure of one thing. Whitten was in over his head. Deeply.

“Alex…I can’t imagine the pressure on you right now, but it’s more important than ever for your officers to see you firm, resolved. They will feed off your strength. I understand the uncertainty, and you can say anything to me, but when you’re with the others…”

Whitten nodded. “I understand. Of course, you’re right. Still…I hadn’t imagined the top command would be so…hard.”

“It’s a difficult time, Alex. Who could have predicted all of this?” Of course, apart from the Badlands invasion, she could have predicted it all. She had instigated most of it. “But the fact that the danger is so real only makes it more vital to stay focused, and make the right decisions.” She paused. “I, for one, rest easier knowing you’re making those choices now.” She sometimes couldn’t believe what she managed to say when she had to…and with a very sincere tone, no less.

“I appreciate your confidence, Desiree…it’s just that…” His voice trailed off, and he didn’t go any farther. She could tell her manipulations had worked, at least to an extent. He’d probably fall apart again soon enough, so she figured she’d make the best of it now.

“Would you like to sound off your plans for hunting down Tyler Barron? I’m no naval expert like you, but I’m a good listener.”

“What about Admiral Winters?”

“Admiral Winters has called in every fleet unit anywhere near the Badlands, and we—you—haven’t interfered. With the White Fleet, he’ll have three or four times the strength he did in the unfortunate previous engagement…and that fight was a victory, despite all his errors in judgment.” She paused, unsure for a few seconds if she should say what was on her lips. “He can take care of things on the frontier for now.”

She paused, her eyes fixed on his, trying to get a feel for his thoughts. “And even if he’s defeated, how important is Dannith? If you rid yourself of Tyler Barron, then you can mass the entire strength of the Confederation on the new enemy. You’ll be the savior of the Confederation…and the Whittens will take the place of the Barrons, once and for all.”

*

“Colonel Peterson?” The man was sitting on a bench in the park, looking very much like a vagrant of the sort the Capital Police rounded up every night.

Peterson felt tension gripping him. He’d have paid no mind to a beggar asking him for a coin or two, but how the hell did this one know his name?

It had been months since the escape operation, and Peterson was still amazed his people had managed to blend in for so long and avoid suspicion. Once someone competent started investigating, that wouldn’t last long. His Marines were eight weeks past the stated end of their leave, and he didn’t have a good answer for anyone who asked what they were still doing on Megara.

Fortunately, no one had asked. Yet.

He almost kept walking, but he realized that wouldn’t solve the problem…and if the apparent vagrant was an undercover police agent or someone else investigating him, ignoring the problem wasn’t going to accomplish anything.

If I can lure whoever this is someplace less public, I can do whatever I have to do…

The thought of resorting to killing a government agent was upsetting. He wouldn’t have done it just for himself, but he had forty Marines on Megara, and if they were arrested…

“Do I know you?” Peterson’s voice was tentative, but he tried to sound as calm as possible. He was no stranger to killing, but he’d done all that he had before without concern for secrecy…not to mention with no doubt of who the enemy was. He was unarmed, but he knew a hundred ways to kill a man with his bare hands. The tougher problem was how to get away with it in a crowded Troyus City park.

“We have a friend in common, I think, Colonel.” A pause. “Gary Holsten.”

Peterson froze, his muscles tightening, his body naturally prepping itself for combat.

“Please, Colonel…don’t be alarmed.” The man obviously recognized Peterson’s reflexes…he was no stranger to conflict himself, clearly. “I’m a friend of Gary’s…and while I don’t believe the authorities have any idea of your activities, I’m convinced that you had something to do with his escape.” A pause. “Thank you, Colonel. Gary has been a coworker, and a friend, for many years. I’m afraid Confederation Intelligence has fallen into unfriendly hands; however, I still have some allies and resources that may be of help…to Gary and to you and your Marines. As I said, I don’t think the authorities suspect you of anything yet, but at some point, the extended leave of a company of Marines will fail to escape notice. You and your entire platoon have long finished your leave…yet you have not returned to Dannith, to your duty.”

Peterson’s gut was still tight, but something made him want to believe the man. A police agent, or for that matter, a Sector Nine assassin, might say the very same things. But Jon Peterson had listened to his instincts most of his life, and he wasn’t about to change now.

“Perhaps we can discuss this further someplace a bit less crowded.” He looked around, trying to appear as nonchalant as possible…which wasn’t very. He was a Marine and not a spy, after all.

“I think that would be a very good idea, Colonel. I’m hopeful that you know some things I’ve been trying to discover…and I bet I have a thing or two you’d like to know as well.”

Chapter Six

CFS Dauntless

In Space Dock

Archellia, Cassiopolis III

307 AC

“Imperator, it is with the greatest honor I welcome you to my humble battleship.” Tyler Barron stood in the landing bay, in front of forty of Bryan Rogan’s Marines, looking sharp—if uncomfortable—in their best dress blacks. He himself stood no less rigidly at attention, similarly clad and determined to show an old friend the respect his position demanded. He would have felt that way in any circumstances, but his current status—outlaw, traitor, rebel leader?—only made him less comfortable facing a man who was, among so many other things, his sworn blood brother.

“Tyler, my old friend…be at ease, for there is no formality between brothers who have shed blood together.” Vian Tulus stepped down from his shuttle, alone. No guards, no aides…only the leader of the Alliance by himself. It was abnormal, almost unheard of, but those who knew Vian Tulus understood he had no tolerance at all for the foolish trappings of diplomacy and political foppery. Those who really knew him were also aware that Tyler Barron was perhaps his closest and most respected friend and ally. Another first, for a Palatian to accept an outworlder into his innermost circle.

Tulus had been more of a martinet in his earlier years, Barron knew, a typical Palatian of noble birth and a warrior rigidly dedicated to Alliance societal codes. That orthodoxy had diminished somewhat by the start of the struggle between the Gray and Red Alliance factions…and its remnants had been shattered during that conflict.

“It’s good to see you again, Vian, my friend.” Barron felt a little uncomfortable addressing a head of state so informally…but he was more relieved to be freed of the hated constraints of diplomatic playacting. He’d always considered himself a naval officer and nothing more, but circumstances had thrown him into more delicate situations more than once, and he’d acquired an unwanted level of experience as an ersatz ambassador.

“And you, Tyler. Though I would wish for better cause for our meeting. A new and dangerous enemy…and now, this trouble with your own people. Dark clouds plague what should be a joyous moment.”

“Yes, I’m afraid that is the case.” Barron paused. “I don’t know what’s happening on Megara. I’ve gotten bits and pieces of information, but not enough to assemble a clear image.” He hesitated again. “Still, while I am grateful for the aid Cilian has already provided, I cannot involve you in this…situation…any further.” Cilian Globus was one of Tulus’s top commanders, and another of Barron’s close comrades among the Alliance officer corps. He’d rescued Dauntless a few months before, just as it had appeared Barron’s pursuers had finally cornered him.

“Nonsense!” The Alliance Imperator’s voice was loud, not with anger, but with determination. “I would as soon slice off my own arm as abandon a brother in his time of trouble.”

Barron moved forward toward Tulus, aware as he did what an honor the Imperator was showing him by standing alone in the bay of a foreign power’s vessel. He could only imagine the fits his bodyguards were throwing inside the shuttle, not to mention the aides and other political detritus that unavoidably followed the Alliance head of state from place to place.

“Vian, I don’t doubt your friendship, nor your willingness to stand by me in any fight. But the present danger extends far beyond my own fate. I am sure Cilian has told you of the Hegemony threat in great detail, and since then, the enemy has appeared on our borders, attacked one of our worlds. It was only the unexpected return of the White Fleet that saved Dannith…but I believe the force beaten back was merely the tip of the enemy’s spear. For all I’m concerned about my situation and that of my comrades, there can be nothing more important than uniting Confederation and Alliance forces to face the invasion that is almost certainly upon us.”

Tulus stared back at Barron, his expression rigid. “I agree with your assessment, my friend. We almost certainly face the deadliest threat to come upon any of us, and we must be ready to face it. But there are some things that defy mathematical solutions, some calls that cannot be denied, no matter what the other dangers. I would not live in a universe where I allowed my blood brother to fall to treachery and deceit. I will not see you destroyed by the machinations of corrupt politicians. I would fall on my own sword before I would do such.”

Barron wanted to argue…but he knew enough about Palatians in general—and this one specifically—to realize it would be a pointless exercise. He was still trying to think of what to say when Tulus beat him to it.

“Tyler, worry not about such things, for we are warriors, and there is a point where we must simply do all we can, and trust to the fortunes of war. I have come with considerable force, almost all the vessels of the Alliance fleet, but I bring you more, I believe…wisdom, drawn from the perspective of a friend, one who can see things in this matter, perhaps, more clearly than you do. We came together in a time when I was in a situation not unlike yours, and you taught me much then. Allow me to do the same for you now. You are hesitant to confront your own people, and I understand this. The roots of it lie at the heart of a warrior’s soul. But it was your lesson to me to place the needs of our people above our own personal honor, and even our oaths. The fight against the Hegemony needs you, and your warriors need you. The answer here is not self-sacrifice, nor avoiding conflict. It is to end this struggle now, before it widens.” He paused for an instant. “Before it becomes the tragedy my own people faced, that we only survived through your intervention…and at such great loss.”

Barron was silent as Tulus paused again. He knew very well how difficult it had been for Tarkus Vennius to accept the help of a foreign power, and no less so for those Palatians who had rallied to the old Imperator’s side. Tulus himself had been highly resistant at first, and Barron didn’t doubt his friend knew perfectly well he was suggesting exactly what he had resisted years before.

“Do not make the mistakes I made, my friend. Do not allow your own honor, your willingness to sacrifice yourself, to interfere with your intellect and judgment. The road here leads not to surrender, nor to extended inaction, but to a swift victory against your internal enemies. Before they can organize, before they can further damage your reputation, and your ability to rally your comrades to your banner.”

Tulus was silent for a few seconds, and then he added, “The road ahead leads directly to Megara. We will finish this in one bold stroke…and then we will face the Hegemony.”

*

Andi Lafarge was sitting in one of the chairs facing Tyler Barron’s desk, waiting for the admiral to arrive. She’d spent almost every free hour with Tyler since she’d helped execute his rescue from the Senate’s prison complex. As much as possible, given the miniscule number of hours Barron had been able to spare, they had tried to make up for the nearly two years since they’d seen each other. She’d been happy to see him, and she was sure he felt the same, but the clouds hanging over them both had sapped much of the joy from their reunion. She’d almost told him what she had to say now, the night before, but she decided his office and not his bed was the place for the discussion she needed to have with him.

Gary Holsten sat next to her, looking calmer and more focused than she suspected she did. She was edgy, for more reasons than she could easily count. The situation with Barron and Megara, of course, but so much more. She hadn’t encountered the Hegemony directly yet, and her knowledge of that enemy was secondhand. But she’d seen how the threat had unnerved Barron and other officers she knew and respected, and the whole thing gave her a chill up and down her spine.

That wasn’t what had truly taken hold of her in the deepest, darkest places in her mind. She’d become driven, obsessed, a woman haunted…and despite her intense efforts, she hadn’t been able to shake it. She had to kill a man, and she would never rest again until she had done the deed.

Andi hadn’t told Barron what she’d suffered at the hands of Ricard Lille. It was a burden he didn’t need, a distraction she wouldn’t have placed on him even if she could have talked about it…which she couldn’t.

Her ordeal had involved physical pain, of course, more intense than any she’d ever experienced. But it wasn’t remembrances of the agony that drove her desperate need for vengeance. It was the fact that Lille had broken her. She knew, with a soul-wrenching certainty, she would have done anything to make the pain stop. She would have sold out her friends, her comrades…even Barron himself, she feared. She was disgusted with herself, devastated at the realization that her endurance wasn’t unbreakable, that she was so much less than she’d once believed. She was aware that anyone could be broken…and Lille was perhaps the best at the trade of anyone on the entire Rim. Still, she hated herself…and she knew that would never stop, not entirely, anyway.

There was no way to undo what had been done. The best she could manage was to keep the dark truth a secret, to never speak of it, or even think of it. She could manage that, she thought, given enough time. But there was one other person who knew her secret, who had seen her a broken wreck, begging for mercy.

That person had to die.

She knew Tyler needed her, but she also realized he would also need one hundred percent of his focus. Their relationship had seen its share of action as well as affection, but she wasn’t part of the elite combat unit he’d led so often into battle. The one he would need now if he was to right things in the Confederation…and prepare the navy to face the real threat, the one she imagined even now was approaching.

The few people who meant anything at all to her were in peril…but she would be no use to anyone, not until she’d done what she had to do. It would hurt Vig and the others, her utterly loyal crew, when she slipped out without them. But where she had to go, they couldn’t follow. She would get Pegasus through Megara’s security net, with some help from Holsten who, in spite of his swift fall from grace, appeared still to possess considerable resources. Then she would be on her own, a duel between her and her adversary. With any luck, she’d have the advantage of surprise. Lille had to know she’d been involved in Barron’s escape…and he’d assume she was in hiding far from Megara.

Or would he? Don’t underestimate this man…

Lille was a deadly opponent, she knew that well enough. But she had more pressing problems just then. She’d wondered since the initial escape from Megara how to break the news that she was leaving to Tyler, what she would tell him. How she would lie to him. Tyler was no fool…he almost certainly knew she’d been through a lot, that she wasn’t her old self. But she doubted he could truly understand, or realize the emptiness she felt when she looked into his eyes and wondered if she would have betrayed him to save herself from the relentless agony.

She looked over at Gary Holsten. Her cover.

She had still been trying to think of a way to explain her departure to Barron when the former spy chief approached her about taking him back to Megara. Holsten had been unsettled for quite some time after they’d rescued him, mostly silent, and absent from strategy meetings. While it wasn’t hard to understand considering the situation, it was startling to see her friend so removed from his usual utterly composed norm. Now, suddenly, he seemed his old self, and he’d told her he had to get to Megara, to connect with the assets he was sure were still active…and to try and stop whatever was happening behind the scenes…before Barron had to do it his…blunter…way.

Andi wanted—needed—to get to Megara anyway, and Holsten’s plan gave her the cover she sought. She would pretend she was only going to sneak the spymaster back through Megara security…and once she was there, she would finish her business with Lille. She didn’t underestimate the assassin, and she was far from confident she would succeed. But she knew one thing for certain.

She would kill Ricard Lille…or he would kill her.

Chapter Seven

CFS Repulse

1.400,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

Sonya Eaton sat in Repulse’s command chair, tense, watching the readings on her scanners that could mean only one thing. The invasion they had all awaited, feared, struggled to prepare for…had come.

There wasn’t an enemy ship in the Ventica system yet, but that calm, peaceful state of affairs would last perhaps another thirty seconds. Then the ships generating those energy signatures would begin shifting from the alternate dimension of the transit tube into the normal space of Dannith’s solar system.

When that happened, war would begin. The first assault had been the start of the conflict, if not the attacks on the White Fleet out in the Badlands. But this was the real thing, evidence of a true commitment by the Hegemony, and from what she’d seen in the Sagamore system, they were coming with every ship they could muster.

She didn’t know that, of course. She had no idea how large a force the Hegemony possessed—for all she knew they had a million ships, ten million—but she simply couldn’t imagine any entity fielding a fleet much larger than the one that appeared about to materialize in front of the fleet.

They don’t need one much larger…

Her mind was split into two parts. One, the logical, rational side, knew the fleet had no chance of holding the Ventica system and its single inhabited planet, Dannith. The enemy was just too strong. The Confederation forces could fight, even do some damage, but if Admiral Winters was to have any hope of mounting another defensive deeper into Confederation space, he would have to withdraw with his forces more or less intact.

The other, more emotional side, tried to rally, to cry out inside her head that the fleet could stand, that the veteran fighter squadrons would tear into the enemy, gut their formations…that the Hegemony forces would be so stunned by the viciousness of the defense, they would fall back into the Badlands. She might have been able to convince herself of that if she hadn’t been part of the White Fleet, but she’d seen firsthand the Hegemony’s willingness to accept heavy losses.

Her eyes darted toward the tactical station. She’d been waiting for word from Constitution, the order from Admiral Winters to scramble her bomber squadrons. Her pilots were already in the bays, standing beside their fully fueled and armed ships, waiting for the command from her, as she was waiting for it from Winters.

Repulse’s pilots were among the very best in the fleet, built largely around the corps of veterans who had served aboard Dauntless before that vessel left the fleet to bring word of the Hegemony threat to the Confederation. From the looks of things, Admiral Barron had not been as successful as they all had hoped he would be at rallying the fleet…in fact, there were rumors flying all around, some even suggesting Barron had been arrested on charges of treason. That seemed absurd to Sonya, so much so that she discounted such gossip outright. But she kept hearing it from different sources, and she’d begun to realize something was very wrong.

Whatever had happened to Barron, the fleet wasn’t ready. There had been no large force massed and positioned on the border. If Barron hadn’t gotten word to Clint Winters, and if that officer hadn’t scraped up all he could from the frontier garrisons, there would have been nothing at all waiting for the first enemy invasion.

As she watched the scanners update, dozens of small icons just beginning to appear on the screen, her mind flashed back to images of the Hegemony forces she’d seen already. She wondered if it would even matter if every ship in the Confederation fleet was there, waiting alongside her own battleship.

She didn’t have long to ponder such thoughts, though. A few seconds later, she heard her tactical officer’s voice relaying the launch order from the flagship. What ifs didn’t matter anymore. It was time to fight.

“Launch all squadrons.”

*

“Some of you have fought the Hegemony forces with me…others of you were there when we defeated the Union and crushed their fleets. None of that matters now. Those who faced this enemy know what to do, and those who haven’t, even the aces out there, take your lead from the pilots who’ve fought these bastards. We all know fighters are crucial to any space battle, more so than the high command or most of the fleet’s admirals like to admit sometimes. But I’m telling you right now, if we’re going to win this war, it’s going to be the fighter corps that gets it done. Our comrades on the big ships will fight hard, too…but in this war, they’re outgunned, outnumbered, and outmatched. We’ve got the advantage, and we’re facing an enemy with no fighters of their own. No interceptors, no squadrons nipping at our heels when we make our bombing runs. You all know this already…but now you’re going to find out just what it means. Because we’re going to hit these enemy ships as they emerge from the transit point, and we’re going to hit them hard. I don’t want to see a torpedo launched outside five thousand kilometers. That stuff you were taught in the Academy about launching at ten thousand, twenty thousand…forget you ever heard it. If you want any real respect, make it three thousand. Stay sharp, focused, and remember your evasive maneuvers. These bastards may not have interceptors, but that doesn’t mean they can’t take you out. They’ve got defensive batteries…and under five thousand kilometers, they’re damned accurate.”

Jake Stockton felt home again, as if he’d been born to the small, cramped space of his fighter’s cockpit. His rank and acclaim had taken him to the very top of the fighter corps, a hair’s breadth from the level that would finally pry him from the controls of his sleek Lightning and put him…where? An office? The Academy? Teaching new cadets? Rewriting fighter doctrine in some cubbyhole on Megara? The thoughts terrified him, even more than the specter of the massive enemy force approaching. There weren’t many clear career paths for fighter pilots of his experience and achievements when their days in the cockpit were over…and there was a single, disturbing reason for that.

Not many lived long enough to fill roles in the flag ranks. There were a few old pilots in the service wearing stars, but most of them sat behind desks, with prosthetic arms and legs and other mechanical parts taking the place of those lost when they were pulled from battered, fiery cockpits. Stockton didn’t have a death wish, no more than he suspected most pilots did…but he wondered if he wouldn’t prefer a heroic end to such a long, slow decline, reliving glory days in his head while signing off on work orders and other administrative drudgery.

It doesn’t matter what you prefer…the odds say you’ll die in this fighter. And that chance is only greater now than before.

He understood, more perhaps than any other man or woman in a Lightning, just what a fight the Confederation faced, what a deadly—and possibly overpowering—enemy the Hegemony truly was. He’d seen the losses the squadrons had suffered in the Union War, and the ranks of friends and comrades from the conflict’s earliest days who were gone greatly exceeded those still present. The Union had fighters of its own, and most of the men and women lost in the wings had been taken out by enemy interceptors. That wasn’t an issue in this war. The Confederation had the monopoly on small craft. He’d already heard talk among his comrades, boasting of how they would tear apart the enemy battleships with no interceptors to stop them.

But Stockton knew better. The Hegemony point defense was powerful, and worse, the enemy had become more proficient with each passing engagement. The fighters would bear the brunt of this war as they had in no other conflict before. They were the Confederation’s sole advantage against a larger and technologically superior enemy…and Stockton understood just what that was likely to mean in a long and bloody war.

His eyes were fixed on his screen, watching the enemy forces emerge and deploy. Even as his thoughts wandered, a part of his mind remained totally focused. Flying his Lightning had become almost an instinctual effort. It seemed that his body—his arms, legs, eyes—knew what to do by themselves. It took a bit more conscious effort to direct the entire strike force, of course, and much of him longed for the days when he’d led only a single, tightly knit squadron of cold veterans into the fight. Most of his old Blues were gone now, killed in action or wounded too seriously to return. The few who’d made it through the war had all risen on to command their own squadrons and wings now. Stockton recognized a few familiar names on the OB of the massive forces he led, but it just wasn’t the same as the old days.

Kyle Jamison had led Dauntless’s strike force back then, and it had been sixty fighters, not a thousand. Stockton still teared up when he thought of his old commander, and the best friend he’d ever had. It had been years now since Jamison had lost his last dogfight, but that wound was sore to the touch.

He brought his ship around gradually, altering the vector and locking his course onto the nearest of the large enemy battleships. There were dozens of tactical considerations, but Stockton had pounded one into his pilots’ heads above all others. Focus on the largest enemy ships. They were the ones that carried the heavy railguns, and Stockton had seen what those monstrous weapons could do, even to battleships like Repulse. The fighters carried a heavy load in this new war, and there was nothing more important than taking out as many of the deadly enemy main guns as possible.

Before they blasted the Confederation battle line to molten scrap.

He almost flipped the comm back on, but he held back. He’d encouraged his people, rallied them for battle. He’d reviewed the tactical plan a dozen times, dragged the fleet’s pilots together in their wardrooms again and again to watch him on the screen and listen as he pounded the same things into their skulls…until he suspected they couldn’t stand the sight of him or the sound of his voice.

There was nothing more he could do. They were ready.

And, if they weren’t, nothing was going to change that now.

He stared intently at the incoming targeting data, adjusting his vector, matching the evasive maneuvers the battleship had already initiated. Hegemony captains—he assumed they had something comparable to Confederation captains in command of their vessels—had seemed inexperienced at first at evading incoming bombers, but there was no question that they had improved rapidly since the initial encounters. He was grateful not to have to worry about interceptors nipping at his heels, but he had to admit, the ship in front of him was evading his attack run as well as any Union ship he’d yet faced.

That doesn’t bode well for the battles to come…

The idea of the enemy becoming ever more proficient at defending against bomber assaults was upsetting, to say the least. If Hegemony fleets were able to close to within the range with their massive railguns intact, they would be able to obliterate Confederation battle lines before those battleships could respond with their own primary batteries.

His discipline clamped down. He stared at the battleship, still amazed at the sheer immensity of the Hegemony’s capital ships. His reflexes reacted to every change, his instincts guessing what would come next. He had become somewhat familiar with the enemy ships, and he was developing a feel, an ability to guess what the Hegemony commanders, or their AIs, would do in response to incoming attack craft. The Hegemony seemed to have a fairly wide array of battleship designs, but he’d begun to notice enough similar vessels to start to get an idea on class groupings and their capabilities.

He was facing one of the largest, now, a vast behemoth, thirty kilometers in length and armed with a heavy battery of railguns. The ship was death to any Confederation vessel it targeted, unless the fighter strikes were able to knock its seemingly fragile weapons offline before they entered range. Even a battleship like Repulse could be disabled or destroyed by a single direct hit, and there was almost no chance of surviving a second or third. The railguns outranged the Confederation’s deadly primaries by seventy thousand kilometers.

Stockton knew his plasma torpedo wasn’t enough to seriously threaten such a vast ship, but he’d also come to realize that the enemy railguns were complex and frail devices, more so, even, than the Confederation primaries. The ship in front of him would be an invincible nightmare in any ship to ship duel, even without its heavy guns…but if Stockton could knock out the railguns, the Confederation battleships would make a fight of it.

Stockton was under ten thousand kilometers and closing fast. He’d been accelerating hard, backing off only to engage in his own evasive maneuvers. The vast ship before him had dozens of point defense batteries, and they were all firing at the roughly forty fighters inbound along with Stockton. Two of his comrades had been hit, but as far as Stockton could tell, both pilots had ejected. He wasn’t sure that mattered, if any rescue operation could be remotely feasible this close to the enemy’s ingress transit point, but he chose to retain some hope his people would survive.

He saw the range slip under seven thousand, and the intensity of the enemy fire increased sharply. Another of his fighters vanished, and there was no thought this time of anyone escaping the fiery wreck.

More losses…and more to come…

Stockton shut it out of his mind. He would look at the cost later, write the letters to relatives, blame himself…but all after the battle. In that moment he was a predator, a killer, and all he could do then for his lost pilots was extract revenge.

Under five thousand, and moving at better than five hundred kilometers per second. There was no time now to change plans, to even think of altering course. All he could do was work the intricate dance, for a few more seconds, evading the enemy ship’s fire while reacting to its own efforts to dodge the coming assault.

He could see flashes on his screen, enemy laser blasts coming within a kilometer of his ship. None had come dangerously close, but the nearer he got, the more accurate the enemy fire would become.

He counted down the final seconds as his ship slipped under two thousand kilometers, and then he pressed the firing stud, jerking his hand an instant later, blasting at full thrust to alter his vector enough to clear the vast enemy ship dead in front of him.

He could feel the g-forces pressing into him, overwhelming the ability of his dampeners to offset the pressure and slamming into his body with what had to be the equivalent of 12g. That was better than the bone shattering 50-plus his engines were firing at, but it was still a hard battering. He struggled to suck air into his tortured lungs, and he gripped the controls so tightly, his hand went numb.

He held the desperate thrust level until the view of open space told him he’d cleared the enemy vessel. He cut back on the engine power almost immediately, enough to bring the dampeners back to full effectiveness, and he sucked in a deep breath, holding it for perhaps ten seconds before he exhaled and turned his eyes toward the scanner display.

He’d scored a hit.

He’d known that already, or at least, he’d been confident. He’d long struggled to control his cockiness, the overwhelming sense of self-assurance that formed a large part of his ability as a pilot. The great Jake Stockton did miss targets, of course…often in fact, but on some level that defied logic and reason, he believed when it was important enough, he could will a shot to hit.

It had been a solid shot, right where he’d wanted it…but there was nothing but guesswork and frustration to satiate his need to know how much damage he had caused. The enemy vessel was just too large, its power generation too staggeringly immense, its deadly guns too numerous, to accurately assess the impact of a single torpedo hit.

He wouldn’t even know if the enemy’s railguns had been knocked out until the giant enemy ship moved into range…and did or did not open up with the grievous weapons on the waiting Confederation line.

Still, as he watched, four more of his fighters swooped in, following his lead almost exactly. One missed, and one was blasted to atoms an instant before launching—but the other two planted direct hits, not far from his own. Another dozen ships were lined up behind, bearing down, enduring the firestorm of defensive fire to close to the same knife-fighting range Stockton had.

One by one, they came in, following the example he’d set. Torpedo after torpedo launched…and slammed hard into the giant ship’s hull, sending geysers of molten and flash frozen metal into the depths of space.

He smiled, the icy gaze of a predator. Despite the horrors the war promised to deliver, the nightmares and death that would be visited upon so many millions, the vast near invincibility of the enemy…he was where he belonged.

Where he’d been born to be.

Chapter Eight

ITN Headquarters

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

“Admiral Whitten left you in charge, Commodore…and he is relying on you to carry out his instructions to the letter.” Desiree Marieles was in one of ITN’s large conference rooms, staring at the naval officer standing no more than two meters from her with a look of doubt on his face. She’d invited the commodore to sit, but the man had so far remained where he was, adding to the discomfort level of the meeting.

Jacen Tomlinson had been a logical choice for Whitten to leave in command in his absence. The commodore was in charge of what remained of Megara’s naval garrison after Whitten had stripped almost everything mobile to take to the Far Rim and deal with Tyler Barron once and for all. Tomlinson’s was a longstanding naval family, not unlike the Barrons and the Whittens, though a step lower in prominence. The Tomlinsons had long been loyal to the Whittens, in fact, and the two families had been bonded over the years by several marriages, along with almost a century of common cooperation in naval affairs.

Marieles knew Torrance Whitten lacked some of the leadership qualities and charisma his father and grandfather had possessed, but, all things considered, at the time she’d thought he’d made a good decision in this case. It made sense to trust to a tradition of family loyalty, even if it had meant overlooking half a dozen higher-ranked officers.

Still, as she watched Tomlinson’s facial expressions, the tension in his stance that he was making at best a half-hearted attempt to hide, she had her doubts. Could he be trusted? Getting rid of him would be simple enough, of course, especially with Ricard Lille available to do the job. The assassin didn’t much like her, but he was dedicated to seeing their mission succeed…and he might consider a Confederation flag officer a worthy target to add to his sick little roster. Marieles had killed many times—when the mission required it, when someone threatened her, even when it was expedient. But Ricard Lille enjoyed it.

It wasn’t that simple, though. She might be able to get rid of Tomlinson, but she had no way to control who was named as his replacement. She’d paid off a few officers as part of her plan, and she’d blackmailed some others, but with Whitten finally off Megara and chasing after Barron, she didn’t have meaningful influence on the admiralty’s future choices in command personnel.

“Yes, he did…and I am compelled to carry out his orders. What I do not understand, speaking bluntly, is your place in all of this, or why he instructed me to keep you apprised of developments.” The officer paused, and when he continued, he’d cut back the attitude in his voice, just a bit. “I mean no offense to you, and I respect your role in uncovering the conspiracies that so threatened the navy…but you must admit, it is highly irregular for you to be involved in such matters. You are a civilian with no government office at all, and no security clearance of which I’m aware.”

Marieles suppressed the angry response that almost burst out. Whitten was a damned fool. He should have left a trusted aide with instructions to keep her advised of developments, a lower level officer who wouldn’t draw attention to himself…not told the man he was leaving in charge of Megara to run everything by her.

She’d exceeded her expectations on the whole plan, taken things far beyond what she’d initially expected to achieve…but the last thing she needed was unwanted attention on her and her role in all that had happened.

“Commodore, I believe there has been a misunderstanding. Admiral Whitten has confided in me, that’s true, and he has asked my counsel on how to handle public announcements and the release of information about the investigations. I’m afraid I am of little help on military matters, though Admiral Whitten may have, from time to time, leaned on our friendship and bounced his thoughts off of me. If I served any purpose in such discussions, it was as a…sounding board…a body to sit there while Admiral Whitten worked through his thoughts.” It wasn’t a great explanation, but with luck, it would do. She didn’t relish sending Tomlinson away and losing her only solid link to events in the admiralty, but she just couldn’t take the chance of stoking the officer’s obvious suspicion.

“I don’t know what kind of misunderstanding it could have been. The admiral was very clear that I was to keep you advised, and, as I said, I am prepared to follow that order…as soon as I know the reason behind it.”

That damned fool…

Marieles wasn’t sure what to say next. She felt cornered, and it was clear Tomlinson was suspicious. Maybe she would have to get Lille involved after all…

“Commodore, perhaps Admiral Whitten was simply preoccupied with the mission he was about to undertake. Likely, he intended to suggest that you may find my insight useful, a perspective I find flattering, if unjustified. All I can say is, fulfill your duties as you see fit, as I’m sure Admiral Whitten expects you will. I am, of course, willing to help you any way I can if you feel that is necessary, but I consider it unlikely I have much to offer.”

The naval officer stared at her for a few more seconds. Then he said, simply, “Very well.” He turned and added, “Good day to you then,” and he walked out of the room. Marieles watched, a frown slipping onto her face once she was sure Tomlinson was gone. She’d tried her best to shake the officer’s suspicions, but it was clear she hadn’t managed it. With luck, Tomlinson would just think she’d seduced Whitten, that he’d tried to impress his paramour with classified information and pretended to take her opinions seriously. Otherwise…

She shook her head. It was too much of a risk. If Tomlinson dug too deeply…her cover was well-constructed, but it wasn’t invincible, certainly not to someone poking around seriously enough. And if the commodore got the slightest hint that she was from Sector Nine, that the whole thing had been a foreign plot to destabilize the Confederation…

She reached down and grabbed her private comm unit, dialing in a code she’d stored only in her memory. “Ricard, this is Desiree. We may have a problem…one that requires your special skills.”

*

“Are you sure this thing works?” There weren’t many people Andi trusted more than Gary Holsten, at least in terms of resources and abilities, but this latest combination of technological wizardry and spycraft seemed a little like conjuring something out of thin air.

“Absolutely. Do you think this is the first time I’ve had to land a ship under a false identity?”

Andi just shook her head. She didn’t doubt Holsten’s ability, or the effectiveness of his gadgets. But they were approaching the Confederation’s capital, not playing around with some frontier planet yokels. The artificial beacon replaced Pegasus’s own, and it transmitted a false identity. Andi had cut Pegasus’s beacon more than once when she didn’t want to be identified, and while technically a criminal offense, it was one that had served its purpose out along the frontier. But Megara was another matter entirely, and the capital’s defenses and screening systems were far tighter than those of a world like Dannith. Transiting into the system with her beacon off would have guaranteed an immediate interception. Her ship was almost certainly on a watchlist, so there really hadn’t been much choice except to trust Holsten’s black box.

“This isn’t a problem, Andi. It would take someone high up in Confederation Intelligence to detect the deception…and I can guarantee whatever stooge the Senate appointed to replace me hasn’t been able to find his way to the bathroom yet, much less feel his way around my red files.”

“What if they appointed one of your old associates?” The question slipped out, but Andi knew the answer before Holsten answered. “There must be a few of your old deputies who know their way around.”

“They won’t have…and if they did, then half our work is done. My people are loyal to me, Andi.” There was dead certainty in his tone.

Andi had a hint of doubt herself, but then she tried to imagine Vig or any of her people in the same situation, how they would react…and Holsten had run Confederation Intelligence for a long time.

The thought reminded her of her crew, her friends, who came back to Dannith to be at her side when they heard she was in trouble.

The friends she’d left behind on Archellia, with nothing but the vaguest of goodbye messages.

Vig…he must be losing his mind by now…

She’d managed to sneak away without her people catching on to her plans. She felt guilty about it, but she just couldn’t involve them in what she had to do. She’d managed to avoid thinking too much about her own poor chances of escape…but she wasn’t about to put her people in the crossfire she was likely to find all around her. No matter how much she knew what she’d done would hurt them.

If I get back, I’ll make it good to them. And, if I don’t, well…they’ll all go back to the lives their success in our adventures won for them…and they’ll forget about me. Eventually.

“So far so good.” Pegasus was well into the system, and there had been no challenges yet. Ship beacons were incredibly sophisticated devices, and almost impossible to counterfeit. “Almost” being the key word in this case. She couldn’t help but imagine what she could have done with the device in her outlaw days. “This beacon is a handy little device, but we’re going to need manifests or something else for docking command…unless you want me to make a run past the inner defenses and try to land somewhere on-planet.” That was more Andi’s style, and she relished the idea of giving a symbolic obscene gesture to the bureaucrats and government types in customs command…but, again, this was Megara, and she had a realistic notion of her chances of sneaking through. They weren’t good.

“That won’t be necessary. I have everything we’ll need.”

Andi just nodded, wondering for a moment how Holsten had managed to gather together the resources he had, when they’d broken him from the prison convoy with nothing more than his bright yellow jumpsuit. Even the vast Holsten family holdings had all been frozen by the government…though he would have had hidden assets, just as she herself did.

“What do you want me to do? Just blast in-system until we get challenged?”

“Yes.” It was a simpler answer than she’d expected, and with anyone else she’d probably have bailed right then and there, made a run for the transit point or gone dark and hoped to evade detection. But no one she’d ever known was as adept at working his way around the Confederation’s security protocols and other systems as Gary Holsten.

We could have used him on Pegasus back in the day…

She just sat at the controls, resisting the urge to turn and look at her companion, to try to gauge whether he was really as confident as he sounded. She decided, if there was doubt in his eyes, she didn’t need to see it. She was committed, whatever the risk, and there was no point in worrying about things she couldn’t control. She had to get Holsten on the ground…and she had her own work to do once they got there.

“Trader Halcyon, this is Megara control. You are not on our arrival schedule. What is your purpose in approaching Megara?”

Andi felt her throat close up. They might believe Pegasus was some ship called Halcyon, but if the landing authorities weren’t expecting her, it was all for naught. Holsten might manage a counterfeit beacon, but if Pegasus was boarded for inspection…

“Megara control, this is Captain James Griswold of Halcyon. Please be advised we are under contract to the Confederation Health Agency lab on Highland. We are carrying a sample of an unidentified crop infestation for review by the main laboratory. I have an authorization from Governor Swanson, along with a request that this matter be handled at secrecy level two. Your supervisor should have access to a classified flash notice of our arrival.” Holsten paused, just for a second. “The blight is a threat to the planet-wide crop, and a full disclosure at this time would threaten the entire planetary economy.”

Andi could hear the voice in her headset, the same one she knew was being transmitted to the patrol ship that had queried Pegasus. But it wasn’t Holsten speaking. For an instant, she wasn’t sure what was happening. Then she realized.

Another black box from Holsten’s bag of tricks…

She turned around, and saw her comrade standing behind her, a broad smile on his face.

“A useful toy, wouldn’t you say? Can’t risk using my own voice. Megara’s got layers of AI-supervised protocols, and there are too many records of my voice pattern.” He hesitated for an instant and added, “It should get us through, Andi. Probably.”

She didn’t especially like the last word he’d added, but she was too confused to focus on it. “How?”

“It’s a custom AI I put together. I was able to pull the programming off the Confederation Intel section of the Archellia fleetnet. It should serve.” He looked at her for a few seconds, and then continued, clearly reacting to the dumbfounded look on her face. “It’s one of Confederation Intelligence’s toys…the officer who queried us is seeing an image of “Captain Griswold,” and the voice will match the snippets of “Griswold” in the data banks. Our friend, the captain, is, as far as any investigation will reveal, a patriot and a straight shooter, though he is also somewhat behind on his debt service, and is in danger of losing his ship. An emergency run for the health authorities is a high-paying gig, which makes everything fit together nicely, don’t you think?”

“They’ll find all of that on the net?” She almost asked how, but then she realized how many false identities and covers Confederation Intelligence likely had.

“In the central database on Megara, at least. A cursory review will also show that the captain has two children, and an estranged wife. He has a military record as well, though an utterly unspectacular one. He mustered out with a moderately serious wound late in the war and used his bonus to put a down payment on Halcyon.”

“That’s amazing.” Something like that would have been damned useful back in my…wilder…days.

Andi had sported a few false identities in her day, but nothing so elaborately contrived as “Captain Griswold.”

“Basic tradecraft, really. The problem is, there’s no backup on the ground. If they actually contact Highland for confirmation, we’re busted. But with a planet that distant, we’ve got ten days before even a Priority One message could get through. Nine chances in ten this customs officer just lets us through and forgets about it.”

Andi stared at Holsten for a moment, thinking she would have preferred if he’d said ninety-nine times out of a hundred instead of nine out of ten. A ten percent chance of ending up trying to make a run yet again from the Megara home forces didn’t sit well with her…both in terms of the chance of escape, and also the delay in getting her down to the planet. To the business she had waiting there.

The comm crackled back to life. “Halcyon, you are cleared for immediate approach to orbital station twelve. Welcome back to Megara.”

She grinned and looked back at her companion. “Nicely done.” It was all she could think to say.

“Thank you.” He paused. “Just one more thing before we complete our approach. Pegasus has direct laser communication capability, doesn’t she?”

“Yes.” Andi’s response was slow, muted. She trusted Holsten, but she’d spent what seemed like a lifetime trying to keep her ship’s capabilities secret, and old habits died hard.

“I have a communique I need to send, and I’d like to keep it from prying eyes.”

“What is it?” Andi had her share of experience with secret messages, but never in so crowded and controlled a space as the Confederation’s capital system.

It was Holsten’s turn to hesitate. Andi understood. The spymaster’s trade had compelled him to keep more secrets than even she’d had to, as an adventurer living on the cusp of outlawry.

Finally, he answered. “I have a file containing all the information about the Hegemony collected by Dauntless. Ship sizes, energy readings, thrust levels…everything. Even analysis of some bits and pieces of destroyed ships.” He paused and looked up at her. “You and I haven’t seen any Hegemony forces ourselves…but, with all that’s happened on Megara, Tyler still seems far more concerned with this new threat. Honestly, I think he’d have surrendered before firing on other Confederation ships if he wasn’t so driven by what he saw out in the Badlands. And anything that can scare the hell out of Tyler Barron has me fighting the urge to run for the hills.” Another pause. “Whoever these people are, we’re probably going to have one hell of a fight on our hands, and the quicker we can match their technology, the better chance we’ll have.”

“You’re going to send the data to the Institute?” She just realized what Holsten intended. The famed research facility was located on one of the outer moons, orbiting a gas giant in the Olyus system. It was the pinnacle of Confederation scientific study, and probably the best place to find people capable of decrypting strange new tech.

“Yes.” Holsten was silent for a moment. “Not through normal channels, but Confederation Intelligence has its eyes and ears in the Institute as well as in…other places. If we can get the data transmitted, I believe I can put it into trusted hands.”

Andi felt a strange feeling. Holsten was her friend, but it was uncomfortable for her to discover just how widespread Confederation Intelligence’s operations were…how much the agency spied on its own citizens. She’d been used to evading the authorities on the frontier, but she’d never really thought about just what kind of surveillance state lay beneath the Confederation’s pretensions of democracy, or how often normal people going about their daily lives were…watched.

“We had people there mostly to guard against Sector Nine attempts to infiltrate, of course.”

Andi nodded, but she wasn’t buying her friend’s explanation, not entirely. Confederation Intelligence would certainly be on the alert over foreign espionage in a place like the Institute…but she didn’t think that was the full explanation.

She trusted Holsten, and she knew his interests were to protect the Confederation. But what about whoever followed him, or came after that? She’d studied enough history to understand how liberty of the sort the Confederation enjoyed inevitably died…and usually without so much as a shot fired.

“Right there.” She shook away the deep and gloomy thoughts and gestured toward one of Pegasus’s three bridge stations. “That’s the main comm panel. The laser pulse controls are pretty standard.”

Holsten walked over and sat at the station. “Yes, I see.” He reached into the small bag he was carrying, and pulled out several high-density data chips. “I’m afraid it’s a lot of information. It will take a few minutes to send it all. Still, with the direct laser comm, we should be okay.”

Andi nodded, but she wasn’t sure she felt as confident. Direct laser communications were secure, but they were also in the busiest solar system in the Confederation…and any vessel, probe, or satellite crossing the path of the comm could pick it up.

“You’re all set, Gary. The laser comm is activated.”

Holsten just nodded, and then he leaned over the workstation. “You can start your approach while I’m sending the communique…it will look strange if we sit here too long. Keep it to a standard entry vector and thrust level. I can adjust the laser pulse to match that.”

“Okay…commencing thrust in five…four…three…two…one.” She moved her hands over the controls, blasting Pegasus’s engines at half a g, just enough to set up the required vector to approach Megara. They were about twenty minutes out, and that would give Holsten the time he needed.

Then they would dock…and if all went well, in two hours, they’d be on a shuttle to the surface. Pegasus was atmosphere capable, but she didn’t see the point in waving her vessel under anyone’s nose. Some random cargo ship docking berth would do just fine, and it would draw a lot less attention.

She watched as Holsten worked at the comm station. He was a capable man, and a good ally. But he wouldn’t be with her in what she had to do next. She’d almost told him. He was the sort who would have understood the need that drove her, but she’d held back anyway. Holsten had more than enough on his plate without adding her baggage to his…and she knew he already carried a load of guilt for involving her in the operation at all, for his role in her falling into Lille’s hands. He’d try to stop her, and he’d come with her if he couldn’t…but he had other duties now. To the Confederation. And to Tyler.

She would get Holsten to the station, and they would both take the shuttle down to the surface. After that, her job for Holsten and for Tyler would be done.

Then she could see to her own business.

Chapter Nine

CFS Constitution

1.400,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

Clint Winters stared ahead, his eyes cold, his hands clenched tightly into fists on the armrests of his chair. He was a fighting admiral, a man long known to his loyal—and frequently intimidated—spacers as, “The Sledgehammer.” His doctrine was simple. Attack, and keep attacking until you pound your way through the enemy. It had never been that simple in practice, of course, and for all his reputation as an almost wildly aggressive commander, Winters’s true approach was actually far more cerebral and cautious than his image suggested.

That thoughtfulness was in effect even as his fleet met the attacking enemy forces, and a strange sadness coexisted with the anger and determination that ruled him in combat. He would do all he could, and his people would fight like cornered wildcats, he had no doubt of that. But he also knew he would almost certainly have to retreat. That would mean leaving Dannith behind, the crushing responsibility of protecting its residents falling to Colonel Blanth and his ground forces.

Winters detested the idea of retreating, and it turned his stomach to think of actually giving the order to run. But his duty wasn’t to defend Dannith—it was to protect the entire Confederation. With whatever the hell was happening on Megara, his forces might be the only shield for a dozen or more systems. He would fight in Ventica…but he could not risk losing his fleet there. If—when—he had to pull back, turn tail and flee in order to fight again another day, that was exactly what he would do.

“I want all ships to get their squadrons refit and launched in fifteen minutes. We’ve got to get another bombing run in before that battle line gets close enough to open fire.” He’d watched the Hegemony battleships moving forward, and he knew the largest of them carried the deadly railguns. Many of the most forward ships had been damaged to various degrees by the first fighter strike, but more of the massive vessels continued to pour into the system, so many that even the “Sledgehammer” was losing his steely nerve.

“Yes, Admiral. From reports coming in, it looks like half the ships in the fleet will be ready to launch in fifteen minutes.”

“Did I say half?” Winters roared with an intensity that seemed to shake the bulkheads. “All ships are to commence launch operations in fifteen minutes…I swear to God, I will space every bastard responsible for so much as a minute’s delay.”

He could feel the tension of the bridge personnel as they recoiled from what he imagined sounded like rage. But he wasn’t angry, not really. Only determined. And something else, something he would hide from his people, whatever it took. As he looked at the lines of enemy ships forming up, as more transited into the system, he realized he was scared. Not for himself, necessarily, nor even for the people of Dannith. His concerns had gone well beyond that, and as he stared out at a force he knew he couldn’t defeat, he wondered if the Confederation’s entire fleet, formed up and ready for an apocalyptic fight, would have a chance.

Was he looking at more than defeat?

Was he looking at the end of the Confederation?

*

“Let’s go…move your asses!” Jake Stockton raced across Repulse’s flight desk, shouting out to the crews, driving them mercilessly to turn his ships around. Repulse’s squadrons were only a small fraction of the force he commanded, of course, and if he could have found a way to scream at the techs on all the other ships in the system, he would have.

It was new ground to Stockton, unleashing his ferocity on the men and women refueling and rearming the fighters. For all his years in the strike force, he’d almost always stayed out of the way of the flight crews, a habit he’d probably picked up serving under Dauntless’s old deck chief, Nick Evans. Dauntless’s bays back then had been run on the sheer bottled rage of its chief technician, a man who’d ignored the officers that outranked him and the hapless spacers serving under him with equal disdain. Whether pilots or flight control personnel on his staff…all were treated to endless fury from the same barely-restrained force of nature. Evans had only submitted fully to one member of Dauntless’s crew, then-Captain Tyler Barron, though he’d come out meeker than anyone had expected from the encounter after he bumped heads with Anya Fritz.

Stockton had never admitted it, but the cigar-chomping old warrant officer had scared the shit out of him like no enemy ace or broadside of defensive lasers ever had. Evans was retired now, pensioned off to some frontier world, probably, where he no doubt terrorized his neighbors. Stockton had hated the chief, of course, as all his comrades had…but now he wondered how many fights had been won by the margin of Evan’s fiery temper, and his ability to push ships out of the bays just a little faster.

Stockton walked up to a crew working on one of the fighters, three techs who were working on the ship, but not as quickly as he wanted to see. “Did you hear what I said?” He imagined one of Evans’s rants as he stood there, but he just wasn’t ornery enough to match the blast furnace the old chief would have unleased on the hapless spacers.

He did, however, have sufficient intensity to scare the hell out of the three techs.

“We’re almost done, sir,” one of them managed to reply, his voice clipped and high-pitched. “We’ll be ready to launch in less than ten minutes, Captain.”

Stockton stood where he was, staring at the technicians…until he heard a voice on his headset.

“Jake, stop harassing my techs…they’re working as fast as they can.”

Stockton turned away from the three men, not so much in response to Stara’s directive, but because he didn’t want them to see the smile that slipped onto his face when he heard her voice.

“They are now,” he said, walking away from the group as he responded. “We’ll be lucky if we can get in a second strike if everybody is operating at one hundred percent. And those three weren’t even close.” He hesitated, unsure he should say what was trying to come out. “You need to kick some ass down here, Stara. Old Chief Evans is probably rolling over in his grave to see this…”

“I’ve got flight operations under control…without your help, Jake. They’re yours once they launch, but here, they’re mine.” A pause. “And Chief Evans is alive and well, the last I heard.”

There was a moment of silence, and then, she added, “Jake…I know we’re in trouble here, but promise me you won’t do anything really stupid out there.” He could hear the concern in her voice, and nine times out of ten, he would have said something to sooth her worries. But the situation now was just too serious, the outlook too grim. He didn’t want to climb into his fighter having lied to her the last time they spoke.

“Stara, you know what we’re facing. We don’t have a chance in hell of holding Dannith, but if we can hurt these bastards…maybe we can slow them down, give them a second thought about continuing on deeper into the Confederation.” He didn’t believe that at all, but he didn’t count it as a lie, exactly. It was what they were trying to do, or at least his best guess at why Admiral Winters hadn’t pulled the whole fleet out when he saw the scope of what was coming.

Stara was silent for a while. Then, clearly trying to hide her emotions, she said, “Two of your squadrons are ready to go, Jake. You can start launch operations immediately.” A few seconds later, she added, softly, “Good luck.”

*

“Are your forces ready, Colonel? We have to be prepared if the fleet is unable to repel the enemy.”

Steve Blanth looked back at Cantor, still struggling to deal with the planetary administrator’s newfound backbone. It was good, though the Marine couldn’t help but wonder if it would last through the expected enemy landings, the full-scale invasion he knew was coming. Blanth was no expert in space combat, but he’d seen the latest reports from the fleet, and there was no way Admiral Winters was going to be able to defeat the vast force that had transited into the system.

Was still transiting. As of the most recent communique, enemy forces were still coming through the point. The Hegemony ships in the system already vastly outnumbered the entire Confederation fleet, and they dwarfed Admiral Winters’s desperately assembled defense force. The enemy was going to land on Dannith—if they didn’t decide just to glass the planet from orbit this time—and the invasion forces would be vastly larger than those in the previous engagement.

Blanth knew his troops didn’t have any more chance than the fleet did in a straight up fight. He was already planning to salvage as much as he could after resisting the landings, to pull his best forces back to the prepared positions and conduct a desperate guerilla campaign.

He wasn’t sure how Cantor would react to all of that. The administrator’s attitudes had improved markedly, but Blanth wasn’t sure how the man would adapt to living in a cold, wet bunker, or running from strongpoint to strongpoint, just ahead of the enemy’s seek and destroy raids. Cantor probably saw himself as his people’s savior, and Blanth expected trouble from the politician when he ordered the forward defenses abandoned almost immediately.

The Administrator undoubtedly expected a major fight to hold the cities, but Blanth didn’t really give a shit about Cantor’s opinions or his political ambitions. His Marines could fight like hell while the enemy was landing, blast as many of the inbound craft as possible and hit small pockets of disorganized Hegemony forces…but once the invaders had landed enough forces, his choice would be a simple one. See his small army utterly destroyed in a matter of days, even hours. Or retreat, take to the hills and the woods, and keep a spark of resistance alive.

If Cantor gave him too much trouble…well, he still had Tyler Barron’s permission to shoot the fool, and however soft the legal ground was under that authorization, he just might take advantage of it anyway.

*

“All right!” Stockton slapped his hand down on his fighter’s console, an impromptu celebration of the hit he’d just scored. Not just a hit, but a direct, precision shot that landed his torpedo right through a gash in the Hegemony battleship’s hull.

He’d had to replay the scanner recordings to see just where the weapon had hit, twice before he was certain. He’d been focused completely on pulling away from the hulking target as the torpedo actually reached its mark, and as much as he’d wanted to watch the warhead make its way in, he’d wanted to avoid slamming into two hundred million tons of Hegemony battleship more.

It had been a pinpoint shot, not just a hit, but the proverbial splitting of the arrow, and he stared at the readings coming in, trying to determine how badly he’d hurt the already-damaged behemoth. For an instant, he’d let himself hope he’d see a massive explosion, that his strike would have taken out the battleship completely. But the Hegemony fleet had larger ships deployed now than even the monsters the White Fleet had faced off against out in the Badlands, giant battlewagons that dwarfed the newest and largest Confederation equivalents.

It was a lot of tonnage to take out with a few plasma torpedoes…even with a perfect shot.

Still, he’d bet a year’s pay the thing didn’t have operational railguns anymore…and that gave Repulse and the rest of the battle line a real chance to finish the beast, along with a dozen others his squadrons had pounded.

His eyes darted to the medium range scanners, and he could see a cluster of fighters moving in on the same target, one of the hard-hit enemy vessels. It was basic fighter training…finish off the wounded enemy. But that was something his people were going to have to forget for this war, a lesson that had been drilled into their heads, and one that they would have to unlearn. The bombers had to knock out as many of the enemy’s railguns as possible, and nothing else was as important as that goal. That meant Stockton’s people couldn’t expend firepower taking down ships that were already seriously damaged. Finishing battered Hegemony hulls was work for the Confederation battle line, and as difficult as most of his pilots would find it to give up the chance to score kills, he knew it was what they had to do…unless they wanted to see their launch platforms blasted to dust before any of them could return fire.

“Calveigh, Victor…pull your squadrons up. That ship is hard hit, and we’ve got two more fresh ones coming at 123.308.009.” He’d made it clear to his pilots—and especially to his squadron commanders and wing leaders—that their primary mission was to damage as many battleships as possible. But fighter pilots had a culture all their own, and it died hard. Orders or no orders, the instinct of just about every man or woman flying one of those Lightnings drove them toward a weak target. But Admiral Winters needed them to hit the fresh ships coming up, and Stockton was going to see that they did just that.

“Roger that, Raptor.” There was a hint of unhappiness, perhaps, in the almost simultaneous responses, but Stockton’s pilots, and especially his squadron leaders, were veterans. They knew what they were up against. He might have to remind them once or twice, but they would all do their duty.

Stockton glanced down at his screen, checking the time, and the range between the main bodies of the two fleets. He’d launched his own torpedo, along with about half his pilots so far, and as much as he hated to leave his people still attacking on their own, he knew what he had to do. He could get back to Repulse just before the battleship entered the enemy’s range. He didn’t know how badly the big ship would get blasted by the Hegemony line, or if her bays would hold up long enough to launch a new sortie of refitted squadrons…but he had to try.

“All squadrons still with torpedoes…pick your targets and get your runs done as quickly as possible. And remember, you’re after the railguns, not taking down cripples.” He paused, taking a deep breath. “All squadrons with empty bomb bays, you’re with me. Back to your motherships. I want you all landed before the battle lines engage. With any luck, we’ll get a third strike in before things get too ugly.”

And if we’re really lucky, we’ll have someplace to land after…

He moved his right hand, angling his thrust, even as his left reached out, punching at the small keyboard, plotting a course back to Repulse.

“Full thrust home, all depleted squadrons. The faster we get back, the sooner we can hit these bastards again.”

Chapter Ten

Hall of the People

Liberte City

Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,

Union Year 221 (317 AC)

Gaston Villieneuve sat at his desk, a pile of small tablets stacked in front of him in a confused mess, each one a confidential message sent to him from an operative or fleet commander in or near Confederation space. He’d been alarmed at the formation of the White Fleet a couple years before, and he’d done all he could at the time to shadow the exploration force, to keep tabs on any discoveries the enemy—and the Confederation was his enemy, treaty or no—might make.

He’d gotten reports from those scouts following the White Fleet months before, but he’d been hard-pressed to believe any of them. The news they’d relayed was just too…unexpected. He’d had to accept, eventually, that the Confederation fleet had indeed found other survivors of the Cataclysm, deep into the Badlands, far closer to the old imperial core than any of the worlds on the Rim.

It had been utterly shocking, but from the earliest information it seemed those discovered were primitives, ancestors of those who’d been mutated by radiation and ravaged by biological weapons…and stripped of their technology. That assessment had held…for a while.

Then he’d begun getting fresh reports. The White Fleet had been attacked. It had struggled desperately against unidentified forces that seemed their technological equals, if not their superiors. Barron’s forces had suffered considerable losses, and they had taken off into uncharted space.

Villieneuve had responded to the first communiques with disbelief and derision, with loudly shouted promises to space whoever had wasted his time with such wild fantasies. But then confirmations came in from multiple sources, and he’d had to accept that there was some truth to what he’d been told.

In that instant, the balance of power, the strategic situation, the future of the entire Rim, seemed to hang in the balance.

And his mind had started working, imagining how to turn the new reality to his advantage.

He’d scraped up more scouts and sent them to the Badlands and the Confederation. The People’s Protectorate, which he still thought of as Sector Nine, was weaker than its predecessor organization had been. Desiree Marieles’s operation on Megara—which had been more successful than he’d dared to hope—had consumed almost all of his available espionage resources in the Confederation. The People’s Protectorate, which he still thought of as Sector Nine, as most of its personnel did, was still weaker than its predecessor organization had been. Villieneuve had been forced to purge many of the old operatives, eliminating any who had been careless enough to expose their roles and deeds to the population. The old head of the intelligence operation had risen to the effective rule of the Union, and he’d done it by sacrificing many of his old colleagues to the bloodlust of the mob. It was the nature of the political game, he realized, and the last thing Gaston Villieneuve would ever do was lose his grip on power out of petty human weaknesses like loyalty or compassion.

If the fools had been smart enough to lay low, to avoid the spotlight, they’d still be alive…

Now, he found himself trying to decide how to proceed, and if this new civilization the Confeds seemed to have found was a threat…or an opportunity.

Villieneuve was pleased with Marieles’ success, but, in a surprising way, he was frustrated as well. His initial goal had been simply to cause disruption in the Confederation, to upset the economy and buy the years he would need to rebuild the Union fleet. But it was now looking very much like the Confeds were on the brink of internal conflict, if not outright civil war. It was an opportunity he’d hadn’t expected, one he hadn’t planned for.

If the Union attacked while they were turned on each other and facing a new and powerful enemy…

There was one problem. Villieneuve knew his forces weren’t ready to face even a disordered Confederation. The fleet had recovered significantly from the disastrous state that had followed the end of the war and the shameful peace he’d been forced to accept…but it wasn’t close to ready for a new fight. He’d managed to see the damaged vessels repaired, but he’d only recently regained control over the major shipbuilding worlds, and while he’d ordered a large number of new hulls laid down, it would be a year, perhaps two, before meaningful numbers of new capital ships were launched to supplement the older vessels that had survived the war.

He might risk a premature operation, if he could forge an alliance with the new enemy—called the Hegemony, according to his latest reports. A combined invasion, even with a reduced-strength Union contingent, would surely defeat the Confeds once and for all, even if, as he suspected was likely, the distant Alliance came to the aid of their new allies.

It was an unexpected opening…and it was too good a chance to pass up. But he had no idea how to approach the…Hegemony. By all accounts, they had launched an attack on the Confed frontier world of Dannith and apparently been forced to retreat. That wasn’t particularly heartening in terms of the Hegemony being strong enough to overwhelm the Confederation, but it did suggest they might welcome an ally to aid in their fight.

Should he send an ambassador? Or simply dispatch the Union fleet across the border, strike at the Confederation’s cursed Grimaldi base, which had apparently been stripped of its fleet units and most of its fighter squadrons to bolster the defensive line at Dannith. The chance to destroy the massive fortress once and for all was a seductive one, a bold move that could quickly turn into a disaster if the Hegemony proved to be less powerful than he’d allowed himself to believe. If the forces from the Badlands withdrew, the Confeds would be free to turn about and crush the Union fleet…and as foolish as the Senate was, he couldn’t believe they would allow what they would surely perceive as betrayal go unpunished. Even with Marieles’s interference. Virtually every flag officer in the Confederation had bristled at the treaty he’d managed to negotiate after the destruction of the pulsar. He couldn’t imagine the force of their demands to be allowed to invade the Union, to topple his government and do what they’d believe they should have been allowed to do three years earlier. If the Confeds escaped the threat of the Hegemony and of the internal disorder Marieles had caused, they would obliterate the Union fleet and his fragile hold on power.

The smart play was to wait, to watch and see what happened in Confederation space. If the Hegemony returned, if they attacked Dannith again or another frontier world and broke through the Confed defenses…then he could reach out, seek to form an alliance.

Yes, I will wait. I must be careful now. If Desiree is able to instigate open internal strife, and the Hegemony strikes again…then I will move.

He leaned back in his chair, certain caution was justified, but still unsettled. He tried to tell himself he should move slowly, be thankful that he’d managed to seize power at all, and save the Union from total collapse. But he couldn’t put his hatred of the Confederation aside. He was bitter, angry, and he wanted to see the Union’s despised enemy destroyed. He wanted Van Striker, and the other top Confed officers, dead…and none more than Tyler Barron. No one man had interfered more disastrously in his plans, been more directly responsible for the loss of the war than the famous admiral. The initial invasion, the planetkiller, the pulsar…all operations of his that Barron had thwarted.

He glanced back down at the desk, shoving the tablets aside and punching at his keyboard, bringing columns of figures up on his main screen. He couldn’t invade the Confederation, not yet. Not until he was sure the Hegemony had invaded in force, and Marieles’s disruption campaign had truly borne fruit. But he could prepare. He’d pacified most of the holdout worlds, crushed almost every rebellion that had flared up in the Union after the war.

All except Barroux.

The thought of the stubborn rebel planet distracted him, and he clenched his fist on his desk. Admiral Denisov had crushed Barroux’s defenses and occupied the planet more than two years before, but the Foudre Rouge were still trying to stamp out resistance on the surface. He’d seen the death tolls—and the FR casualty rates—and he’d sent a dozen top People’s Protectorate inquisitor teams to strike fear in the hearts of the survivors, but the guerillas somehow endured.

No…don’t let yourself get distracted. Barroux has nothing to do with any of this. It is an irritant, but nothing that requires fleet units anymore. Nothing that should interfere with the opportunity to seek revenge on the Confeds.

He wrenched his thoughts from the rebel planet, back to the spreadsheets, the reports on available fleet strength. He paused for a few minutes, his eyes on the screen but his mind lost in thought on how to proceed. Finally, he pulled up a blank page and began to type out an order…one that would send every available fleet unit to the Confed border. It was a risky move, even if his forces remained in Union space, but he was willing to gamble that Marieles’s operations had Confederation Intelligence too tied up in knots to pick up on the mobilization immediately.

He would put Denisov in command. He’d been worried about his newly-minted senior admiral for a while, and perhaps it would be better for the officer to have something to do, to keep his mind busy.

Denisov had managed to crush Barroux’s planetary defenses, and he’d been willing to inflict over a billion civilian casualties to do it. He’d been reluctant at first no doubt, and from the reports Villieneuve’s operatives had sent in, Denisov was wracked by guilt for the deaths he caused. To Villieneuve’s way of thinking, such self-directed torment was a waste of time, but he understood it nevertheless. It didn’t matter, none of it. The man was the kind of officer he’d needed during the war, the kind he needed now. A man who could lead the Union’s diminished fleet to war.

And, alongside a strong new ally, we can finally crush the Confederation, as we should have done eighty years ago…

He reached down and tapped the control on his comm unit. “Blevin…issue an order at once. Admiral Denisov is to return to Montmirail immediately to be briefed on a new assignment.”

“Yes, sir.” The response was short, crisp. Blevin had served well as Villieneuve’s primary assistant since the earliest days of his return to power. The aide was smart, quick, and completely devoid of unmasked ambition or sniveling brownnosing. The Union’s dictator had been through hell and back, and he’d retained his grip on power. He had no time for blatant hangers on trying to work him for their advantage…not unless such activity served his own purposes.

A moment later. “And issue a level one fleet command. All units within four jumps of Montmirail are to return at once to the capital.”

“Yes, sir.” No emotion at all in the aide’s voice, at least none he could detect.

He’d just ordered nearly eighty percent of the Union’s serviceable hulls to return to the capital. He would send Denisov to the border…and he would dispatch an ambassador at once to reach out to this new power—the Hegemony, he reminded himself. Surely, they would welcome assistance in their campaign against the Confederation, especially if he could make the Union forces appear stronger than they actually were. The Confeds were stubborn, as he knew that well, and despite their chaotic form of government, they were surprisingly good at war. The Hegemony would be thrilled at the prospect of additional support, an ally to aid them in their conquest.

He couldn’t imagine any reason they wouldn’t be.

Chapter Eleven

CFS Repulse

900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“All squadrons aboard, Captain. Landing operations complete.”

Sonya Eaton held back the sigh of relief, but she felt it nevertheless. She hadn’t been entirely convinced Stockton could get all his people back on board before the battleship had to align itself to open fire, but he’d done it…with almost a minute to spare.

A quick glance at the scanner display confirmed that Repulse—and most of the Confederation battle line—was indeed about to enter primary firing range of the lead enemy ships. Stockton and his people had worked miracles in their two assaults, and not a single ship of the Hegemony advance line had yet fired a railgun. Eaton had hoped the fighter strikes would cut down on the enemy’s long-range fire potential, but she hadn’t dared to imagine the Confederation battleships would get a chance to fire their own primaries before the enemy hit them…or even more or less simultaneously.

She’d known Stockton’s reputation, and she’d seen him in action with the White Fleet, but she still found herself stunned at how well the other pilots responded to him. The man had long been regarded as the best pilot in the fleet, but now she could see that he was a gifted leader as well. His squadrons had closed to point blank range again and again, and the hit rates of the torpedo attacks had been an astonishing forty-four percent. That kind of firepower was substantial, even against Hegemony ships.

“Bring us around, per the nav plan, Commander. Primary batteries, prepare to fire.”

“Primaries report fully charged and ready, Captain.”

Sonya stared straight ahead, waiting as the last few seconds slipped by…and the range display turned green. She took a deep breath, and then she turned toward the tactical station. Her orders from Admiral Winters were clear. The fleet was to engage the forward enemy line with full power and continue until he ordered to the contrary.

“Primaries…fire.”

Her eyes caught flashes on the screen, other battleships of the fleet opening fire alongside Repulse. Then an instant later the bridge lights dimmed, and the whine of the big guns ripped through the bridge, signaling her vessel had joined the attack.

She turned toward the damage assessment readouts…and felt disappointment as she saw that her gunners had missed their target. Most of the Confederation ships had missed, an unsurprising—though disheartening—result at extreme range. Ideally, she would have held fire a bit longer, and she suspected Winters would have commanded the same, save for the fact that the Hegemony ships were already opening fire themselves. Sonya had gotten used to serving aboard battleships that outranged their adversaries, but now she and her comrades were feeling what Union and Alliance opponents had so long felt.

Even as she was staring at the display, Repulse shook. She cursed under her breath as she punched down at the controls and listened to the ship’s AI deliver a preliminary damage control report. Nothing serious, but some inconvenient hull breaches near prime conduits. It wasn’t going to affect Repulse’s combat readiness, but she’d hoped to get a lot closer before taking significant damage. So far, based on a quick glance at the scanners, the enemy seemed to be getting the best of the firefight. It was early, certainly, but she didn’t have to look beyond the main display to confirm that the Hegemony lead vessels—which already substantially outnumbered the Confederation fleet—would soon be supported by a second line, even larger than the first.

And almost unimaginably, well behind those forward formations, Hegemony ships were still transiting into the system. Sonya had been telling herself the battle was winnable, that if her people fought hard enough, if Admiral Winters was clever enough, the fleet could once again turn back the enemy and save Dannith.

Now, she knew that was impossible. Defeat was close to a mathematical certainty. Heroism, sacrifice, tactical brilliance…none of it mattered, at least not in how the battle would end. She could feel the defiance inside her, the urge to continue the fight even in the face of hopelessness…but she knew Admiral Winters didn’t have the freedom for such sacrificial indulgence. His ships were the only organized defensive forces on the Confederation frontier, and the immensity of the Hegemony fleet erased any doubts that this was a desperate struggle just to hold Dannith, and not the first fight in an effort to save the entire Confederation.

She looked over at the status screen for the primaries, as if she could will the massive power lines to charge the weapons more quickly. There was less than a minute to go, and she almost used the time to harangue her gunners, to urge them to try harder, to score a hit, no matter what it took. But she stayed silent. They already knew what they had to do.

She could feel the tension on the bridge growing, the pall hanging over her people growing thicker and darker with every enemy ship that transited in. Her officers were all specialists, and few of them were trained and experienced in the tactical direction of a fleet. But they could count. And past a certain point, that was all it took to analyze the fleet’s situation.

She glanced over at the comm station, half surprised that Winters hadn’t issued a retreat order yet. Still, even as she expected such a command, she understood why it hadn’t come yet. Stockton and the fighter wings had fought like demons to blunt the enemy’s forward line, and Sonya was sure Clint Winters intended to do as much additional damage before he called his people off. One way or another, the fleet would be fighting this Hegemony force again, if not at Dannith, then at Carthago or Aragos…or some other system deeper into Confederation space.

There was one thing about which she didn’t have any doubt at all. The Hegemony hadn’t brought such a vast fleet so far just to take Dannith. They were after the Confederation, all of it, if not the entire Rim…and that meant this was going to be a fight to the finish.

She saw the status monitor reach the fully charged mark…and a few seconds later, the familiar power flicker as Repulse’s main guns lashed out yet again.

*

“Goddammned pieces of shit, we’re going to kill every last one of them before this is done.” Anya Fritz was lying on the floor where she’d fallen, rolling over onto her hands and knees and—slowly—rising to her feet. She’d slammed into the bulkhead hard when Repulse shook from that last hit, and so many places on her body hurt, is was hard to enumerate them all. Her arm wasn’t broken—she didn’t think, at least—but it throbbed like hell.

No time to worry about any of that. Not now.

Fritz had always been able to remove herself from the emotions of combat, to focus on her role in keeping a ship functioning and in the fight and not to project rages and fury toward the enemy. But she had to acknowledge, she was beginning to hate the Hegemony.

She turned and looked around. She’d had three of her engineers with her, and a quick glance confirmed they were all still down, in various stages of trying to rise back to their feet. “If you’re not at death’s door, get the hell up, all of you. We’ve got work to do.” Her voice was sharp, hard. She’d never been one to show weakness, or even much in the way of compassion. Her engineers obeyed her commands, because she scared the hell out of them, and because they knew she was the best. Jumping the instant she shouted a command was the likeliest way to keep the ship they were on in the fight…and to prevent their vessel, and their own bodies, from becoming radioactive dust clouds.

She was tough, and she relished in her own way the uneasy demeanor of those around her. Her worst nightmare had never been damage to the ship or the hardship of battle. It was that her people might one day discover just how proud of them she truly was. She’d built her persona on being a relentless, unforgiving force of nature, and she knew that fact—and the name calling and complaining that went on incessantly behind her back—had contributed mightily to the string of victories that Tyler Barron and Dauntless had left behind them. Many of the technicians complaining about her owed their lives to the near-brutality with which she’d driven them. Few realized that, but she didn’t care. She knew it.

She took a few steps toward the end of the room and leaned over a workstation. Her fingers flew over the controls, bringing up status reports, power transmission levels…and a few dozen other bits of data. The hit had been a bad one, and for an instant, she was afraid Repulse’s primaries had been knocked out. The main guns were fragile beasts, and if the newest versions were a bit tougher than the cantankerous ones the old Dauntless had carried, that didn’t mean they were durable.

She pulled up a schematic of the ship and stared at several key sections. There was a lot of damage, but it looked like they’d been fortunate so far. None of it was in vital areas…and a few seconds later, a targeted diagnostic analysis confirmed the primaries were still online.

She started to turn back toward her people, but then she froze, her eyes fixed on a single spot on the display. The primaries and the reactors were undamaged, but there was a power spike about halfway forward on the port side, and she didn’t like the looks of it.

She didn’t like the looks of it at all.

“Farner, Gomez…get over here. Take a look at this blip here. That’s the main transmission line along the outer port side.” She was staring at the location, even as her fingers moved over the controls, pulling up readings from the adjacent systems. Everything was still fully operational, but if that line failed, it was going to be bad. Repulse would lose her primaries for sure, and maybe even the entire port broadside. If it blew badly enough, it could scrag all of the reactors…and that would leave the battleship dead in space, a sitting duck.

“I see the spike, Captain, but I don’t see any damage that could have caused it.” Gomez was standing next to her now, trying to hide the confusion in his voice.

“It could be a hundred things, Gomez. We don’t have time to investigate, but we damned sure have to stabilize that line. You two get down there now, and grab as many techs as you think you’ll need. Just get it done.” She was still staring at the screen, her eyes fixed now on reactor three. It was a guess at best that the power plant would be the next thing to fail as power build ups worked their way back up the line…but Fritz had learned to trust her guesses over the years. “Go! Now!” She waved with her hands as the two engineers turned and raced through the door.

She took a deep breath. She had to get down to that reactor…as soon as possible. “Bartlett,” she snapped to the last technician remaining in the room, “find Walt Billings and tell him to meet me down in reactor three.” She turned and stared at the engineer. “Right away.”

*

“Blues and Eagles…you’re with me. The rest of you, launch as soon as your ships are ready, and follow us.” Jake Stockton stood next to his fighter, shouting out across Repulse’s flight deck. He felt a touch of grim nostalgia as he spoke to the pilots of Repulse’s two elite squadrons. Actually, they were Dauntless’s by right. Tyler Barron had left them with the fleet when he’d returned to the Confederation, and they’d served there for months now, first fighting the running campaign in the Badlands, and now, struggling to defend Confederation space from invasion.

As they had so many times before.

It was different now, though. The two formations were formidable, but both were shadows of their almost legendary pasts, when Stockton had commanded the Blues directly, and Dirk Timmons the Eagles. Timmons was back on Megara instructing at the Academy now, his prosthetic legs disqualifying him from combat duty. And most of the pilots who’d called themselves Blues and Scarlet Eagles had moved on to command positions elsewhere…or they had died in battle.

Stockton looked out for a moment, watching as his people responded to his commands. Then he turned and climbed up the ladder to his own fighter, throwing his leg over the edge and sliding into the cockpit. He turned and nodded to his flight tech, and an instant later, he hit the controls to close the canopy. Another series of quick movements over the buttons and switches on his dashboard, and he could hear the sound of his life support system engaging, and fresh, highly-oxygenated air flowing into the small space around him.

Back into battle once again.

“You’re cleared for launch, Jake.” Stara’s voice, calm and professional—mostly—with just a hint of the fear he knew she felt for him. Anyone would worry about a lover going into combat…but she knew Stockton, perhaps better than anyone else, and that had to make her even more terrified. He knew he’d come a long way from the loose cannon he’d been in his younger days, but by normal standards he was borderline insane.

He suspected she knew he was well aware of the deadly reality of the current conflict, that he would do whatever he had to do to win. To protect Repulse and the fleet.

To protect her.

“Roger that, flight control.” He reached out and activated his engines, prepping the launch sequence. He flashed a glance to his control panel, confirming that the rest of the pilots in the two squadrons were doing the same.

The familiar drone filled his ears, his reactor and engines powering up, and a few seconds later, the red indicator light turned green. His fighter was ready.

He reached out, grabbing the throttle and taking one long, deep breath. Then he pulled back hard, and he was slammed back into his seat as the fighter accelerated rapidly, the launch catapults adding to his engine’s thrust as the sleek vessel slid down the tube and into the darkness of space.

Stockton looked out at the inky blackness, highlighted only by the tiny pinpricks of stars all around. The battle was one of the largest he’d ever seen. The enemy fleet was the biggest he’d ever faced. Yet, he couldn’t see anything save the illusion of peacefulness all around him. He’d always known the vast distances involved in space combat, but it was still sometimes hard for him to reconcile when he blasted out into the maelstrom, bound for the inferno of combat…and he felt completely alone.

He brought his ship around, changing the vector from the one the launch tube and Repulse’s intrinsic vector and velocity had given him. He might not be able to see the enemy, but he knew where they were. Straight ahead, no more than eighty thousand kilometers. It was medium range for ship to ship weapons, the kind that were pounding Repulse hard, along with her brethren in the battle line. Stockton knew the fleet wasn’t going to win the battle, that Admiral Winters would issue a retreat order soon. Captain Eaton hadn’t wanted to launch the squadrons again, but Stockton had convinced her he could get everybody back in time if the fleet bugged out. It wasn’t a lie, exactly. He figured he had a shot to pull it off, after all.

Of course, there was a damned good chance his people would end up stranded, watching Repulse and the other ships of the fleet disappearing toward the Carthago transit point. It was an upsetting thought, but Stockton had never allowed those kinds of dangers to get in his way.

Besides, his fighters might be the difference between Repulse making that run for the transit point, and the great warship getting blasted to plasma before it could make good its escape. He’d always known where the fighter squadrons lay on the unwritten chart of priorities.

A quick check of the scanner showed that the Blues and Eagles were in two successive lines behind him. They may not have been the cold veterans from the height of the Union War, but they’d formed up quickly and cleanly after launch, and not one of them had hesitated to head back into the fire.

They know what’s at stake in this war, as much as you do. They’ll do what they have to, whatever is needed.

Thoughts flashed through his mind about just what “whatever is needed” might come to mean by the time the war was over, but he wrenched his focus back to the matter at hand. There was a fight going on, and his people had a job to do.

And they had to do it quickly and get back if they wanted a ride out of Ventica system.

“On me, Blues and Eagles. We’re going in, quick and dirty. Full thrust the first half of the way, then we hit the closest battleships and bring ourselves around and back to home base. No fancy stuff, no showboating. We don’t have time for anything fancy. This one’s clean and simple.”

And dangerous. The directness of the attack would aid the enemy point defense. His pilots would have to fly through a web of laser fire, with minimal evasive maneuvering, and he’d lose more of his people before the fight was over.

He nodded as the acknowledgements came in. Blue and Scarlet Eagle leaders were veteran pilots, and they knew as well as he did what was at stake. He’d left Olya Federov back on Repulse, against her boisterously-expressed objections, ready to lead the second flight…though he’d known even then there wasn’t going to be another wave. The fleet would bolt before those bombers were refit, he was almost sure of that. But he’d ordered them readied for launch anyway. If he was wrong, if Admiral Winters kept the fleet in the fight, he was going to need those squadrons…and every other formation the ships of the battle line could launch.

And, if not, if Repulse blasted for the transit point, well…Federov was his choice to replace him if he didn’t make it back, and he didn’t want her out with him just then, taking risks that could be avoided.

He looked down at the screen, watching as the line of symbols ahead grew, the massive Hegemony battleships less than thirty thousand kilometers ahead.

“All right, all of you, Blues and Eagles…and every squadron out there…” Not all of the ships of the fleet had managed to turn their fighters around so quickly in the heat of battle, but his scanners showed he had a hundred craft besides the two formations from Repulse. It was more than he’d expected…and the fleet needed everything his birds could manage. “…we’re hitting this forward line, and it looks like all the railguns are already offline.” That was true, but his eyes couldn’t help but catch the advancing second line of Hegemony vessels, including two dozen of the immense super-battleships, untouched and no doubt mounting fully functional heavy weapons. The fleet had twenty minutes, maximum, before those guns opened up…and when they did, it was going to be a nightmare. Unless Winters bugged out in time.

Stockton stared straight ahead. “So, we’re back to old tactics, comrades. We’re not here now to spread it around, to try to knock out railguns…we’re here to take down cripples. I want to see kills, cold hunks of dead wreckage or blinding fusion explosions. Anything we leave behind here can be repaired and sent back at us. But if we pound it to dust, it’s gone.” He paused. “You all know what to do.”

He snapped off the comm and turned back toward his controls. He’d done his job as strike force commander, issued his orders, rallied his troops. Now, he was just another pilot.

All he needed was a Hegemony battleship to kill.

Chapter Twelve

CFS Dauntless

Variag System

Two Transits from Archellia

Year 317 AC

Tyler Barron sat on Dauntless’s bridge. It was a familiar place, and as he sat there his memories drifted back to another spot, the command chair of the old Dauntless. His Dauntless.

His first command was gone now, sacrificed to save the Confederation fleet from the ancient pulsar the Union had deployed in a last ditch—and almost successful—effort to win the war. Dauntless had died a glorious death. She’d likely saved more Confederation spacers and citizens than any other vessel in history, and what warship could ask for a more glorious end? But he still missed the old ship…and he mourned the diaspora of sorts that had sent the members of her very special crew to different ends of the Confederation.

He took a series of deep breaths and watched as his people went through their duties, almost effortlessly. He still had some of that old crew with him in this second Dauntless, plus a lot of new people who seemed as capable, and as loyal to him, as any he’d ever commanded. He regretted that their faithfulness had dragged them into what was beginning to look very much like a full-fledged civil war about to overtake the Confederation.

The very idea turned his stomach, and he’d seriously considered disbanding the fleet he’d collected with such desperate effort and surrendering to the authorities on Megara. There was something foul going on there, but there was also a limit on the number of people he would put in harm’s way to clear his name. If it had only been about him, about escaping whatever manufactured injustices had been heaped on his person, it would be over already, and he would be in chains, accepting whatever unfair and grim destiny fate had planned for him.

But it wasn’t just about him. Even as he’d been dragged before the Senate, he’d shouted out warnings about the Hegemony, practically begged his captors to heed his words…to no avail. He simply couldn’t give up, allow the Confederation to be invaded and conquered without putting up a serious fight. And that was exactly what was going to happen if he didn’t end the current crisis immediately. He couldn’t surrender, and he couldn’t waste time. That left one alternative, and the very thought of it made him struggle to hold down the contents of his stomach.

He had to hit the Confederation forces opposing him…and he had to do it with an unyielding ferocity. There was no time to waste. All reports suggested that a large fleet had come from Megara to engage his forces. He would meet that formation, and he would destroy it utterly if he had to.

He would be outnumbered, almost certainly…if he didn’t include the Alliance forces. And while he desperately needed the help, he was determined to leave Imperator Tulus and his fleet out of this fight. He was going to need the Alliance forces when he moved to engage the Hegemony invaders…and they were going to have to fight alongside whatever Confederation forces remained from the internecine struggle about to begin. The treaty between the two powers was young, and trust was still developing between two cultures that had long eyed each other warily. If he allowed Alliance ships to blow their Confederation counterparts to plasma, he would fatally damage the ability of the two forces to fight as allies.

Barron didn’t need the Alliance in his fight, at least he didn’t think he did. He’d always been uncomfortable acknowledging his own abilities, but the day he couldn’t take on a fop like Torrance Whitten and get the better of him, whatever the odds, was the day he walked out of one of his own airlocks. The question wasn’t winning the fleet battle he knew was coming…it was how many Confederation spacers would die in the wasteful combat, on his side and that opposing his forces. And what would happen when he returned to Megara? Was he prepared to assault the planet’s massive defensive array? To bombard the surface of the capital? To engage Marines on the ground? How far would he go to secure victory?

Yes, he would. He would do whatever it took to ensure a united Confederation stood against the new enemy. The Hegemony wasn’t giving him any other options. They weren’t allowing him the time to work toward a less brutal conclusion. He’d waited on Archellia as long as he could. Too long, perhaps. The enemy would have already broken through at Dannith and plunged into Confederation space if the White Fleet hadn’t returned just in time. He hadn’t received any more recent updates or intel since the report of that first, desperate fight. Dannith was a long way from Archellia. Clint Winters was a good man, perhaps even his choice to command in such a situation, but Barron didn’t doubt the Hegemony would be back, soon and with enough power to overwhelm any defense the skilled and stubborn admiral could mount.

Barron didn’t know how much time he had, how long it would be before Hegemony fleets were slicing deep into the Confederation, but he knew it wouldn’t be much. The realities of logistics in space warfare would slow the enemy, buy more time. Even the advanced Hegemony would have to bring supplies forward, stop to build bases on occupied worlds or moons. If he could end the schism in the Confederation, reunite the fleet—and add Tulus’s Palatians to the mix—perhaps there was a chance to mount a defense in time, one strong enough to hold the Hegemony back before their forces could penetrate to the Iron Belt and the Core. It was a brutal calculus, but the loss of sparsely populated worlds closer to the frontier wouldn’t affect the war effort that much, not for a while. That was a stark mathematical outlook, but one he’d been forced to adopt before. Barron took his oath to defend the Confederation to heart, and if there was no choice but to sacrifice entire worlds to the enemy, he would do just that to keep the fleet in action. To keep the war going, until he and his comrades found a way to win.

He leaned back and sighed softly. First things first. Before he could intercept Whitten’s approaching forces, he had to convince Vian Tulus to stay out of the fight. And the difficulty of telling a Palatian to stand by and watch while others fought was something few people could understand. Only those like him, who’d done it before.

He wasn’t looking forward to the discussion.

“Admiral…the Alliance Imperator’s shuttle has just landed. He will be in your office in ten minutes.” Atara’s voice was soft, and he knew she understood the task ahead of him. She’d offered to go, to help him explain to Tulus…and she’d understood when he’d declined her offer. Barron was Tulus’s blood brother, one of the Imperator’s closest and most valued friends. This was a conversation that had to be between the two of them. Only them. It was more than Barron’s persuasion in play. Agreeing to stay out of the fight would be a shameful act for the Imperator, and Barron knew that would be easier for the Palatian to bear with none save his blood brother present…and certainly without other Confederation officers watching.

“Very well, Captain. You have the con.” He stood up and walked back toward his office, trying to work himself up to tackle the task at hand. He stopped and looked back toward Atara. “We are not to be disturbed, Commander.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

Barron walked the rest of the way down the corridor, and he slipped inside his private office and study to await his friend and brother, the Imperator of the Alliance.

*

Torrance Whitten sat on Exemplary, the newest battleship in the Confederation, and the first of a new modification to the Repulse-class, out-massing the navy’s greatest ships by a solid two hundred thousand tons…even bigger and more powerful than Tyler Barron’s new Dauntless. Whitten had pulled the vessel from the Ionian shipyards almost a month ahead of schedule. He’d given a list of reasons for the action, but he’d left out the only one that was true. Tyler Barron had been racing all over Confederation space, recruiting naval units to join his treasonous rebellion…and Whitten knew it was only a matter of time before the problematic admiral turned his eye toward the Iron Belt shipyards and made a move to gain control of the vessels under construction there. Barron had acted more quickly than Whitten in most areas over the months the two had faced off against each other, but this was one area the Senate’s admiral had gotten to first.

Whitten had crewed the vessel with family loyalists, and, despite the effect his ego cast on his judgment, on some level he knew Barron had more experienced officers. He’d even seen a number of veterans disappear from the Megara area forces, leaving their posts, presumably to rally to the Confederation’s former golden child. Whitten had given rousing speeches, he’d said often that the Senate and legality were on his side, but the traitor Barron had proven charismatic enough to lure formerly loyal officers to treachery.

They will pay, all of them. I will remake the fleet in my image, crew it with spacers loyal to me. I will create a new golden age…and whatever threat has appeared on the Badlands frontier, I will crush it. After I have defeated Tyler Barron.

Whitten believed his own ego-driven boasts—at least, half of him did. He’d long resented Barron and the way acclaim and advancement seemed to fall upon the officer, while Whitten himself appeared to fade ever more into unjust obscurity. Whitten knew he could have done all Barron had, and more, if only he’d been given the commands, the opportunities. But alongside the bluster, and the self-defensive egotism, some part of him understood that Barron was the best tactician in the navy.

Whitten had the numbers, but, in the deepest part of his mind, he knew he’d have one hell of a fight on his hands when he finally met up with Barron…and the thought scared him to his very core.

*

“Vian, my friend, thank you for answering my call so soon. I should have come to you, of course, but I’m afraid I have been tied up in a number of matters. My workload has undermined my efforts at diplomatic niceties, I’m afraid.”

“There is no cause for concern, my brother. You need only call when you need me, and I shall come, for rank means nothing between us.”

Barron smiled and nodded. He had stood up while the Imperator walked into his office, and he’d waited patiently as the Alliance’s head of state brusquely waved off his bodyguards and stepped toward Barron alone, unprotected.

Barron understood the complexities of what he’d just watched. To a Palatian, even the Imperator himself, it was shameful to act as though one needed protection in the presence of a blood brother. Yet, the guards had all taken blood oaths to protect Tulus, and, Barron suspected, to them, that obligation superseded the respect due to a bonded brother.

But not to Vian Tulus, not where Tyler Barron was concerned. He’d chased his guards off as one might shoo an animal about to ransack a pile of food. It was a bit of show, of course, Tulus’s way of emphasizing his respect and trust for Barron, and the Confederation officer accepted it as it was intended.

“Vian, sit, please. There is something we must discuss.” Barron felt his throat tightening. He hated what he had to say, and it was all the harder because he knew how badly he would need the forces Tulus had brought with him.

“You are tense, my friend. There is no need. There is nothing that cannot be said between brothers such as us.” Tulus paused. “I understand this situation is difficult for you. As you are aware, the need to face one’s comrades and countrymen in battle is burden with which I am all too familiar.”

“Vian…”

“No, my friend…first, let me finish. Do not allow this internal trouble in your Confederation affect you unduly. We will crush the traitors, and the vast majority of their followers will then flock to your banner. This will not be a civil war as my people endured. It will be a brief moment, a passing tragic bloodletting…and then, with your people reunited and tested once again by their trials, we shall turn to face the true enemy together, side by side.”

“Vian, you are my brother, and I know you are mine, that each of us is bound and ready to come to the aid of the other on call. You are here because I beseeched you for help against the Hegemony invaders, and you came, as a true brother in arms. I thank you for that, and I repeat all my oaths of friendship and loyalty to you.” Barron paused, trying to muster the will to say what he had to say. “But I cannot have your forces fight with me against my own people.” Another pause. “For many reasons, but for one above all. Your people and mine must stand together against the Hegemony, fight alongside each other. There must be trust, mutual respect. If your forces engage Confederation vessels, even those opposing me, I fear it will destroy that trust. We would meet the Hegemony not as one inseparable force, but as two fleets, riven by mistrust and bad feeling.”

“You would have me stand by while you fight alone? Watch as you engage an enemy—and make no mistake, right now, those who oppose you are your enemies—and do nothing?”

“I do not ask that from my heart, Vian, for there is no fight in which I wouldn’t revel to have you at my side. I ask from my rational judgment…for, as we have discussed, must not the true warrior allow cold reality to take precedence, even over matters of honor?” It was a bit of a dirty trick, throwing things the two had spoken of in private back at the Palatian.

Tulus was silent for a moment. His eyes were unmoving, fixed on Barron’s, and his face was as carved stone. Finally, Barron felt a wave of relief as the slightest of smiles slipped onto the Imperator’s face.

“Tyler, my brother…your ability to cut to the heart of the matter is, as always, an inspiration. It is hard for a Palatian to stand by, to watch any fight without joining the melee, and all the more when it is a brother engaged in the struggle. It goes against every conception of honor, of the loyalty to an ally that underlies all relationships in war. And, yet, is not the true fight before us the one against the invader? You are correct to look toward that struggle, and not the present one.” The Imperator was silent for a few seconds. “I will order my fleet to stand by when you engage your people, Tyler. I will allow you to deal with this internal matter yourself…with one caveat.”

Barron was surprised how easily Tulus had agreed, but he was also worried about whatever condition was about to follow.

“As you yourself came to the aid of Tarkus Vennius when he faced defeat, I, too, shall come to your aid in the coming battle. Only if, through whatever circumstance, your victory appears in doubt. I will allow you to face the traitors in your ranks, to destroy them yourself and reunite your people…but I will not sit idle if your defeat seems imminent.”

Barron was silent now. He knew Tulus had made a considerable concession, and without any lengthy speeches about honor and tradition. But Barron had been prepared to face defeat if it came, to allow Whitten and the forces he led to reunite the Confederation if the fortunes of war so dictated. If it was the only way, he would choose a united Confederation over his own victory.

Barron didn’t want to die, and he didn’t want to rot in a cell on some prison moon for the rest of his life, branded a traitor…but even less, he wanted to see the Confederation overrun by the Masters and their Hegemony. However, Tulus’s terms left him no choice but victory.

He could live with that. He’d never accepted any other possibilities before save victory, and this would be no different. He would defeat Whitten, he would reunite the Confederation…and, after that, he and Tulus together would face the Hegemony.

Then the Masters would see just what kind of fight the Rim could offer.

Chapter Thirteen

CFS Repulse

900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Captain, the rad levels in here are…”

“I know, Commander.” Anya Fritz stood next to her number two, her uniform jacket cast aside, the tight white shirt beneath soaked in sweat. It was hot in the reactor room, so hot the normally impervious Fritz felt like she was going to pass out. “If we need a cleanse after the fleet bugs out, then we do…but if we don’t get this under control, Repulse isn’t going anywhere, even when the admiral gives the order.”

The power spike had spread to half a dozen lines, and now the reactor was a hair from redlining. The thing would probably scrag before it blew, but the real problem was figuring out what was wrong with the thing. For the first time she could remember, Anya Fritz had no idea what was wrong, not even an idea of follow on. The only diagnosis she was confident about was that Repulse’s power systems would fall like a line of dominoes, and soon, leaving the battleship stranded and defenseless as hundreds of enemy vessels moved toward her.

Billings looked back at her, and it was clear from his expression he was still worried. Radiation cleanses were often extraordinarily unpleasant medical procedures, but she knew that wasn’t what was bothering her engineer. He was as aware as she was that if the shielding failed—and it looked like it just might—the two of them would get a dose of radiation so intense that even the strongest cleanse couldn’t reverse the deadly effects. They’d both be done for, even if it took a few hours for their bodies to catch up with the damage they’d suffered and get around to actually dying.

“Check the control circuit wiring. There’s got to be a problem we’re missing. This thing’s got a heavy shimmy, and something’s causing it.” Worse, the other reactors are starting to show the same kind of thing. She didn’t think Billings knew that yet, and she didn’t see any reason to tell him. If they figured out what was wrong with reactor three, they could fix the others too. And, if they didn’t…well, it wouldn’t matter for much longer.

“Captain…I think I’ve got something here. It looks like these regulator lines are partially burned out. I’m not sure why this didn’t show up on the reactor system scan. Must be just enough power getting through to keep the thing from tripping the warning circuits.”

Fritz looked up from what she was doing and slid over toward Billings. She looked down at the section of conduit he’d opened. She found grim humor in that fact that the officer had expressed concern over the radiation levels, and then, almost immediately, he’d opened up a line leading directly into the reactor core. Fritz wasn’t sure how much additional radiation was leaking out of that unit—and her failure to recall those figures only emphasized just how frazzled she was trying to fix the malfunction—but she knew it was substantial. Enough to push the repair attempt into a borderline suicidal operation.

She looked down, and half a dozen beads of sweat fell from her forehead onto the conduit. She moved her arm across her face, drying the sweat as well as she could with the already soaked cloth of her sleeve. Billings was right…the lines were heavily damaged, just short of completely burned out. But Fritz had no idea what was causing the problem.

She stared down at the assembly, shaking her head slightly in frustration. What is the problem here…what the hell is causing this? Why can’t I put this together?

But she couldn’t figure it out, and as she tried to work through it, she could feel the nausea beginning in her gut, and the fuzziness in her head. Her hands tightened into fists, and she struggled to stay focused. She had to solve this problem…and she had to do it quickly. To save Repulse.

Before the radiation finished her.

*

Clint Winters was frustrated. He wanted to smash his fist through Constitution’s six-meter-thick steel hull. He’d faced desperate battles before, swallowed the bitter taste of defeat…he’d even sat on his ship’s bridge while Confederation naval forces fled, leaving helpless worlds behind to the enemy.

But this was the first time it had fallen on him to give that command.

He’d almost done it before at Dannith, in fact, technically he had ordered the withdrawal. But the White Fleet had shown up just in time to spare him from having to follow through on abandoning millions of Confederation citizens.

There would be no White Fleet this time, no miracle to save Dannith. Winters didn’t expect any reinforcements at all. Whatever was going on back on Megara, things were a mess, and, for the time being, the frontier forces were on their own. There were a few other fleet contingents he might be able to order forward from nearby bases, and some support units and supplies still at Grimaldi, but nothing close to giving him what it would take to stop—or significantly delay—the massive enemy force in front of him.

He looked down at the deck. The normally gleaming metal was covered with scattered debris. Constitution had been the in thick of the fight, where the Sledgehammer’s flagships had always been. Winters knew no other way, but he realized the importance of keeping a command structure intact along the frontier. Sara Eaton could replace him, he was confident of that, but there wasn’t another officer in the makeshift fleet he would entrust to defend the worlds behind the Dannith position, and their billions of people. That meant one of them might be expendable, but not both.

Constitution shook again, the seventh hit the battleship had taken. This time, while there was no apparent damage on the bridge, Winters knew there would be affected systems elsewhere in the battleship, possibly critical ones. He hated the idea of fleeing, of leaving Dannith to the enemy, and he wanted to exact a heavy price from the Hegemony invaders before he fled. But he was taking a huge chance by staying too long. One well-placed hit could damage Constitution’s engines, leaving the admiral and his staff at the mercy of the enemy. Worse, if the fleet didn’t bolt soon, it wouldn’t be able to escape from the Hegemony fleet’s second wave, much less the first…and those advancing battleships no doubt had fully operational railguns that would blast his heavy vessels to so much scrap.

And those huge monsters have more thrust than you do…remember that…

He’d been delaying, manufacturing reasons—excuses, really—to hold the fleet in the line, to put off issuing the command he dreaded to utter. But there was no choice now…no more time.

“Commander…” He could feel his throat tightening, his body resisting the action he knew he had to take. “…all fleet units are to withdraw to the Carthago transit point at full thrust.”

“Yes, sir.” He could hear both regret and relief in the aide’s voice, and again, as he listened to the officer repeating his command. “All fleet units, withdraw at once to the Carthago transit point at full thrust.”

Winters sighed quietly, and rubbed his hand across his mouth. He tried not to think of the inhabitants of Dannith…nor of the thousands of Marines he was leaving behind to wage a hopeless battle to hold the planet. He tried not to think of the enormity of the defeat, of the vastness of the enemy forces. With all he had in him, the resolve and stubbornness that had always made him who he was, he tried to focus on one thing and one thing only.

The battle was lost, yes. But the war wasn’t over.

Not yet. Not by a long shot…

*

“Captain, we’re receiving orders…” There was a short pause as the officer listened to something on his headset. Then he turned abruptly. “The fleet is breaking off, Captain. We’re to proceed to the Carthago transit point at full thrust, at once.”

Sonya Eaton had known the order was coming, and she was relieved to get it. Repulse was badly battered, and she knew her vessel couldn’t hold its place in the line much longer, and certainly not when the enemy’s second line entered into range and opened up with its railguns. But she was upset as well. Running didn’t sit well with her.

You can be sure it doesn’t sit any better with Admiral Winters. They don’t call him “The Sledgehammer” because he likes to run away…

“Very well, Commander.” John Fuller had proven to be an extremely capable tactical officer. Sonya had spent so much time in that position—first under Tyler Barron, and later, her sister the Commodore, she felt like a strong judge of what it took.

“Navigation is to lay in a course to the Carthago point, Commander. Engines, prepare for full thrust.” There was no need to plot the course. Her people had done that an hour before. There had been no orders then, but both the inevitability of the fleet’s withdrawal, and the course that flight would take, had been obvious.

“Yes, Captain.” She listened as Fuller relayed the orders. Then: “Captain, course is logged into the nav computer. Commencing engine thrust now.”

But nothing happened.

Fuller turned toward his station, and Sonya could see his hands flying across the controls. He was snapping out commands into the internal comm unit, and she could see from his expression, he didn’t like what he was getting back on his headset.

“Engines not responding, Captain,” he said an instant later. “There is some kind of systemic power failure.” A pause. “Engineering is working on it.” His tone sounded less than confident.

Working on it? What the hell does that mean?

“Get me Captain Fritz.” It was strange having another officer aboard with the same rank as the ship’s commander, but Anya Fritz wasn’t officially Repulse’s chief engineer. The incredibly gifted officer—Sonya had heard the nickname, “The Sorcerer” more than once—had been the White Fleet’s overall engineering commander, a strange designation that had little utility in the middle of a battle, save for taking over repair operations on whatever ship she was on.

“Captain Fritz is…unreachable.”

“Unreachable? What the hell does that mean?” Sonya wasn’t angry, not really, but the tension was building. She could see the rest of the fleet already pulling back…and the vast line of enemy forces coming on. If those engines didn’t fire up soon—very soon—Repulse was as good as dead.

“She’s working on the problem, Captain.” Fuller turned, and Sonya could see at once something was terribly wrong. The officer’s face had lost all color, and he stared back at her with a cold look in his eyes. “She and Commander Billings are in reactor three, Captain, trying to repair the issue. They’re alone there, and the radiation barriers have activated. The blast doors have moved into place.” A pause. “They’re stuck there, Captain…and the rad levels are way past safe limits.”

Sonya turned to her workstation and pulled up the report herself. “Past safe limits” was a nice way of saying “deep in lethal levels.” The Confederation’s best engineer, and Repulse’s department head, were trapped in the reactor, alone, bathed in deadly radiation…trying to find a miracle, a way to save the ship from the certain destruction that was rapidly approaching.

Oh my God…

*

Stockton looked straight ahead as his fighter ripped through space, back toward Repulse. He’d gotten the fleet withdrawal order, and he’d commanded his squadrons to break off and blast back to their motherships immediately. The attack had been a successful one, if incomplete. About thirty of his hundred or so bombers still had their torpedoes…but if he hadn’t ordered them to head back at once, they wouldn’t have had a chance of getting back before their motherships were out of range. He hated ditching the warheads, but there hadn’t been any choice.

He might have condoned suicidal attacks by those pilots to save the fleet, or even to win the battle…but there was little to be gained now by such sacrificial bravery. Thirty more direct hits wouldn’t have changed a thing…and he wasn’t going to send pilots to almost certain death for nothing.

Repulse wasn’t far now…less than sixty thousand kilometers. He couldn’t see the ship, but somehow, his eyes placed the image in his view anyway. He’d flown so many missions, much of it had become reflexive to him.

He glanced at his screen, and his face morphed into a frown. Something was wrong.

Repulse was there, right where she should be. Or, rather, right where she had been. The ship should have been at least ten thousand kilometers toward the Carthago point…but she hadn’t moved at all, beyond the effect of the marginal velocity she’d carried during the fight.

He checked his other screens and indicators. Most of the squadrons were closing on their landing platforms. He could call back the thirty birds with torpedoes, form up a line in front of Repulse. He almost activated the comm…but then he leaned back and laughed bitterly at himself.

You may be the legendary Jake Stockton, but what, exactly, are you going to do with thirty bombers to hold back that? He stared at the vast formations moving unstoppably forward, four distinct lines of ships already, and incredibly, more still transiting into the system. Nothing could save Repulse. Not unless the ship could get its engines online. Now.

But from what he could see, it looked like she was dead in space.

Calling in the other squadrons wouldn’t achieve anything except racking up the count of dead pilots. But Repulse was home for the Blues and the Eagles, and that gave them a special stake in saving the big ship. He checked his display, doing some quick calculations. Could he send the two squadrons to one of the other battleships, get them landed somewhere before the fleet began transiting?

Maybe. His quick run of the numbers suggested they might just make it to the closest of the fleeing vessels. It looked a lot like a fifty-fifty proposition to him, and even if the fighters did get there in time, they’d been running on their last drops of fuel, and trying to land on battleships that were blasting at full thrust was a delicate operation. It wasn’t impossible for his people to pull it off…but it didn’t seem very likely either.

Not likely enough to give up mounting even a hopeless defense of their mothership…and relying on Anya Fritz and get engineers to work another miracle.

“Blues and Eagles…Repulse is in trouble. We’ve got to do what we can to buy her some time.”

What the hell are you going to do? Not one of these birds has a torpedo, and your piddling little lasers aren’t going to scratch the paint off those monsters…

He had an idea, one that seemed crazy even for him. The Hegemony didn’t use fighters, and, despite their increasing effectiveness at point defense operations, they had to be still learning the doctrine and the realities of facing clouds of small attack ships. Confederation fleet AIs tracked fighters individually and maintained a database on how long they’d been out, what weapons they’d fired, and how much power they’d expended. A Confederation AI would know what enemy fighters had launched torpedoes, and which had taken damage or expended most of their fuel. Stockton was going to bet the enemy didn’t have that kind of system in operation.

“Blues and Eagles, with me. Reverse course, and move into attack formation beta. We’re going back in at those two monsters closest to Repulse.” It made no sense, none at all, as his confused pilots told him almost immediately. Not one of his ships had a torpedo. What was the point of mounting an attack run that ended in no attack?

“Listen up…Repulse needs time.” That was a guess. For all he knew, there wasn’t a chance that the ship would get its engines back online before the enemy blasted her to scrap. But he couldn’t change that…and if there were repair operations underway with some hope of success, he just might buy them a little extra time. “If those ships haven’t tracked individual fighters, they might think we’ve got torpedoes…and if they have to evade us, it will slow their approach to Repulse. It won’t buy much time…but maybe it will give the captain the time she needs to get the ship the hell out of there.” Stockton was amazed at how confident he managed to sound. The plan was pure desperation, a wild, dangerous attempt to gain nothing more than a few, probably pointless, minutes.

And we’re going to burn a lot of fuel doing this…

He didn’t know if his fighters would be able to get back, if their exhausted fuel supplies would hold out long enough to catch a fleeing Repulse, even if they were able to help save the battleship.

And he didn’t want to know. Not now.

It wouldn’t change what he did anyway.

“Full thrust, all of you. With me!” He pulled back the throttle and blasted hard toward the rapidly approaching enemy.

Chapter Fourteen

Orbit to Ground Shuttle

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

“Should we be taking the public shuttle?” Andi stared at the Omicron Transit logo on the far wall of the small, sleek craft. She was leaning toward Gary Holsten, whispering into her companion’s ear. She was edgy about going down to the surface on a regularly scheduled flight. It seemed so…obvious, so defenseless.

“We’re far safer hiding out in the open, Andi. We’d draw more attention chartering a private shuttle.”

Holsten was right…going down any other way would have been about the same as screaming, “Look at me, look at me,” into the comm.

“That may be, but I don’t like it.” She shut up after that last comment. Talking too much, even whispering while they were in public, could only increase the danger. Working so closely with Holsten had given her a clearer view of just how much the Confederation spied on its own citizens. She didn’t think there would be listening devices hidden on the shuttle…but she wasn’t sure there weren’t either. She’d always considered herself a relentless cynic, but she realized she’d been naïve about many things, too. She’d never expected to include so many government operatives among her circle of close friends…and yet, she realized they were swimmers struggling against an invincible tide. However hard they tried, the almost unstoppable trend was always toward liberty’s death.

She leaned back, shaking her head and moving away from thoughts about things she couldn’t change. She had more pressing matters at hand. She wasn’t even sure she was tense because she was concerned about taking the shuttle down, or if it was because that option had forced her to leave her weapons behind. All of them.

Megara wasn’t Dannith, where a visitor could dock and saunter out into the street with a pistol holstered at one’s side. Arrivals were tightly controlled, and even if she’d been able to secure the necessary permits, carrying any kind of weapon—much less even a partial chunk of the considerable arsenal she had on Pegasus—would draw dangerous attention.

She’d just have to find what she needed after they landed. Maybe she could track down Colonel Peterson…assuming the Marine had managed to escape the dangerous attention that had likely followed the rescue operation. He’d have weapons stashed, she was sure of that. She’d have to tell him something, give him a reason she needed them. A lie, of course. Going up against Ricard Lille was no more Peterson’s fight than it was anyone else’s, and if the Marine colonel knew what she was planning, he’d insist on helping her.

This was her vendetta, and she had to do it alone.

If I can’t find Peterson, I’ll have to see what Megara’s seedy underworld has to offer. She’d plied her trade among that kind of element all along the frontier, but the capital was a different animal entirely. It would be harder to find the people she needed—though she had no doubt at all that they were there—and, almost certainly, far more expensive. But that was okay. Money wasn’t a problem, and she suspected sleazy smugglers and gunrunners were cut from the same cloth, whether they were working the wild frontier or ensconced in high end establishments in the Confederation’s Core.

“Andi…when we get down to the surface, I want you to lie low.” Holsten reached into the small carry bag at his side, pulling out a small data chip. “My resources aren’t what they once were, but I think I’ve got an alias that will keep you safely hidden. At least you’ll be able to get a hotel room and conduct yourself in the open.” He paused. “I’d take you with me, but I’ll be reaching out to people who are almost certainly being watched—if they’re not all locked up by now—and I don’t want to spook any of them with someone they don’t know.” His voice was hesitant. Andi took it as a compliment that Holsten respected her own abilities enough to feel he had to explain why he wasn’t going to bring her to his meetings. Of course, the spymaster had no idea it served her purposes perfectly, that she needed to be alone more than he did, and she’d been wondering how she could give him the slip.

“That’s fine, Gary…I understand.” She reached out and took the chip. “I’ll find a hotel and…and I’ll lie low until you contact me.” She didn’t like lying to Holsten, but she didn’t see any alternative. He already felt guilty about luring her into his service and sending her to Dannith. She hadn’t told him how badly she’d been abused, though her physical condition when she’d been rescued had told much of the story. If she even hinted she was going after Ricard Lille by herself, Holsten would flip…and he’d probably chain her to his side.

“That’s good.” He seemed hesitant, suspicious, perhaps just by instinct. But then it faded, and he just nodded.

He handed her a small comm unit. “Take this…I’ll call you on it when I can. With any luck, I’ll make the contacts I need quickly, and we’ll get a good idea of just what we’re facing here.”

Andi already knew what she was facing. There was a good enough chance that neither she nor Holsten would leave Megara, but if she had to bet, she’d have put her money on Holsten making it. She didn’t doubt the spy had men and women who would be loyal to him. He was in grave danger, but she believed he would pull it off.

She was far less certain that she could do what she’d come to do. Ricard Lille was one of the most skilled killers on the Rim. He was brilliant, experienced…and incredibly dangerous. She had to go after him. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t. But she was far from certain she could win the duel that lay before her. It would be the fight of her life…and very likely, her last.

Holsten wasn’t a pilot, at least not as far as she knew, but she’d programmed Pegasus’s AI to obey the spy…and to leave without her if he got to the ship alone. The AI could get Pegasus through the transit point, even all the way to Archellia…as long as the departure wasn’t a headlong flight from pursuit. And if Holsten couldn’t get to Pegasus, he could probably find another way out. She knew she’d be abandoning him. She was sad about that, just as she’d been sad lying to Tyler and leaving him behind to face his own bloody trials. But she didn’t have a choice.

She knew she was obsessed, that her need to kill Ricard Lille had crossed beyond the borders of sanity. That realization didn’t change anything. She knew what she had to do.

She looked up at Holsten and managed a small grin. She hoped her friend would make it out—and she’d left a message for Tyler Barron on Pegasus she knew Holsten would deliver.

The grin quickly faded as she turned and looked out across the shuttle and closed her eyes. There was a harsh reality, and the cold truth was, she didn’t believe she could do what she’d come to do. If she’d had to place a bet on her own fate, she’d have pushed her chips across the table and wagered on Lille.

*

Van Striker turned over, trying for about the thousandth time to get comfortable. His injuries had mostly healed, except for the one or two small infections oozing pus on his arm. After the brutal surgical search for tracking devices, his captors had mostly left him alone. In fact, he hadn’t been out of the basement cell where they’d imprisoned him for what he guessed—and all he could do without hint of sunlight and nightfall was guess—had been at least a month.

Striker was a hard sort, the type who’d gotten a high as a young officer by enduring pain and hardship without complaint, whose early sense of self-worth was enduring more than his comrades could stand. He’d been considered unbreakable, impervious to any amount of abuse, willing and ready to do whatever it took to get the job done. There’d been some truth in all of that, he fancied, and he certainly hadn’t done anything to hold back the talk and the reputation it spawned. But, sitting in the cold, damp confines of his makeshift prison, he’d come face to face with the reality. He was worn, on the edge. He didn’t know what was going on outside the confines of the nine square meters of his current home, but he knew now that Sector Nine was involved, and that meant, whatever the specifics, it was probably a full-blown crisis.

He’d waited for the first days for his captors to come put a bullet in his head or to work him over and put that reputation for endurance to the test. They hadn’t questioned him in any substantive way, and if they didn’t want information from him, he figured they had to want him out of the way. He would certainly be out of the way if they killed him and dumped him in a sand pit or fusion core somewhere. But no one had come, neither assassin nor inquisitor. No one save the pair of hands with dirty fingernails that slid his meager, twice daily rations through the small opening in the door.

Earlier in his confinement he’d imagined ways to escape, but he’d realized that was another thing that seemed easier in concept than in reality. He was locked behind stone walls and a steel door. There were no hinges on his side, no accessible lock he could try to pick, no tools to use. Nothing.

He’d tried to talk to his guard, but the man had said nothing, not in the seventy-six times he’d slid the food tray into the room. Lille himself had visited a few times early on, but there’d been no sign of him either in the weeks that had followed. Striker wondered if he’d even see the Sector Nine assassin again. If he did, would it mean Lille had come to kill him…or to discuss the real reason he’d been taken hostage? He figured the odds there were just about fifty-fifty.

Striker jerked his body up into a seated position. He was tired of trying to find a tolerable pose lying, though he knew half an hour of sitting up would send him back down, seeking comfort that lay out of his reach. A concrete slab in place of a cot didn’t make anyone’s list of torture devices, even when the individual in question had slept on one for a month or two, but Striker was covered in bruises, and he was out of positions that didn’t inflict enough pain to make sleep impossible.

Think, you fool. Whining about pain, sleep…it’s weak, and worse, it’s useless. You have to find a way to get out of here.

You have to.

But the thoughts ripping through his mind, the desperate, driven analysis, yielded the same thing a month of similar effort had done.

Nothing.

*

Ricard Lille stood next to the window, looking out over the main thoroughfare of the Confederation’s capital city. It felt strange to be in Troyus, in one of the palatial suites of the Royalton Hotel. He was living like a magnate from one of the Iron Belt worlds in town for a holiday, money in hand and a string of mistresses in tow.

Except for the mistresses, he thought wistfully. He’d had to leave his at home. And procuring temporary replacements was…impractical.

Ricard Lille had very specific—and not a little strange—sexual appetites, and he had a stable of well-kept women back at his own Villa on Montmirail. Lille had never craved power, at least not in the conventional sense, and he’d long been immune to the lust for position that so blinded politicians and their like. Even Gaston Villieneuve, though his friend had always been a bit different than most of the others. Villieneuve was driven by power, of course, but he’d always been in control of his judgment enough to be patient. That slow burn approach had paid off mightily, and Villieneuve was now the uncontested dictator of the entire Union. The ambitionless Lille, despite a bump or two along the way, was still at his longtime ally’s side. A cold-blooded and highly skilled killer with no interest in political advancement was a wonderful pet for a dictator to have, and Lille was entirely aware of how that fact secured his position, and guaranteed the wealth he craved so much more than pointless political power.

Lille had almost retired several times, rich enough already to live like a king, but he’d always been stopped by two facts, each one as immovable as the other. First, he doubted Villieneuve would have allowed it. The head of Sector Nine, and now dictator, always had people he needed to have…removed…and he’d always depended on Lille to see it done. Refusing the call of so powerful a friend and sponsor was not likely to lead to a peaceful and quiet retirement.

Second, Ricard Lille loved killing people. It was his favorite thing, an addiction, beyond sex, beyond any bauble his wealth had bought or any delicacy his kitchens had prepared for his table. He enjoyed nothing more than taking down a worthy opponent, like a hunter stalking the most dangerous of big game. The act of taking a life, of seeing his victim defeated in the end, the terror in the eyes…it was ecstasy to him.

He was a monster, at least to the standards of most people. He knew that. He just didn’t care. His opinion of humanity in general, of people’s abilities, their intellects, their capacity for rational analysis, was abysmal. They were animals to him, save for the few who gained his respect. To his—admittedly sociopathic—mind, culling them was a service to humanity. He enjoyed killing, and the height of pleasure and personal satisfaction for him came from taking down the most capable adversaries of all. Nothing fulfilled Ricard Lille like defeating a dangerous and adept foe…and toasting to his victim afterward.

Lille had always respected Van Striker. The Confederation admiral had proven a deadly adversary in the recent war, and, along with Tyler Barron, he’d led the Confeds to victory, despite everything Lille and Villieneuve had tried to do to push their own forces forward. He’d long imagined Striker as an adversary, about the cat and mouse game the two might play…but in the end, it had been a disappointment. He’d had the element of total surprise, of course, or things would likely have been very different, but taking Striker prisoner had been almost comically easy.

Capturing targets wasn’t his usual trade, of course, but as much as he’d have preferred a straight assassination, that didn’t dull the melancholy of the simplicity of the chase. He knew he could have killed Striker on the spot, even more easily than capturing the admiral.

Going after such a lofty target should have given him the usual satisfaction, but it didn’t. He wasn’t sure if it was the ease of victory, or the fact that he hadn’t experienced the kill, but the whole thing had left him with an empty feeling…angry and frustrated.

He’d decided to finish Striker once and for all several times, but Desiree Marieles had…asked…him to wait. It had shown strong control and judgment on the part of the agent to hold back the orders he suspected she’d wanted to give him. Villieneuve had given her extensive power over operations on Megara, that much was true…but Lille was outside such organizational tables. He answered to Villieneuve, and only Villieneuve, and if Marieles failed to remember that, he would be more than happy to throw her corpse in some Troyus City garbage reclamation center.

That would upset Villieneuve, and damage the campaign to disrupt the Confeds, which he had to admit had been far more successful than he’d imagined…and which was the reason the annoying and obnoxious agent was still breathing. But, despite his restraint, he hated Marieles, and he suspected he would truly enjoy watching the life slip out of her. Not now—he was loyal to Villieneuve and all his friend sought to accomplish—but one day, perhaps, when she least expected it, when she was deep into the rewards she would receive for her success, and her guard was down. Lille imagined the moment, the stark terror in her eyes as she realized what was happening, too late to escape it.

He shook his head, trying to drive away the pointless imaginings. He always tried to stay sharp, to avoid such idle and distracting thoughts, but he’d been on Megara too long with too little to do. Routine espionage wasn’t his specialty, and he was honest enough with himself to acknowledge that he wasn’t particularly good at it. So, he’d stayed out of the way, keeping Striker securely under lock and key and otherwise biding his time the best he could.

Now, at least, he had a target.

Commodore Jacen Tomlinson, the officer Marieles’s toy, Whitten, had left in charge of Megara’s defenses. Marieles had commed him weeks before and asked him to take care of Tomlinson. He’d told her it would take time, that he had to prepare to assassinate a target as prominent as the commodore. That had all been a lie, of course. He’d spent the day after her call following Tomlinson around Troyus, and he’d had half a dozen chances to scrag the officer. The commodore traveled around with a pack of enormous bodyguards, but the bumbling fools looked for all the world like they’d been chosen because they were Tomlinson’s friends—or because they were good at kissing his ass—and not for any real training or ability. Lille could have killed the fleet commander, with or without also taking down the guards, and it would have been absurdly easy. But instead, he did nothing. Tomlinson could become a problem to the operation, but, as far as he’d been able to determine, so far the officer had just pissed off Desiree Marieles. She’d been pissing him off for months now, so she could wait. Wait and see if he felt like removing the thorn from her side.

He’d do it if and when he felt the overall operation was in danger, and he didn’t discount the possibility that Marieles might offer him something he wanted in return, something that would spur him into action. But whatever that might be, it wasn’t going to be her half-hearted attempts at seduction. She was an attractive woman, no doubt, and she’d honed the art of seduction as part of her tradecraft, but she couldn’t imagine in her wildest dreams—or nightmares—the things that excited Ricard Lille.

No, Tomlinson had gotten a reprieve, a small one. And as long as the officer continued to spend his time decorating his new office and trotting from party to party with his posse of bodyguards, Lille would let him live, especially if he continued to annoy Marieles without actually endangering the operation.

He stared across the room, looking at the far wall but not really seeing it through his thoughts. Van Striker was another matter. In wartime, breaking the admiral, getting the tactical and strategic information he possessed, would be a major goal, one that would virtually prohibit actually killing him. But, now, Lille couldn’t imagine anything useful the officer could tell him…and the longer he kept the Confed alive, the greater the chance that something would go wrong. If Marieles wanted to discuss real threats to her operation, Lille couldn’t think of many more dire than what Striker might do if he managed to escape.

Destabilizing the Confeds made sense, to a point, but the Union wasn’t ready for a rematch. Not yet, no matter how much chaos Marieles managed to create.

But one day the Union would be ready, and when that happened, Van Striker would be a deadly threat, a strategist the Union navy would never be able to match. Better he disappeared now than to take any chances.

Yes, he had decided. He would kill Striker, and he would do it now. It made sense. It was the smart, cautious play.

And the fact that it would irritate the hell out of Desiree Marieles was an added bonus.

Chapter Fifteen

CFS Repulse

900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Commander…” Sonya Eaton hesitated after the first word escaped her lips. There was nothing Fuller could do, nothing any of the more than one thousand officers and crew on Repulse could do, save for the two engineers locked in the damaged reactor, trying to repair the damage before the radiation finished them both.

She looked away from the tactical station, her eyes cast downward, toward the floor. She should do something…the voices inside her head were screaming at her. She was Repulse’s captain. Her sister had given her the battleship when she’d requested her own command, showing no hesitation at all in doing so. And Sara Eaton wasn’t one who would give a ship—her own flagship until a few months earlier—to anyone she didn’t think could handle it, not even a fellow officer who shared the same set of parents.

She was wrong this time, though. I wasn’t ready…I’m still not. She gave me Repulse, and now I’m sitting here doing nothing, just waiting for the enemy to finish us.

She looked back up at her screen, at the readings scrolling down, almost too fast to read. Repulse was battered, but her ship was still battleworthy…except for the problem in the reactors that had effectively crippled the battleship. It was a fluke, she suspected, some random effect of one of the hits the battleship had taken, but for once, the answer had eluded Anya Fritz’s brilliance.

And now she’s going to die in there…and us right after.

She tried to think of something—anything—to do, but there was nothing. What would Tyler Barron do? It was an easy question to ask, and an impossible one to answer, but she didn’t see a thing that anyone could do, not even the Confederation’s most famous admiral.

She was edgy. No, she was scared to death. Not just of her own fate, though the prospect of certain death approaching so unstoppably was sobering on its own, but also for her people. She hadn’t commanded them for long, but they’d given her all they had to give.

Now they’ll die with me. Because of me.

That wasn’t entirely fair, but she had no place for cool, rational analysis just then, not when it came to assessing blame for her ship’s situation. There wasn’t much to be gained by spending her final moments in indulgent self-flagellation, but that was exactly what she intended to do.

Unless Fritz can save us…

It was a spark of hope, struggling to remain lit in the dark gloom of her thoughts. Anya Fritz had saved Dauntless more than once, and no small part of the credit for Tyler Barron’s glorious victories had rested on her engineering wizardry. She managed to keep a spark of hope alive, even as the time and the relentless inactivity pressed in on her.

Eaton was close to defeat, but she wasn’t there yet. She knew Barron had stared into the abyss as well, and he’d come back.

She glanced at the display, watched as the rest of the ships of the fleet moved toward the Carthago transit point. It looked like they would make it. The enemy’s first line was just too battered to pursue effectively, and the masses of ships now moving forward behind that vanguard were too far, even with their superior thrust capability. Admiral Winters and the fleet would live to fight another day, even if Repulse didn’t…and that was something, at least, to be thankful for.

It was better than dying in a crushing defeat, knowing your cause was lost along with your own life. It was cold comfort, perhaps, but it was all she had. That, and a fleeting, desperate hope that Anya Fritz had one more miracle in her.

*

Stockton brought his fighter around, altering his vector gradually toward the closest enemy battleship. He’d been trying to thread the needle, to bring his small force up on a course between the two approaching behemoths. Trying to force both of them to slow their acceleration and plow some of their thrust, at least, into evasive maneuvers.

It had worked better than he’d hoped, a testament to how seriously the enemy took the threat of bomber assaults. But Stockton had already squeezed as much as he could from it. His ships were too close to split the difference any longer. He had to send bombers toward targets now, even if they didn’t have any torpedoes, and he’d had to decide whether to take both squadrons in against one of the enemy vessels, or split the attack and try to maintain the deception against both.

Any enemy analysis of his past formations would suggest that he would hit one of the ships, trying to bring enough force to bear to cause significant damage…and that was true. It was what he would have done. If he’d had any actual torpedoes to launch.

And if those two ships weren’t the first ones that were going to get into range against a helpless Repulse…

He split his force, a bare dozen birds going in against each of the looming monsters ahead of them. It was all bluff, and if the enemy smelled a trick, if they ignored the incoming craft, decided the size of the attack wasn’t enough to warrant slowing the advance, or caught on that something was wrong, Stockton’s entire plan would be for naught.

And Repulse would be as good as dead.

He looked at his screen, watching as the two squadrons formed flawless attack formations and headed toward the two target ships. He was proud of his people, but he also realized, the entire effort was probably pointless. At best, they could only buy Repulse another ten or fifteen minutes.

But if Jake Stockton had a personal philosophy, it was never to give up, not until you were stone dead. And he was very much alive.

He angled his thruster, blasting the engines hard to slow his approach velocity. It wasn’t what he’d normally have done, but anything that slowed his approach bought a few more seconds. Unless the enemy caught on.

So far, the battleships had slowed their acceleration considerably, and they were engaging in wild evasive maneuvers. Stockton managed a smile. The entire dance happening in front of him was a testament to the respect his people had won from the enemy…the fear of massed bomber attacks they had instilled in the Hegemony forces.

He shook his head as a series of flashes darted across his main screen. He was close now, close enough that the enemy’s defensive fire was getting deadly serious. He had a set of crack pilots on this run, but he knew he could still lose some of them. There was risk in every sortie, but something about his people being killed on a diversion, an “attack” that couldn’t hurt the enemy, bothered him beyond normal levels.

He jerked his own hand, letting his instincts add to the AI’s evasion program. There was skill in flying through heavy fire, of course, but he knew full well there was also luck. Gut feel played a role as well, somewhere between experience and fortune. That wasn’t logical, perhaps, but Stockton—and every other veteran pilot he’d ever known—was convinced of it. He let his own instincts run free, his hand moving almost on its own, angling his thrusters every second or two.

He was under ten thousand kilometers now. That meant two things. First, the enemy fire was thick, laser blasts ripping past his ship. Far too many of them were coming close, five hundred meters or less from his fighter. And, second, his diversionary attack was almost over. He could come in close—the enemy would be used to such daredevil tactics by his squadrons, and it would seem almost normal—but unless he was planning to ram, he’d have to pull up and try, somehow, to get his people back to Repulse and pray Anya Fritz had the engines back online by then.

His thoughts lingered for a passing instant, a few seconds’ serious consideration about ramming. He wasn’t suicidal. For all his bravado and the recklessness of so many of his missions, he really wanted to live. Kyle Jamison’s death had hit him hard, and after the initial devastation had faded, he’d come to realize what was at stake every time he flew into battle…in a way he never had before. At first, he’d vowed to avenge his friend’s death…but by the time Jovi Grachus, the Alliance pilot who had killed Jamison, died, she’d done so in a battle fighting at his side, and he’d found himself mourning her death instead of celebrating it.

Time hadn’t healed the wound of Jamison’s death, but it had given him a perspective. His lost friend would have wanted him to live, and his acceptance of the feelings he’d long had for Stara Sinclair, along with her reciprocation, had given him thoughts of a future that the crazy young pilot he’d been had never had. He would do what was necessary, be there for his pilots, for the fleet…but he wouldn’t throw his life away.

Of course, if Repulse didn’t escape, he was dead anyway. And Stara was on that ship.

His hand hovered over the controls as the hulking enemy ship grew larger and larger on the display. The Hegemony vessel was damaged, and he could see several weak spots on the scanning display. If he hit in just the right spot, slammed in with all the thrust his engines could give, he just might be able to cripple the thing. It wouldn’t be decisive, but it might buy Repulse some more time. At least a little.

Buy Stara more time.

He thought about it. For a fleeting instant, probably no more than a fraction of a second, he decided to do it. But then something stopped him. Was it self-preservation? Fear?

Or the realization that many of his people—perhaps all of them—would follow his lead?

He might reconcile with his own death, trading his life to buy a few precious moments for Repulse. But he wasn’t ready to lead almost thirty of the fleet’s top veterans, his comrades and friends, with him.

He jerked hard on his controls, feeling an adrenaline rush as he realized just how close he’d come. His fighter’s engines blasted hard, and he zipped by the Hegemony ship, coming within an almost unbelievable two hundred meters.

He looked at the display, saw the enemy ship for an instant at a range he doubted any other Confederation spacer had seen a Hegemony vessel…and then he blasted away from the hulking ship and spun his fighter around. It was time to decelerate, and then blast hard back toward Repulse.

If his fuel held out.

And if Repulse was still there.

*

This is where it ends…

Anya Fritz was working hard, feverishly, with as much urgency as she’d ever felt in her long and storied career. But it was hard to stay focused. The radiation sickness was killing her, and she’d been taken by recurring attacks of projectile vomiting. The reactor’s control room had become a nightmare, filled with shattered machinery, deadly radiation, and now with the detritus of two engineers, both desperately sick and lethally poisoned, struggling against the odds to repair the strange malfunction that was minutes from consigning all of Repulse’s crew to certain death.

She thought she’d finally figured out what was wrong. The Hegemony weapons had energy patterns quite different from Confederation equivalents, and the conduits had been affected by a strange variant of normal radiation. She didn’t understand it, not completely—it would take months, maybe years of research for that—but, she thought she could work out a patch, get the reactors and engines back online.

If she could stay conscious long enough.

If she could stay alive long enough.

“Commander, see if you can reroute the 23A14 circuit.” She paused, sucking in a deep, raspy breath that both brought her some relief and made her stomach churn again. “Use the emergency wiring.”

“I’m…on it…Captain.” Billings sounded worse than she did. She’d been waiting for the officer to collapse into unconsciousness any minute, but somehow, he’d managed to keep going. She’d tried to get him to leave her alone in the contaminated compartment several times, at least in the beginning, before the blast doors came down, and when it might have made a difference. But the truth was, she didn’t have a chance of saving Repulse without his help. Fritz tended to be harsh and unemotional, but she’d become truly fond of Billings over the years they’d worked together. He was a good man, and a good officer, and she hated watching him die right in front of her.

But there had been no choice, not if Repulse was to have a chance at survival.

“Easy, Walt,” she said. “This is delicate work…and neither one of us is…” She didn’t need to finish. Billings knew as well as she did they were both dying.

“I’ve got the…one end in…place, Captain…just give me…a few seconds…” There was a pause. Fritz leaned against the console in front of her, entirely unsure if she could stand on her own without something to lean on. It was okay, though…once Billings was done, everything she needed was in easy reach.

Just another minute or two…

She didn’t know if it would work, but she was pretty sure it was her last try. The fuzziness in her head was growing, pushing aside the sharp, analytical thought that had defined her for so long. She was losing herself, slipping away. She had to get this done, and she was struggling to find the last bits of energy left to her.

Billings slipped down to his knees, and turned to look at her. “I…got…” He fell forward before finishing, landing hard on the ground in front of her, silent, unmoving.

She tried to turn to move to the spot he’d occupied, to confirm that he’d done what she had asked. But her legs were like noodles. She wasn’t going to make it there, not in time. She had to rely on Billings, trust that he’d done what he’d had to do.

She reached down, moving her hands over the power feeds. It was dangerous work, and if her trembling fingers touched the wrong spot, the electricity would fry her to a crisp.

And if Walt didn’t get that lead connected, you might blow the reactor…and the ship.

She knew she should get Captain Eaton’s okay, that she was risking a catastrophic failure if either she or Billings had made the slightest error…but there just wasn’t time. She could feel herself fading…and if she failed, Repulse was doomed anyway.

She reached out as her legs began to give way, and she connected the last lead.

Then she fell to the deck, and everything went black.

Chapter Sixteen

Outer Ring, Western District

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Andi Lafarge walked down the nearly deserted street, her instinctive nerves alive, tingling. It was an old friend, her sixth sense, one that had warned her of danger many times in the past. While much of Troyus City looked like a pure manifestation of urban beauty and grandeur, the Outer Ring was home to the service industries, warehouses, and the lower-class workers who served the politicians and magnates and made the inner city function. It was also the home to most of the serious crime that plagued the Confederation’s capital.

The Outer Ring was divided into four districts, each named for compass points. The East was the best, filled mostly with modest, but decent, low-income housing. The North and South contained industry and storage facilities, many of them dealing in dirtier or smellier operations than were welcome in the city’s finer sections.

The West was the worst, filled with Troyus’s most decrepit and violent slums as well as rows of warehouses, many of which were owned and operated by gangs and crime syndicates. Troyus City had a mostly deserved reputation as being a magnificent city, and the inner sectors all matched that description to a considerable extent. But one look around her confirmed to Andi that Troyus had the same ills as any urban metropolis.

She had a sour look on her face. Of all those who might come to Troyus, stay in one of its hotels, dine at its restaurants, and partake of its famed Museum Row, none had ever been less surprised than she that the city had corralled its poor and undesirables to its outer areas…and that the politicians who infested the capital like an out-of-control epidemic had created a virtual paradise for themselves to enjoy. All funded, of course, by the Confederation’s billions.

They didn’t even have to steal the money for that…they just budgeted it openly to construction programs and declared it was all a testament to the Confederation’s glory and greatness. I wonder how much of that wonder the people who live here enjoy…

Tyler Barron carried his share of cynicism, she knew, as did most of her crew, but none equaled Andi in pure disgust at most of the people and institutions she saw around her. She believed the foulness and corruption she could see was only the very tip of the iceberg, the vast majority of the malfeasance hidden from view. Her childhood had been spent in an urban nightmare that made Troyus’s Outer West sector look like a paradise, and she defied humanity to exceed her expectations for hypocrisy and vileness.

For all the run-ins she’d had with the law, all the effort and funding that went into hunting down Badlands adventurers and smugglers, she could count on one hand the number of times she’d seen politicians truly held to account for their crimes and sins.

One hand that had gotten caught in the machinery and lost a couple fingers.

Andi always felt that way, but she was in a foul and angry mood just then. She clutched a small rag, and she was trying to get her hands passably clean, to wipe away the blood. She wasn’t a brutal person by nature, but she’d never believed in considering herself above an enemy’s tactics. She was more than willing to stoop to her adversaries’ levels when battling them. The things she’d seen by the age of seven or eight would make most middle and upperclass Confederation citizens sick to their stomachs.

She’d been wounded many times and tortured, and she’d lost close friends. She’d plunged into the cold depths of uncharted space and stared death in the eye more times that she could easily recount. Andi Lafarge didn’t let anything stand in her way, not false ethical standards, nor morality directed at those who possessed none themselves. She’d scoured Troyus City, searching for any sign of Ricard Lille, but the assassin was like a ghost. She’d become more and more frustrated, her inner fury rising, driving her with increasing urgency…until she’d found one of Lille’s people.

She’d uncovered several individuals she suspected were Sector Nine agents, actually, but one in particular she knew was one of Lille’s, one of those who’d been on Dannith when she’d been a captive.

She’d kept her cool, despite the urge to lunge at the agent right away, and she’d trailed him, watched his every move, plotted…and then she’d made her move. She’d taken him in the middle of the night, without being seen. Then she’d taken him to an abandoned warehouse in the Outer ring, a decrepit building, half falling down…and a place where no one could hear his anguished cries. There, she had particularly enjoyed “searching” him for tracking devices and implants as the helpless man stared up at her and screamed.

She wasn’t a sadist by nature, but every time she felt guilt or hesitation coming on her, she remembered what they did to her on Dannith, and the rage she felt at those who had broken her. With each bitter, hateful memory, sympathy and morality were again banned from her thoughts, and she redoubled her efforts.

There had been no tracking unit, which was somewhat of a surprise, but the working over she’d given the now broken and bleeding man had other uses. She needed to know what he knew. Specifically, she wanted to know exactly where Ricard Lille was, and the sooner the man knew how far she’d go to get that information, the quicker she’d get what she wanted.

She’d done what was necessary, what she had to do to cut through the man’s Sector Nine conditioning, his fear of Ricard Lille.

She wasn’t proud of herself, but mostly she was a bit disturbed at how little guilt and anguish she felt. She’d always been hard, with a focus on what the universe was truly like, and not the lies most people chose to believe. But what her enemies had done to her had changed her…and the hapless agent was the first to feel the terrible consequences of that fact.

The side of Andi that was still herself struggled inside with what she’d done…but the onslaught of reality was irresistible, the success of her methods beyond question. Her victim had talked. He’d given her everything she wanted.

She knew where Ricard Lille was. It was time for vengeance.

*

“Desiree, things have gotten well out of hand. Your assistance in securing justice against Gary Holsten and our corrupt military officers was greatly appreciated. But, this is too much. Megara is stripped of its defenses to support Admiral Whitten’s pursuit of Admiral Barron, and we’re receiving communiques from Admiral Winters on the frontier…messages reporting invasion, and now, signs of a second attack at Dannith. With all of this happening, you want me to do this?” He shook his head. “It’s just not possible.”

Marieles was sitting opposite Senator Ferrell, looking over the massive old-wood desk the politician had purchased to furnish his new, larger office. That alone was a disturbing shift in the power balance between the two. Ferrell had come to her many times, and being virtually summoned to his office didn’t please her.

I may have to sleep with him, after all…

Marieles had used the Senator’s attraction to her for all it was worth, but she hadn’t allowed things to go beyond harmless—and to Ferrell, she suspected, frustrating—flirtation. There were two reasons for that. First, she’d decided the pursuit would be more useful and longer lasting than allowing the Senator to get what he wanted, and perhaps lose interest afterward. And, second, she found the man utterly repulsive.

“Tolbert…” She looked across the desk, and caught the look in his eyes. The hunger, the need to chase her, the desire that had driven him to heed her advice…it was gone. She’d found Ferrell as a powerful man by most accounts, a Senator. But he’d been a nonentity, ignored most of the time, and involved in important matters only when an extra vote was needed by one side or another. To that lost soul, that corrupt psyche, she had been an exciting mystery, a symbol of his need to excel, among women and among his peers.

Now, Tolbert Farrell was one of the most powerful politicians in the Confederation Senate. He pulled the strings instead of dangling on them, and the world had opened to him. Friends, lovers, political allies…they all chased him now, competing for the thinnest sliver of his time and for the merest token of his approval.

She’d waited too long. The currency she had tried so hard to avoid using, that she’d kept in reserve, was devalued. She had lost her hold over Ferrell, and with that, her influence in the Senate. She’d managed to get Torrance Whitten promoted to the top naval command with Ferrell’s help, but now she was stopped short of gaining blanket authorization for any actions, a decree that would have made the officer a virtual dictator, if only for a short time.

“I understand, Tolbert, and I just want to congratulate you. When I first came to you, I didn’t know what to do with the information I’d acquired. You handled it, and you handled it well, and I’m honored I played a part in your uncovering of the largest corruption scandal in history. You have secured your place in Confederation history.” She figured flattery would work, at least to stabilize things, to keep Ferrell on friendly terms.

And to subtly remind him, all he’s gained came on the back of what I provided him…

The politician smiled. “Indeed, Desiree…if I have not thanked you for coming to me, allow me to do so now. I am greatly appreciative, for your confidence, and for your friendship. Always.” He rose as he finished, and he reached his arm out, gesturing toward the door. “I wish I had more time, I truly do, but if you will excuse me, I have pressing commitments.”

He walked around the desk and leaned in, hugging her briefly and then stepping back.

“Thank you, Tolbert.” She turned and started toward the door, pausing for a moment and looking back. “I hope I can see you again soon…socially, not on such dire and depressing business as has dominated our times together so often.”

“Yes, yes…of course. Lunch one day perhaps.” His tone was pleasant enough, but she could hear the dismissiveness in it as well.

She was relieved that it didn’t seem Ferrell had any real suspicions about her. That was good. She’d been amazed that no one had dug deep enough to find that she was a Sector Nine agent, or at least an operative of some kind.

But one thing was certain. She’d lost control of Ferrell…and that made holding onto Whitten all the more vital.

*

“Any updates?” Ricard Lille stood just outside the nondescript building. The woman he was speaking to looked like some type of maintenance worker or laborer, anything but the highly trained Sector Nine agent she was. Lille had only trusted his closest associates with guarding Van Striker…those loyal only to him and not also to Desiree Marieles. He tended to travel alone, or close to it, and the need to continue to support the operations on Megara and to guard the Confederation’s former naval head of operations had forced him to call in his agents from Dannith. There was some risk to that, assuming anyone was trying to track him, but he needed the manpower and he felt the danger was tolerable. Besides, with all he was hearing about Dannith and whatever new force the White Fleet had encountered in the Badlands, it seemed like time to pull the remainder of his people off the frontier world anyway. Whatever was going to happen there, it didn’t seem likely he’d be back anytime soon.

“No, sir. Everything is quiet.” A pause. “I think the admiral is going a bit mad. We’ve left him in his cell without contact, as you ordered. He should be ready for any questioning you wish to institute.”

Lille nodded, but he didn’t answer right away. The agent was probably right, Van Striker was likely vulnerable just then—though he didn’t fool himself on the officer’s toughness, or imagine that he’d get anything useful without significantly more…pressure. But that wasn’t the problem. There wasn’t any information he wanted from Striker. The admiral—former admiral, he thought with a bit of a grin—had been relieved of his commands and replaced by Torrance Whitten.

That alone is an edge in any future war, assuming the fool manages to hang onto his stars. Lille wasn’t a military man, but he had a strong suspicion that the Union forces might have enjoyed a far different outcome in the recent conflict if they’d faced Whitten, and not Van Striker and Tyler Barron.

Striker was almost certainly more valuable dead than alive. Killing the hostage would eliminate the possibility of Striker regaining his command—one Lille imagined was likely enough, especially if the Confederation was facing some new threat from deep within the dead empire.

“I am quite certain that you’ve done your job, and done it well, Kiera…but I’m afraid our good admiral has outstayed his welcome. It is time to send him on his way.”

The agent returned Lille’s gaze and nodded. “Yes, sir…if that’s what you think is best.” A pause. “Do you want me to see to it, or would you like to handle it yourself?”

Lille hesitated for a moment. He knew he should just order her to kill Striker, that there was little to be gained by doing the deed himself. But the Confederation admiral would make a fine addition to his list of trophy kills…even if the pleasure of the hunt had been diminished by the ridiculous ease of it all. “No, I think I will…” He stopped. Something was wrong. “Tibbets should be watching the door now, shouldn’t he?”

The woman nodded. “Yes, sir. He didn’t show up for his shift. I was on the previous one, so I just stayed. It’s not a prob…”

Lille’s reactions took charge almost instantly, and he moved into action. His people didn’t just “not show up” for duty…if only because they knew what he would do to them for such dereliction. And that meant something was wrong.

He looked all around and caught a brief gleam, light hitting metal or something else reflective…on the roof of a building down the street. His actions were immediate, reflexive. He ducked down, and he grabbed Kiera and swung her around, positioning her between his body and the glint of light. She let out a shocked yell and tried to wriggle her way free.

Then he felt the warmth of blood on his face, his neck. He hadn’t heard a shot, but that didn’t mean anything. For an instant, he thought he’d been hit, but then he saw the dull, lifeless look in Kiera’s face. The already limp body of the woman jerked hard again.

Lille held the slumped form of his agent as he ducked back through the door of the building. He was diving for cover, but as he did, he scanned the area across the street, looking for any sign of his would be killer.

He caught the image of a figure ducking back, making a run for it. He didn’t get a good enough glimpse to identify who it was, but he was pretty sure it was a woman. Most of those he imagined might want him dead were men, but of course, anyone could have hired a female assassin.

Desiree?

For an instant, he wondered if Marieles had made a play to get rid of him. No, he decided…she didn’t have the guts for that. And she certainly wouldn’t have done it herself.

Then it occurred to him, even as he crouched down inside the building, suspecting but not sure that his assailant had made good her escape.

Andi Lafarge?

The former captive had been a tough nut to crack, and it had taken everything he could think of, every brutal technique he’d been able to concoct to break her. He’d worried, at first, when she’d been rescued, that she might come after him. But after a while, he’d decided she wasn’t a threat. By all accounts she’d helped to rescue Barron and Holsten, and that made it very unlikely she was still on Megara.

He stood up slowly, remaining behind the heavy concrete of the building’s front wall. His agents came pouring into the room, stopping when they saw the blood covering him.

“Sir…are you…”

“No, I’m not hit. I’m fine. But Kiera is dead.” He hadn’t confirmed that for sure, but he’d seen enough death to recognize it at a quick glance. “There was an assassin, across the street. I think she’s gone, but get a team out there and make sure.”

“Yes, sir.”

He turned and ignored the frenetic activity in the room, closing his eyes, trying to reconstruct all he could of the fleeting image of the woman who’d almost killed him.

Is that you, Andi? Have you come for revenge?

Chapter Seventeen

CFS Repulse

900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Captain! We’re getting green indicator lights on the reactor board!”

Repulse’s bridge had been silent, almost like a morgue. Every officer and spacer present knew they were all going to die.

Until, suddenly, they weren’t.

Sonya Eaton snapped up, sitting bolt upright in her chair. “Power up the reactors, now. Flash start.” Quick-starting the reactors, especially right after a critical failure, was dangerous, but Repulse and her people didn’t have much time.

Sonya wasn’t sure they had any time.

Yes, Captain.” John Fuller’s voice was firm, but Eaton could hear the shock in it. And the fear. It was an improvement over somber hopelessness, but her people weren’t out of the woods yet.

She leaned back in her chair, gripping the armrests. She had no idea if the dampeners were still functional or what would happen if and when the big ship’s engines blasted, but she intended to be ready for it. “Full thrust, all engines…the instant we’ve got power.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She waited, feeling as though hours had passed when only seconds had. Then Fuller turned toward her, and she could see all she needed to know in the officer’s face.

“Reactors up and operating at eighty-seven percent, Captain.”

“Hit the engines, John…now!” She’d already laid in the course toward the transit point, though she’d despaired of actually needing it.

“Engaging engines…”

Sonya felt the hard impact of at least 12g of force, but only for an instant. Against all odds, not only were the engines functioning…the dampeners were operational as well. Her ship faced a tough race to escape the system…but at least they had a chance now.

At what cost?

The thought hit her like a brick. Anya.

She reached down to her comm unit, dialing up the engineer’s direct channel. “Captain Fritz, do you read?” Nothing. “Anya, can you hear me?” Silence.

She felt her insides tighten, and she struggled to push away the dark thoughts closing in on her. Her fingers raced over the comm panel. “Sickbay, this is Captain Eaton. I want the emergency team waiting at reactor three to go in immediately. Full radiation protocols. Get Captain Fritz and Commander Billings out of there, whatever it takes.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She leaned back and let out a long sigh. Come on, hang on, Anya…

She knew the two had suffered terrible radiation poisoning, that there was probably nothing to be done to save them even if her medicals crews could get them down to sickbay alive.

But the two engineers had saved everyone on Repulse, or at least given them all a chance…and she’d be damned if she was going to give up on them, not while there was the slightest hope.

*

Stockton pulled back on his throttle, pouring every bit of power he could through his fighter’s tortured engines. He’d sent his people on ahead when his thrust controls began to fail, an order that he’d had to repeat a number of times, with considerable naked force in his tone and no small amount of threats and invective before it was finally obeyed. His pilots were loyal to him, and none of them wanted to leave him behind. He found that gratifying, but he didn’t want any of them dying trying to save him…especially since there was nothing any of them could have done. They all had barely had enough fuel to get back to Repulse themselves, especially now that the battleship was blasting at full thrust again, directly away from the fighters trying to catch up and land.

At least they’re all back aboard now…

It had taken a bit more pushing to get his pilots to actually land, and he’d had to promise them he was right behind, that he’d make it on time. He didn’t like lying to his pilots, but he liked the idea of watching them die in some vain attempt to save him even less.

Stockton had faced danger before, but he’d always found it more difficult when others were with him. It seemed counterintuitive. Most people hated to be alone, especially when they were afraid, but he’d always been a bit different than most of those around him.

And if this is the end, I’m not going to change now…

He was in trouble, big trouble. He’d been stunned when his engines abruptly kicked out as he was accelerating back toward the fleet. He’d felt a moment of near panic when his thrust dropped abruptly to zero. His people fancied that the legendary Raptor didn’t feel fear, but he knew better than that, from his own hard experience if nothing else.

He felt fear just fine. As well as anyone else.

There had been some relief almost immediately after the malfunction, as he discovered the problem was just a burned out control circuit, a fix his internal repair bot had managed to implement in less than twenty minutes, with just a bit of help—some uncomfortable physical contortions to reach the necessary panel—from him.

He remembered the enemy laser blast he was sure had done it, the one that had come so close it had almost made his hair stand on end. He’d thought he’d escaped damage from that one, but now he realized it had taken its toll, and had perhaps been a fatal shot. Outside a dogfight situation, it would normally have been no more than a nuisance, but when he reviewed his fuel status and velocity, he confirmed what his gut had told him.

He’d lost too much time. He wasn’t going to reach Repulse. Not before she transited.

Not before he ran out of fuel.

He felt a strange sense of familiarity, and memories of past desperate situations drifted through his mind. For a few minutes, he continued to blast his engines at full, but then, suddenly, he released the throttle and allowed the thrust to drop to zero.

There’s no point in wasting the last of your fuel. You’re not going to catch Repulse, not now.

Think, Jake…think. You’ve gotten out of tight spots before. You’ll figure something out. Just don’t lose your shit.

He tried to focus his thoughts, to stay calm…but not losing his shit was easier said than done in his current circumstances.

*

“Get this ship ready to launch right now…” Olya Federov was in the middle of the flight deck, shouting at the tech crew. She was standing on the ladder next to her ship, and she reached into the cockpit and pulled out the sidearm she’d stashed in her kit. “Now!”

“What’s happening here?” Stara Sinclair came racing toward the looming altercation. “Olya…what…”

“I’m going out to get Jake, Stara. I’ll dock with him and give him half my fuel…and then we’ll get back. Somehow.” Federov wasn’t thinking clearly. On some level, even she knew that. For one thing, the ship she was standing by had just landed, and it hadn’t been refueled…and waiting while the ship was refit would only allow more time to pass, with Repulse leaving Stockton ever farther behind.

She understood the logic, but she didn’t give a shit. She’d stopped counting the number of times Stockton had saved her ass, and she wasn’t going to leave him behind…whatever she had to do. If that meant putting a bullet in some flight tech’s leg, so be it.

“Do you think you can get to him?” Federov could see the officer had been crying, but now Sinclair was full of piss and vinegar, and she turned toward the crew. “You heard Commander Federov,” she shouted. “Get moving!”

“We don’t have authorization to launch a fighter, Commander. Flight operations are shut down in preparation for trans…”

“I don’t give a shit about any of that.” Sinclair had just beaten Federov to the punch, but it was clear the two were on the same side.

The tech crew stared back, looking as if they have would rather been almost anywhere else. And then, a new voice joined the discussion.

“What the hell is going on down there?”

It didn’t take Federov long to recognize Captain Eaton’s voice. And not much longer to see that one of the techs was holding a comm unit. The bastard had called the captain.

“Captain,” Federov shouted, determined to make her case first. “I’m about to launch to rendezvous with Captain Stockton. I can refuel his ship, and we…”

“That’s out of the question, Commander.” There was a finality in Eaton’s tone, but through it, Federov could hear the captain’s own pain at Stockton’s predicament.

“Captain…”

“No, Commander…you’re not thinking. There’s no way you can do it. Repulse can’t drop its thrust, not a tenth of a g. We’ll be lucky to get away as it is. And you’ll launch with our intrinsic vector and velocity. It will take you far too long to get to Captain Stockton’s ship. You’ll never make it back. We’ll be gone before you get to him…and that’s assuming you can find a ship down there fueled up and ready and launch immediately.” Eaton was clearly trying to sound firm, though it was obvious the thought of leaving the fleet’s star pilot behind cut at her as deeply as it did at any of them. But she didn’t budge. “I’m sorry, Olya, Stara…there’s just nothing we can do.” A pause. “Flight chief…the bays are shut down until I order otherwise. Understood?”

“Yes, Captain.” The man with the comm unit in his hand answered, his voice gruff, and also deep with the regret they all felt. The idea of losing Stockton, of the legendary pilot finally meeting his end, not in an intense dogfight, but chasing after his fleeing mothership, falling steadily behind to be abandoned…it was too much for any of them to bear.

Federov stood where she was, thinking for a moment about jumping in her ship and taking off anyway. It would be mutiny, but she didn’t doubt Stockton would have done it for her.

If there was any chance…any chance at all…

But the bay doors were closed, and she had no way to get them open. She looked down at the flight deck, trying to hold back the tears even as she could see them welling up again in Stara’s eyes.

It can’t end like this…not after so many years, so many battles.

Jake Stockton’s final chapter can’t end with him being left behind…it just can’t.

*

Repulse emerged from the transit point, and Clint Winters let out a sigh of relief. He had come to like and respect Sara Eaton’s younger sister, and when it looked as though her ship might not make it out of the system with the rest of the fleet, he’d felt a pang of guilt for signing her transfer documents and putting her in command of Repulse. It wasn’t a question of competence or intellect—he had tremendous confidence in her—but combat command experience was irreplaceable, and for all the battles Sonya Eaton had seen, she’d never been the one issuing orders from the top. The desperate struggle against the Hegemony was one hell of an initiation.

Amid the angst and despair of what he’d just done—abandoned a Confederation world to the enemy—he felt a welcome flash of relief when he realized Sonya had, indeed, made it out with the rest of the fleet.

The flickering ray of light didn’t last long, though, and Winters slipped back into his dark and somber mood. He had to forget about Dannith, about its millions and what would happen to them at the hands of the Hegemony. And he had to push Jake Stockton out of his thoughts, clear his mind for what was to come. The entire Confederation was his concern now, at least until Van Striker or someone else senior to him showed him some mercy and took the burden.

He had reviewed the star maps of the sector from memory, and, now he pulled them up on his workstation’s small screen to confirm the inclination that had begun to develop. His impulse was to defend any Confederation system, to avoid a repeat of the nightmare of abandoning millions of civilians…but that just wasn’t possible. He didn’t need any system, he needed one with a strong position, a system that was easy to defend, both in terms of fixed fortifications and natural advantages. He was going to be outnumbered no matter what happened, and a section of space heavy with asteroids and dust clouds would offer more tactical options.

Perhaps more importantly, he needed a system far enough from the border to tax the Hegemony’s logistics. The wars of the last century, the four deadly conflicts with the Union, had all been dominated by the realities of bringing supplies and ordnance forward, repairing battle damage, and refitting worn vessels. An invading force could only move so far forward, and then it had to stop, build bases and support infrastructure…and wait for supplies to reach the front. Winters knew he couldn’t beat the invaders in a straight up battle, so he started thinking about how he could slow them down.

He looked at the screen, his gaze moving from one large circle to the next, eyeing the thin lines that marked transit points. He needed a system that was as close to a choke point as he could find, one the enemy would have a difficult time flanking. The enemy won’t know our internal layout of transit points and systems…

That was a good thought, a pleasant one, but it was also very unlikely. The enemy would analyze the debris of lifeless Confederation ships lost in the battle, they would invade and occupy Dannith and take possession of its installations, its port facilities, even its libraries. The idea that the Hegemony wouldn’t manage to find a map of the Confederation somewhere seemed ludicrous when he viewed it more carefully. If he left the enemy an easy way to go around his forces, he had to assume they would know about it.

At least he’d had a chance to get a full report sent to Megara…and he’d dispatched one to Archellia as well. He didn’t know what was going on, either with the Admiralty or with Tyler Barron out on the Far Rim…but, as far as he was concerned, they were all on the same side. They’d better all be on the same side…or they didn’t even have the miserable chance he’d hoped they did.

His stare moved slowly, from one system to the next, gradually leading deeper into the Confederation. Away from the border, the fortification levels dropped off significantly…but he needed distance as much as fixed fortifications, perhaps more. He had to wear down the enemy’s logistics if the Confederation forces were to have any chance at all of victory.

Miramar.

He reached out and touched the small circle, bringing up a detailed system display.

It was perfect. There were only two transit points, one leading in from the frontier, and the other to Bellus, and then beyond, into the Iron Belt. There were two other main lines of approach toward the crucial interior systems of the Confederation, but if the enemy took one of those routes, he could still move to intercept either axis from Bellus…or, he could flank their advance and get behind their main fleet.

If the enemy pursued his fleet as expected, Miramar was a perfect system. A single inhabited world, with a dozen other planets, mostly gas giants, and, in all, perhaps two hundred moons. There were two separate asteroid belts, as well as long, willowy clouds of particulate matter scattered all around the system. And the whole thing was surrounded by an extremely dense Kuiper belt.

The natural features probably wouldn’t make a massive difference, but they gave him something to work with…an option beyond simply forming his fleet into a line and waiting to be overwhelmed. He would take whatever edges he could find.

Yes, Miramar…that’s where we’ll make a stand.

He felt strongly about his decision, more so with each passing second, as he considered the tactics and the makeup of his fleet. Pulling back to Miramar would also allow him to call in more reinforcements, and it was closer to any forces the high command might have dispatched from the Core and the central reserves.

He didn’t like what he’d been hearing about events on Megara, but he couldn’t believe the Admiralty—or the Senate, for that matter, corrupt gasbags that they were—could ignore the threat any longer.

Not after the fall of Dannith.

He wasn’t so sure those reinforcements wouldn’t come with an order relieving him of command, though. He was the officer that had lost Dannith, allowed an invader to push deeper into the Confederation. He blamed himself, so why shouldn’t he expect the high command to do the same?

It didn’t matter. He would lead the defense, accept a demotion and serve whoever came to replace him…or he would go back to Megara in chains and face a board of inquiry. But he would leave whoever commanded the fleet in the best defensive position he could create.

That was Miramar.

He shook his head as he considered the broader implications, the cost of choosing Miramar to make his stand. Three other systems to abandon, to leave bare and undefended to an invading enemy. There would be countless millions of terrified people, looking up at the sky, watching the waves of landers coming toward them…

*

Stockton was uncomfortable. Whoever had designed the Confederation’s flight suits, they wicked away a normal amount of sweat very well…but they became clammy, sopping wet things when perspiration moved past standard levels toward what would commonly be called profuse.

He was scared, there was no denying that, not even to himself, and the droplets streaming from his forehead and down his back were a testament to that fact. Watching Repulse vanish into the transit point had made the cold fact really hit home. He was alone…save for hundreds of enemy vessels bearing down as he stared at their approach on the screen.

He was burning a bit more fuel than he had been at first, not in a vain effort to chase after Repulse, but simply to get his fighter out of the path of the oncoming enemy fleet. That wouldn’t accomplish much if they were determined to chase after his single tiny ship, but he was willing to bet they’d ignore him if he could just get out of their path before they came through. They wanted to chase the fleet or to hit Dannith…or both. A single, apparently crippled fighter wasn’t likely to register as a threat to them.

At least that was what he hoped, what he was betting his life on.

What remained of his life. Escaping the enemy fleet would buy him time, but how much? His fuel supply wasn’t very good…to put it into technical terms, it sucked. And he had no place to go. He’d never catch up with the fleet, and the Carthago transit point was too far. He didn’t have a prayer of coming in on a solid insertion angle and transiting after Repulse. Not without more fuel.

The outer planets.

It was the only choice. The Hegemony forces were heading in-system, probably to land invasion forces on Dannith. The Carthago point was clear across the system, on the other side of the primary. But the sixth and seventh planets, two massive gas giants, were much closer, their orbits bringing them into an almost perfect line outward from his current location.

He wasn’t sure what it would serve to go there. Neither one was habitable, and a quick check of the moons in his databanks confirmed none of them were either, at least not more than marginally. He might land on Tovanus, assuming he could get there and bring his fighter down through the moon’s thick atmosphere. The environment wouldn’t be immediately fatal, at least not if he could bring his ship into one of the deep craters, where heat from volcanic activity would keep him from freezing. He might live a day there, or even two or three…but if he brought his ship into the gravity well, he’d never have enough fuel to get back up.

His eyes froze as he looked at the data scrolling past. Livinus. The moon was a hellish, frozen nightmare, and what passed for its atmosphere was a frigid, toxic cocktail of corrosives that would burn out his lungs, if the cold didn’t kill him first. But there was—or had been—a fuel refinery station in orbit. It was a robotic facility, and it had been abandoned for almost twenty years.

But just maybe, there would be some fuel left in its aging storage facilities.

It was a long shot. He could imagine how he would react if one of his pilots had come to him with the suggestion. But it was his best hope.

His only hope.

He looked down at the screen, analyzing approach courses. He’d be lucky to get there at all. He needed the most direct route possible.

He pulled back on the thruster, blasting a hard burst of thrust.

I think I can make it.

At least after I get out of the way of the hundreds of battleships heading right for me…

Chapter Eighteen

Hall of the People

Liberte City

Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,

Union Year 221 (317 AC)

“This is an important command, Admiral. I have enthusiastically supported you, and I have rewarded you for the exemplary service you have performed, both during the war against the Confederation, and in quelling the internal disturbances.”

“Yes, First Citizen, you have indeed been kind, and my gratitude knows no bounds.” Denisov sounded as though he was trying to sound sincere, but Villieneuve could tell the officer was still moping, as he’d been doing since he’d crushed the rebels on Barroux. Villieneuve understood, to an extent, but it seemed like enough time had elapsed for Denisov to make peace with the sometimes high cost of power and victory.

Villieneuve wasn’t a sadist, and, despite what some might think, he didn’t enjoy inflicting torment on others. But he didn’t hesitate to do just that if it was what the situation required, and he was an absolutist in that outlook. It blinded him, making him truly unable to comprehend what killing over a billion civilians had done to his gifted admiral, both as an officer trying to cling to some shards of personal honor, and as a man.

“I have another reward for you, Admiral…the position you have sought your entire life. You are, from this instant, the supreme commander of all Union forces, answerable only to me and to no one else.” Villieneuve smiled. He was an emotionless man, a cold fish by colloquial standards, but he sometimes enjoyed bestowing favors on those who had served him well.

Denisov looked over at the Union’s dictator and returned the smile. “First Citizen, your generosity and support are overwhelming.” There was genuine joy in his expression—such a command had indeed been his wish since his earliest days—but the darkness shrouding him still remained. Villieneuve found himself becoming impatient, but he held back any anger he might have felt. If he did manage to forge an alliance with the new power threatening the Confederation, he needed the admiral leading the fleets.

“There is no generosity involved, Andrei. You have earned it…and you will continue to do so. The fleet is almost assembled, and when it is, you will lead it forward to the Confederation border.”

Denisov looked panicked for a passing instant before he regained control. “First Citizen…we have made much progress rebuilding, but I do not believe we are…”

“Relax, Admiral. You will not be invading the Confederation.” Villieneuve smiled again. “At least, not alone.” He paused, and pushed a data chip across the table. “This is highly classified, but I want you to read it thoroughly. The Confeds’ mission to the Badlands apparently turned up an unexpected discovery…more survivors from the Cataclysm. Many survivors, in fact—perhaps billions, an entire new polity of unknown size and power…and it appears a war has erupted between the Confederation and this entity.

Denisov looked stunned. He remained silent, his eyes fixed on Villieneuve.

“Yes, you heard that correctly. Even now, this new faction is attacking the Confederation frontier. Ideally, we would have had several more years to prepare for a renewal of hostilities, but I do not believe we can pass up the opportunity to join forces with this new entity. We can finally crush the Confederation, see Van Striker, Tyler Barron, and their comrades in chains…or dead.”

“I don’t know what to say…”

“Say nothing, Andrei. It is often best. Go survey your fleet. Take stock of the forces you will command…and prepare to depart within the week. Time is of the essence. We must approach this potential ally before they are defeated, or before they determine they can win without assistance.” Villieneuve paused again. “You must be ready for combat if…when…we sign a treaty, but your initial mission is to form up the fleet and bolster it any way you can. I give you blanket authority to conscript any vessels you feel are useful. We must show our strength to the Confeds’ new adversary, make clear to them how useful—how essential—our Union forces are to the fight they have before them.”

“Yes, First Citizen. As you command.” Villieneuve could see Denisov was stunned, and a bit uncomfortable as well. It was a lot to absorb in one sitting…and the admiral had a weak spot, a level of soft emotion he could control, but which sometimes came back to torment him. It was concerning, but not enough for the Union’s leader to hold back his best commander.

Not when it looked like the opportunity for vengeance just might come years sooner than he’d dared to hope.

*

Andrei Denisov walked down the halls of the newly-constructed naval headquarters, his freshly-polished boots clicking loudly on the gleaming marble floors. The fact that Villieneuve had been able to allocate funds for something as non-critical as a new fleet HQ, and that the finished result was such an ostentatious display of luxury devoted to a privileged class, stated better than any words could have, just how much more secure the First Citizen—dictator—felt in his position.

Villieneuve had displayed remarkable political agility simply in surviving the months after the war’s ignominious end, not to mention holding on to and consolidating power. He’d played the role of revolutionary and citizen soldier with considerable skill, standing alongside the workers, shouting revolutionary slogans as loudly as the most dedicated revolutionaries. It appeared such efforts were no longer needed. The people had been placated, or put down, and controlled brutality and fear were once again the primary tools to keep the Union’s billions in their places.

Denisov had seen his own star rising as well, and few had benefited as much from Villieneuve’s power as he had. His performance in the closing stages of the war had won him the then-Sector Nine chief’s notice, and his actions since had secured his place among Villieneuve’s chosen lieutenants. He’d long dreamed about reaching lofty rank, even command of a fleet, but he’d never let himself imagine he might one day be the leader of the entire navy, that he would be responsible to no one save Villieneuve himself.

He’d worked his whole life to get where he was, given his youth to the cause, abandoned all thoughts of a personal life. Everything he’d had beyond duty, all he could have sought elsewhere, had been sacrificed to the pursuit of military glory. And he’d attained it, more than he’d ever dared to hope he would. But in the end, the price had been higher than he’d ever imagined. He was the victor of Barroux…or the butcher, depending on perspective. Denisov had long despised Sector Nine, and its current successor organization was no different nor any less worthy of contempt. He’d always been cautious enough to keep his feelings about such things a secret. Now, he’d killed more people than any Sector Nine agent that had ever lived, more, perhaps, than the agency had slaughtered in a decade. He was a mass murderer, and no matter how much he tried to tell himself he was a military officer following orders, that he hadn’t dragged people out of their homes to torture and execute them, he still carried the guilt.

You didn’t drag them out of their homes. You just incinerated them right inside the buildings…the people…the children.

Denisov tried, as he always did, to stay focused on his duty. He had work to do, and while he secretly regretted that the dissension and revolution in the Union hadn’t resulted in a freer, more democratic system for the billions who remained virtual slaves to their government, he was, at heart, a loyal officer. He was deeply committed to the navy—his navy now—and to the state. It had served him well enough, and, despite the widespread cronyism and other factors sapping strength from the navy and the Union’s other institutions, he had to admit he himself had advanced based mostly on his own ability. Perhaps there was hope in that…and, whatever the Union’s faults, the Confederation had long been the enemy, and it had humiliated his beloved navy in the last war. He suspected his thoughts were less dark than Villieneuve’s, but he wanted vengeance for the defeat no less than the dictator.

And, whatever his faults, Gaston Villieneuve was his patron, and he owed loyalty for that. You’ve taken all he has given you…you can’t wallow in moral superiority while your hands are out greedily pulling in whatever he lays at your feet…

Perhaps Villieneuve was right. Maybe this new force from the Badlands was the ally the Union needed to crush the Confederation once and for all. He was still tentative. He knew his fleet wasn’t close to ready for a renewal of war against the old enemy. But if we can forge an alliance with these people, just maybe…

There was no point in thinking about it. He had his orders, and it was clear Villieneuve was determined to reach out to the newcomers. Denisov had no doubt of the consequences of failing his master. Villieneuve was always ready to shower rewards on those who served him well , but he was not a man to fail, and he could be merciless to those who gave him less than their absolute best.

Denisov needed to make the fleet look as strong as possible, to announce to the enemy that the Union was a powerful ally, ready to come to their aid at once. A lot of that would be exaggeration, if not outright lies, but he knew what he had to do. Villieneuve would handle the rest, the diplomacy. Mercifully, he had not added the duties of an ambassador to Denisov’s plate.

The admiral walked through a large open area, filled with junior officers and assistants, all at work doing…something. A few were engaged in necessary work, but the navy had not been spared the chronic bloat and bureaucracy that plagued all institutions of the Union. He considered trying to clean house, to hone the force he now commanded into a sharp, lean instrument. But that wasn’t a route to success in the Union. The entrenched masses of officials and their sponsors and dependents would strike back against any efforts to rid the navy of their pointless presence. Best to leave them be, and to focus on what had to be done.

He needed ships, every warship he could find, in reserve, drydock, half-repaired but still mobile…and probably more than that. He intended to confiscate freighters, tankers…anything he could add to his formations, to give at least a superficial impression of size and power.

He laughed bitterly to himself as his office door slid shut behind him. He’d fancied himself a reformer in his youth, and he’d awaited the day when the Union’s downtrodden seized the chance to rise up, to clear away the injustice, the brutality. He’d even dared to imagine himself as part of it all, an officer in revolutionary fleets blazing a trail of liberty across Union space.

And now you’re part of everything you once thought to overthrow. You’re what you always hated and despised, and your hands are covered in the blood you used to pay for your rank and privilege. You’ve sold yourself, and you got a high price, so you have no right to sulk, to feel sorry for yourself as you wield your power and enjoy your wealth. Follow your orders…obey the monster to whom you’ve chained yourself.

The master who owns you now.

Chapter Nineteen

CFS Dauntless

Variag System

Two Transits from Archellia

Year 317 AC

Tyler Barron sat in the admiral’s chair on Dauntless’s bridge, the very image of serene confidence, a consummate veteran projecting an aura of calmness and determination to the officers and spacers under his command. He had done so many times in his storied career, and it seemed almost second nature. But, something was different this time.

It was all bullshit.

Barron wanted to leave the bridge, to run off, take refuge in his office, his quarters…anywhere. His stomach roiled like a tropical storm, and he struggled to keep its contents in place. He knew what he had to do, that he didn’t have a choice.

But that wasn’t going to make killing Confederation spacers any easier.

“Range eight hundred thousand kilometers, Admiral.” As always, Atara sat just off to his side. As Dauntless’s captain, she’d perfected the art of operating somewhere between a ship’s commander and an admiral’s aide. After a decade of service alongside Barron, she had become indispensable to him, and her loyalty was absolute. He worried sometimes that her steadfastness to him had stymied her own career, that she should be leading a battlegroup by now. He’d tried to push her away—for her own good—more than once, but she’d always resisted. And he’d always backed off, as much because he didn’t really want her to go as anything else.

“Fighter status?”

“All fleet units report squadrons scrambled and ready to launch, sir.”

Barron had known that already. Not because he’d had any direct information, but because he knew the officers who had rallied to him. They were drawn from the elite of the veterans of the recent war, and he’d seen them all in action. They would have had their fighters ready, even if he hadn’t given the order earlier…and there was no chance at all any of them had failed to obey his previous command.

“Fleet order…all squadrons, begin launch operations.” Barron’s voice was grim—sending his fighters after men and woman who should be his comrades left no room for anything else—but it was resolute, too. He had to do this. The Hegemony was coming, and a divided Confederation had no hope of challenging the invader. He had to crush Whitten’s forces—and hopefully get as many of his ships as possible to yield—and then he had to go back to Megara. He had to sweep away whatever foulness and corruption had taken hold there…and he had to find Admiral Striker.

Striker was his friend, a mentor to him throughout the Union War…and a brilliant, veteran fleet commander. He was also, perhaps, the one person onto which Barron could dump his responsibilities, yield his hated position as the effective leader of those following him, and resume his previous status as one of Striker’s trusted subordinates.

First things first…you have to take out Whitten. Hopefully without destroying all those ships.

Reunited the Confederation would be of limited value if the fleet was blasted to wreckage fighting itself.

He could feel the vibrations from the catapults as Dauntless’s squadrons began launching. The sensation was far softer on the new battleship than it had been on its older namesake, but Barron could feel it, under his feet and in the arms of his chair.

He’d become more used to the new Dauntless than he’d thought possible at first, and he’d come to appreciate the capabilities the newer ship possessed that the older one hadn’t. He missed his first command, and he knew he’d remember the sometimes cantankerous old vessel the rest of his life. She was his first love, of sorts, but he was also beginning to truly embrace his new flagship.

“All squadrons launched, Admiral.”

He glanced over at Atara, utterly sure she had known he was aware of what she’d just reported before she had uttered a word. Barron had always focused on such details, thinking of his ship as an extension of himself. That hadn’t translated especially neatly to fleet command, but no matter how many vessels were under Barron, he would always have a special relationship with the one where he hung his flag. He was a ship’s captain at heart, and no amount of pinning medals or stars on him would change that, at least not deep inside.

“All ships report squadrons launched, sir.”

Barron nodded with a tiny smile. Dauntless was missing one thing for sure…her normal squadrons. Barron had left them all behind when he’d rushed back to the Confederation to give the warning, and he’d refilled her bays with whatever he’d been able to get since. The initial rookies and green reserve pilots had been augmented with some veterans as Barron had rallied more and more ships to his side, but the squadrons he’d just launched were a pale imitation of the crack wing the ship—and its famous predecessor—had carried before.

Whitten’s pilots will be raw, too…maybe more so than mine.

Barron knew his opponent would have recruited mostly from the capital system and its close environs, and that meant he’d be light on real veterans. Slots in the defensive squadrons deployed around the Core worlds were highly sought after, safe, comfortable postings that generally went to those with connections of some sort or another. There were sons and daughters of Senators and other high government officials throughout the ranks, he was sure, and few of the grizzled frontier world pilots who’d clawed their way into a cockpit. There was a certain prestige to an assignment in the fortresses around Megara or one of the other Core worlds, of course, but the battletested pilots from the front-line units tended to scoff at what they considered pampered lapdogs.

Most of those veteran pilots had been with the White Fleet, and that meant they were now with Clint Winters’s forces. He felt the absence of his veterans, but Barron would take the backwater squadrons that comprised most of his ships’ complements over the pampered, political units that likely filled Whitten’s bays. He wasn’t sure how much his own prejudices colored that comparison, his general disgust for politicians and their like…but he’d have an answer soon enough.

“Commander…all ships are to engage thrust at 3g. Forward, direct course toward the…” He paused, not wanting to say, “enemy.” “…other fleet.” He’d considered all sorts of tactics and battle plans, but in the end, he’d decided to just go straight in…hard, cold, unyielding. He didn’t have any respect for Whitten’s tactical ability, and now he was going to see just what kind of guts the sorry excuse for an admiral could find in himself. It was time to see if Torrance Whitten had the stomach to play a game of chicken.

“We’re going right down their throats.”

*

“The…rebel…fleet is accelerating at 3g, Admiral. They are coming directly at us.”

Torrance Whitten sat bolt upright in his chair. He suspected his people would think it was his pride, his arrogance or the fact that he thought of himself as virtual royalty in the navy…but the truth was, it was pure tension. Fear. Whitten had complained about Tyler Barron’s lightning-fast rise through the ranks, the rewards that had been heaped on his rival. He’d longed wallowed in bitterness, blaming anyone he could for the fact that he’d been largely denied front line commands, especially since Van Striker had taken the top posting. But, now, as he looked at his own chance for glory, to show once and for all that he, not Striker, not Barron, should lead the Confederation navy, he found himself choked with fear.

“Admiral?” The tactical officer’s voice was tentative. Whitten realized he’d been sitting for several minutes since the initial report, and he hadn’t said a word.

Should he stay in place? Advance to meet Barron’s forces?

He fought back the answer his own mind gave him. He wanted to turn and run. As much as he’d disparaged Barron’s success, he now realized just how much he was afraid of the veteran officer…how much, it seemed, he truly believed in the abilities of the man facing him.

“Get me a comm line to Dauntless.” The words came out of his mouth before he’d even thought about them. It wasn’t mercy driving him to contact Barron, nor the desire to minimize Confederation losses. He was afraid, and he was clinging to the frayed and hazy hope that Barron would yield.

“You are connected, Admiral.”

Whitten sucked in a deep breath. His first effort to speak failed, his throat dry, uncertainty taking hold of him. He tried again, willing himself to speak.

“Tyler Barron,” he began, putting all his strength and arrogance into his tone. He did not call his opponent “admiral.” Barron’s commission had been revoked when he’d fled justice on Megara. “I urge you to surrender at once, and I beseech you to think of the crews of these vessels before you begin a battle you cannot win. You are outnumbered, and you will be defeated. But thousands of people will die before that happens. I do not know what lured you to commit the crimes you have, nor what wickedness compelled you to escape the law and rally your former comrades to treason and rebellion, but I reach out to you now, to whatever remains of your loyalty, the oaths you swore so many years ago. Yield now. Surrender, and you have my word I will do all I can to secure leniency for you…and to see that those who have joined your rebellion are treated fairly as well. Spare the bloodletting that otherwise must occur here. Think of your people, and not of yourself. I beg you.”

Whitten leaned back and sighed softly to himself. He’d managed to say what he’d wanted to well enough. Perhaps he could convince Barron. Maybe the deadly battle looming could be averted.

A few seconds passed. Barron’s fleet was closing, but it took two or three seconds for a message to travel each way. Then Barron’s response came through the comm.

“Torrance…this is Tyler. Listen to me. I don’t know what is happening on Megara, but you have to believe what I have been saying. The Hegemony is coming, and it will take everything we have to face their forces. We cannot be divided right now. We cannot squander lives and ships fighting each other when the greatest threat in our history approaches. I urge you to join me, to step forward and stand at my side to save our people—all of our people—from enslavement and destruction. Do as I ask, join me…and you have my word when the Hegemony threat is vanquished, I will surrender myself to legitimate authorities, and I will face any charges laid against me, however fabricated they may be.”

Whitten froze in his chair, rage and fear facing off against each other inside him. He could feel the eyes of his bridge crew on him. He knew how reasonable Barron had sounded, how the strength in his voice would affect those who heard him.

He’d crewed the flagship with family loyalists, but what about the other ships, the captains and crews out there in his fleet? They would all be listening. He’d made a terrible mistake engaging Barron on the open comm. He had to respond, somehow…but he didn’t know what to do, and he listened as Barron continued his appeal, one he knew was directed at the captains and crews in his fleet, and not really at him.

*

“…if you stand down, if you do not engage…my ships will not fire on you. Most of you know me, many of you have served with me. You have my word on this, as a Confederation naval officer, and as a Barron. Do not engage, and you will not be attacked.” Barron tone was firm, his voice loud and steady as he spoke into the comm. He had gone farther than he’d intended, much farther.

His words were focused, and he directed them toward the fleet approaching his own, offering any of Whitten’s ships a chance to stand down. Any way he could remove Confederation ships from harm’s way was worth the effort and risk, and every vessel that did not fight would be ready and able to face the Hegemony threat, no matter who won the current struggle.

But he’d paid a price for his effort, forcing his ships to hold their fire until the vessels opposing them shot first. Barron’s entire fighting style had long revolved around getting the first and best shot, and with one well-meaning speech, he’d saddled his forces with a huge disadvantage. If he opened fire first now, he would reinforce the suspicions he was a liar and a traitor.

Unless enough of Whitten’s ships stand down…

He didn’t know what would happen…and the squadrons launched by the two sides were less than two minutes from commencing their attack runs. Any chances to avert a tragedy in Variag would be lost once the two waves of Lightnings opened fire on each other…and if he ordered his squadrons to hold back until Whitten’s birds opened fire, they would surrender the initiative. That was a grim enough prospect for his battle line; it would be disastrous for his interceptors.

“Tyler…” It was Atara, and the instant he heard her voice, he knew it was important.

He turned his head, just as she continued.

“We’re picking up energy readings from the Betar transit point, sir.”

Barron felt his heart sink. He’d been hoping for more forces to rally to him, but the Betar point led through the middle of the Confederation. Anything coming from that direction was far more likely to be responding to Whitten’s call than his own.

He turned his head back toward the display. He’d been pretty sure he could handle Whitten, at least before he’d yielded the first shot for all his ships in a desperate effort to save some of the spacers in the opposing fleets. But what the hell is coming through that point?

He turned back toward his comm unit, the words he’d just uttered replaying in his ears.

You just promised to hold fire…you have to call off those fighters, tell them to wait until they’re attacked. Go back on your word, and you might as well prove everything they’re saying about you…

If it isn’t already too late…

“Atara, get me a line to the fighter wings. Now.” But as he uttered the command, he looked at the display, and the energy readings from his squadrons.

It was too late…

Chapter Twenty

Approaching Refining Station Vesta-9

1,900,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

Stockton nudged his throttle forward, one more blast of thrust to continue his deceleration. The flight to the outer system had been a long one, his velocity slowed by his need to conserve fuel. It had been meticulous as well. If he’d drawn the attention of the Hegemony forces, he’d be dead. If he’d wasted even a small amount of the fuel he needed to reach his destination, he’d be dead.

If any one of a hundred things had gone wrong, he’d be dead.

But he’d made it—at least, he was close to the station. That didn’t necessarily mean he was going to survive or even that it was likely, but he was still alive at the moment, and he chose to view that as its own victory. That sort of mental trickery worked fairly well, as long as he could keep his eyes from landing on the indicators showing his dwindling fuel and life support status.

He’d been forced to divert the reserve power that would have kept his support functions operational for a few hours after his engines shut down from lack of fuel. It was a reckless thing to do, something the Academy didn’t teach…but it was also the only thing that had got him so far.

At least if I miss this, I won’t have long to wait.

There wasn’t any hope of rescue, so all a couple hours of gradually thinning air and dissipating heat could do was give him time to think. About Stara. About the war he was coming to believe would be a hopeless one. About death and destruction and defeat.

He was just as content to die that much sooner, if that was his fate.

But he hadn’t given up yet, not by a long shot. The odds had already been against his making it as far as he had. If it seemed even more unlikely he could manage the nearly impossible docking operation, or that the long-abandoned mining and refining station would still have usable fuel supplies aboard, Stockton had long laughed into the face of hopelessness. It had been almost all bravado at one time, but now the line between what he told himself he could do, and what he really believed, had blurred considerably.

He had enough in him for one more miracle, at least. He believed that, in his heart and his head.

I didn’t come this far to run out of fuel and freeze to death in the depths of this system.

He tapped the throttle again. His ship was practically at a halt, floating about two hundred meters from the station. The mining facility was nearly a century old, he guessed, and it had been inactive for many years until the insatiable needs of the Union War caused a group of entrepreneurs to purchase the old facility and bring it back into production. At least that was what his database said.

Stockton didn’t know if the effort had paid off for them, but it was clear the end of hostilities had also terminated the obsolete structure’s usefulness. It had been closed again for more than two years now, and it appeared to be completely abandoned.

He watched his screen as his ship crept toward its target, and then he opened the blast shields on the cockpit and stared across the black expanse of space toward the dull gray metal construction, orbiting the closest moon of planet seven.

When the facility had been active, short haul orbital tankers would have brought the raw concentrated tritium and helium 3 from the dense clouds of the gas giant, and fed them into the refining lines to produce the precious fuel for nuclear fusion. There were no ships there now, no activity at all. That wasn’t a problem…it wasn’t as though Stockton had the time or skill to harvest his own tritium. All he hoped for was a small supply of refined fuel, enough to get his fighter out of the system.

He had no idea what he’d do after that, but he’d decided to take the whole thing one step at a time. And the first step was finding a way to dock with the station.

He pulsed his engines slightly, and a few seconds later, reversed the thrust. He was about fifty meters from the nearest section of the construct—forty-seven point six, the display read—and that was close quarters. His fuel was almost gone, and he had to make his first effort count. He just didn’t have enough power left for a second try.

He started at the display, relying mostly on the scanner’s accuracy, but his eyes darted up a few times, looking right at the docking appendage he had targeted and letting a bit of his gut feel slip into the equation.

The portal looked good. A bit scarred and pitted, perhaps, but as far as he could tell, there was no reason to expect it wouldn’t function. His Lightning wasn’t a large enough ship to connect to the universal docking ring, so the best he could hope for was to get right up against the thing and latch on with his connectors. That would mean taking the last few meters to the airlock—and back again, assuming he survived long enough to worry about the return trip—through open space.

His survival gear would protect him long enough in the vacuum, and even inside the station if there was no operational life support . The whole thing seemed insane, but he didn’t have a choice…so he didn’t waste time thinking about the odds.

He nudged the ship closer, and then, when he was just about two and a half meters out, he pressed the button that fired the connectors. He watched the two thin cables fire out toward the refining station…and affix their magnetic ends to the hull.

His ship was in place. At least, it wouldn’t float away while he was inside looking for fuel. He slid his helmet into place, and hit the small control that inflated his emergency gear. A quick turn of the small nob at his waist, and he could hear the sound of air flowing. He was breathing from his portable supply now, and he reached down to the controls and pulled a lever to evacuate the cockpit.

Ten seconds later, the inside of his ship was a frigid, airless vacuum, just like the space outside. He popped the cockpit shell, and he unbuckled his harness.

He was edgy. No, he was scared. For all his endless hours in a fighter, Stockton had always detested spacewalking. But his mind was focused, and he ignored the sweat already beginning to turn the inside of his suit slick and uncomfortable.

He climbed along the outside of his ship, grabbing onto a variety of hull protrusions, until he reached the tethering line holding the ship to the station. Then he pulled himself along toward the metal hull of the station, and he slid to the side, grabbing onto two handholds surrounding the airlock.

Now, if the doors worked, if the outer compartment was vacuum, if a hundred other things went the way he needed them to…he would be on his way inside.

*

“The enemy fortifications around the planet have been neutralized, Commander. The defense capabilities of the partially restored fortifications were far below those engaged in the previous encounter. As always, the enemy small craft proved to be difficult to contain, and we lost three additional heavy units, with eight more suffering significant damage. The ground assault forces are on alert, awaiting your command to commence landings.”

Chronos sat on a raised platform centered in the large chamber. His sanctum lay at the very core of the Hegemony’s largest vessel, a monstrous ship that was larger than the greatest dreadnoughts in the fleet’s vast battle lines. He was known to all those beneath him by his designation, Number Eight, though at that moment, he was also “Commander,” the Master entrusted with the total command of the Grand Fleet.

“Very well, Venticles. You may begin the landings at once. Make it clear to all officers…we are not here to commit genocide. The newly discovered survivors on the Rim constitute the most massive pool of new genetic material. We are here to lead these people. They must be taught to respect the natural order, but there are to be no nuclear assaults without my express permission, and no unnecessary destruction of the planet’s physical infrastructure.” A short pause. “Understood?”

The tall, dark haired man standing before Chronos bowed forward. “Understood, Commander.”

Chronos gestured, a sign that the Kriegeri was permitted to leave. Chronos had been somewhat surprised when Akella had named him fleet commander. The two had served on the Council of Ten together for many years, during which time she had steadfastly retained her ranking of Number One, while Chronos had slid from Five to Eight. The appearance of new members was a testament to the success of the Hegemony’s breeding programs, and the continued development of the species. Chronos celebrated the advancement of his people into a race with the intelligence, wisdom, and power to endure…but it was difficult to reconcile with dropping in rank, seeing his own genetic rating slip in overall position.

He had had his clashes with Akella, disagreements on various policy decisions, but in truth, he was quite fond of the Hegemony’s ruler. He had even considered approaching her to propose a pairing, a breeding between the two of them to produce a child, but she had always shown an almost scandalous disinterest in reproduction. Then, suddenly, she had announced she was pregnant, from a coupling with Number Two…it was a pairing he could not match, despite being genetically superior to all but seven other humans in the galaxy. He suspected she knew of his interest in her, and at first, he took her choice of Number Two as a slight…though, he had come to realize it had simply been the best choice available to her.

Akella’s support of his assignment to the fleet suggested no animosity, and he fancied perhaps there would be another opportunity, possibly after the Rim dwellers were pacified. Akella was expected to produce many more children, and she would almost certainly want to mix her genetic matchups to increase the chances of producing a truly exceptional successor.

He looked up, watching Venticles leave the room, the massive floor to ceiling doors sliding shut behind him. The aide was not a Master, he was Kriegeri. It was odd for a Master of so lofty a position as Chronos’s to choose an Inferior as his top aide, but Venticles had served him well for many years. The Kriegeri was at the very top of his class, not far from Master status himself, and he had won Chronos’s devotion in perhaps the oldest of ways.

He had saved the commander’s life.

Chronos believed in genetics as steadfastly as any of his people, but he valued loyalty and trustworthiness as well, and he had given his retainer much cause to remain faithful over the years, not the least of which was arranging two pairings for the Kriegeri that had produced children very likely to attain Master class upon coming of age.

Chronos was glad to have Venticles with him, for despite the gulf between their stations he knew the aide would always be honest with him. He was confident in his abilities and experience, but he suspected the conquest of the Rim would be no easy task, and one made all the more difficult if he surrounded himself with sycophants and failed to view reality through a clear lens. Venticles would be of great help in that regard.

There was another reason for him to stay focused, to lead his forces with sober thought and great care. Akella had dispatched almost the entire Reserve to the Grand Fleet. The heart of the Hegemony lay open, nearly undefended, and Chronos knew he had to bring the Rim under control and return as quickly as possible. Speed took precedence over normal tactical considerations, and he had to keep his forces moving, destroy any hope the Rim dwellers had of victory, and secure their submission.

Fortunately, he believed he had the resources to do just that. He stared straight ahead, his eyes unmoving as his fingers tapped at the small comm controls on his chair.

“Venticles…”

“Yes, Commander?” The response on the comm was immediate, sharp and crisp as always.

“One other thing. Send an order back through the entry tube. The fleet train is to advance and commence transiting at once.”

“Yes, Commander.”

Chronos did not know much yet about the logistics of his adversaries, but he understood his own perfectly. The fleet train was the fruit of his own labors, the resource he had insisted on relentlessly until his fellow Council members agreed and authorized the commitment of resources for its creation.

He did not have time for the usual methods of invasion, for delays while he scavenged for fuel, built support facilities, and waited for damaged ships to filter back down the lines for repairs.

He had not come to fight a conventional war. He had come to strike the head from his target.

And that was precisely what he intended to do.

*

“Forget what Cantor says, Luther. You know as well as I do, there’s not a chance in hell we can hold conventional defensive lines anywhere on the planet. You saw the size of that fleet. The Hegemony forces will control every urban and industrialized area within two days of landing, three tops. In a week, they’ll have everything that isn’t dug in and hidden.” Steven Blanth was a Marine, a colonel who, until he’d somehow ended up in de facto command of the first defense of the planet, had been a mere captain. Despite the shaky legitimacy of the promotion Admiral Winters had given him, there hadn’t been the slightest question raised against his command status, not even by the planet’s annoying and interfering Administrator, Walter Cantor. Luther Holcott had been as rigid as the rest of the Marine officer corps in accepting the garrison commander and following his orders to the letter.

Blanth had been considering the forces at his disposal, and how to accomplish the impossible against a force he was certain would be almost unbeatable. He was lucky to have the forces he did, but the more he reviewed the list of units in his command, the more he realized there was just no way to hold the planet.

It wasn’t a very neat organizational chart he’d managed to concoct, but the forces charged with defending Dannith wouldn’t have fit into a well-organized structure no matter how many times he’d rearranged things. He had two divisions, one that had been torn to pieces in the first invasion, and despite patching the gaps as aggressively as possible, was still understrength in virtually every area. The second was worse, a jumbled mess of a formation thrown together from every formation on the frontier that Clint Winters had been able to raid. Blanth wouldn’t have said that shipboard contingents, recalled retirees, and small clusters of other troops drawn from a hundred different places couldn’t fight like hell—they were all Marines, after all—but he was about to face off against possibly the most powerful land forces the Confederation had ever faced. He would have loved it if even a fraction of his new forces had fought together before.

“I know you’re right, Colonel, but…” Luther Holcott was one of the three Marine majors on the planet, and he served as Blanth’s informal second in command. He’d been pensive, slow to respond, and he didn’t finish the reply once he’d begun. He just stood quietly for a moment, until Blanth spoke again.

“That’s it, Luther. It doesn’t feel right, not to a Marine. We want to fight. We want to meet them at their beachheads and show them what Confederation leathernecks can do. But we’re not just Marines…we’re the only defense this planet has, and we won’t do anything for these people by getting ourselves wiped out in three days. We need to dig in, hold out…and yes, hide.” He paused, having no easier time saying what he just had than any Marine would have. “These people haven’t come for Dannith…they’ve come for the whole Confederation. They’ll be smarting from their first attempt, and you can be sure they won’t underestimate us again. They’ll land massive forces…and you saw those tanks yourself. There’s no way we can stop them.”

“So, we just sit in the hills until they hunt us down? Make do with hitting a few supply convoys? What good does that do?”

“We survive. Until our chance to hit them on more even terms.”

Holcott looked back, clearly confused.

“Listen to me. The Hegemony is clearly strong, their forces massive…but they have to deal with the whole Confederation. They’ll want Dannith secure, but what kind of force will it take to subdue a planet like Santarus, much less a Core world like Ulion or Megara?” He paused for a moment, and then continued. “They’ll land an overwhelming force, because they’ll remember last time and they want to crush us. But no matter how big that fleet is, my bet is they’re going to need to pull a lot of those forces back and reorganize them to hit the next target. If we can keep our units more or less intact, bide our time…they might start dropping down to garrison levels.” Blanth paused, and then he turned and looked toward the other Marine. “And then we hit them…and we show them what a bunch of really pissed Marines can do.”

He stared at his second-in-command. “And if they underestimate us again, maybe we can retake Dannith…and create a real problem for them, one that will force them to halt their advances into Confederation space.”

Chapter Twenty-One

Variag System

Two Transits from Archellia

Year 317 AC

“Keep those formations tight, all of you. These aren’t Union pilots with two weeks of training, they’re Confederation officers, just like you…and they’ll eat your lunch if you let them.” Johannes Trent sat in the cockpit of his Lightning, watching as the distance between his squadrons and those they were facing off against dropped steadily. There had been blood spilled already in the tragic fighting between Tyler Barron and whatever forces were calling the shots on Megara, but things were about to escalate massively. The forces squared off against each other were significant battle fleets, and almost eight hundred fighters were about to engage each other. And for all his comments about poorly trained Union pilots, most of those following him now were just as green.

Fortunately, so were their opponents. If either side had possessed a decent contingent of veterans from the war, the fight in Variag would have been a short one indeed, at least in terms of the fighter duel. With hundreds of rookies facing off, it was hard to know what might happen. They could fly around, ineffectually missing each other.

Or it could be a bloodbath.

Trent tried to remain focused. A former Confederation comrade could take him out as easily as a Union ace, and he had to watch his squadrons, keep as close an eye on them as possible and direct the inexperienced pilots the best he could. He doubted he could prevent all the mistakes they might make, but even cutting off a few would save some lives.

How did this happen? He still couldn’t believe the Confederation was plunging into civil war. He’d rallied to Barron without hesitation, but since then, he’d tried to tell himself the situation was a misunderstanding that would eventually be cleared up before there was any real fighting. Now he realized there just was no other way to look at it. Tyler Barron might have been a fugitive when he’d escaped from Megara, but now he was the leader of a large faction, with a dozen battleships and more than fifty escorts under his command, and Trent was about to lead his squadrons into battle.

The Confederation had gone down the same path as the Union and the Alliance, and now it was about to tear itself apart. It seemed unreal, impossible. And yet, it was unfolding before him.

“All right, let’s go. All squadrons, you’ve got your attack vectors. Stick to the plan, and keep your eyes open.” His focus snapped into place as he saw the range display tick its way down to fifteen thousand kilometers. He reached out to his controls, and flipped the arming switches. His two missiles were ready, and his lasers were charged.

He was tempted to hold back the missiles, but his interceptor would handle like a pig with the heavy weapons still in place. Not as badly as a bomber loaded down with a plasma torpedo, but bad enough. Which was why he’d ordered all his squadrons to launch their missiles at their initial targets. Three quarters of his Lightnings were outfitted as interceptors, and behind the semi-circular formation, he’d positioned his seven squadrons of torpedo-armed bombers.

The interceptors were there to kill their fellow pilots…but the bombers were ship killers, and he knew he had to get them through, while cutting off the enemy’s torpedo-armed ships.

His eyes narrowed, staring at the screen, checking the newest scans of the approaching enemy.

And they are the enemy now, whatever they were before this moment…

Admiral Whitten’s strike force outnumbered his squadrons by about a hundred ships…but from the uneven look of the approaching waves, he figured he could make up the difference with well-executed tactics. Whoever was commanding Whitten’s wings didn’t look like he knew what he was doing.

His eyes moved across his screen, all along the front of the enemy formations. He was waiting…waiting for the oncoming fighters to open fire. He had orders to hold back his own attacks, to wait until the opposing forces fired.

It was the worst order he’d ever heard, one he’d been most tempted to ignore, to disobey outright. It was a command to surrender the initiative, to hand his adversaries a huge advantage in the opening stages of the fight.

But he understood it, too…and what Tyler Barron was trying to achieve.

He waited, watching, feeling the tension grow. Perhaps the opposing pilots would accept Barron’s offer and withdraw from the fight. The seconds passed, and for an instant, he almost believed they would.

Then, he saw a single rocket launch, far down the line from his position. And, seconds later, at least a dozen more.

Barron’s orders had been not to engage any ship that hadn’t fired, but Trent knew that was impossible. No doubt, there were pilots out there who wouldn’t engage…but if they were still in the formation, Trent was going to attack them. There was no other way. The pilots in Whitten’s wings who had launched had answered Barron for all of their comrades. The fight was on.

“All right…they’ve launched. Let’s go in and finish this. All squadrons…attack!”

Trent picked out a fighter in the lead of the enemy formation, and he tapped the throttle, massaging his vector, coming right at the target. He flipped on the targeting computer, and watched as the lines came together, the AI calculating his vessel’s velocity and course with that of the chosen enemy fighter. The computer had done all it could, and he added his own instincts, his guess at what the targeted ship might do once he launched.

An instant later, his finger hit the firing stud, and his ship shuddered as the first missile detached and blasted toward the chosen target, accelerating at almost 80g. It streaked across space toward the advancing enemy fighters, directly on target, but Trent wasn’t watching anymore. He had already changed his thrust vector, and he was searching for another victim. He’d pushed aside the doubt and hesitation about the nature of the fight, about who he was facing. He was in battle now, as he’d been many times before…and he didn’t let himself think about anything but survival and victory. There was no time to worry about the pilots in the ships firing on his own.

The pilots he was killing. Even as his eyes locked on his next victim, his AI updated his display. His first missile had found its target. A direct hit. Nothing left of the ship at all…and no chance the pilot had ejected.

One comrade dead. One pilot wearing the same uniform as you…

He held his focus as he closed on his next prey, and he glanced over at the wide scanning screen, checking on his wings. He’d been meticulous in laying out the attack plan, determined to leave a little as possible to the judgment of his green pilots. They were following his instructions better than he’d expected, even though five had already been hit. At least three of those were dead, their ships blasted to dust, and he felt every one of them like a knife through his ribs.

His wings had taken down nine of their adversaries, though, an almost two to one kill ratio, and cause for celebration…in any other battle. But this time, he felt each kill his own people scored like the same blade plunging into him.

He launched his second missile, and as soon as it left its mounting, he drove his ship forward, hard, lasers armed and ready. There were three enemy fighters heading toward him. When he dropped below ten thousand kilometers, he slacked off on his attack, slamming the throttle hard to the port side, and then down into a series of evasive maneuvers that shook all three of his pursuers.

He looked back up at the display, watching as the scanner update came in. His second missile had hit as well, another kill in the young battle. He was looking around for his next target when he saw a flash on the edge of the display…something coming through the transit point.

His comm crackled to life.

“Commander Trent…all squadrons. Cease fire at once and disengage. Do not attack any ships that do not pursue or attack. You are to allow any opposing fighters to withdraw from the combat zone without attempting to intercept.”

Trent was staring at his comm speaker, stunned at the order he’d just heard. His people were already engaged…there was no way to cleanly break off. We waited, let them shoot first. What the hell is Barron thinking?

He understood Barron’s hesitation about killing Confederation pilots, even those who had sided against him. But things had gone past that. They were in the fight, and Trent wasn’t sure he could follow that last order. If he called off his rookie pilots and the enemy pursued them aggressively, he could lose a hundred of them. More, even.

Trent had rallied to Barron, sworn to do what had to be done to restore order in the Confederation…but there were limits. He was still trying to decide what to do when the comm came to life again. For an instant, he thought it would be Barron again.

But it wasn’t.

*

“Attention all Confederation vessels, this is CFS Ranger, with a Priority One communique from Admiral Clint Winters.” The words echoed loudly on Dauntless’s bridge and, as he listened, Barron realized the same thing was happening on every one of the ships in the system that were now faced off against each other, about to engage in combat.

The message was direct and to the point, and it hit Barron like a punch to the gut. Clint Winters had never been a man to mince words, and it appeared he hadn’t decided to start anytime soon. The words echoed in Barron’s ears, his mind playing them over again and again. “The fleet formerly stationed at Dannith has been forced to withdraw with heavy casualties in the face of an overwhelming Hegemony invasion. The Ventica system has been abandoned, along with Dannith, and the fleet is moving back in full retreat, seeking a defensible position to make a stand against the enemy. My requests for reinforcements from the Core area forces have gone unanswered, and I beseech all Confederation personnel to respond at once, to send reserves to the front before it is too late.”

Barron sat silently in his chair, his attention riveted, as it was for every officer on Dauntless’s bridge. The words hit him hard. Barron, of all people, had thought he’d be the last one to underestimate the Hegemony threat, but as his eyes locked to the display, watching the data Ranger was transmitting as it scrolled down his screen, he was frozen in utter, horrified shock.

The Hegemony forces displayed on the screen was impossibly large, and despite his complete trust in Clint Winters, he simply couldn’t make himself believe what he saw. No nation could possess a force so large. He couldn’t imagine the amount of time it would take to build an armada so immense, or how many worlds had labored ceaselessly to produce the steel, the electronics, the radioactives. It defied the scope of his imaginings.

Worse, the Confederation was utterly unprepared to face the new threat. He’d left his people deep in the Badlands, raced back to the Confederation to bring the warning, only to be arrested, and forced to take the nation to the brink of civil war. He hadn’t thought things could get any worse.

They just had.

He turned and looked over at Atara, her eyes meeting his for a few seconds of silent communication. They had both seen the Hegemony up close, experienced battle against the enemy’s forces. He could see that she was struggling as he was, trying to stop herself from sinking into a pit of hopelessness and despair.

Then Barron remembered his comm was still open on a wide channel. Ranger’s news was dire, but it might have come at a good time. Maybe he could make some use of it.

He grabbed the unit, checking first to make sure Dauntless was, in fact, broadcasting wide. He wanted every spacer in the system to hear what he was going to say. “Are you watching this, Torrance? Are all of you out there? This is what I have warned about, what I have been trying to say, though no one on Megara would listen. It is why I have rallied the forces I now lead, why I was—and am—prepared to do whatever is necessary to reunite the Confederation. We have no time for internal disputes now. Doom is almost upon us all, a conflict that will make our four desperate wars against the Union seem like snowball fights. Do we continue on the course we’ve been on, see our spacers killed by their brethren? Or do we heed Admiral Winters’s warning? Before it’s too late.”

He paused, turning his head, catching the stares of his own people on Dauntless’s bridge. They were looking at him, their eyes fixed, unmoving. He had them, he was sure of that. But he needed the entire fleet…both fleets. He needed the Confederation navy united, together as one force, ready to confront its greatest challenge.

“This is what we face,” he said, his fists clenched at his sides as he continued. “This is our reality…and if we leave Clint Winters and his people out there alone, if we fail to aid our comrades in arms, we sacrifice all we have, all we are. We have to put our disputes aside, remember that we are all the Confederation navy. We must stand together, side by side, and face the terrible nightmare coming to engulf us all.”

He listened to silence for a brief moment, and then the sound of clapping on the bridge. He never saw who had started it, but within seconds, every officer and spacer in the room was applauding him. Barron appreciated the show of support, and he drew some strength from it…but he needed more than Dauntless, more even that those thousands in the ships pledged to him.

He sat still as his bridge crew continued to cheer, and then to chant his name. Atara turned and looked over, nodding with a smile as acknowledgements poured in, first from the ships he’d commanded, and then, slowly, one by one, from those that had faced off against him.

Finally, a message came through on the comm. “Admiral Barron…this is Captain Fitzsimmons aboard Exemplary. I have placed Admiral Whitten under arrest, sir. I am taking command of the fleet, and I hereby order all vessels to power down their weapons systems and await further instructions.” A pause. “We are with you, Admiral. Whatever it takes.”

Barron felt the tension fade away, and he gave himself a few passing seconds to enjoy the satisfaction…as Dauntless’s bridge erupted in a cacophony of almost deafening cheers.

Chapter Twenty-Two

CFS Constitution

Miramar System

Five Transits from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“Frigate Flotilla Two is to position itself in the dust clouds between planets five and six. I want them in place and powered down in two hours.” Winters turned toward his aide. “And I mean two hours…not two hours and one minute. Not two hours and one second. Make sure they understand that, Davis…and also that they’re going to be in there running silent until the enemy gets here, however long that is.” The “silent running” protocol pinned his ships to their positions and restricted energy output to bare minimums…but his spacers could scream and bang on drums they wanted, and it wouldn’t give away their presence or position in space.

Conditions of that sort weren’t a big deal for a short time, but it could wear a crew down if the condition persisted for days or weeks. Everything from dim lighting to reduced heating and cold food could wear on a ship’s complement already edgy about the approaching battle.

“Yes, sir.” Davis Harrington answered crisply. The officer had only been with the fleet a few days, but Winters had placed him at the main tactical station immediately. Harrington had come with a new round of reinforcements from Grimaldi—a final detachment that left the Confederation’s main fortress on the Union border stripped of almost all its fleet units and fighter squadrons. The base still mounted a daunting array of heavy guns, but it was just as well the Confederation wasn’t fighting the Union any time soon, because a fixed fortification, even one as massive as Grimaldi, didn’t stand much of a chance without some sort of fleet support.

Harrington had served with Winters for a long time. He’d been one of the admiral’s main aides through the last years of the war, and he’d continued in the role when Winters took up the command of Grimaldi. The admiral had left his trusted aide behind when he’d first gone to Dannith, but he’d since called in just about everything spaceworthy stationed at the great fortress, and along with the last of the Grimaldi ship reserves, he’d ordered the best of his staff to come along as well. The threat was worse than he’d thought when Barron’s first message had arrived. Worse, even, than he’d believed just after his forces had barely survived the initial enemy invasion, with the help of the White Fleet. The sheer size of the enemy forces was an almost impossible reality to fully grasp, and, for all his combat experience, Winters had no idea what he was going to do. He still hadn’t received word from Megara, nor any reinforcements from the Confederation’s central regions…and he needed everything he could get.

“Check on Flotilla One, as well. They should be in the asteroid belt by now, but it looks to me like they’re lagging.” They weren’t exactly lagging, not really, but they weren’t in place yet either…and the last thing Winters could afford now was to get anything less than the best his people had to offer. He had a reputation for being demanding—a hothead, many said—and those who whispered such things about him were right. He was damned sure going to use that reputation for all it was worth.

He had no intention of letting up on the intensity, not for a second. He wouldn’t have anyway, but the latest scouting reports showed enemy fleet units right on his tail. He’d hoped the enemy would stop, consolidate…give him a couple months to get his defenses in place. But he’d barely managed to get to Miramar without the Hegemony forces catching him on the way, and he doubted he had more than twelve hours—if he had that—before they would be streaming through the transit point to hit his fleet again.

He’d been trying to piece together a series of hurried, half-assed scouting reports, but his best guess was the enemy had not sent its entire force after his fleet. No doubt, they were refitting their damaged and depleted vessels, and also mounting a ground attack on Dannith. But by any measure, there were enough ships heading toward Miramar to blast his fleet to atoms.

He’d convinced himself, for a short while, at least, that he could make a stand in the system, that he could draw a line and say, “no farther.” But without any reinforcements from the Admiralty, there was no chance. He could make the Hegemony fleet fight in Miramar, force them to expend ordnance, inflict damage on them…but he couldn’t hold them, couldn’t turn them back. Not if they wanted to push forward badly enough.

But he did have a plan of sorts. He could draw them farther into Confederation space, stretch out their supply lines. Winters had analyzed every aspect of the enemy advance, and he’d come to a single, overriding conclusion. They had to be close to the breaking point in their supply and support operations. He couldn’t imagine they could go much farther into the Confederation without a lengthy pause to bring up supplies and establish bases. Certainly, no Confederation force would be able to—and any break he could get, any way to buy time, would be its own victory of a sort. Even if it was bought at the price of abandoning Confederation worlds to the enemy.

Winters closed his eyes for a moment, and in his thoughts, he saw the oncoming enemy formation he knew was heading toward his fleet, line after line of heavy warships streaming through the transit point and forming up for battle. He’d suspected from the start that the Hegemony forces would pursue his retreating fleet, and that they would manage to put forward a significant force…but he couldn’t imagine how they could have refit and resupplied their forces yet. He expected to have another week, at least, and probably more…but he wasn’t taking chances. Having his people deployed on alert and waiting for an attack would wear them down, he knew that. But there was no other way to proceed.

The battle was almost on him again, on all his people…and he was afraid it would come far sooner than anyone expected.

He turned as he heard the lift doors open, and he saw Sara Eaton step out onto the bridge. He leapt up from his chair and gestured toward the corridor at the back of Constitution’s bridge. “Commodore Eaton, thank you for shuttling over so quickly,” he said, as he quickened his pace, leading the new arrival off the bridge, and toward his office. There was nothing secret about their meeting, but he intended to be coldly honest with his deputy commander…perhaps more honest than his staff and crews were ready to handle on the eve of battle.

“I’m sure you are aware of the apparent strength the enemy is likely to deploy against us.” In truth, neither of them knew for sure. The Hegemony’s ability to keep its fleets moving and supplied was still a question mark. But Eaton knew better than anyone. Her White Fleet had led a pursuing enemy force across more than a dozen transits, and there had been no pause, no break in the chase.

“Yes, Admiral. I reviewed the latest analysis while I was shuttling over. Once we detect them, we will have at least twelve hours before they can close to range. That’s our window. And we have no solid data on their scanning capability. So, anything we don’t want them to see, and anything that takes more than twelve hours, we have to have it in place before they get here.”

Winters nodded as she finished. He had positioned his defenses as far as he could from the transit point…and as close as possible to the system’s only other one. The fleet’s escape route. As determined as he was to put up the toughest fight he could, he didn’t have a doubt he’d be retreating again. He simply couldn’t afford to lose his fleet, not this far forward. Not in Miramar, with the whole Iron Belt and Core behind him.

“I can’t speak for you, Sara, but I’m hoping for at least a week before they get here. We were beaten in the Ventica system, but we put up what I thought was a hell of a fight. We hit a lot of their ships hard, and the others had to have burned a good portion of their fuel and ordnance. How could they follow up any quicker than that? We’re falling back on interior lines, deep in our own space, and no more than half our forces are truly combat ready right now. I don’t even know how they’ve come as far as they have in such a short time.” His last few words betrayed his deepest concern. The enemy’s arrival on the Confederation border so quickly after Barron’s return was already a puzzle in terms of logistics, and that fact left a heavy doubt in the back of Winters’s mind. Extending the enemy’s supply lines to the breaking point was the only real strategy he had available, at least until the fools on Megara got their act together and rallied the entire fleet.

“I don’t know, sir.” Eaton shook her head. “My only guess is they had freighters and tankers with their fleet, waiting to transfer into Ventica when the battle was over.” A pause. “They could have more of such craft than one of our battle fleets typically would. We did something similar with the White Fleet, after all.”

Winters nodded. “Yes, but the White Fleet wasn’t intended as a combat formation. It was an exploratory mission. Assembling the supply train for that expedition stretched Confederation resources to the breaking point…” He hesitated. Sara Eaton had led the White Fleet on an epic retreat, an ultimately failed attempt to direct the Hegemony forces away from Confederation space. “By the book,” what she’d done had been impossible…but she’d somehow made her supplies last and kept her forces in the fight as she moved from system to system. “You’re probably our top authority on extending supplies, and keeping ships in the fight without proper logistics. What are your thoughts?”

She paused for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t say we managed to keep the fleet exactly combat-ready, Admiral. But what choice did we have? We weren’t invading enemy space, though, and most of the fighting was done by the fighter squadrons. We didn’t have any ground assaults to worry about either.” Another pause. “And, don’t forget, they weren’t really trying to catch us. They were following us. If they’d really wanted to finish us, they could have…and not a ship would have come back from that final battle.”

“But this is an invasion, not a running battle. They do have ground forces to support, and hundreds of warships. They’ll have to stop and refit at some point. The wars against the Union all fell into stalemates as whichever side managed to advance got bogged down until they could establish forward bases.” He hesitated. “They’ll make it this far, Sara, I’d bet on that…but I can’t imagine how they can go much farther.” His tone was uncertain, and he wasn’t sure himself if he was stating his conclusion, or just wishful thinking. “Maybe they had enough unengaged units to pursue us right after the fight at Ventica, while the ships that fought our forces were being resupplied—that’s a sobering enough thought. But, whatever happens now, their resources can’t be infinite. I considered pulling back, getting the fleet out of here before they can engage us…but we need to fight somewhere. We need to make them expend resources. We’re not going to win this war in straight up battles, not even if those damned fools on Megara do pull their shit together and get the rest of the fleet up here. They’re just too strong.”

He’d let his gaze drop down to the floor, but now he looked right at Eaton. “We’ve got to look to logistics. We have to make them use up their fuel and ordnance…pull them deeper into the Confederation, and farther from what have to already be very long supply lines. All the while, we’ll be falling back on our own support.”

“I agree completely, Admiral. We have to do all we can to stretch their resources.”

“Then we fight them here, as planned…but we don’t try to defeat them. We hit and run, pull back, make them burn as much fuel as possible, without letting them close enough to really hurt our battle line.” He walked back toward his desk, stopping a few meters from Eaton and turning back to her as she responded.

“Those tactics will put even more pressure on the fighter wings, Admiral. I don’t know how much they could have left in them.”

Winters didn’t respond, not immediately. He’d tried not to think too much about Jake Stockton. He knew Eaton had been quite fond of Stockton personally, and he was sure she was mourning his loss deeply. He hadn’t known the famous officer all that well personally, but then, who didn’t know of the fleet’s most celebrated pilot and his exploits? Winters felt the loss as deeply as any of his people did. The cold reality of it had set in as the fleet transited from Ventica, when the final tallies of the battered roster showed Stockton hadn’t been among those who’d made it back. Winters had come to imagine the famed Warrior was invincible, just as, he suspected, every other spacer in the fleet had. But no one was invincible—a timely lesson, if nothing else—and fate had chosen this dark moment to take one of the best from his battered and beleaguered comrades.

Just when they needed him more than ever.

“They’ll do what they have to do, Commodore. Just as they always have.” He knew Eaton was worried about the morale of the fighter wings, of how Stockton’s loss would affect them. In truth, he was as well, but there was one good reason to ignore it.

There was nothing he could do about it.

He couldn’t bring Stockton back, and without the squadrons, his fleet didn’t have a chance. Too much rested on what happened when the enemy finally emerged from the transit point, and Stockton or no Stockton, he’d chosen to believe his pilots would do their duty. That they would find a way to succeed.

No matter how many followed their beloved commander into the darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Three

Station Vesta-9

2,000,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

Stockton felt naked. He’d been in open space before, protected by nothing but his survival gear, but, as far as he was concerned, it wasn’t the kind of thing anyone ever got used to. The suit had a skin-tight fit under his flight suit, but it inflated slightly in response to the vacuum conditions as he’d evacuated his cockpit and then opened the canopy.

He felt a shiver, but he knew it was his imagination. The suit was a good insulator. It wouldn’t last as long as a proper spacesuit would, but it was actually more likely he’d be too hot at first rather than too cold. He’d been scared already, of course, even before he’d decided to leave the confines of his ship. He had been left behind. He was trapped, and the vast forces of the enemy were all around.

They all think I’m dead. He imagined Stara back on Repulse, sitting in their shared quarters, sobbing inconsolably. That was a fiction, his mind’s way of projecting his vanity. Stara would be devastated at his loss, but he knew her well enough to realize she’d be stone faced and stoic, at her station in flight control, and not a soul on Repulse would see a tear escape her eye. She was as tough as he was…tougher, he sometimes thought, and there wasn’t a doubt in his mind she would be there when the other pilots needed her. She would do her duty, and while it dinged his ego to imagine her remaining functional in the face of his perceived death, her strength was one of the things that made him love her as much as he did. He wished he could get word to her, let her know he was still alive.

What would be the point? You’re alive now, but your chances of getting out of here really suck…

He wasn’t the only pilot of the fleet still in the system, he suspected. Some of his people had ejected from damaged fighters, and he knew Winters and the fleet hadn’t been able to rescue them all before they’d had to withdraw. Stockton didn’t blame the admiral. He knew Winters had been forced to consider the thousands on his ships, and even the billions of the Confederation. He’d always known the pilots of the fleet’s fighter corps were expendable. It was the nature of their role. Even he couldn’t argue that massive battleships should be risked to recover a handful of pilots floating across the battle zone.

Still, he felt guilty for struggling to find a way to survive when some uncounted number of his people were out in the black vastness of the system, with nothing to do but wait for their life support to run out. It was a fate every pilot feared, and one they all knew was a possibility from the day they entered the Academy. The fighter jocks always liked to think they faced the most terrible fates, but Stockton had seen engineers burned to death trying to restore power and ship’s crew sucked out into space without survival gear. War was hell, and with experience, he’d come to realize there was no point in debating who had it worse. Death was death, and pain, fear, hopelessness…they plagued all those who took the oath and set out with the fleet to face whatever enemy threatened.

Still, as he reached out and grabbed onto one of the handholds next to the airlock, he caught an image in his mind of his people, helpless, staring silently into the darkness, imaging homes and loved ones they would never see again.

He moved his head closer, examining the outer controls of the airlock. He knew he might face that same hopelessness. If he couldn’t get into the station, he didn’t even have the remote chance he hoped for to find some fuel. He would be no better off than any pilot drifting in the darkness awaiting death.

He moved his gloved hand across the panel, sliding a lever and then hitting a large, central button.

And the door slid open, almost immediately.

Stockton was stunned, and he jerked back, almost losing his grip on the handholds.

Keep it cool, Raptor. Slip up here, and you’ll take a damned slow tour of this solar system.

He stepped inside the airlock, and he stared at the inner control panel. Just because the outer door worked…that doesn’t mean the pressurization and life support does…

He worked the controls, and the outer door slid shut.

But then, nothing happened. No sounds of air flowing into the compartment. No sign of any functioning heating system. He waited another minute, and then he moved back toward the controls. The switch to open the inner door appeared to be in good shape. The outer door was operational, so there was some sort of remaining power in the station. It seemed at least reasonable the inner door might also open.

If the inside was pressurized, opening the door would slam him hard into the outer door. He could work the controls, see if the door was indeed functional, but if conditions inside weren’t the same vacuum as the outer compartment, he would be betting his life.

Which isn’t worth all that much right now…

He wasn’t going to escape. Not unless he could find fuel, and get it back to his ship before his dwindling resources were exhausted. That was the first step, before he even worried about slipping past the enemy forces all over the system and getting to the transit point, and then somehow tracking the fleet and catching up. And whatever he found inside the station, he would almost certainly need more fuel along the way.

It seemed close enough to hopeless, but Stockton wasn’t the kind to give up. Or to sit and wait while the time he had slipped away.

He reached out, and he worked the controls, pressing the central button…and he stared right at the door as it started moving.

*

“Hold your position, Captain. We’ve got to keep those tanks bottled up coming out of the transports, at least for a few hours.” Blanth struggled to shout his orders into the comm unit. He’d been doing it all morning, ever since the scanners had picked up the first enemy waves coming in, and his throat was raw and choked with dust, his voice cracking.

“Yes, sir…we’ll try.” Isaac Trevise was a good officer, a Marine in every sense of the word, and the shakiness Blanth heard in the man’s voice told him just how desperate the situation had become already. Trevise hadn’t sent updated casualty figures in almost an hour, but they’d been over twenty percent in that last communique, and the fighting had been intense since then. Trevise and his people had the misfortune—they would have called it honor back at the Academy, Blanth thought, with an amount of derision he suspected was less than healthy—to hold one of the few chokepoints, a location geography made a primary place to try and delay the enemy advance on Port Royal City.

Blanth knew he couldn’t stop the Hegemony. He’d known that before they launched a single lander, before Admiral Winters had been forced to retreat from the system. But he was surprised at the vastness of the enemy’s invasion force. Trying to resist was a pointless waste of lives and equipment…but he knew his people had to make at least some kind of show at trying to repel the enemy. The morale of the population would be important in the guerilla struggle he intended to lead, and images of his Marines fleeing at the first sight of enemy ground forces were not conducive to maintaining support among the soon to be occupied civilians.

It wasn’t much use to the morale of his Marines, either. Being beaten, forced to retreat, that would be bad enough. But running and hiding at the first sight of the enemy? He couldn’t imagine anything more damaging to his people than that.

Not even getting torn to pieces in the field.

He ducked down, a reflexive response to a series of massive explosions that erupted just south of his position. The Hegemony forces had managed to get some of their tanks deployed, and they’d been shelling the Marines pushing toward perimeter of the landing zone for the last fifteen minutes or so. The giant armored vehicles were immensely powerful, but Blanth was relieved that they were indeed firing the same conventional explosives they had used in the first invasion. That wouldn’t give his people any real chance to hold out, but it suggested the enemy had returned with the same intention they’d had before, to occupy the planet without inflicting widespread slaughter.

That would help his guerilla campaign. If the enemy had been willing to kill millions of civilians with high yield weapons, the situation would have been hopeless. He had a few strongholds that just might endure some kind of nuclear assault, but if the invaders targeted truly powerful ordnance at his positions, the resistance would be stillborn.

It remained to be seen how well his Marines could hamper the enemy anyway…and if their own success would be their downfall. He imagined there was some point, some level of casualties his people inflicted, a certain amount of supplies and ordnance destroyed, that would prompt the enemy to escalate.

You might get all your Marines killed if they do too well.

You might even get the planet glassed. Are you ready for that? Are you ready for your resistance to turn a hundred million human beings from prisoners of a foreign occupation into that many charred corpses?

He wasn’t sure he was…but, if it happened, there would be one solace.

He would be dead, too.

*

Venticles knelt before the silent figure on the pedestal before him, a show of submission and loyalty to the Master he had served his entire life. His status as a trusted officer, a retainer of sorts, granted him access to the fleet’s commander without formal invitation. For an Inferior, it was a high honor and a sign of great favor.

Chronos glanced down at his aide, motionless, silent for a moment. He was deep in thought, a state between concentration and meditation. He’d studied the mental disciplines that had been practiced by various groups in the old empire, and he’d become quite adept at several. He had always found such exercises freed him, tapped into areas of intellect and analysis otherwise out of reach of his conscious mind. The ideal among the Masters, especially those of high rank, was pure analysis, but Chronos had come to believe the human mind and psyche were rather more complex than most of his peers believed. He knew many of his colleagues ridiculed some of his ways, but he tended to ignore them, taking what small solace he needed in his own deep and searing disrespect for most of them and their abilities. Though he was just as committed to the advancement of the human race’s genetic lines, more than any of his true peers, he believed there was more required for true capability than simply strong DNA. He’d seen a rot setting in, a complacency among those who stepped into positions of authority and privilege through no actions of their own. He had come to see striking similarities to the decadence and decline that had led to the empire’s fall, though even he, known already as the maverick on the Council, hadn’t dared to share such thoughts.

“Speak, Venticles.” It was a simple command, direct. Chronos knew his aide would have knelt silently until he granted express permission to speak.

“Landings have commenced, Commander. All first wave units are in position, and the second wave is in final approach. There have been pockets of moderate resistance, but in all, the occupation units are running ahead of projection.”

“Things appear to be well in hand here, Venticles.” There was a pause, even a hint of disappointment. The Confederation was the enemy, at least until they submitted and were absorbed into the Hegemony. Simplistically, he knew he should embrace any weakness in an enemy, but he’d allowed himself to hope these new humans might bring more to the Hegemony than additional labor and industry. He’d imagined a new spark, even an influx of Master-level, or near Master-level, populations, and a catalyst to break the Hegemony from the calcified orthodoxy that had begun to set in all across the vast nation.

Chronos had decided to remain back at Dannith to supervise the first true invasion of a Confederation world. It was, in truth, the second invasion, though of the same planet. The last action on Dannith’s surface had been an ill-conceived effort with too small of a force deployed to achieve success. He was determined to analyze and review the enemy’s ground tactics and capabilities. With some hesitation, he had ordered the main elements of the battle fleet forward without him—there was no room in the war plan for delay—while he held back the flagship and her escorts and observed the landings and the resulting combat on the surface. His extended presence in the system also allowed him to monitor the forward movement of the Support Fleet. The vast collection of supply vessels and factory ships was as crucial to the successful completion of the war as the largest of his battleships.

He had done both now, and he was pleased with the results. The supply train had successfully transited, along with its escorts, and he had a better idea of the enemy’s ground defense capability as well. He was not impressed. The enemy had made some cursory attempts to resist the landings, and then they retreated—ran—to the hills and wilderness areas. There was no need for him to remain to watch the Kriegeri root the enemy from their hiding places. That was not fit work for a Master, certainly not one ranked eighth in all of the Hegemony. No, he would go forward now. He had assumed the world under attack was a frontier colony of sorts for the Confederation, and the data already seized on the ground confirmed that assumption. There were far more populated planets ahead. He was sure of that.

It was time for him to go and take command of the lead elements, to push forward. The war would be won by breaking the enemy’s morale, not by eradicating them…and not by conquering a frontier system. He saw no better way of accomplishing that goal than slicing straight through to their most important worlds, to their capital.

Chronos had dipped back into his thoughtful analysis, forgetting for an instant his aide was present. “Ah…Venticles…there is little reason for us to remain. The ground forces can complete their work without our supervision.” A pause. “We will advance immediately, at full thrust. It is time for us to return to the main fleet.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

CFS Dauntless

650,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Argolith

Halos System

Year 317 AC

“Continue broadcasting the message, Atara. We don’t want any misunderstandings here.” Barron was sitting in his desk chair speaking into the comm unit. He’d left Atara Travis in charge on the bridge, and he’d just repeated his orders for the third time, though he knew it wasn’t necessary with his reliable second-in-command. He was just edgy, anxious to get to Megara and resolve things once and for all, and to avoid any further chance of combat with his Confederation comrades.

“Yes, sir…understood.” Atara didn’t sound annoyed, though he suspected she was, in a calm sort of way. She had just cause to expect him to realize she didn’t need to be told anything twice, much less three times, but she also knew him well enough to understand the pressure he’d been under.

Most of Whitten’s fleet had defected to Barron’s side, and the few ships that had refused to do so had fled, no doubt back to Megara ahead of his now seemingly irresistible force. Barron’s course was the most direct one possible, taking the fleet right through the Iron Belt and into the Core, from one densely populated—and heavily defended—system to the next.

Argolith was one of the oldest Iron Belt worlds, and, unlike some of its brethren planets in recent years, it was as deeply devoted to a production-based system as ever. Some of the inner Iron Belt systems had become more heavily based on information type economies, and many of their old factories and shipyards had shut down, replaced by newer ones on hungrier, farther out planets. But Argolith’s vast factories still operated at nearly one hundred percent capacity, and its shipyards held their place among the very best in the Confederation.

The system was heavily defended as well, with extensive fortresses and a large fleet of armed patrol ships. Nothing that could defeat Barron’s fleet, but the last thing he needed was to fight against more of his own people in each system he passed through. And, since he had no idea what propaganda his adversaries had spread, and how far the lies had traveled, he’d decided to make sure the authorities—and the masses as well—knew that his forces were only passing through. That, if left unmolested, they would continue on and bring the problems on Megara to a speedy conclusion.

He had a date with someone. Who, he didn’t know, but he suspected he would find a not inconsiderable number of Senators on the list of those involved. He truly didn’t know what he would do about that, how far he was willing to go. The guilty had to be removed, of course, if only to ensure that the matter, once settled, remained that way. But was he prepared to order Marines into the Senate Compound to drag out screaming legislators? And, if he did, what would that mean for the Confederation’s republican government? He’d come to suspect that his grandfather had interfered in politics far more than he’d ever realized, and, apparently with considerable force as well. Yet he’d left the Confederation no less democratic than he’d found it. Barron had wondered—during almost every waking hour, which, in the past weeks, had been almost every hour—if he would be able to match his grandfather’s skill, the light touch that had swept away the worst of the malfeasants and let him walk away to be regarded not as a rebel or tyrant, but as a loyal Confederation officer.

That was likely to be a more difficult course to navigate since he was getting angrier with each passing hour. At first, he’d felt victimized, but now he realized, whoever was responsible had jeopardized the entire Confederation—billions of innocent people, most of whom were blissfully ignorant of whatever plot was going on in the capital. He’d tried to restrain his anger, remain cool and thoughtful about the situation. But, there was no ignoring the cold fact that he wanted blood.

Barron doubted he had his grandfather’s skill, the delicate touch required to prune the tangled and corrupt mass of the government. He suspected he could either clear his name and leave those responsible in place and largely unpunished—something that seemed more and more unacceptable as the days passed by—or he could cut through the ranks of the politicians with a bloody blade. He hated the thought of behaving like a conqueror, of imposing a military dictatorship, however short-lived it might be, but in the end the Hegemony might well make the decision for him. He had to unite the Confederation to face the enemy, and that meant doing whatever it took.

Whatever it took.

He simply would not allow the Confederation to fall without a fight, and if he had to be a rebel, a tyrant…a butcher…to see that the Hegemony got that fight, then that was what he would do.

He leaned back and sighed, trying to take his mind away from such grim prospects, at least for a moment. Cutting through the Iron Belt was certainly saving time over a more roundabout route. The fleet had four more transits to Megara. Assuming he could avoid any entanglements with local authorities—or any other forces the Senate or the conspirators might send to stop him—his fleet would be at the capital in less than two weeks.

Two weeks to the final showdown.

Two weeks until he knew exactly what he would have to do.

One thing was certain. Whoever was behind the situation in the capital would almost certainly be warned…the stalwarts who’d fled after the rest of the fleet switched sides ensured that. If the perpetrators fully controlled Megara’s defense grid, Barron and his people would face one hell of a problem. Ideally, he would blockade the planet as he tried to find a way to undermine those causing the unrest. But there wasn’t time for that…and from the latest dispatches from Admiral Winters, even less than he might have hoped. The Confederation forces had to be united and ready to face the Hegemony—immediately—even if that meant attacking Megara’s defenses. That would mean heavy casualties for both his fleet and those manning the fortresses…and a considerable risk of civilian losses on the ground as well.

If it came to that, he knew one thing.

He would make whoever was responsible pay.

*

“I am pleased and honored that you have made the time to join me here for dinner, Admiral Barron. My ship is your ship…as the Palatian fleet is yours, with every warrior on it. We will fight together, my friend, against any enemies the universe puts in our way. I have yet to see any Hegemony vessels firsthand, of course, but I look forward to the honor of engaging—and defeating—such an invader. We will send them back where they came from with a new understanding of the mettle of those who dwell on the Rim.”

Barron nodded, and followed Vian Tulus’s lead in raising his glass. He was genuinely fond of Tulus, and the Imperator had been a flawlessly loyal friend, but, for all his time spent among the Palatians, Barron sometimes had trouble adapting to their ways and their outlook. He saw the coming of the Hegemony as a disaster of epic proportions, a calamity that could very well destroy both the Confederation and the Alliance. Tulus was one of the most forward thinking of his people, a man who had progressed far from the hidebound traditions and honor-driven thought of the Palatians…yet, even he couldn’t escape the call of the warrior. He viewed a new enemy not as a deadly threat to his people and their culture, but as a new opportunity for glory.

Barron suspected his friend did understand the extent of the danger they were up against. But, old customs died hard.

“No doubt we will have a considerable fight on our hands, my friend. If I must face such a struggle, my gratitude for having you at my side knows no bounds.” It was as close to a Palatian style toast as he could manage, and while he suspected Tulus was well aware of his reservations, the Imperator smiled, and took the words as Barron had intended.

“Please eat, my friend. Whether we fight for honor or survival, we must look to our strength.” Tulus gestured as a line of servants came into the room and set down half a dozen large trays. Barron nodded, and he reached out and took a large semi-sweet roll, a confection the Palatians called Nubus. He’d shuttled over to the Alliance flagship at Tulus’s invitation, and he knew Palatian custom would require him to eat heartily…but he was starting slowly. He’d spent much time on Palatian ships, eaten vast quantities of their food, but he’d always found it a bit too rich in heavy game meats. It was a concession to the hunting ideals of the warrior race, but a bit much for Barron’s taste buds and stomach.

“Come, my friend…eat more than a scrap of sweetbread. Try the Croca…my chef prepares it better than any in all the Rim.”

Barron nodded, wondering how much there was for a chef to do on a piece of meat that looked very close to raw to him. Still, he reached out and took a piece—the smallest he could see on the tray—and took a bite. It wasn’t as bad as it looked—which had always been his blanket assessment of Palatian cuisine—but he’d have preferred something a bit less…adventurous.

Tulus smiled. Barron wasn’t sure if the Imperator was pleased he’d taken some of what the Palatian considered “proper” food, or if the entire spectacle was just one friend amusing himself at the expense of another. Understanding Palatians as he’d come to, he suspected he would never know. The warrior race’s version of humor was particularly difficult to grasp, at least beyond the most basic interpretations.

“It is quite good, Vian, but need I remind you, I have dined on Croca killed by your own hand. No preparation, no spices or marinades can match the bounty of a brother’s hunt, roasted simply over a fire.”

Tulus stared back at Barron for a few seconds, and then he burst out into hearty laughter. “Ah, my friend, we must find more time for such pursuits. I would relish a long hunt. We could live off the land, test ourselves in the wild.” Tulus paused, and his face darkened. Barron knew the cause for his friend’s sadness. His vision, one of simple joys and camaraderie, could never be, at least not for a very long time. His responsibilities were too vast, and both of them faced a long and desperate war before any manner of recreation would be possible.

“Tyler, my brother…I am pleased to have your company, as I would be any time fortune allows, but I asked you here for a reason.”

Barron wasn’t surprised. Tulus was as no-nonsense as he himself was, and he’d suspected the Imperator wouldn’t have brought him all the way to the Alliance flagship to share Croca, however well-prepared. “You wish to warn me, to make sure I am…ready…to do what must be done when we reach Megara.” Barron’s voice was unemotional, almost a monotone. He knew why Tulus had asked him to come, and he understood. The Imperator wondered if he had the strength to attack the Confederation capital, to send his forces against the Senate if need be.

Barron took no offense. He wasn’t sure he had the strength either.

“It is not your strength that I doubt, Tyler. There are few warriors on the Rim who could match your will and power. My people are sometimes driven by honor to make foolish choices, and I submit yours are not immune to such influences. That even you, yourself, are not.”

The words hit Barron, and for an instant he felt defensive. But his resentment quickly faded, and he considered what Tulus had said, as the Palatian continued. “My friend, honor can take many forms. My people follow the code of the warrior, but your own comrades are no less bound to constructs of this sort. You serve a political body you know to be corrupt. Do you march on the Senate, arrest those who have breached their oaths? You would tell me you are committed to the rule of law, that you are bound to follow the orders of the Senate…yet what is a law but words written out, and how much force does it carry when it is corrupt from the start? Is there not some point at which you would disobey? Of course, there is. So, where lies this line, my friend? Somewhere between your devotion to the laws, dictates—whims?—of your governing body, and the place where you take a stand and say, ‘No more…I can go no farther, obey no immoral law?’ Is this not honor of its own sort, a dedication to ideals beyond those in accordance with governmental mandates? Would your ideals, for example, not require you to refuse to bombard an innocent world, if such was ordered? What is this, if not honor? Yet, you allow yourself to wallow in torment at the prospect of taking decisive action against those who have undermined your government. Is it honorable to give deference to the corrupt at the cost of readying your people to face a new enemy, to preserve their freedom? My people understand the bitterness of slavery, Tyler. There are still those living among us who remember the outworld occupiers, the sting of subservience. It is such that drives us, imposes upon us the harsh dictates of warrior honor and ideals. Are you less than we are, Tyler, my friend? Are you less than I believe you are? I do not believe so.”

The Imperator paused, and Barron looked back at his friend, feeling a momentary flash of uncertainty, before it passed, and he understood. Tulus was trying to provoke him, to shake him from the hesitation he felt, the reluctance to do what had to be done, even as he went through the motions.

He had to admit to himself, he just wasn’t sure what he would do when the fleet arrived at Megara. Would he open fire on the fortresses? Bombard surface targets? Would he send his Marines down to arrest the members of the Senate? What if they met resistance? Would he start a war on the surface of the Confederation’s capital to prepare for a war against an outside invader?

He didn’t know what he would do, could do…but he was pretty sure Tulus would offer his very best to firm up his resolve.

And he was grateful for it. He needed all the help he could get. He wished with all his heart he could have spoken with his grandfather, even for a few minutes. But the elder Barron had been gone for many years, and even Tyler’s memories had faded to fuzzy shadow images.

What he did now, he would have to do himself…but he would have to live with the consequences.

Chapter Twenty-Five

Outer Ring, Western District

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Damn!

Andi Lafarge cursed herself as she held the rifle in front of her, trying to maintain her concentration long enough to line up another shot. But her inner sense was alive now, the instinct that had done so much to keep her alive for so many years. Against almost any target, she might have stayed in place, tried one more time for a killing shot. But Ricard Lille was no ordinary opponent, and the slightest mistake was all it would take to end up the victim instead of the assassin.

She ducked down, trying vainly to suppress the rage she felt for missing the shot. It had been an excellent opportunity, and she doubted she’d have another as good, especially not now that Lille knew someone was after him.

Someone…he’ll figure it is me. He knows I was here, that I helped to rescue Tyler and Gary.

Lille was a mastermind at hunting human beings. She’d come to Megara to track and kill the man, but she knew now that she was as much a target on the run now as a killer stalking a victim. Her mission was no longer an assassination, it was a duel.

One with the deadliest of adversaries.

She slid down an exposed pipe along the back of the building. She would do a post mortem later, compile a list of mistakes she’d made, reasons that shot hadn’t blown Lille’s head into a red mist…but for now, she had to get out. She wouldn’t shy away from the contest with the man who had tormented her, broken her, but first she had to equalize the odds. Striking at Lille outside the Sector Nine safe house had made sense when she’d had the element of surprise. Now, she was close to one of her enemy’s centers of power. Lille would have a dozen agents out combing the streets for her, and she had to be gone before they found her perch.

She raced through the back alleys, realizing as she did that she’d been careless. She should have memorized the geography, known the layout of every street and pathway. In her older days, she would have had all the information she needed, and a good deal more. But she still wasn’t herself. She’d lost part of what she’d been in that interrogation room, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever get it back.

Maybe…if I can kill the bastard.

Maybe.

She wasn’t sure what effect killing Lille would have on her mental state, but she didn’t need to know. She wasn’t going after the agent to soothe her psyche or to restore her mindset to something like it had been before. She was going to kill him because she had to, because there was no other choice she could live with. One of them had to die.

She turned and ducked into the rear door of what appeared to be an abandoned building. Her focus had slammed into place, and she put thoughts of Lille out of her mind. First, she had to escape, to get away from the agents she was sure he’d sent after her.

Then she could come back, find him again.

And finish the job.

*

Gary Holsten ducked down as the scene on the street below turned into utter chaos. He’d heard a shot, or at least he thought he had, but it had taken a few seconds before his eyes zeroed in on what had happened. Ricard Lille had been standing in the street, and then, in an instant, the agent he’d been speaking to was dead, and Lille had disappeared from view.

Holsten’s mind was usually sharp and quick to deduce anything he saw. But it took a few seconds for him to realize he’d just watched someone try to assassinate Ricard Lille.

He’d been stunned, not that someone wanted the Sector Nine assassin dead—he suspected anyone sane who knew Lille wanted the psychopath killed—but that someone on Megara had tried.

Even more, that Lille had been careless enough in his cover to allow someone to track him. Holsten had found Lille too, when he’d been trying to rescue Andi on Dannith, but the effort had taken almost every resource he’d been able to muster…and he’d had to stake out the suspected safe house for two days before Lille had appeared.

Though on some level he applauded anyone taking the effort to rid the universe of Ricard Lille, Holsten wasn’t there to kill the enemy assassin…at least not yet. He was trying to find Van Striker, and he’d eliminated every possibility on where the admiral could have gone. He had no direct evidence pointing to Lille, but by the sheerest of luck Ethan Zacker had a report on a possible sighting of the Sector Nine killer just a week before. It hadn’t been as simple as putting two and two together, but the combination of Striker’s disappearance and Lille’s reported presence was enough to justify keeping a watch on every known and suspected Sector Nine hideout in the Confederation’s capital.

It had been a long shot, but one Holsten was sure had just paid off. Ricard Lille wasn’t the type to visit agents on routine espionage duties, and Holsten couldn’t come up with anything that could have drawn Gaston Villieneuve’s top lunatic killer to Megara save whatever was going on with the Senate…and Striker’s disappearance, two things Holsten was ready to bet his left eye were related.

If Lille is involved, he might have just killed Van. Taking hostages isn’t his preferred mode of operation…

But Van Striker isn’t the average target either.

Ethan Zacker knelt down next to Holsten, staring at a small tablet in his hands. The display was showing the street scene below. Almost a dozen men and women streamed out of the building, rushing in all directions, up and down the street, and across to the structures on the opposite side.

“They’re definitely after something, Gary. Did we just see an attempt on Lille’s life?”

“Looks like.” Holsten was focused, and, by then, he was sure about what they had seen. But there was something else, an unsettled feeling as he wondered who had almost killed the Sector Nine assassin. “But who took that shot?”

“It’s not like Lille doesn’t have enough people who want him dead.” Zacker seemed confident enough, but Holsten wasn’t satisfied.

“Want him dead? Sure. Able to track him down? How much effort did it take for us to find these safe houses? And you know we just got lucky that he showed up here himself. It took skill to track him down, and even more determination.”

“How many people has he killed, Gary? Somebody came looking for revenge.”

Holsten didn’t answer right away. He had an image in his head, a thought of a friend who had tangled with Lille. One he knew was on Megara.

Andi.

You damned fool…no wonder she was so ready to come here…and you gave her an alibi, and helped her sneak to the planet.

Andi had played him. She’d taken him to Megara, but she’d never have been able to get through the system’s security without the cover and devices he’d provided. He’d gotten her back to the Confederation’s capital…so she could go after Ricard Lille.

Holsten didn’t begrudge Andi her revenge, nor did he have a problem with her killing Lille. The man was a blot on human existence. But he was dangerous, too…perhaps deadlier than anyone Andi had ever faced off against. He wasn’t worried about Andi killing Lille. He was worried about Lille killing her.

And my guess is, he knows she’s after him now.

“Gary…we’ve got to move. We have to go in or get the hell out of here.”

Holsten looked back at his comrade, and then to Jon Peterson and the dozen armed Marines crouched down behind the officer. Holsten was used to having almost limitless resources at his disposal, but he was locked out of Confederation Intelligence, at least by any routes in those who replaced him knew about, and, adding to his problems, his vast personal assets had been frozen.

Again, those anyone else knew about.

He’d been damned lucky to reach Colonel Peterson—General Peterson, he swore to himself, if he ever got back into a position of power and influence—and his people. They’d all played a role in the rescue that had freed him, and they’d been left behind on Megara for lack of transport. Holsten had been relieved to find that they’d managed to lay low. They’d risked themselves to save him, and they deserved better than to end up in a Senate-controlled prison as traitors.

And he needed them again.

Holsten glanced down at the tablet. There were at least three or four agents heading in his direction. Zacker was right. They had to hit the building, or they had to bolt. There was no time to waste.

But Holsten didn’t know if Striker was in the building or not. He’d narrowed it down to five spots that seemed likely places Lille would hold a prisoner of Striker’s importance, but that selection didn’t take into account the very real possibility—hell, the probability—that Sector Nine had other locations completely unknown to Confederation Intelligence.

Or, with all that’s happened…is it possible a faction in the Senate was involved in Striker’s kidnapping, that Lille had nothing to do with it? He still thought of his friend as a hostage, trying hard not to consider the very real possibility that he had simply been killed, by Lille or by someone else.

If he sent the Marines in, he’d alert Lille…even more than the assassination attempt just had. If his people didn’t find Striker, there was a good chance Lille would react by killing the admiral immediately.

But this may very well be our best chance.

Our only chance…

He paused, for only a few seconds, but it was all the time he had.

“Go in,” he said, his voice scratchy, the words forced.

“Go,” he repeated, louder this time, and as he did, he reached around behind him and pulled out the pistol he’d shoved under his belt.

*

“That damned fool!” Desiree Marieles had closed the door to her office and then activated the soundproofing system she’d had installed. She wanted to scream—she had to scream—and she didn’t want to be interrupted.

She’d just two separate reports from captains of ships returned from Admiral Whitten’s encounter with Tyler Barron. Whitten had taken more than enough force to overwhelm Barron, but all the same, she’d been at least prepared for news that her paramour had been defeated, that Barron was still loose. Whitten was the prime pawn in her efforts to destabilize the Confederation, especially now that she seemed to have lost influence over Senator Ferrell. She’d imagined if Whitten had lost, he’d at least have battered Barron’s forces, that the Confederation fleet would be in disarray.

But his whole fleet, practically every ship, gone over to Barron’s side with hardly a shot fired? Barron had won not with lasers, not with brilliant tactics, but with a speech?

One Whitten was too much of a fool to jam so his people couldn’t hear it?

Losing Ferrell had been bad news, but this was a calamity. By all accounts, Whitten was Barron’s prisoner…and that left her out in the cold, her military and political influence all but gone.

And, someone will trace some part of this to you…hell, Ferrell will probably piece the truth together eventually.

And when the pompous Senator realized he’d been used, that her manipulations had turned his hatred for Gary Holsten into virtual treason…

It was time to shut down her operation. Completely. She had to get off Megara. She’d hoped to take things farther, but she’d managed to make more of a mess on Megara than anyone had ever thought possible. There was no way Gaston Villieneuve could consider her mission anything but a great success, even if she was forced to terminate it early.

Was there?

She felt a chill, but she wrote it off to nerves. Villieneuve was a hard man, one who expected the best from his people, but he was also a realist.

She wasn’t sure she’d convinced herself, but she knew one thing. She had to get off Megara. If—when—her machinations began to unravel, all sorts of fingers would point to her. The cover she’d established as a lobbyist turned media investor would unravel with shocking speed, and those she’d manipulated would come after her from every direction.

Yes, it’s time to shut things down and get out of here.

She looked over at the comm, wondering whether she should warn Lille. Her first instinct was no…let the bastard fend for himself. But Admiral Striker could still be useful, especially if she had any trouble getting out…and Lille had Striker.

She leaned forward and activated the comm.

Chapter Twenty-Six

2,000,000 Kilometers from Station Vesta-9

Ventica System

Year 317 AC

Stockton leaned back in his chair and closed his eyes, just for a minute. There was no time for sleep, not for the foreseeable future, and the energy his own worn body couldn’t produce itself would come from stims. He’d been in situations like that before. He still held the record for the longest stretch ever recorded in a fighter cockpit…and he held second, third, and fourth place as well.

He faced a long trip now if he was to escape from the Ventica system and rejoin the fleet.

Assuming his jury-rigged fuel supply held out until he could find another source, and he managed to elude the Hegemony forces in the system and get through the transit point…and he somehow held his exhausted body and ship together long enough.

Oh yes…and assuming he could find the fleet and get past the enemy forces almost certainly in pursuit of Admiral Winters’s forces. That would entail some detailed scanning, analysis of particle trails and residual transit point energy signatures…and one hell of a series of lucky guesses.

It was enough to crush the morale of most spacers…but not “Raptor” Stockton. There was a part of him, one even he didn’t fully understand, that simply found it impossible to give up. At least the very long odds had gotten quite a bit shorter when he’d found not only fuel in the abandoned Vesta station, but also enough spare parts to rig an auxiliary tank in the bomb bay that had held his plasma torpedo.

It wasn’t sufficient to get him back to the fleet…but it was enough to get out of the system, and possibly to another source of fuel. He would be traveling through Confederation systems, and while the Hegemony would no doubt have blockaded the worlds they passed, he doubted they could have clamped down so quickly on every outpost and base, every mining station and fuel depot. He’d find what he needed, he was sure of that, in the serenely confident way he approached everything.

He would get back. Somehow.

Stockton knew he would die one day, that his skill and luck and perseverance would eventually fail, that the shadow that had stalked him for so long would have its victory in the end. But he was sure he would know when that day had come. It didn’t make any sense, but he was as positive of that as he’d ever been of anything. He would know his last battle, his final struggle, when it came, and he would go into it fully aware of what it was.

That day had not come.

He tapped his throttle, blasting the thrusters, keeping the acceleration down. He knew he had a good chance of slipping out of the system, but as much as he wanted to get back to the fleet, he didn’t imagine sending up a giant flare of full strength engines would be helpful in that regard. Better to slip out, leaving the smallest possible energy trail. Once he transited, he could open up, put some real distance behind him and get back to the fleet.

He glanced at the long-range scanner, a cursory look, more out of curiosity than anything else. He sympathized with Dannith’s people, and with the Marines tasked with the planet’s hopeless defense…but there was nothing he could do about any of it.

His eyes froze as he looked at the screen, not on the cluster of vessels around the planet, but at a new contact in the outer system, heading toward the planet from the enemy’s inbound transit point. For an instant, he felt a fatigued wave of misery. The Hegemony fleet had been almost hopelessly vast already…and from the looks of things, there were hundreds of new vessels inbound.

But there was something different about the new force. The energy outputs were all wrong for warships. He was far out, and he knew his readings were incomplete, that he could be missing something. He reworked his settings to feed more energy into the scanners, risking a few active scanning pulses.

No, those aren’t warships…but what, then?

He stared at the screen, and his eyes hit a row of vessels in the center of the formation. Huge vessels. Larger than the Hegemony’s most massive battleships. He felt a flush of panic at the thought of even more powerful warships, but the readings were…different.

Most of the incoming ships looked like some kind of freighters or tankers…a massive supply fleet? He wasn’t an expert on logistics, but he understood its role in space combat. Warships required repair, resupply, fresh ordnance. It was the central tenet of combat strategy. For the last century, every major advance had slowed in the face of the realities of supply. Ships got farther from their logistical bases, deeper into ravaged enemy space. It took longer to bring fresh ordnance forward, and damaged ships had to limp back to repair bases far behind the lines of advance. Every major defensive strategy was based on this…fact.

But was it a fact? Or just a question of having the vast resources needed to overcome the limitations?

Stockton was still staring at the images on his scanner as the AI updated the readout and began to analyze the results. Minutes passed, almost half an hour. Stockton had shut down his engines, gone as silent as possible, and watched the massive new fleet move across the system toward Dannith.

The AI had managed to suggest likely ship types, with assigned percentages of reliability between seventy and ninety-four percent. There were freighters, hundreds of them. And tankers, as well.

Then there were mining ships, and what appeared to be fuel processing vessels, almost portable refineries. Lastly, there was a line of enormous vessels that his AI had pegged as factory ships and portable shipyards.

Stockton felt his breath slipping away from him, and he stared, dumbfounded and shaken to the core. He’d come to think of the Confederation as the strongest economic power in the galaxy, but as he looked out at the tonnage figures scrolling down his screen, he imagined it would have taken a century or more for all the worlds of the Iron Belt to produce such a force.

The vast support fleet he was watching was no immediate threat to him…but it was a deadly danger to Winters’s fleet, and to the Confederation.

He was sure the admiral was basing his defensive strategy on trading space for time, on pulling back and allowing the Hegemony fleet to outrun its supply lines.

But that’s not going to happen. Not with this support fleet coming up.

He sat for another few minutes, watching the vast array of support vessels. They were the true key to the enemy’s conquest of the Confederation, even more than the Hegemony’s intimidating battle line. Without the enemy outrunning its supply sources, unless Winters and his forces could win an outright victory, there was nothing to stop the enemy, or even to slow them down.

They can advance straight to Megara…

Stockton felt cold…afraid not for himself, but for his comrades, for the entire Confederation.

He’d been excited to find the fuel he needed, to retain the hope of returning to the fleet. But now he had to get back. It was about more than his own survival, more than getting back to Stara.

He had to warn Admiral Winters. He had to warn the fleet—and the rest of the Confederation—just what they were facing.

*

“Major, get your people back now. There’s no way you’re going to stop those tanks, not now that they’re deployed.” Colonel Blanth was standing in the middle of a blasted, open plain. It was a damned stupid place for anyone to be, especially the commander-in-chief of the planet’s entire defense.

What there was of it, anyway. Blanth’s commands had been a series of directives to retreat, to run, abandon the cities and take to the hills. To escape. That was a hard order for Marines to follow. And for a Marine commander to give.

He’d sent in some forward units, allowed them to hit the enemy LZs while they were still unstable. They’d taken out a few tanks and a fair number of the enemy ground troops, but they’d suffered as many casualties as they’d inflicted, and in the end, for all their effort and losses, they’d bought a day, maybe two. Time that had utterly no tactical effect whatsoever. There was no hope of reinforcement, no relief on the way. Dannith was cut off, abandoned, and that meant his people were on their own.

“We’re pulling back, Colonel, but…”

“No buts, Major.” Blanth snapped out the words a little more sharply than he’d intended. But there just wasn’t time to argue. There were explosions all across the field. The Hegemony tanks had begun bombarding the area heavily, and if he didn’t get the last of his Marines under cover in the next hour, they were going to be blasted to bits. They didn’t like running, but they’d be no good to anyone lying dead in the field.

“Luther, listen to me…we’ve got to think long here. We’ve got zero chance of beating back this invasion. Zero chance of holding any city or built up area. At best, we can keep a guerilla fight alive…but only if we get our people out of here and into prepared positions.” Blanth paused, and then he ducked as a shell struck the ground less than fifty meters from his position. The two officers were pelted with chunks of dirt, but were otherwise unhurt.

That was close…

“I don’t like running any more than you do, but that’s what duty demands right now. Our oaths don’t give us the option of heroic deaths for no gain…not when we can continue to resist the enemy another way. So, don’t argue with me right now…just help me.” Another pause. “Please.” Not a word Marine commanders used often, but right now, Blanth was ready to try anything.

Luther Holcott looked back at the colonel, standing still for a second and then nodding. “Yes, sir. But what about the local units, the planetary forces and the militia? Their families are in those cities we’re giving up without any fights. Will they obey orders like that?”

Blanth shook his head. “I hear you, but we just don’t have a choice. Anybody who doesn’t follow orders, who refuses to get to the prepared positions—and do it now—is as good as dead. Or captured, at least.” Blanth had no idea what the enemy’s policy was on prisoners. Would they accept the surrenders they’d no doubt get from the planetary forces once they were trapped with no retreat? Or would they simply gun down the terrified citizen-soldiers?

His Marines wouldn’t surrender, he was sure enough of that. And, though he hated himself for the cold rationality of the thought, the local troops were of limited value. His Marines could last longer without the drain on their resources. He wouldn’t abandon the local forces—he didn’t have that level of brutality in him—but if they disobeyed, if they pulled back to the cities in a hopeless attempt to defend their families instead of moving to the bases in the wilderness, he wasn’t going to stop them.

Blanth turned back toward Holcott. “We’re out of time, Luther. I need your help…we’ve got to…” He didn’t get any farther. Another shell exploded, this one less than fifteen meters from where the two men stood. Blanth lost some time, a few seconds, a few minutes…he wasn’t sure. But he wasn’t where he’d been. He was lying on the ground, on his back, looking up at the sky.

It was a beautiful day. He hadn’t noticed that before, but now he watched as a few stringy, light clouds stretched across the sky above him. He could see pillars of smoke rising, just beginning to block out the soft and pleasant sunlight streaming down in places. To the east? North? He didn’t know. He’d lost all sense of time, and for a few minutes he clung to consciousness, trying to turn his head, to see what was happening around him.

He felt himself losing his struggle. He was tired, exhausted. He had nothing left…and he let himself slip into the darkness.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Outer Ring, Western District

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Andi stood still, frozen in place, silent…waiting.

She’d been on the run, but now that was over. She had lost all track of time, of normal schedules. She’d become both hunter and hunted, and beyond those roles, she was utterly detached from everything and everyone.

She held her breath, her eyes focused on the street just outside the building. The man had been following her, pursuing her through the almost deserted streets of the capital’s outer districts, an industrial area, now mostly deserted. It was a weekend, she realized.

She listened, waiting for any sound, any sign that her pursuer was approaching. She knew he was, as much by gut as anything material, but she’d relied on her instincts many times, and they hadn’t failed her yet. The agent was good. She’d tried to lose him, but she hadn’t managed to shake the pursuit. She didn’t have any more time to waste…and she wasn’t going to let Lille get away.

That left her one choice.

She gripped the gun tightly. It wasn’t her own, trusty pistol, the sidearm that had served her on the frontier and across the Badlands for years. She hadn’t been able to get any weapons down to the surface, so she’d been compelled to make do with the best her nearly limitless funds could buy on Megara’s shadowy black market.

The weapon was good, military surplus most likely, and, by objective standards, better than her own old and worn pistol. Still, she’d have preferred her familiar weapons. Whatever their limitations, they had kept her alive for a long time, in many places and facing dangerous people.

But she’d never been matched against anyone as dangerous as Ricard Lille. Her immediate concern was the agent on her tail, one of Lille’s people sent out to find her, hunt her down. She wondered if she should be offended…by all accounts, Lille preferred to kill his own targets. Did he consider her unworthy of his time and effort?

Or, she dared to wonder…could he be scared? Andi wasn’t one to let her ego affect her actions, but she drew some solace from the thought that she’d shaken the Union’s famous assassin, and she chose to let herself believe it. She had come a second from killing the miserable piece of shit, and she knew Lille wasn’t used to anyone getting that close.

There was nothing down there, no movement, no shadows. She wondered if she’d lost her pursuer after all. She felt the temptation to take a few steps forward, to look around the corner and see if it was clear.

No…

Her instincts were screaming at her.

He is there…he’s waiting for you to show yourself…

It was a test of wills, and Andi Lafarge had never met her match for pure stubbornness. She stood in place, a stone statue, her eyes fixed on the masonry corner of the building. Her pursuer—her quarry as well—was just behind there. Probably wondering if I’m here, the same thoughts going through his head as mine.

She was resolute. They couldn’t both win. One of them would lose.

One of them would die. And that bastard out there stood between her and her vengeance. Between her and Ricard Lille’s head.

Another few minutes passed, silent, frustrating…and then her opponent made a mistake. He crept forward, slowly, and the glimpse Andi caught of his shadow was the confirmation that she was right, that there was someone out there, stalking her.

Time for the hunter to be hunted…

She wished she had a rifle, a sniper’s weapon like the one she had stashed on Pegasus. But she’d been in a hurry, and she’d had to take what she could. There had been the prospect of obtaining higher grade weapons, but each transaction carried risk with it, and if she’d ended up in a Troyus City prison, at the very least, Lille would escape.

At worst, he was involved in whatever was happening on Megara. It would be almost embarrassingly easy to have her killed in prison.

She remained still, her arm aching from being stretched out for so long. She fought the urge to move, even to allow her hand to shake. She knew where her enemy would appear, and she was just as aware that she’d have one shot, and no more. That wasn’t Ricard Lille down there, but it was a good bet she was facing a hardcore Sector Nine agent, a pro…and if he was one of Lille’s people, probably an expert killer.

She waited, each second dragging out with excruciating slowness, the burn in her arm growing stronger. She could feel the sweat forming on her forehead, sliding down from her hair to her neck, but she ignored it.

And then it was done, in an instant she could barely remember after it passed.

She’d pulled the trigger, the action sparked by some instinct as much as any real conscious decision. The agent had stepped forward, cautiously, peering around the corner.

It had been enough. Her shot rang out, and the projectile hit the man’s face, impacting on the two or three centimeters he’d shown. He lurched backward as the bullet tore a trench along the side of his cheek, and he stumbled…and when he did, he slipped out behind his cover, giving Andi a wide open second shot.

Crack.

One more bullet…and it was over. Her second bullet had taken the top half of the agent’s head off clean. The body stayed where it was, on its knees, for another instant, hideously grotesque and certainly dead. Then it fell to the ground with a lifeless thud.

Andi was already on guard, looking for any signs of another pursuer. But there were none. She’d won this exchange, taken out the hunter who’d been stalking her.

Now it was time for the real duel, the final struggle.

She stood up and let her arm drop, slipping the pistol into the waist of her pants and massaging her aching triceps with the other hand. She took a deep breath, and held it for a few seconds before exhaling.

Then she turned and walked back around the building.

It was time to find Ricard Lille.

She wouldn’t miss, not again.

*

Gary Holsten ran forward, across the street and toward the building up ahead. Peterson had urged him to stay back, but the former head of Confederation Intelligence had sent enough people to do his bidding. Peterson and his handful of Marines were assaulting a building defended by an unknown number of enemy agents and guards, and they were doing it to rescue his friend. He didn’t have it in him to sit back and wait in relative safety.

He didn’t have any body armor, but neither did the Marines. That was an unavoidable downside of laying low to avoid unwanted attention. Peterson’s people hadn’t been able to bring much of their gear to Megara with them, and now they were armed with a miscellaneous complement of guns left over from the raids that had freed Holsten and Tyler Barron. Those weapons had mostly been obtained through shady means, paid for by Andi Lafarge, but hopefully they would be sufficient. Holsten had no idea how many defenders were inside the building, but he’d watched at least a dozen pour out and scatter into the streets, so his guess was there were only a few left.

He’d almost sent Peterson’s Marines after the agents Lille had sent out, but he’d hesitated, and it had only been a moment later that he’d realized the agents rushing out into the street would be after Andi Lafarge. He no longer doubted that she was the one who’d come so close to killing Lille, and beyond his friendship for her, he felt a wave of guilt for recruiting her to go to Dannith in the first place. He’d been careless, practically handed her to Ricard Lille, and now he began to realize that she must have suffered more than he’d imagined during her captivity.

He raced across the street as sporadic fire came from the building. He heard a bullet zip past him, far too close for comfort, and a few seconds later, one of the Marines stumbled forward and fell to the ground. He tried to get a glimpse at the man as he raced by, but he couldn’t get a good look. And there was no time to waste. They had to get inside and take out Lille’s people.

Then they could rescue Van Striker, assuming Holsten was right, and his friend was in the building.

And then you have to find Andi…before Ricard Lille does.

One of the Marines tossed a grenade toward the door, the resulting explosion blasting it to twisted shards, and then those in the lead began to slip inside, firing as they did.

Holsten reached the entrance a few second later, right behind Jon Peterson. The two men ran right through the opening, each of them swinging around to avoid the sharp metal protrusions remaining where the door had once been. Holsten caught a glimpse of movement off to his right. He felt a burst of adrenaline, a wave of fear, as he brought his rifle around clumsily. But before he’d managed to take any aim at all, he heard a series of cracks…and the figure he’d seen doubled over and fell back down the staircase behind him.

He turned and saw Jon Peterson, his rifle extended…along with two of the other Marines. He hadn’t been able to tell if the man he’d seen had been armed, but he had an unpleasant feeling in his gut he’d have been dead if the Marines hadn’t reacted as quickly as they had.

He shook off the creepy feeling, and pushed back on the fear. There were at least three of Peterson’s people down, and maybe more. They’d risked their lives, perhaps lost them…they’d come with him because he believed Van Striker was in the building. It was time to see if he’d been right, or if they’d risked so much for nothing.

“Watch out, Jon…Ricard Lille was in here. He’s dangerous.” The words seemed foolish to him, even as he heard them over the din of battle. They were in the middle of a firefight, everything was dangerous.

But Ricard Lille was dangerous.

“Got it.” The colonel’s voice sounded stunningly calm, and not for the first time, Holsten was amazed at the professionalism and skill of the Confederation’s Marines.

He lurched forward, following Peterson toward the stairs. If Striker was in the building, they had to get to him before one of Lille’s people—or Lille himself—decided they were overrun and put a bullet in the admiral’s head.

Four or five of the Marines had moved to the upper levels already, but the sounds of fighting had died down from that direction.

Holsten raced down, betting Lille would have Striker in some cellar or underground location. He took two stairs at a time, bounding down almost recklessly. There was a hall at the bottom of the staircase, and he stopped as quickly as he could, looking in both directions. Peterson’s Marines had gone both ways, and Holsten flipped a coin in his head and moved down to the right, following the colonel himself. He’d gone perhaps ten meters when Peterson stopped abruptly. Holsten felt a rush of panic, a sudden feeling that they were too late, that they’d find Striker dead.

Or he’s not here at all, and all you managed to do was spook Lille enough to kill him, wherever he is.

Even as the dark thoughts grew on him, though, he could hear and see a commotion ahead…and then two Marines, helping a hunched over figure walk slowly down the corridor.

“Van!” Holsten jumped forward, showing an uncharacteristic display of emotion. Striker had become his closest friend in the eight years since he’d engineered the admiral’s promotion to the top command. And while he’d come to Megara, in part, to find his comrade, he realized that he hadn’t really believed he would succeed.

“What took you so long?” Striker was clearly exhausted, but he managed a grin for his rescuers. Then, more seriously. “What the hell is going on, Gary?”

“It’s a long story, Van…and I don’t have all the answers yet.” He paused. “It’s not good…in fact, we need to be damned careful, or the whole lot of us will get arrested.” He turned and looked back at the Marines standing behind him. “But first things first. And that’s finding Ricard Lille.”

“He’s gone, Gary.” It was Jon Peterson.

“He was here…just before we hit the place.”

“I know, but my people have searched every centimeter of the building. There’s a tunnel leading to a culvert on the next street. My guess is, that’s our rat’s escape route. I sent two of my people after him…but I think we’re too far behind.”

Holsten sighed. First, he was sure they were too late. Lille had slipped right through his fingers.

And, second, two wasn’t a big enough force to send after Ricard Lille, not even two Marines.

“All right,” Holsten said grimly. “Let’s get the hell out of here and back to someplace we can regroup. We’ve got to get to the bottom of what’s happening here on Megara.”

He looked down at the floor for a few seconds, and then he continued.

“And we have to find Ricard Lille. Whatever’s going on, there’s no question in my mind he’s neck deep in it.”

And he’s out there. He’ll be hunting Andi now.

He respected the hell out of Andi Lafarge…but, as good as she was, he didn’t think she could beat Lille. Not when the assassin knew she was coming for him.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Approaching Transit Point

Ventica System

Year 317 AC

Stockton grimaced as the pressure from his acceleration overwhelmed his fighter’s dampener systems and slammed into him with 8g of relentless force. That was better than the 30g or more his engines were actually putting out, but it was still damned uncomfortable.

But there was no choice, not anymore.

He’d almost made it out without notice, but now he had a small enemy ship on his tail, an escort of some kind.

He was burning fuel he couldn’t spare, but his fighter handled like a pig after his makeshift modifications to add to his fuel capacity. He didn’t wish the Hegemony had fighters—he couldn’t imagine a worse development than that—but he missed his days of flying his Lightning fitted out as an interceptor. He was a virtuoso in the cockpit, and that sleek, fast ship had been his instrument.

As bad as any bomber was, by comparison, his own half-assed arrangement of extra fuel tanks was a complete disaster. He doubted he could beat a rookie from the Academy in a dogfight with the cumbersome thing, but fortunately, the frigate—or whatever the enemy called their smaller vessels—on his tail wasn’t any more maneuverable.

It was, however, fast. The Hegemony ship was accelerating after him, blasting its engines at nearly 80g. It was still a good way behind, but there was no doubt it could catch him…if whoever was in command wanted it badly enough. Stockton would get to the transit point before the vessel closed to range. One question loomed, and it carried with it the prospects of his survival. Would they chase him through the point? Were they willing to blast halfway across the next system to chase down a stray fighter? He hoped they wouldn’t, but his thoughts were darkened by the realization that he, himself, almost certainly would if he’d been giving the orders.

He checked his scanners, his eyes focused on the range display. He’d be through in less than ten minutes…and if the enemy continued at full thrust, he’d know an hour later, maybe sooner. If the escort came through the point, there wasn’t much doubt they would pursue him as far as they had to…and that meant his chance of escape would be about as close to zero as he could comprehend. He’d try to lose them, but with the Hegemony’s advanced thrust technology, there wasn’t much chance of that. His hope for escape rested on the enemy deciding he wasn’t worth the trouble.

That was true, to a point. One battered fighter was no threat to the Hegemony fleet…but he carried information now, data that he had to get to Admiral Winters. Did the Hegemony leaders realize how crucial it was for the Confederation command to understand their logistical capability? Or was that just normal to them?

Stockton didn’t know…but he would soon.

He watched as he approached the transit point, and he held his breath as his tiny craft slipped into the strange, still-poorly understood tube that offered the only way of effectively traveling at speeds beyond that of light. He’d never been a big fan of the feeling of transiting, and his own experience at long-distance flights had made it painfully clear to him that it was a damned sight more unpleasant in a small, unshielded fighter.

But it was his only hope to escape, and he gripped the sides of his chair and gritted his teeth as he felt the strange, alternate reality of the tube sweep over him.

*

“Captain…get your people back out there. We can’t pull back without the colonel…so find him!” Luther Holcott was frantic, covered in mud, and a bit of blood from a gash on the side of his neck. He was screaming orders as loudly as his tortured throat could manage.

He was also in command, at least until he could find Colonel Blanth.

He’d been right next to Blanth when an enemy shell had landed not far from their position. He remembered flying through the air, and hitting the ground so hard he was stunned he hadn’t broken anything. He’d been out for a while, though, ten minutes maybe, and in that time, his Marines had found him and carried him back from the open field that had turned into the front line.

But they hadn’t found Blanth.

That was upsetting, and Holcott was terribly worried about his friend and commander. His Marines had been pushed back, and as he stood on the small ridge, looking out over the blasted plain, he could see enemy tanks moving forward. The expanse of flat, open ground had been dangerous before, but it was about to become a killing ground. He had to get his people out, and he had to do it now.

But he had to find Steven Blanth, too.

He jumped off the small rise and began walking forward. Half a dozen Marines hastily followed.

“Major…please. You can’t go up there.” It was Captain Hoffman, one of his company commanders who was now effectively in charge of a battalion.

What was left of one, at least.

“Captain, supervise the withdrawal. You know the retreat routes as well as I…”

“No, sir.” It was disobedience, and the pain in the captain’s voice was clear. But the man stood firm.

“Captain Hoffman,” Holcott roared, but Hoffman interrupted him before he could continue.

“Sir, you’re in command of the entire defense until we find the colonel. You can’t go out there.”

“I can do whatever I see fit to do, Captain.” There was rage in Holcott’s tone…but as he finished, his expression softened. He wanted to find Blanth—he needed to find him. The colonel was the heart of the resistance, a true hero from the first defense of the planet. He couldn’t be dead, not this early. He just couldn’t. Not when his Marines needed him so badly.

But Holcott knew his duty…and what he owed to Blanth, what the lost commander would truly have wanted from his exec. He needed to find his friend…but the thousands of Marines in the field, who had just lost their commander, needed him more.

“All right, Captain…but I want this field searched, and I mean now. We don’t just bug out and leave our people behind.” Holcott knew his words carried more romance than truth. The realities of combat meant people were left behind all the time. There were Marines out there now, wounded, unable to retreat. He could send others after them, but they wouldn’t get halfway across the field. In his gut, he wanted to ignore that fact, send his Marines into the maelstrom to rescue their comrades. But his head knew the grim reality, that all he could do was get more Marines killed.

And he was going to need every fighter he could get if he was going to keep even a spark of resistance alive on Dannith.

That was something he had to do. For his duty, for the Confederation.

And for Steven Blanth.

*

Blanth struggled, trying desperately to wrench himself free of the iron grip holding him in place. His mind was fuzzy, and the resistance was more instinctual than anything, an animal’s need to escape from a trap.

His thoughts were swirling, and memories were coming back, slowly. He’d been out in the field, talking to Major Holcott. And then…

He’d blacked out. His body was still numb, but he’d recovered enough from the initial shock that he could feel where he’d been hit. His legs felt strange, and, as more seconds passed, awareness turned to pain. He could feel the wetness of blood, and the throb where bits of shrapnel had torn into his flesh.

“Hectoron, we have a prisoner. Based on the insignia analysis from the first campaign, I believe this to be a soldier of considerable rank.”

The words were heavily-accented, at least to Blanth’s ears, but the speech was standard Imperial, the same language spoken throughout most of the Rim. He struggled again, to no avail, and then he leaned his head back and growled at his captors, “I’m no soldier, you miserable vermin. I’m a Marine.”

“Silence!” It was the same voice he’d heard seconds before, and, almost immediately, the grip holding him tightened. He winced in pain as he was yanked backwards.

“Good work, Decaron. Your troops are to be commended. The plain is clear, and we have established a secure zone ten kilometers out from the primary landing zones.” The figure, at first a shadowy image at the edge of Blanth’s peripheral vision, moved closer, and became clearer. It was an armored soldier, and like the others, he had implants, chunks of metal protruding from inside his body. Blanth had been a Marine all his adult life, and he’d always considered himself to be tough. But the sight of the man standing in front of him, the look of the dark, metallic—what was it, an exoskeleton of sorts?—gave him a chill.

“What are you called?” The voice was deep, so much so it almost had a mechanical sound to it. Blanth stood for a few seconds before he realized the soldier had been speaking to him.

“Blanth,” he said, his tone raw, hostile. “Colonel Blanth.”

“You are an officer? You rank highly in the command structure of the defensive forces?”

Blanth stood, silent, unmoving.

“You are required to answer.”

The Marine stood, mustering every bit of defiance he could.

“You will answer my questions…or we will employ sanctions.” The man’s voice was without emotion, and yet there was a threat implicit in every word. But Blanth was a Confederation Marine, and as far as he was concerned, these circus freaks could shove it.

“Eat shit.” He’d somehow imagined a wittier response when he’d thought of himself facing an enemy as a captive. But it would serve.

He struggled to hold in his cry as something slammed into his lower back from behind. It was hard, steel or something similar, and at first, he thought it was a weapon. Then he saw the metal gloves most of the soldiers wore. At least they didn’t look surgically attached…though on closer inspection, the troopers all seemed to have small studs protruding from their wrists.

“You will suffer needlessly if you resist. We are not here to harm you…it is your own refusal to yield that makes destruction and suffering necessary. Submit, aid us in bringing your people into the embrace of the Hegemony so they may assume their rightful place in an ordered society. The Masters will welcome you, and they will guide you, lead you, as they do for all of us.”

Blanth wasn’t sure what to say, what response could communicate what he thought of the words he’d just heard. All he knew was “eat shit” didn’t even come close.

“Prepare the grid,” the man said, after a moment of silence. “We will see what endurance the prisoner possesses.”

Blanth didn’t like the sound of that one bit…but he’d known something of the sort was coming. The sooner these half robot soldiers knew what they were facing, the better. Do your worst…

The thought roared into his mind with all the defiance he had in him. But he was scared shitless, too. That was okay, normal…as long as he didn’t let them know it. Showing the enemy his weakness would be his true defeat.

“Attach the prisoner to the grid.”

Blanth tried to suppress a shiver, but before the soldiers could drag him to whatever nightmare awaited him—and they would have to drag him—a voice called out.

“That will not be necessary, Hectoron.”

Blanth turned his head toward the sound, and his eyes set on a woman standing several meters away, with four of the armored warriors flanking her, two to a side.

She wore what appeared to be light combat armor, but she had none of the implants Blanth had seen on the other soldiers. In fact, she looked almost like a model dressed up as a soldier, the kind of thing from a movie, where an actress was far more attractive than the individual she was playing. It wasn’t even that she was beautiful, in the sense of pure sexual attractiveness. She was nearly…perfect. Her proportions, her facial structure, the thick, but closely cropped, hair on her head.

This must be a Master…

That thought was confirmed when the soldiers all around him dropped down to one knee. “Master Carmetia…of course, as you command.”

Blanth found the whole genetically-organized societal setup of the Hegemony—at least as much as he knew about it—to be repugnant. But something about—Carmetia, was that a name, a rank, some kind of designation?—was mesmerizing in a way he couldn’t quite explain.

“There is no need to mistreat the prisoner. His caution is quite understandable.” She turned toward one of the soldiers standing beside her. “Lintilus, this man is to be taken to my ship.” Blanth stood fixated as her eyes moved over his body. “He is injured. See that he receives medical care at once.”

“Yes, Master Carmetia.” The soldier snapped his reply with a sharpness Blanth would have approved of in any of his Marines. “Come,” the man said gruffly, extending an armored hand toward the stunned Marine.

“Go with my guards…” Her eyes fell to his rank insignia. “…Colonel. No harm will come to you, you have my word. My people will see to your wounds, and then we can…talk.” She nodded, almost imperceptibly, as two of her soldiers took position on either side of Blanth.

The Marine just stared back, stunned, and then he moved forward, allowing the enemy soldiers to lead him. There was no reason to disobey. No one was asking him questions, nothing that could harm his Marines or the defensive effort…and his leg hurt like hell. If they were really going to tend to his wounds, he couldn’t see any reason to resist.

Besides, he wouldn’t get very far trying to escape now. His legs could barely hold him. Once they treated his wounds…well, then he just might manage to find a way out.

That seemed wildly unrealistic, but then, Blanth was a Marine.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

500,000 Kilometers from CFS Constitution

Miramar System

Five Transits from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“All right everybody, listen up.” Olya Federov sat in her cockpit, and her anger and impatience grew with each passing second that passed, as the cacophony on the main comm line continued unabated. “Quiet!” she finally roared, allowing her rage and her frustration—not to mention the pain she felt at Stockton’s absence—to pour into her words. Fighter pilots were a notoriously unruly bunch, but the sheer force of her will, and the ferocity of her final shout, brought total silence. She hadn’t come to a full realization yet, but in the depths of her subconscious, she was pulling the threads together. She was the leader of the fleet’s strike force now. Perhaps even the entire fighter corps of the navy.

At least until Stockton made it back. That seemed impossible, but she hadn’t given up yet either. She just couldn’t let him go, not yet.

She looked at her scanner. The enemy fleet was approaching, as vast and apparently every bit as invincible as it had been at Dannith. The fighter wings had fought hard there, what seemed like just hours before, though she knew it had been almost two weeks since then. Still, that was a very short time between full-scale battles.

Especially in this war, where the squadrons carried so much responsibility for engaging the enemy. Returning fighters were refit and turned around almost immediately, with just enough time for fuel and ordnance to be loaded and exhausted pilots to wolf down a sandwich, and grab an hour’s rest…maybe. Assuming they could find a way to sleep amid combat, jostled by desperate maneuvers and assaulted by the shouts of the injured and dying.

It wasn’t fatigue Federov was worried about, nor fear. It wasn’t the dedication that was missing, either. The pilots had always given that. The fighter wings knew what they had to do, and they knew what would happen to their comrades, to the Confederation…to their friends and loved ones at home, if they didn’t give all they had.

But, for the first time in this war, they were going in without their leader. Without the legendary hero who had set the example they had all followed for so long. The one pilot that every man or woman strapped into a Lightning revered above all others.

Federov had served alongside Jake Stockton since the two were both squadron leaders on the old Dauntless, and even then, she’d been mesmerized by the pilot’s seemingly magical talent. She still remembered the day then-Captain Barron had arrived to take command of the vessel…and the adventures they’d all shared, the exploits that seemed almost unreal across the fuzzy stretch of intervening years.

She smiled for an instant, remembering Stockton’s close relationship with Kyle Jamison, Dauntless’s strike force commander in those days…and also an anecdote that made her smile. The two men had been the best of friends, brothers, as close as any she’d ever seen…but apparently not close enough for quite all their secrets to be surrendered. Federov had long kept a secret from Stockton, from everyone on both vessels named Dauntless and, later, Repulse as well. She and the usually-straitlaced Kyle Jamison had briefly been lovers, a torrid, wild, and completely inappropriate relationship…and one she was sure Stockton had never known about.

She’d mourned Jamison bitterly, though their affair had been long over by the time he’d fallen…but she didn’t have the luxury now of feeling grief over Stockton’s loss. She had to take his place…and she knew doing so, being there to help the fighter wings through their ordeal, was the greatest honor she could give to her friend.

Through it all, she refused to quite accept he was gone. A spark in her mind clung to the belief that he would turn up again, separated from the strike force, but not lost. It seemed almost impossible, but she told herself when—if—he did return, she would tell him about Jamison…and the two could share remembrances of their old comrade and friend. But there was no time for such thoughts just then, no room for weakness or melancholy remembrances as the enemy approached.

Only for war.

“There’s no point ignoring the thing that’s on everybody’s mind,” she continued, practically screaming into the comm and struggling to keep her own grief out of her voice. “Raptor was our leader, and for many of us, our friend. He was the best fighter pilot I’ve ever known, perhaps the best that ever served the Confederation.” She paused. She still held a hope her friend was alive, but with cold calculation, she’d decided the pilots of the fleet’s strike force would gain more from rage and vengeance than from hope, that there and at that moment, there was advantage to be gained from them avenging Stockton, throwing themselves into the fire, like wild demons drunk on blood.

She forced out her next words by pure strength of will, determined to awaken the darkest depths of her people’s minds. “But he’s gone now, lost, as so many of our other comrades have been. And yet, he is here with us, too. He always will be. He built this strike force, led us into battle, and helped us develop the tactics to engage this new and deadly enemy. Mourn our lost leader, drink to him when the battle is over…but for now, think only of the one thing you can still do for him. Avenge his death.”

She paused for a few seconds, and then continued. “You can only fail him if you allow grief to rule you now. The enemy is there. Go forward, engage…and make ‘Raptor’ Stockton proud…because he’s watching over us.” She shut down her outgoing comm and listened, waiting for a resumption of the wild and raucous banter. But there was nothing. Only grim silence.

She turned back toward her screen, and she gripped the controls of her fighter, sucking in a deep breath as she readied herself once again to take her ship in, to put her torpedo right into the guts of one of those massive battleships.

To avenge Jake Stockton.

*

“Bring us around…thrust 6g directly to port.” Sonya Eaton pushed herself back into her chair, leaning into the cushioning and bracing for the force she knew would hit any second. The last hit Repulse had taken had spared her vital systems, her weapons and power generation. But, in a fluke, the dampeners had gone down completely. The complicated system that absorbed much of the force of acceleration was completely dead, and it didn’t seem likely it would be back online anytime soon, especially with the vessel’s two senior engineering officers both out of action.

Repulse had been doubly fortunate in the gifted engineers running its damage control operations. Walt Billings was an incredibly capable officer, and one who’d learned at the feet of the master, Anya Fritz. Despite her position as the fleet’s overall engineering officer, Fritz herself had ended up on Repulse, both her and Billings sliding into their old, familiar roles.

And now both of them were in sickbay, poisoned by radiation and near death from the reports she’d last received. Sonya hadn’t been part of Tyler Barron’s old Dauntless crew, as many of her people had been. Barron’s old veterans were a close-knit group, and all throughout Repulse’s corridors, she knew many of her people were devastated as the rumors flew around, their thoughts on their stricken comrades as they worked feverishly at their battle stations. She’d heard some talk that Billings and Fritz were dead, but she knew that wasn’t the case, at least not as of her last report five minutes before.

Those who’d never served on Barron’s legendary vessel had cause to mourn as well, for not one of them would still be alive without the efforts—and the sacrifice—of the two engineers laying below decks, entombed in medpods and desperately clinging to life.

“Engaging thrust now…” Fuller’s report was loud, his voice strong…a warning to the rest of the bridge crew to prepare for what was coming.

An instant later, Repulse lurched abruptly, her positioning thrusters reorienting the ship for the new thrust vector. Sonya and the rest of her people felt six times their body weight slamming into them. It was hard on her and on the rest of her people, and it would almost certainly degrade their combat effectiveness. But, mostly, she was worried about the casualties down in sickbay. Fritz and Billings, of course, but also the eighty or so of Repulse’s complement who’d been wounded in the current fight. The battle had been raging for almost ten hours, and Admiral Winters had directed the fleet with a skill that bordered on wizardry. He’d split the line into multiple segments, maneuvered constantly to bring his heaviest units toward the weakest spots in the enemy formation…and he’d struggled to keep his units clear as often as he could from the enemy’s deadly railguns.

He’d sent Olya Federov and her people in again and again. As ruthless as he’d been in ordering the exhausted pilots back out for the fourth or fifth time without rest, Sonya wasn’t sure they’d have obeyed any other order. Federov had worked them into a wild frenzy of rage and hatred toward the enemy, and she’d filled them with the desire—no, the need—to avenge their lost leader. Jake Stockton had led countless attacks, and he’d done so with almost unmatched skill and effectiveness, but Sonya wasn’t sure he’d ever served the fleet with greater effectiveness than he had in this battle. Not by his presence, but by the deadly viciousness his loss had awakened in his pilots. There had been almost a dozen suicide runs, and hundreds of the bombers had made wild, reckless runs, closing to distances unheard of before launching their deadly plasma torpedoes. Losses had ramped sharply from previous engagements, but so, too, had the damage inflicted on the relentlessly approaching enemy line.

Alicia Covington and her people had hardly been less aggressive, though the pilots from Grimaldi hadn’t served as long with Stockton as the White Fleet veterans had. Still, Covington had led her wings in alongside Federov’s and, together, they’d savaged the forward Hegemony units, spreading their assault all along the enemy front line, seeking to damage as many battleships as they could.

Sonya almost commed Federov to tell the pilot to try and calm her people down. If the squadrons kept going the way they were, with no rest and almost no food, their combat effectiveness would plummet. Hundreds more would die.

But she hadn’t said a word. First, although Federov was billeted aboard Repulse, she was commanding the entire fighter corps, and that made Sonya’s authority to issue her orders fuzzy, at best.

And, second, the wild, unrelenting attacks were working. The battle was still hopeless, and Sonya knew the fleet would eventually have to make a run for it, find some other system to make the next stand. But the intensity of the fighter assaults had hit the Hegemony formations hard, killing almost a dozen of their largest battleships outright.

And, so, you let them go. Winters let them go. Federov, who commands them, worked them into a frenzy, and now we all watch as they sacrifice themselves to the altar of vengeance.

Yes, she answered herself. Because there is no other way.

“Prepare to reduce thrust to 1g, Commander.” Sonya turned toward the exec, gritting her teeth against the force pushing against her. She’d managed to get the words out, but at 6g, it had taken considerable effort. She might have maintained the thrust for a bit longer, gained a little more velocity along Repulse’s new vector. But, the longer she maintained 6g, the more of her wounded would die.

You owe Fritz and Billings a chance…

She owed all her wounded a chance, of course, but thinking of the two engineers, of the heroism they’d shown in saving the ship and everyone on it…she just couldn’t give up on them.

Despite the fact that the doctors had said they were both likely to die no matter what was done. The two of them were in deep comas, still alive at all only because the medpods had them in near-cryostasis.

And, you will have to blast even harder than 6g when the admiral issues the retreat order, so what are you gaining?

The medpods had some dampener systems installed in the units, but they weren’t strong enough, especially not if Repulse really had to make a run for it.

When…

If the dampeners weren’t back online by the time she got the retreat order, Fritz and Billings—and most of her badly wounded spacers—would die.

That thought haunted her…but it wasn’t her focus, not now. She looked at the display, at the wounded Hegemony battleship directly ahead. Repulse’s primaries were down, but most of the battleship’s starboard broadside was functional.

And the blast of thrust had brought her well within range.

“Positioning jets, Commander…bring the starboard guns to bear.”

“Yes, Captain.” She could hear the predatory tone in Fuller’s voice, the almost unrestrained need to strike at the enemy. And she approved wholeheartedly.

She watched as the ship came about, as the targeting computers displayed the firing lines to the enemy vessel. She waited, letting Repulse close, risking the effect of the target’s diminished, but still dangerous, fire.

She winced as a flash whipped across the display, a near miss. Very near. She turned and looked around, trying to disguise her reaction the best she could. Her spacers were veterans, but they didn’t need to see their captain looking shocked or scared.

She was holding onto the armrests, her fingers clenched tightly. She’d been in battle many times, but her rise to ship command was fairly new, and she realized just how different it was to be in charge, to face not only the fear of death, but to be the one everyone else looked to for salvation.

That kind of thing continued up the chain of command. She realized what it had to be like for Winters, his own ship in the thick of the fight, while he carried the responsibility for the entire fleet.

Hell, not just the fleet. Until we get reserves, Winters is all that stands between the Hegemony and billions of Confederation civilians…

She watched, keeping her wandering thoughts at bay, confined to the edge of her mind as she waited for the right moment to fire.

Seconds slipped by, one after the other, slowly, time seeming almost to have frozen. And then she knew.

It was time.

“Full broadside,” she roared across the bridge. “Fire.”

Chapter Thirty

Old City District

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Andi paused in the hotel lobby, a sudden cold feeling taking her. She was registered under an alias, a very good false identity supplied to her by Gary Holsten, but she was still nervous. Her mind was racing, trying to examine every action, every step she took. She had to assume Ricard Lille at least suspected she was the one who’d almost killed him…and that meant the assassin was after her, even as she was tracking him.

She’d almost relied on her false identity, but then she thought about how she would proceed in Lille’s shoes. She would check for new arrivals, for hotel registrations…and for a hundred other things. More than likely, he had at least some access to the networks of security cameras, in the hotels, and every establishment she’d visited since she’d arrived.

She turned and walked back toward the street, quickly, but not so fast as to draw attention to herself. She was suddenly aware of all the places that looked down on her position, of every corner, vantage point, or balcony where a sniper could be waiting.

She walked out through the main doors, perspiration pooling on her back, along her forehead, a testament to her edginess. The weather was quite pleasant, a bit cool if anything, and the sweat matting her clothes to her back was from fear, not the temperature.

Andi was no stranger to high risk operations, but she’d never felt so exposed before. As far as she knew, Ricard Lille had simply left Megara after the assassination attempt…but she didn’t believe that. That wasn’t his style at all. He would take her effort to kill him as a threat, of course, but also a challenge. They were locked in mortal combat now, and only one of them would leave the Confederation’s capital planet. Lille wouldn’t run, and Andi damned sure wouldn’t, either.

She moved down the street, trying to stay among the crowds as she did. She was in the center of Troyus’s most exclusive district, and she suddenly realized she needed to cast aside physical comfort and find some nondescript dump in the Outer Ring, someplace where she would draw less attention, where she could plot her next move.

She’d done what she could to track Lille, but so far without success. She’d taken the risk of checking out every other location her evidence suggested had the slightest chance of being a Sector Nine cover. Those efforts had been dangerous, and entirely fruitless. She’d been hot on Lille’s trail, but since her attack had missed its mark, the trail had gone cold.

Lille expect her to keep looking for him, she was sure of that, and she’d approached every former safe house as though it was a trap, staking them out, watching for any signs of activity. Every one of them had been deserted. No killers waiting to ambush her, no operatives at all. They were all just closed down, the buildings abandoned, and whatever had been inside—files, weapons, databanks—gone.

Sector Nine had gone deep in Troyus City, pulled in its operations, sent its people into hiding. For all she knew, the Union agents who’d been operating on Megara were all off-planet now, withdrawn after her failed assassination attempt.

Even if they’re all gone, Lille is still here…

Andi moved, maintaining her swift pace, but trying to look as natural as she could. There was danger beyond an assassination attempt from Lille. She was wanted on Megara, and the pistol she’d hidden so carefully under her jacket was illegal in Troyus. It wouldn’t take someone recognizing her to end up in a Troyus prison, just any enforcement officer catching a view of her gun. An arrest would lead to her identification, and her transfer to Senate custody, no doubt to face charges of treason.

Or maybe just disappear. She had no idea what had happened on Megara, but it wasn’t good, and she had no idea what would happen if she ended up in custody.

Assuming she ever got to whatever fate the Senate or the conspirators behind the scenes might devise for her. If she was a prisoner, she suspected Lille would manage to take her out in a matter of days, if not hours, long before any other punishment became relevant.

She walked into the tram station, turning and heading toward the outbound Yellow line, the one that led out to the stark and blocky buildings of Troyus’s public housing projects. It was a crime-riddled neighborhood, and a place no wealthy or middle class Troyus-dweller would be caught dead.

And maybe a place Lille wouldn’t look for her, at least not right away…though she was far from sure about that. Her enemy was clever, capable, almost beyond understanding. Underestimating him would almost certainly be suicidal.

But she could find a place to tie into the data nets out in the Western Ring, someplace she wouldn’t trip off a dozen alarms. She needed time to monitor the various feeds.

Time to figure out where Ricard Lille had gone…and what his next move would be. So she could devise her next move.

*

“That’s hard to believe, Gary. How could something like that have happened? I know you’ve got enemies in the Senate, but I find it astonishing a cabal like this is even possible. A move against you, some planted evidence, a bogus trial, maybe. But, hundreds of naval officers implicated…and a nonentity like Whitten given command of the fleet?” Van Striker paused. He was sitting at a round table in the apartment Holsten had secured as a place for them to hide. There was a large plate in front of him, empty now, save for a few tiny streaks of sauce clinging to the porcelain. Striker hadn’t realized how hungry he was, how inadequate his meager rations had been, until he was free again. Jon Peterson had gone out three times to get more food, mostly takeout from the nearby restaurants…and Striker had almost inhaled it all as he sat and listened, and Holsten brought him up to date on all that had transpired while he was held captive.

“Ricard Lille. Sector Nine.” Holsten’s voice was cold, deadpan. Striker heard the words, and he could feel his insides tense, the food he’d just eaten suddenly feeling like a cannonball in his gut. He doubted his friend knew for sure the Union’s intelligence agency was behind all that had happened, but it explained his own abduction…and a lot of other things. Lille had kidnapped him, and if he’d remained free, he certainly would have interfered with much of what had apparently gone on since his abduction.

“So, what do we do next?” Striker was trying to get his mind back into the flow of events. They had a shortage of solid information, but perhaps worse, they had lost most of their own power and influence. Both of them had been relieved of their positions, and while Striker suspected there were a lot of officers he could approach and recruit to aid him, he was painfully aware that some would consider that treason. He’d have to be extremely careful in who he approached. It would only take one wrong choice to turn him in.

Holsten had clandestine contacts as well, he knew, capable and well-placed agents he could draw upon. But they were still talking about moving against the Senate. Some Senators would have to be removed, those who were guilty, either of willful treachery, or of astonishing stupidity…and Striker couldn’t think of any way to make that happen, not short of the use of force.

Rebellion? Civil War? What else can you call it?

Even if they reinstated the Senate immediately after any action, minus the purged members, of course, the Confederation would never be the same again. There would be no way to change the fact that the military had seized power, and chosen who could remain in the Senate and who was removed. That reality would hang over the future like a dark shadow, and the belief the people had in the fundamental freedom of their nation would be forever lost.

“You’re where I was, Van…a few months ago.” Holsten looked intently at Striker. “You’re working through all the guilt, the torment about what you already know we have to do. And you haven’t even seen the data Tyler brought back, the scope of this new enemy, the deadly threat they pose.” Holsten paused, letting his words hang heavily in the air for a moment. “We have to do this, my friend…and we have to do it now, with whomever we can rally to our side, whatever resources we can scrape up. From what little information I’ve been able to gather, it seems like Tyler has defeated Torrance Whitten…and he’s on the way here with a large chunk of the fleet.”

“I wish I’d had a chance to bet on that matchup.” Striker felt a tiny spark of much-needed amusement. He’d spent considerable time over the past few years making up postings for Whitten and others like him, legacy officers from old navy families who lacked the skill and courage of their illustrious parents and grandparents. “Putting Whitten up against Tyler is like throwing a rabbit in the cage with a Nordoran death cat.”

Holsten smiled. “That’s true, though I can’t say Tyler feels any better about what he’s had to do than you. To be honest, I think if it wasn’t for the Hegemony invasion, he’d have given himself up before he’d have fired on Confederation spacers.”

Striker was silent for a moment. He’d been worried about the whole situation in theoretical terms, but any move against the Senate would involve Confederation personnel fighting their comrades.

Killing their comrades. Even a bloodless coup was rarely literal. Men and women were going to die…men and women he’d commanded.

He realized, too, that none of that mattered. The die was already cast, and tragedy was coming. All they could do was try to minimize the damage.

“We have to move, Gary,” he blurted out, “and we have to do it now. If Tyler gets here with the fleet, and the Senate holds out…” Striker knew, perhaps better than any other human being, just what a battle between Megara’s orbital defenses and an attacking fleet would be like. He was just as aware what a landing would entail…and no matter what they did, there would be Confederation spacers and Marines on both sides. It would be a bloodbath.

“I agree…and John does as well.” Holsten glanced back at the Marine, and then he continued, “Tyler will do what he has to do, I’m sure of that. But let’s see if we can’t spare him having to hold Megara hostage under the guns of the fleet…or worse.”

Striker nodded. “Yes, let’s do that.”

*

“I want all those records destroyed. Immediately. We’re shut down as of now, and I want everything gone by morning.” Desiree Marieles stood outside her office at ITN, waving her arms and snapping out commands to the half dozen agents in the room. She’d been ready to pull the plug even before she’d found out that Ricard Lille had managed to let Van Striker escape, but now, with the admiral free, and by all accounts, Gary Holsten back on Megara, there was no choice. She’d lost most of her access, and there wasn’t anything she could do except hang around until Holsten or someone else managed to connect the dots and figure out what had really happened.

Then they would come looking for her. But she would be long gone before that day came. She was edgy about returning to Montmirail with such an ignominious end to an operation that had been, by any reasonable analyses, a great success. Confederation spacers had drawn each other’s blood, and whatever happened next, the Senate and the rest of the government was in virtual chaos. She knew she’d achieved more than Villieneuve had expected when he’d sent her, but she was also very aware how often success raised the bar of expectations. She would just have to make sure he saw things her way.

She’d thought about blaming Lille, trying to turn the focus on the assassin’s loss of Van Striker, but she’d decided that wasn’t a good way to go. Villieneuve and Lille had a strange, close relationship. The two of them seemed to be the closest thing each had to a real friend. If she was going to find a patsy to take some of the blame, Lille was the worst possible choice.

Besides…if you ever move against Ricard Lille and don’t kill him instantly…

She knew how dangerous the man was, and she didn’t need an enemy like that. Lille didn’t like her, and she didn’t want to push things any further in that direction.

And none of her other agents were senior enough to deflect any real scrutiny from her.

“Desiree…what about the Senatorial files?”

She turned toward the agent asking the question, but she didn’t answer right away. She’d compiled as much dirt as she’d been able to find on the Confederation Senators. That was useful intel, no question, and it seemed a shame to just lose it. But she doubted she’d ever be back on Megara again. There were just too many images of her, too many records of what she’d done, too many people she’d interacted with.

No, she wasn’t going to stay, not a minute longer than she had to. Once she boarded an outbound liner, she was done with the Confederation’s capital and, while the intel she’d gathered was useful, she wasn’t looking to take any added risks…and transmitting or carrying such sensitive material was a risk.

“Destroy the files. All of them.” Her mind was focused on one job now, above all others. Getting the hell off Megara. The prospect of spending her life in a Confederation prison was less than appealing.

Assuming they don’t just shoot you. They’re more squeamish about executions and the like than we are in the Union, but when this gets out, more than one head will roll…

“Understood, Desiree. Everything will be destroyed.” She could hear the edginess in the agent’s voice, and she knew her people were as anxious to get off Megara as she was. They weren’t blown yet, not exactly, but it was only a matter of time before Confederation Marines were bashing down the doors.

“Good. Get on it.” A pause. “And send Russell in here,” she added as she walked back into her office. She’d given some serious thought to whether she should clean out more than the records and files. Her agents were as likely to be liabilities now as anything else once they’d finished taking care of the files. Any of them who got caught could start hemorrhaging information immediately. Especially if Holsten gets ahold of one of them. The ex-head of Confederation Intelligence wasn’t as squeamish as most of his fellows. He’d do what he had to do to get the information he needed, especially in the current situation. Her people were tough…but tough enough to bet her life on?

Russell was the one she trusted the most, and as she waited for him to step into the office, she wondered if that confidence extended to ordering him to kill the others once they were finished. They’d been a team for months now, working together, Russell was a survivor, just as she was, and there would be a much better chance of a seamless escape if it was just the two of them.

She realized after a minute that no one had entered the room. She walked back to the door. “I said send Russell in here.”

No response. Just silence.

Then she heard something.

Her body tingled, every nerve in her body on fire. Something was wrong.

“Russell? Diedre?”

“Anyone?” She turned and dashed back to her desk, toward the drawer where she’d stashed a pistol. Her first thought was that Confederation authorities had indeed come to raid the office, but then she realized that wasn’t quite right. For one thing, a raid by Confederation Marines or police would be a lot louder.

She lunged around the desk, reaching down toward the drawer, just as she felt something on the back of her neck. Pain. Nothing too bad…just a touch. A pinprick of some kind.

She felt a heaviness in her body, and she stumbled forward, dropping to her knees as she saw a shadow moving across the room. She felt a cold reality in her gut.

“Ah, Desiree…we both knew this day would come, did we not?”

Her brain was fuzzy, her thoughts jumbled. But she recognized the voice.

Lille.

“I am sorry that the paralyzing agent shuts down your speech centers. I am sure your reactions, particularly your protestations, your urgings for mercy, would be a real treat.”

She felt something else, a distant feeling cutting through the numbness. He had moved up behind her and grabbed onto the back of her collar.

“You have done quite well here, Desiree. Far better than I had expected. Allow me to thank you on behalf of Gaston Villieneuve, and the Peoples Protectorate, for all you have done. You are a true hero of the Union.”

She could feel the panic rising inside her, and she tried to speak, to scream, but all her frantic efforts were for naught.

“I am sorry things had to end this way…” Lille paused, and when he resumed, his tone was darker, more sinister. “No, that’s not really true, is it? I actually found you quite annoying…and, to be blunt, this is how I prefer to end matters. You have outlived your usefulness. If you were to leave this office and attempt to return to Montmirail, at best you would be an irritant, constantly seeking rewards for your perceived success. At worst, you would be an outright liability, certainly in my own efforts to depart from here.”

She kneeled in place, struggling to move, to yell. But there was nothing. Only the cold fear deep inside.

Lille moved around, crouching down in front of her, his face close to hers, a smile on his face…and a long, slender blade in his hand.

“I thought about how to do this, Desiree. It would have been ridiculously easy to shoot you. I took your agents out with the darts, but I didn’t want to give you a lethal dose like theirs. I wanted you to know it was me…and to give you a moment to think of the times you tried to manipulate me, to turn me to your will, as you did so many others.”

She was screaming in her head, but not a sound came from her lips. She couldn’t move at all, couldn’t even feel the floor under her knees anymore.

“So, as with all dances, my dear Desiree, ours must come to an end.”

His arm extended slowly, and she could see the blade moving toward her throat.

“I am sorry to inform you, Desiree Marieles, on behalf of the Peoples Protectorate, that your services are no longer required.”

She saw Lille’s arm move, one swift, jerking action. But she didn’t feel anything, no pain, not even any pressure against her neck.

Only fuzziness as she felt her vision fade, and an image, a wave of red in the corner of her eyes, on the floor, pooling below her.

And then nothing at all.

Only the darkness.

*

Ricard Lille walked slowly down the hallway toward the main set of lifts. It was a weekend, late in the day, and while there were many people working on other floors of the ITN building, the executive offices were completely empty. He wasn’t sure if that was normal, of if Desiree Marieles had arranged for everyone but her agents to be away while she tried to clean house. That hadn’t been a concern to him, of course. If there had been an ITN executive or two working outside business hours, that would simply have upped the body count a bit. Ricard Lille didn’t seek out innocents who weren’t his targets, but he’d never let collateral damage interfere with a job either, or to mar his sense of satisfaction at its completion.

Lille’s mind was already elsewhere as he calmly slipped out of the ITN offices and back out onto the streets of Troyus City. In his mind, he checked off a box on the mental list he’d compiled. Lille was planning to get the hell out off of Megara, just like his latest victim had been. Marieles’s operation was in shambles now, and by all accounts, Tyler Barron was on the way with a powerful fleet. There seemed very little chance of accomplishing anything useful, and Megara wasn’t likely to be a healthy place for a Sector Nine operative in the near future. Certainly not for one as well-known as he was. He’d been away from home for a long time, and it would be good to get back to his villa, to his chef and his servants and his mistresses. It was time for a well-deserved period of rest and recreation.

But, first, he had a few more tasks to complete. There were boxes on his list still unchecked, and that simply wouldn’t do. The relaxation of his villa would be so much more satisfying after he’d eliminated all the…loose ends…preying on his mind.

Chapter Thirty-One

Balgadore Lowlands

40 Kilometers from Port Royal City

Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Let’s go…and keep it quiet. Everybody knows what to do. You get in and out, quick as lightning. Understood?” Luther Holcott crouched down below a rocky spur that cut across the low plain, creating a rough rise above the marshy ground off to the south. He knew he had no place being out of the headquarters shelter, much less this far forward with a strike team. But he’d spent the last several weeks pulling his Marines back—running away, as many of them had grumbled with considerable intensity—and digging them in along the positions Steve Blanth had prepared for just that purpose.

He listened to the responses his harangue had prompted. Semi-unintelligible grumbles, mostly…but at least they were all speaking softly. They all had headsets, so if they were going to give their positions away, they were going to do it by speaking too loudly. And Marines—especially pissed off Marines smarting from getting chased halfway across the planet—weren’t particularly good at silence.

He sighed softly. It was an axiom of war, or something of the sort, that no retreating army was ever in love with its commander, and Holcott had certainly found that to be the case. The Marines on Dannith thought of themselves as beaten—at least, as much as Confederation Marines ever did. Hiding out in the wilderness while ninety-nine percent of the population lived under occupation did not sit well with them.

He crept forward slowly, turning toward the sergeant just off to his side and giving a hand signal. His lead elements were getting close now, and he was right up front with the vanguard of the team. There was an image in his mind, one of him admonishing Steve Blanth, of reminding the colonel that he was the commander of the entire planetary defense, that he should be back in headquarters and not up where one errant shot could take him out. That kind of thing had all sounded good when he was the number two giving the lecture, but now he didn’t really want to think about it, and he damned sure didn’t want to listen to it from any of his officers. He’d sat underground for long enough. There was no point to preserving his forces to fight a guerilla campaign unless there actually was a guerilla campaign.

And he was there to see that it got good and started.

In about thirty seconds.

He’d already given the orders, and he knew his rocket teams were in position, lining up their final targeting. The Hegemony forces were impressive, and as hard as it was for an old Marine to acknowledge that anyone else might be a match for his people in a fight, he had to admit, the enemy warriors, bred for their roles and enhanced with God knows what in terms of their implants and exos, were damned tough in a fight.

But from the looks of things, they had a lot to learn about defeating insurgents as well-trained and capable as Marines. From what little he knew of the Hegemony, he suspected most of their battles had been fought against planetary inhabitants who had lost much of their technology in the Cataclysm and the centuries that followed. Not primitives, exactly, but certainly not well armed and equipped warriors determined to fight to the last.

His people were about to give them a good lesson in just what that kind of enemy was like.

He glanced down at the small receiver in his hand, just as the single green light flashed on. Everything was ready.

He looked out one last time, putting the portable scope to his eyes and kicking it up to mag 10. It didn’t look like the enemy had spotted any of his Marines yet. He’d been worried about getting everyone in place without triggering a response. Fifty of the enemy soldiers were escorting the convoy, and if they’d caught his Marines in the middle of deploying…

What would he have done if the enemy had caught his Marines moving forward? Would he have abandoned the unit and tried to get back to HQ? He couldn’t imagine doing something like that…but with an entire planet at stake, could the C-in-C risk death or capture in an engagement with fifty Marines hitting a convoy? Throwing himself forward with his Marines was a junior officer’s privilege, and Holcott began to truly realize that thousands of his people could die if the chain of command was disrupted. He’d had a hundred justifications for coming forward, but now he started to realize most of them were bullshit, excuses to do just what he wanted to do.

He shook his head, wishing for all the world that Blanth was there. The defense forces had lost their heart and soul with their commander, and Holcott doubted he could fill Blanth’s shoes.

More than anything, he wanted his old commander—his friend—to return and take back his place.

But that didn’t seem likely. He didn’t know Blanth was dead, not for sure, but he didn’t see how the officer could have survived. And that left everything, the whole hopeless, desperate struggle to him. He didn’t want it, but he had it…and he had to learn to behave more like a commander.

But first, he had to kick off the resistance campaign…and there was no reason to wait any longer to get it started.

“All positions,” he said, softly, but with what he hoped was firm resolve, “attack.”

*

“I did not bring you here to mistreat you, Colonel. That is not my wish at all. You have my assurance on that. I simply want to speak with you, to make you understand our intentions. Perhaps you will see the wisdom in them, and assist us in spreading the word to your people.” The Hegemony Master paused for a moment, and then she added, “You may very well save a great number of them if you cooperate.”

Blanth stared back at the woman—Carmetia, she had called herself—struck again, not by her beauty so much as the near-perfection of her proportions. She was in perfect physical condition, looking every bit the crack soldier he suspected she was. He found the notion of genetically “superior” humans ruling over everyone else repugnant, but he could feel the fear growing inside him at the prospect of a full-scale war with such people. Carmetia was formidable, and he couldn’t help but feel admiration of a sort for her, despite the fact that she was his enemy. He wondered, with a flush of concern, how many people in the Confederation would yield their freedom to the Masters in exchange for peace and prosperity.

“If you think I’m going to help you…convince…my people of anything, you’re insane. Unless you want me to tell them to dig and fight to the last.” He started back at his inquisitor, mustering his courage and the firmness of his voice. “But they don’t need to hear that from me. They know it already.”

“Yes, I have studied some records on your…Marines. You have much to be proud of, Colonel. For…unaltered…warriors, your fighters have an impressive battlefield record. You are overmatched now, of course, against the Kriegeri, but there is no shame in that. Our front-line soldiers have been bred for combat over generations and trained from birth for their roles. Your forces are not…enhanced. It is not a fair match by any measure, and yet, my analysis of the first invasion suggests that your people acquitted yourselves quite well.”

“Well enough to send your half-robot pets to hell.” Blanth didn’t raise his voice, nor did he allow hostility to creep into his tone. He simply said what he believed as matter-of-factly as he could. What he had to believe, if he wanted to cling to his sanity.

“Yes, well, my read of the reports—from both sides—suggests that the true cause of your victory was your control of local space after the arrival of additional fleet units. Had you not had air support, and had our forces not been cut off from supply and reinforcements, I suspect the outcome would have been considerably different. But that is of no importance now.” She paused for a few seconds. “So, Colonel…how can I convince you to aid us? Your people are wrongminded in their resistance. You saw that we did not use nuclear weapons in our assault, nor any other high yield ordnance. We did not bomb civilian targets. We have not come to kill your people, nor to hurt them in any way. You are being given a great honor, an invitation to become part of the Hegemony, to take your place in the reconstituted nation of all human beings in the galaxy.”

“An invitation? Delivered by invasion? By whatever you call those…cyborgs…you landed on Dannith? Your slaves? Is that what you’re offering? To take my Marines and turn them into…that?” He was keeping the anger from his tone, but a bit of disgust slipped in despite his efforts to stay neutral. He appreciated the abilities the enhancements gave the Kriegeri, but he couldn’t imagine doing…that…to people. The sight of the soldiers with their metallic protrusions sickened him, and Carmetia and her people were going to do that to his Marines over his dead body.

“The Kriegeri are not…cyborgs…as you put it, Colonel. They are human warriors, as you and your Marines are. But they are born into carefully managed breeding programs, with long lines of selected pairings to eliminate their weaknesses and build on their strengths, to prepare them for their work and to ensure that they are prepared for what they may be called upon to face. Their exoskeletal implants simply increase their strength and endurance, and allow them to utilize weapons systems that would be quite beyond the abilities of your own Marines.”

Blanth felt a wave of anger, but he suppressed it. He didn’t like being told what his Marines couldn’t do.

“They are not slaves, either, Colonel,” Carmetia continued. “There is no slavery in the Hegemony. Even the Defekts are left some self-determination, and they are only managed as closely as they are because they cannot care for themselves without our aid. Your own society imposes an array of laws and restrictions on your populations, does it not? The Hegemony’s system is not based on arbitrary laws, which so often are created only to preserve and enhance the power of the corrupt who control your systems of government. Is it so strange to rely on genetic capabilities, rather than politics, to choose leaders?”

Just then, an officer came into the room, stopping about three meters from the woman and dropping to one knee. Blanth was relieved. He was ready to continue arguing with Carmetia, but her words had taken him somewhat aback. He’d thought of patriotism in broad, general terms before. Country was an amorphous concept to him in some ways. He fought for the Confederation, whatever that meant, and not for the pack of thieves who governed virtually every world within it. He struggled to preserve the Confederation despite the injustices that afflicted so many billions of its people. The Union had made that easy…no amount of corruption and dishonest politics could make the Confederation the equivalent of the totalitarian nightmare ruled by Montmirail. But the Hegemony was different. On one level, the system seemed alien, and it utterly repulsed him. On another, he couldn’t help but seeing a certain logic in it…and that upset him perhaps the most.

“Pardon, Master Carmetia…my apologies for interrupting, but we have received a communique from the positions south of the capital city.” The new arrival spoke with reverent respect, and his avoided looking directly at Carmetia. “Unknown forces are attacking one of our supply convoys. We have dispatched reserve units to the scene…but I am afraid they may be too late to prevent…”

Blanth watched, noting the hesitation—fear?—in the Kriegeri’s voice as the officer finished his report.

Then Carmetia interrupted. “Very well, Hectoron. You have done what needed to be done. I will expect a full report on the action as soon as it is available. Dismissed.”

The soldier remained on his knee for a moment, and then he rose, walking briskly out of the room.

Carmetia was silent for a moment. Then she turned toward Blanth. “Do you see, Colonel? It has already begun…and I fear if you do not assist me in stopping this insanity now, I will be forced to increase the sanctions on your people. Help me save the lives of the citizens of this planet, and of your Marines as well. Tell me where your centers of resistance are located. I will offer your forces a chance to surrender with no fear of reprisal. That is not something I will be able to repeat later, after more damage has been done and I have been compelled to commit greater resources to the pacification of this world.”

Blanth looked back. He understood what she wanted, even saw what he read as a measure of sincerity in her words and promises. But he had only one response to give her, and try as he might, he couldn’t think of a non-profane way to express it.

So, he just sat there and remained silent.

*

“My name is Develia…and I understand your title is…Administrator?” The Master standing in the room was dressed in a crisp white uniform, and despite her smile and pleasant demeanor, she did not think much of the man she was greeting. She looked at the planetary Administrator, who her intelligence reports suggested was—had been—the planet’s chief executive. The man was flanked by two fully armored Kriegeri. Both of them were alert, looking as though they were ready to kill the prisoner at the slightest provocation.

She understood the soldiers’ efforts to protect her, but from the looks of the sorry figure they had escorted into her new…office…she could not imagine he was any real threat to her. He was clearly an Inferior, and while he was certainly above Defekt level, it was immediately obvious that he had been allowed to develop a sense of self-worth and importance far beyond anything justified by his abilities. The planet—Dannith, its people called it—was her first real field experience in assessing the Rim dwellers’ systems of government and their ways of life, but she already found the whole thing quite mystifying.

Who would allow a sorry specimen like this to rule over them?

“Yes…Develia. My name is Walter Cantor. I am the Chief Administrator of the planet Dannith, and…”

“Correction, Walter…you were the Chief Administrator. I am now the military governor of this world, and just so we are clear, my authority is absolute.” She could sense the tension in her guards, the anger at the prisoner’s presumption to address her by her name—despite her quasi-invitation to do so—and without even the prefix “Master.” It was inappropriate, and she would have disciplined one of her own people for such a transgression…but Carmetia had been clearly briefed about procedures. The fleet would proceed to the center of the Confederation and crush the enemy’s will to resist with a lightning strike. While that was taking place, the occupying forces on the worlds along the line of advance would offer an easy way for the Rim dwellers to embrace Hegemonic rule. Force was to be employed only against those actively resisting, and others were to be handled as gently as possible—subject, of course, to their absorption into the Hegemony’s system.

So, she humored the fat, obnoxious Rim dweller’s presumption. He could be of help to her, and her initial impression suggested that he would be easy to control…and compel.

“Yes, of course, I understand. I just want to ensure the…easiest possible transition.” He didn’t use her name again, and she wondered if he’d sensed the reaction from the soldiers. That would suggest some basic animal common sense in the fool. “What can I do for you?”

She looked at him and hid the disgust she felt. Her mission was to bring the occupied population under control, to ease them into life as subjects of the Hegemony…but those who yielded so quickly earned only her contempt. She would use people like the Administrator, and perhaps expend them in the process of bringing the population in line, but whatever happened, she would see that such weak, disloyal types were remembered when the genetic testing began. There was no way in the Hegemonic system to raise any subject’s test results…not even Akella, Number One herself, could increase the result an individual taking the great test. The Hegemony was built on the premise that only the very best should rule, that the strongest bloodlines must always prevail.

But Carmetia had extraordinary powers as military governor, and she had some powers beyond those that existed on normal worlds of the Hegemony. She could impose deductions on the test results of any of the people of Dannith, for example, or simply take a candidate out of the running entirely, cast him down with the Defekts. It was amusing to imagine the creature standing before her, so corrupt and soft, trying to survive among the mutated, and often savage, inhabitants of one of the Defekt planets.

She stared at the whiny shadow of a man. That was very likely just what she would do…once his usefulness was at an end. The citizens of the planet had been given the freedom to elect their own leaders, a strange enough concept from her perspective, and Cantor was what they had chosen. No pathetic, power-hungry piece of dirt like the Administrator could climb to high positions in the Hegemony government. That didn’t mean all Masters were as dedicated or as honest as others, nor could she say the Hegemony was free from corruption, but she couldn’t recall a…creature…like Cantor ever in any comparable position back home. Dishonest and incompetent rule was a blight under any circumstances, but corruption without ability seemed an absurdity, and she wondered why any people would accept it.

She understood better why the fleet was there, and what was at stake. The conquest of the Rim would strengthen the Hegemony, bring in more industry and new genetic lines. The Hegemony was the future or humanity, the hope to avoid any repeats of nightmares like the Great Death. That was reason enough, but the absorption would also save these people from themselves, from the poor choices they had made when given power they couldn’t understand or control.

“I am pleased at the practicality of your mindset, Walter.” She had almost called him “Administrator,” more out of politeness and feigned respect than anything, but he seemed like the sort who would read too much into such treatment. “Let us sit.” She extended her arm toward a small table with four chairs around it. Then she waved to the two soldiers, who, with grudging looks on their faces, stepped back almost immediately. “We have much to talk about.”

She gestured again toward the table and waited as Cantor stepped forward slowly and sat in the closest chair. “Walter and I will be just fine, Decaron. You may wait outside.” Develia was not the sort to take unnecessary chances, but in the unlikely event Cantor tried to overpower her…well, if she couldn’t handle a miserable specimen like him, then her death would be a form of needed natural selection.

“Yes, Master Develia.” The soldier was clearly unhappy with the order, but it was equally evident that the thought of disobeying the Master, or arguing against her command, was utterly unthinkable to him. He bowed his head, then waved to the other Kriegeri. The two soldiers swiftly walked out into the hallway, leaving Develia alone with the former Administrator.

“Now, Walter, where shall we begin? There is so much to discuss.” She paused. She knew exactly what she wanted, but she had noticed a certain amount of pointless chatter was a major part of the customs of the Rim dwellers. She could not understand why they had patience for such a volume of pointless and ineffectual prattle, but she figured, the more comfortable they were, the easier they would be to manipulate.

And manipulation was a far preferable tactic to violent sanctions…or even genocide.

“We both know,” she continued, her voice soft and pleasant, “it is in everyone’s interests to minimize the suffering of those on this world, Walter. Perhaps you can share with me any knowledge you have on the positions and intent of the armed military personnel who appear to have withdrawn to the planet’s most inaccessible regions.” She stared intently at Cantor, amused at the near panic she saw him trying to restrain. It was clear he did not want to help her track down the soldiers resisting the occupation…but just as obvious he didn’t have the stomach to truly resist.

“Oh yes,” she added, “one other thing. My people are assembling a database of Dannith citizens who are most likely to create…difficulties…with the new order. Your aid in this effort would be most helpful. Perhaps you can offer us some names…those of the population most likely to be…problematic.”

Chapter Thirty-Two

CFS Constitution

Miramar System

Five Transits from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“Another enemy battleship destroyed, Admiral. That makes nineteen.”

Winters didn’t need his aide’s reminder on the number of enemy capital ships his fleet had taken out. And we’ve lost seven, he added silently to the equation. Though, technically, Stafford and Glorious weren’t entirely gone, just dead in space while any survivors still aboard scrambled to escape in whatever small craft and lifepods were still functional.

He would have worried about where he was going to land the squadrons from those wrecked battleships, but the strike force’s soaring casualties had kept that task manageable in scale. The squadrons would have to be redirected, the formations from the lost ships sent to others with available space…but Commander Sinclair over on Repulse would handle most of that…and a quick glance at the holes in the OB told him she wouldn’t have much trouble.

Winters was amazed his forces had managed to inflict so much damage. It was a fact he owed to the unrestrained, suicidal bravery of Stockton’s fighter wings. The Lightnings had streaked across the battle zone, blasting their engines to almost unmanageable velocities and attacking with outright abandon.

Who would have thought Stockton’s greatest battle would be the one that followed his…death? Winters was as reluctant as any of his people to accept the final loss of the great strike force commander, but he was a realist. Stockton was almost certainly gone. Even if he had survived the initial fighting around Dannith, he’d been abandoned there by the fleet, left behind without fuel and surrounded by the massive forces of the enemy.

Winters felt guilty for leaving Stockton, if indeed his fleet had left the pilot behind alive. He felt the pain for all the pilots he knew had been left to die, floating in their survival gear or sitting in their crippled ships. He couldn’t speak to whether Stockton had been one of those, or if the legendary ace had simply been killed in the battle…and it didn’t really matter. Not anymore.

He understood the anger the pilots were experiencing. He’d felt rage in battle before, himself—he felt it even then, as he sat in the center of Constitution’s massive bridge. He knew just what fury and power the need for revenge could unleash. Still, he’d never seen anything like the wild vortex the fleet’s pilots had let loose across the system.

More than thirty of them had slammed their ships into enemy battleships. How many had been deliberate suicide attacks, as opposed to those who’d simply come in too close and hadn’t been able to pull up in time, was a mystery he’d never solve. Whatever the intent, he mourned for the lost pilots…though he relished the immense damage they inflicted at the enemy. Whatever the Hegemony had expected from the…genetic inferiors…of the Rim, Winters suspected it was not what they were getting at Miramar.

Winters stared at the display, at the lines of his remaining capital ships and the clouds of smaller escorts formed up around them. And at the numbers scrolling down along the side, the figures that told him just how many fighters his wings had lost.

He wanted to stay in the fight. He was angry, consumed with black rage at the Hegemony and its fleets that had invaded his homeland, killed his people. He bristled at what he knew of their almost alien society, and he strained to think of something…anything…he could do to prolong the fight, to somehow defeat the enemy force that was overwhelming his own. Despite every tactic he could devise, and every display of remarkable heroism by his people, victory was even more out of reach than it had seemed when the enemy had first arrived.

He only had one option. Retreat. Stay with the plan. Pull the enemy deeper into Confederation space…make logistics his ally in a battle against a force he couldn’t defeat in a straight up fight.

He hesitated, sitting for just a few seconds, watching as makeshift task forces continued to attack sections of the enemy formation. His fleet was a scattered mess…and that was his own fault. He’d stayed too long, allowed himself to be seduced by the damage his people had inflicted, to believe it affected the tactical situation more than it did.

He had to call the retreat now…and it was going to be chaos. He would take more losses before he could extricate his people, he was sure of that.

And he was just as certain of one other thing. He’d have to order the fighter squadrons launched once more, even as their motherships were breaking off, a final assault to cover the fleet’s escape.

That would also mean a dicey rush effort to land the small craft as the fleet’s battleships were racing toward the transit point.

And it probably meant leaving some of them behind. Again.

Like you did with Stockton.

*

“Tony, get in here…now!” Nora Santorini stood in the blazing light of the operating theater’s harsh, white lights. The pale gray of her scrubs was almost gone, replaced by bright red stains, the result of the blood rituals she’d been engaged in for…how many hours now?

She’d been working around the clock since Repulse went into battle…no, even before. She’d been in sickbay for two weeks now, almost without a break, sleeping an hour here and there slumped over her desk, but otherwise staring at the medpods that held Anya Fritz and Walter Billings. The two engineers had been brought to her on the precipice of death, and that was where they remained, despite her efforts to cleanse them of the radiation contamination that was killing them. She’d repaired a good amount of the massive cellular damage the radiation had caused. If she hadn’t, they’d both have been long dead. She’d intervened surgically, multiple times, administered every drug she knew of that could help, done all she could think of and made a few wild gambles with untested experimental treatments. She hadn’t stabilized them, not exactly, but they were both alive, and, based on the predictions of two weeks earlier, that in itself was a victory of sorts.

Repulse shook again. The ship had been hit so many times now, she’d lost count. The battleship had been fighting for almost twelve hours, a running, in and out kind of engagement. Captain Eaton had brought the vessel in on a sharp angle, blasting to more than one percent of light speed to make blistering attack runs before quickly zipping back out of range and decelerating to come about once more.

Eaton’s evasive maneuvers had been brilliant, but also a little rough on the occupants of the ship. Even some of the vessel’s veteran crew members had lost the contents of their stomachs, and Santorini could only imagine what the corridors and operational stations looked and smelled like. Sickbay had a priority call on resources, and with that distinction had come enough maintenance bots to keep the medical facility more or less cleaned up. It was a luxury she suspected many other areas of the ship could only dream of.

“Yes, Nora…I’m here.” Tony Wright was dressed in the same scrubs, and Repulse’s second surgeon looked no less a blood-soaked nightmare than Santorini. Twelve hours of battle had many implications, but right at the top of the list was a steady—almost unending—stream of battered and broken bodies pouring into the infirmary.

“We’ve got another six coming in…the bots should be here with them in two minutes, three tops. Outer compartment breach. At least four went out…” The crew members sucked into space were dead, of course. She might have saved them after half a minute’s exposure, but there had been no way to recover them at all. “…these have burns, pressure injuries, and God knows what else.” She’d been focused on the patient laying on the table in front of her, but then she looked up and stared across the small space toward Wright. Her face was smeared with blood, and a sweat-soaked strand of her light brown hair hung down over her left eye. “We need someplace to put them. We’re out of medpods…” She paused, looking around the room as she thought. “Pods fifteen and nineteen…we’ll need to get those clear and ready for use.”

“Nora…” There was surprise in Wright’s voice, and a touch of horror. “…we’ve got patients in those pods.”

“They’re hopeless, Tony, and you know that.” Even worse than Fritz and Billings, she realized…though she suspected, a good case could be made that she should probably clean out their pods as well.

No…they’ve got a chance. I know they do. The two officers in fifteen and nineteen were outright hopeless. One was brain-dead, or damned close to it, and the other one might have had a miniscule chance at the fleet hospitals back on Megara or Grimaldi, but she didn’t have the time or the resources for the wildly experimental surgeries that might give him a sliver of a chance.

She glanced down at the patient on her table and then back toward Wright. The doctor was just standing there, unmoving. “Now, Tony…move your ass. We’ve got more casualties coming, and if you don’t clear out those pods, we’re going to have dead people here we could have saved…and fifteen and nineteen will be dead anyway.” Her words were harsh, her tone caustic. She was worn to a nub, and she had no energy left to cushion her remarks or smooth the bluntness of her commands. She’d be damned if she’d lose anyone she could save, even if she had to dump the current occupants of those pods out to die faster, and anyone who didn’t like it could go to hell. “Administer a level five dose of sedatives and pain meds.” She had to leave two of Repulse’s crew members to die—far from the first in the last twelve hours—but she would see that they didn’t suffer. She’d have ordered a lethal dose if regs permitted, but that would have required a signoff by three officers including the captain, and there wasn’t time for that.

“Yes, Nora.” Wright didn’t sound happy, but she knew he’d obey. He didn’t have the stomach for a toe to toe contest with her…and he knew as well as she did that leaving the hopeless cases in the pods could cost lives they could save. She’d always thought Wright was a little weak, but he was a good doctor, and he was a military officer just as she was. He understood the realities of practicing medicine in the middle of a battle…and he would never let a patient he could save die over complicated ethical decisions.

She leaned back down, pulling the small laser fuser across her patient’s chest. The surgery had been touch and go for a while, and there’d been a few minutes when she’d thought she was going to lose the badly injured spacer. But he’d make it. He would survive…assuming, of course, Repulse did.

And we don’t lose power down here…

She jerked herself upright, shouting out a series of sharp commands to the two medical technicians in the room…medpod settings, medications, a schedule for following up after surgery. Even as she finished, she was halfway out of the alcove, back into the main area of the battleship’s primary sickbay. Things were crazy, as they’d been the last half a day, and she didn’t expect them to slack off anytime soon. There were patients waiting at the triage station, segmented by degree of urgency. She didn’t have time…she had to get to the next wounded spacer.

But she slipped inside one of the small rooms to the side first, grabbing a syringe and jabbing it into her arm as she leaned over the two medpods laying next to each other. Anya Fritz’s face lay just below the clear cover, looking a bit gaunt, perhaps, but giving no indication of how desperately, critically ill the officer truly was. Santorini sucked in a deep gulp of air, feeling the stimulant take effect as it spread through her blood stream. She’d been shooting up recklessly, and unlike many of Repulse’s overworked officers, she knew just what the powerful drugs were doing to her body. But it didn’t matter, not then. She had to keep going, and she would do whatever it took…even if she dropped dead the minute she was done.

“Hang on, Captain,” Santorini said softly, glancing one more time at Fritz’s serene face. “Stay with me, and I’ll pull you through…somehow.” She glanced over at Billings, and then back again to Fritz. Then she took another deep breath, and she plunged out into the chaos of the infirmary. She had work to do…and far to travel before she slept…

*

“We’re getting the recall command, Captain.” A pause, and then Fuller continued, “All fleet units are to proceed toward the Bellus transit point.” There was something in the tactical officer’s voice. Exhaustion, certainly, but also…relief? Sonya knew her people were close to the breaking point, that for all their courage and stamina, they didn’t have much more to give. But she had a good idea just how difficult the retreat would be. The enemy ships would be on them all the way, and showing their blind sterns, the battleships of the fleet might as well be in a shooting gallery.

Admiral Winters has to know that. He must have…

“We’re ordered to refit fighter squadrons as quickly as possible…and to launch every ship in thirty minutes, in whatever state it is in.” Fuller’s voice was grim. It was clear he couldn’t imagine asking yet more from the shattered fighter wings, any more than she could.

Still, despite her initial reaction, it was clear there was no choice. Winters needed a way to buy his battleships time to escape, and she realized, even as she felt resistance to the order, it was the only way.

“Issue the orders, Commander.” She held her voice as resolute as she could. She couldn’t imagine the state her pilots were in, the fatigue and mental state afflicting every pilot in the fleet. It was nothing less than murder to send them out again, especially now, without the support of the withdrawing battle line…and without a chance to properly outfit them all. She’d be sending some of them out with no torpedoes, and perhaps half filled with fuel.

And she didn’t have a choice. Winters didn’t either.

Olya Federov will understand that. How many of the others will?

Or will their rage at Stockton’s loss carry them even farther…how many of them, bitter and distraught, will welcome the chance to go out there yet again?

“Flight control acknowledges, Captain. Commander Sinclair advises she’ll have the squadrons launched in twenty minutes, whatever it takes.”

Sonya nodded. It was all she could manage in that moment, as she thought of Stara Sinclair, devastated at Stockton’s loss, exhausted, yet so in control. And the pilots, preparing to go out yet again. They weren’t fools, and they knew what a desperate race they’d have to make to land before the fleet reached the transit point and bugged out…and yet they were standing by their ships, ready to launch one more time.

She took another breath, deep, and she held it for a good fifteen seconds. Then she exhaled, feeling the air pass through her mouth for what seemed like minutes. She closed her eyes, for just a few seconds…and then she heard Fuller’s voice again.

“Captain, we’re picking something up, coming from behind the enemy fleet, from their entry transit point.”

Sonya turned around abruptly, with so much force she almost pulled a muscle in her neck. It hardly mattered if more enemy forces were coming through, of course. The Hegemony fleet didn’t need any more, not to finish Winters’s disintegrating formation.

But as she looked at the display, she saw that the energy signature was small, miniscule. Repulse was barely picking up the energy from the transit…it was mostly pulling in the comm signal the tiny ship was blasting forward, directly toward the fleet.

She pulled on her headset, flipping the channel to the incoming signal…but there was nothing but static. The ship was too far, with too much Hegemony jamming between it and the fleet.

“Put this through the computer, John…see if we can clean it up.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She looked up at the display, wondering what she could be looking at, what kind of vessel could have come from behind the enemy forces to frantically signal the fleet. She had a flash of an idea…but she pushed it away. Impossible.

But, then, who is that out there?

*

“Commander, it appears the enemy forces are commencing a retreat.” Venticles knelt before the large pedestal, his voice somber.

“Very well, Venticles.” It is about time. Chronos had expected the enemy to break off much sooner. It was logical that they would seek to exploit perceived logistical weaknesses affecting an invader, to fall back on their own supply lines while pulling the Hegemony forces farther from their own. It was a logical tactic, one the early Hegemony had employed against the Others.

It was that experience, that single success in the otherwise costly and almost disastrous encounter with the Others, that had led to the development of the support fleet. Freighters, tankers, factory ships, even a dozen immense mobile shipyards. The support armada was as incredible a creation as the war fleet itself, and as crucial to ultimate success in a war so far from the Hegemony’s primary bases. Chronos had expected the enemy to fight a hit and run campaign, to pull back from one defensible position to another, forcing his vessels to expend fuel and ordnance.

It was the tactically correct choice. But it would not work. The support fleet could replenish his vessels in days, a week at most, after the most intense battles…and then the massive Hegemony host would move forward, perhaps before the Rim dwellers could draw on their own interior lines to refit their battered forces.

He had been supremely confident, both that he was correct in his assessment of enemy plans, and also that his own relentless advance would work. He had complete maps of the Confederation now, and of most of the rest of the Rim…spoils of war from Dannith. The Rim nations were larger than he had believed at first, but that was of no particular concern. More spoils, more genetic material to build the Hegemony, to take it into the future.

To prepare to face the Others when they return.

But Chronos had experienced a moment of doubt in the current battle. The enemy force had remained in the system, they had continued the fight…and his own losses vastly exceeded even his most pessimistic estimates. The Rim dwellers had always been stubborn and skilled in battle. He had known that before he had taken command of the fleet. What he had seen over the past hours, however, exceeded all he had witnessed before, every account he had read, every recorded stream of combat operations from the preceding engagements.

Perhaps it is because we are nearing their more significant systems…

He had expected the enemy to fight hard for a while, and then to lose hope…compelling them to surrender. But, if anything, they were becoming fiercer in their resistance. The reports from Dannith suggested that even there, on that border world, the enemy was still fighting, its warriors striking from hidden bases and prolonging the pacification effort.

He had reset his projections, allowed for greater losses and the need to concentrate stronger forces to the forefront of each assault. For a short while, he almost believed the enemy fleet was going to fight to the end in the current system. But the captured data from Dannith suggested the Confederation’s forces were much larger than what he had seen so far.

What are they waiting for? I expected them to mass everything they had against us…

Now, Venticles had finally delivered the report he had expected hours before. His plan was still operative, and his confidence that he knew what the enemy’s next actions would be was renewed. They would retreat, choose another system to defend. That would become harder for them as his fleet continued its relentless advance, creating multiple possible routes for him to follow.

He could divert his forces toward their intensely developed manufacturing area—the Iron Belt, they call it, he reminded himself—or he could move to approach their Core systems.

He could seek to cut off sections of the Confederation, or to move to block access to their allies farther out to the Far Rim—the Alliance, he recalled. He had many options.

But he had seriously considered only one. The fleet would advance as soon as the support train arrived. His ships would refuel en route, and they would continue forward on the course he had set, engaging any enemy forces that stopped to face them. There would be no deviation.

He looked at the large screen on the wall in front of him, displaying a section of the Confederation star map, and a jagged blue line connecting several systems…the course he had already commanded the fleet to follow.

It was a direct line through a number of heavily-populated and developed systems, all of which would be blockaded and invaded one by one as ground forces moved forward. But the main battle fleet would hardly stop. It would continue forward to the one target chosen for the maximum effect on enemy morale. For its ability to compel the enemy to combine all of their forces to one climactic battle.

Chronos did not want to spend months chasing multiple task forces across dozens of systems. He wanted to break the enemy, and end the war, before he had to annihilate the Confederation forces. He wanted to gain the enemy’s surrender, not obliterate them. The Rim dwellers would strengthen the Hegemony with their addition, and the sooner he could break their will, the better.

Their warriors were impressive, their courage and skill undeniable. They would make fine additions to the legions of Kriegeri.

That was why he had chosen the target he had, why his ship was on course directly toward a single location, and one planet in particular in that system.

Megara.

Chapter Thirty-Three

Communique from First Citizen Villieneuve of the People’s Union

It is with great pleasure I extend to you, the Hegemony, the heartfelt greetings of the People’s Union. We have become aware, with great understanding and empathy, of your conflict with the Stellar Confederation. We of the Union have been in your position, and have stood here on the Rim against the tyranny and expansionism of the Confederation for a century. We watched in astonishment as the Confederation forces formed their fleet and pushed deep toward the old imperial core, with conquest in their minds and a ruthless intent to bring any they discovered under their own rule.

I, as First Citizen, make you this offer, on behalf of all of my people. We are prepared to join you in your conflict, to fight at your side and, as allies, see to the final and complete destruction of the Confederation. When the danger of this aggressive and destructive power is washed away, both we of the Rim and you of the Imperial Core can look to a future of peace and mutual cooperation.

I have ordered our fleet to move to our border with the Confederation, prepared to advance as soon as a treaty is signed between our nations. I entrust this message to one of my highest-ranking diplomats, and I have authorized him to take all steps necessary to reach an understanding between our peoples, and to forge a path for our armed forces to fight together against our shared enemy.

UFS Illustre

Pollux System

Union-Confederation Border

Union Year 221 (317 AC)

Andrei Denisov sat in the center of Illustre’s bridge, looking out over the more than twenty officers at their various workstations, attending to both the operations of the large battleship and the fleet she led. The admiral was silent, immersed in his own thoughts and concerns. Still, it was hard for him to ignore the satisfaction he felt at the size and power of the vessel surrounding him, or at the fact that Illustre was but a single unit in the fleet he commanded. The Union navy had not recovered to its previous size or power yet, but for a man like Denisov, whose obscure beginnings lay behind him in the shadowy mists of years long past, the command of such a force seemed almost impossible to grasp as reality.

He had reached a higher level than he’d ever dared to expect, but he couldn’t deny that some part of him had always longed for the highest levels of fleet command. His first operation had been at Barroux, and he carried the mental and emotional wounds from what he’d done there. But, even with those scars, he felt natural in command, as though he was where he’d always belonged. He knew he’d carry the guilt for what he’d done to his last days…but he also knew he’d do the same thing again if the situation presented itself.

His eyes dropped to the large screen at his station, the roster of his fleet scrolling slowly down. He had virtually all of the Union’s military strength in the Pollux system, formed up on the Confederation border. The massing of such a large force just a transit from Confederation space was a violation of the treaty, but that wasn’t his real concern. It was the fact that his fleet, for all its appearance of strength, wasn’t a match for the Confederation forces. Not even close.

There were battleships under construction in every available shipyard that could produce the big ships, but the first two years after the war had been spent holding the Union together—barely—and regaining control of dozens of breakaway systems. It had been barely six months since Villieneuve had truly gotten the rebuilding operations fully started, and, while that had been enough time to lay down the basic skeletal structures of forty vessels that would one day be brand new battleships…they were now just piles of newly forged steel.

The cold facts were simple. Denisov’s fleet looked as impressive as he’d been able to make it, but from a lack of modern battleships to the condition of his aging, slow escorts, it simply wasn’t ready to face the Confederation again. Even with an ally as powerful as the Hegemony appeared to be.

And none of that took into account the lack of experience of his mostly raw squadrons, or the fact that they were flying old fighters that couldn’t come close to matching the abilities of the latest generation of Confederation Lightnings.

There was something else, too, that nagged at him. He was wary of this Hegemony. He knew nothing about them, and he suspected Gaston Villieneuve didn’t know a lot more. The First Citizen was determined to see the Union returned to strength, to gain vengeance for the defeat that still choked in his throat like dust. Denisov felt the same way, longed to show that his beloved navy—now his navy in a way it had never been before—could indeed defeat their longtime enemies. But that time had not yet come, and he wondered if Villieneuve, so typically realistic and in control, had allowed his lust for revenge to turn to obsession. Was he ignoring the threat of the Hegemony to the Union itself, because he could see only joining with the invaders to crush the Confeds?

He was waiting for the order to advance, for word that the Union was joining the Hegemony in its war against the Confederation. And he dreaded it. He wanted to wait, to watch and see what happened in the conflict now going on. He was more concerned about the Hegemony as a potential enemy than he was hopeful that it could be the ally needed to take down the Confederation.

He’d have to obey the orders to invade if they came. Disobeying Villieneuve would be tantamount to committing suicide. But before that communique arrived, he had great latitude over his dispositions…and he had deployed the fleet defensively, prepared for the possibility of a Hegemony assault across the border.

If it didn’t happen, there would be no harm done. His fleet would have gotten in some maneuvers, exercises that could only serve to improve the effectiveness of his green crews.

But if the Hegemony did turn out to be an enemy and not an ally…he would be ready.

As ready as he could be. Which wasn’t very much at all.

The Union wasn’t ready to fight the Confederation…and every tingling nerve told him the Hegemony was a far more dangerous adversary.

*

“Master Raketh, I am sorry to disturb you, but we are receiving a communication.” The Kriegeri’s voice was sharp and crisp as it blared out from his comm unit. Raketh was in his retreat, doing a series of breathing exercises to center himself. He had been left behind in the enemy’s frontier system in command of the fleet units supporting ground operations, the logistical train, and the line of communications garrisons. It was a considerable command, and an important one, but Raketh wasn’t sure if he had been given the position because it was a vital one and Chronos trusted him…or if he was being kept back from a front-line command because his own forces had failed to secure Dannith and its system on their first attempt.

“I was not expecting a message from Master Chronos.” Raketh stood up from his meditation position and moved toward the desk. “You may forward it to my sanctum at once.”

“Pardon, Master, but the communication is not from fleet command. It is…” The Kriegeri paused, sounding nervous or confused, very unlike the elite officers assigned to such high positions in the fleet. “…Master, it is from another vessel, apparently a different Rim power than the one against which we are engaged.”

Raketh turned toward the comm unit, struggling with his own surprise. “Another power?” He had known from the review of captured data that there were a number of nations of varying sizes on the Rim…but he had not expected to encounter another one so soon.

“Yes, sir. They offer…cooperation…against the Confederation. It is a very unexpected development. We require your guidance and orders on how to proceed.”

Raketh was silent for a moment. This was a significant development. How he handled it would likely have a major effect on his future command prospects. He was near the pinnacle of the Hegemony’s system of genetic rankings, Number Ninety-Six. But the fleet commander was Chronos, and that luminary was a member of the Council of Ten, ranked Number Eight among all sentients in the Hegemony. There were six other Masters in the fleet, also members of the First Century, and that meant Raketh had to choose his objectives carefully. He had no prospect of moving to command of the main invasion fleet, nor of becoming the second or third in command of that force. The rear areas and logistics assets were crucially important, but they could never offer the same chance for glory and advancement, not under normal circumstances.

But dealing with a new contact, another Rim civilization to be handled…and subordinated. That offered substantial potential for enhancing his position.

“I will take the communique in here, Kiloron. At once.”

“Yes, Master Raketh. As you command.” The officer remained in his kneeling position for a few more seconds, then he rose and moved briskly toward the door. Perhaps half a minute after he left, Raketh’s headset crackled to life.

“This is Minister Pierre Vauchom, Grand Chief of Diplomatic Affairs, and a member of the Advisory Council of the People’s Union. I come as ambassador to your people, and I bring you greetings and salutations, from the Union and from our illustrious First Citizen, the Honorable Gaston Villieneuve.”

Raketh sighed softly. He had never been one for pompous, extended titles, or long, drawn out greetings. The Hegemony, for all its rigid structure of rank, was blissfully devoid of such nonsense. Raketh himself was a Master, and a fleet commander, but in most cases, he simply went by his name or his ranking. Ninety-Six was a bit less overbearing than grand chief of whatever, and at the same time, it was more descriptive of his overall standing in both society and the military. He was mystified by the illogic of the Rim governmental systems, and despite careful thought and analysis, he simply could not make sense of much of it all.

“With my sincere apologies for the haste of this request, and the lack of normal diplomatic process, I request permission to come aboard your vessel to discuss matters of the utmost urgency, primarily your current conflict with the Confederation, which is my own nation’s enemy as well.”

Raketh sat and listened for several more minutes as the ambassador droned on, using a hundred words where five would have sufficed. Finally, the message terminated.

Raketh sighed softly, and then he activated his direct line to the control center. “Kiloron, prepare to transmit a reply.”

“Yes, Ninety-Six.” He listened for a moment while the officer responded, and a few seconds later, as the Kriegeri said, “Your channel is live, Master Raketh.”

The Master sat for a few seconds, trying to decide exactly what he wanted to say. Then he tapped the small microphone extending from his headset, and he began. “Ambassador Vauchom…” Raketh repeated the name in the style the minister had used, though he found it a bit odd. The barbarians on the Rim—and to him, that was the term that best described what he had seen so far—all seemed to speak the old imperial tongue, but the accents and colloquialisms were often difficult to follow. “…you may come aboard my vessel whenever you please. My only condition is that you must travel aboard a shuttle or other small craft, with your warships remaining in their current positions. I trust you will understand our need for caution pending our discussions. We are currently at war, and we must operate under the required protocols.” He cut the line.

He had carefully avoided any diplomatic speech, particularly guarantees to offer the minister any sort of ambassadorial protections. He had no idea what he would do with the emissary, or exactly how he would respond to any entreaties. All he knew so far was that he did not much like the man.

*

“Welcome to my ship, Ambassador.” Raketh stood in the docking bay, as the Union ambassador stepped out of his shuttle and walked toward the Master. Raketh was flanked by ten fully-armed elite Kriegeri. It was a psychological display for the new arrivals more than any perceived need for security. One look at the Union ambassador told Raketh he had nothing to fear from the man, at least in terms of a physical assault. The new arrival’s two guards looked a bit more intimidating, but Raketh remained calm, unconcerned.

“Greetings…I am told your name is Raketh, but I don’t believe I know your title.” The man’s obsequious demeanor grated on Raketh, but he held back his anger and disgust and replied with respectful sounding words.

“I am Ninety-Sixth of the Hegemony, and fleet commander, Ambassador Vauchom…but my primary title is Master. You may address me as such.” Raketh paused for a few seconds. “I believe your people put more effort into extensive honorifics than mine.”

“Yes…Master Raketh…” The ambassador seemed somewhat surprised, but he was clearly trying to adapt. “It is a great honor to meet with you in person, and to be the first to engage with your great people.”

Raketh had briefly studied everything in the database about the Union, a collection of knowledge that consisted entirely of the files taken from Confederation ships and from Dannith. His data was spotty, but one that was clear. The two powers were bitter enemies. For that reason, he had taken many of the descriptions with a heavy dose of skepticism, but his initial impressions of the ambassador had him wondering if he should increase his trust in the Confederation writings.

“Let us cut through the pointless diplomatic nonsense. The Confederation is your enemy, is it not? And you wish to take advantage of our conflict with that power to gain revenge, and to benefit from the downfall of your old adversary. Am I correct?”

The ambassador looked stunned. Clearly, he had expected more diplomatic foppery, and likely a grand conference room as a setting to discuss matters…probably at great length. But Raketh had no time or patience for such foolishness. His first impression of the emissary had been a negative one, and his second was no better. Coupled with what he had read in the Confederation records, he already knew what he was going to do. His only reservation was acting without Chronos’s approval. Number Eight had left him in command at Dannith and the surrounding systems without explicit restrictions on his actions, but this was a significant decision, and certainly one that had not been anticipated when the fleet commander left.

“Ah…well, yes, of course my people wish to deal with the Confederation once and for all, but I would say we wish to aid you, to defeat the enemy together. I have brought data on our forces, which are currently massed on our border with the Confederation. Our fleet is powerful, and it is ready for action. Upon the signing of a treaty, we could move in a matter of weeks.”

“Yes, thank you for the data on your forces.” Raketh turned and nodded to one of the officers standing behind him. “I’m sure it will be useful.” The Kriegeri stepped forward and took the data chip from the ambassador. The Union emissary was a bit unnerved at the sight of the massive soldier moving toward him, seeming even larger for the implants projecting from his body.

“You will see how much we can add to your war effort, Master Raketh.”

“I think not, Minister Vauchom.” Raketh’s tone hardened.

“I’m sorry, Master Raketh, I do not follow your…”

Raketh interrupted. “You do. It seems, however, your people have an aversion to cutting to the heart of any matter. Allow me to instruct you thusly. I will offer your people a counter-proposal, the same we extended to your Confederation rivals. Your Union is…invited…to join the Hegemony. Your society will be integrated into our own, and your people will be subjected to genetic testing and placed in roles in accordance with their standing. It is the Hegemony’s central role, to incorporate all of mankind into a single entity, one powerful enough to regain and exceed all that was lost with the fall of the empire.”

The ambassador’s face went white. “Master Raketh, I must object…”

“No, Minister, you must not. If an absorption of your people is to succeed without considerable…collateral damage…you will first have to learn respect for your betters. That lesson might as well begin now. I am Ninety-Six of the Hegemony, and, to put this in terms you will understand—product of chaotic and disorganized reproduction that you are—I am millennia ahead of you in terms of raw natural selection.”

Vauchom stood, silent, dumbfounded. Raketh could see the fear beginning to rise up in the Union emissary.

“I am an ambassador, Master Raketh. I am protected by diplomatic…”

“You are protected by nothing, Minister. Aside from the obvious fact that one of my station cannot be obligated to one of yours by any promise or warranty, you will recall that at no time did I extend any kind of diplomatic immunity or protections to you. I merely advised that you could land on my vessel.”

“This is outrageous. I demand that you allow me to leave at once.”

Raketh was amused. He had often found that lesser creatures could generate a facsimile of courage that was, in actual fact, driven by fear. It had also been his experience that such displays did not last long.

“Hectoron, take the…Minister…and his guards and shuttle crew as well, to Master Carmetia. I believe she will find them useful in her ongoing intelligence-gathering operation.”

“Yes, Master Raketh.”

“No…no, you cannot do this. I demand you allow me to return to my ship.” It was an angry shout, and the last of Vauchom’s feigned bravery. A few seconds later, the ambassador howled pathetically, begging to be released, tears streaming down his cheeks. But Raketh simply stood where he was, ignoring the prisoner’s outburst until the guards had dragged him far enough that his cries vanished into nothingness.

“Master, what shall we do about the ambassador’s ships?” The officer stood at attention, awaiting Raketh’s reply.

He was silent for a moment. Then, he decided he would send a message, one that could not possibly be misinterpreted. “Destroy them. At once.” The Union vessels had stopped at a distance their commanders no doubt thought was out of range. If nothing else, it was proof that the Union’s information on the Hegemony did not include specifications for the railgun primary weapons.

“Yes, Master Raketh.”

Raketh turned before the officer left. “And, Kiloron…I want the location and makeup of the enemy fleet on those data chips analyzed at once. Issue orders for the reserve formations to prepare to advance on my order.”

“Yes, Master Raketh.”

“And prepare to send a courier ship to the main fleet. I will have a message for Commander Chronos within the hour, and I want it dispatched with maximum haste.”

“As you command.” The officer hesitated, waiting to see if there would be any other orders. Then he bowed his head and marched off the landing bay.

Raketh stood where he was for a moment. He knew what he had to do. By all accounts, the Union was the largest power on the Rim, though perhaps, since their defeat in the last war, not the most powerful. Still, crushing them would be a major step toward pacification of the entire galactic region.

Under normal circumstances, such an operation would wait until the Confederation was defeated, but, if the new enemy was kind enough to gather their entire fleet in one place, it seemed to Raketh it would be foolish not to take advantage of that. He suspected the intent of the fleet mobilization had been to impress him, to create a bargaining chip of sorts in the negotiations the Union ambassador had clearly hoped to initiate. Now, it would have a rather different result.

Whatever his thoughts, Raketh could not commit the entire Reserve to such an operation, not without the approval of the fleet commander. He walked toward the hatch, bound for his quarters. He would send a message to Chronos…and he would be sure that, if the commander authorized his plan, the fleet units would be ready to go at once.

Attacking the Union would create a two-front war, which certainly had some disadvantages, but if he could crush the entire fleet in one surprise assault, the largest power on the Rim would lay prostrate and helpless before Hegemony forces. The pacification of the Rim would advance, perhaps by years.

And he would obliterate any shame that had accrued to his name following the withdrawal of his fleet from Dannith the year before. He would regain his position, and his military stature would soar higher than ever.

Chapter Thirty-Four

450,000,000 Kilometers from CFS Constitution

Miramar System

Five Transits from Dannith

Year 317 AC

Stockton pulled hard on the throttle, driving his ship close to maximum thrust. He’d blasted at near full acceleration and deceleration all the way from Dannith’s system, gambling wildly that he would be able to find more locations to secure fuel. That bet had paid off twice, which had been enough—just. Assuming he was able to catch up to the fleet. There had been a battle in the system, a big one. That was obvious. But just as clear was the fact that he’d arrived for the tail end, in time to watch the fleet withdraw, continuing its retreat toward the Core, deeper into Confederation space than any enemy had ventured in a century.

He felt frustration at the fleet’s inability to stop, even to slow, the enemy…but he didn’t blame Admiral Winters. The fleet’s commander was anyone’s idea of a fighting spacer, and Stockton knew he’d managed to inflict far greater damage on the enemy than should have been possible.

That wasn’t enough.

Stockton knew what Winters was doing…and he knew it wasn’t going to work. The admiral was pulling back from one defensive position to the next, trying to stretch out the Hegemony supply lines, trade space for time until the entire fleet could assemble.

But Winters didn’t know about the massive Hegemony supply and support fleet. Not just freighters and tankers, but factory vessels and huge floating mobile shipyards. The logistics train was slower than the enemy fleet. Among other delaying factors, the great shipyards needed to be split into multiple sections to fit through the transit points. That kept the support ships a few systems back from the fleet, but the enemy could move forward at a pace that would be impossible for any conventional force. Winters was expecting the enemy to stop pursuing at some point, to pause and bring up supplies and establish logistical centers. He almost certainly expected them to be forced to conduct ground operations and secure planetary bases before they could push forward.

But none of that was true. Stockton knew the extent of the enemy’s supply resources. He, alone, knew the Hegemony forces could continue to push forward, staying close on Winters’s heels…all the way to Megara if they chose.

He leaned down, punching at his comm controls, resending his message for the fifth time. The sixth? The enemy jamming was heavy, and he doubted his report had gotten through.

Regardless of his fate, he had to get word to Winters, a warning that the standard tactic for a retreating fleet for the last century wasn’t going to work.

His eyes dropped to his medium range display. He was glad the enemy didn’t have any fighters. If they did, he’d probably have ten squadrons on his tail. But there were a dozen escort ships closing on him, some from behind, others crossing from the flanks, moving to cut off his route to the fleet. Space was vast in all of its three dimensions, with numerous possible routes to escape his pursuers. But Stockton’s ship was moving at a high velocity, and any major course changes would take more time that he had.

And no one knew that better than his pursuers.

He angled his thrust, adjusting his course, coming as far from the enemy jamming as possible. Just maybe, if he could get there in time, he could get a message through. It was a long shot, but escaping from Dannith, getting this far…that had been overwhelmingly against the odds as well. Stockton had always been lucky, and while he knew his supply of fortune would run out one day, he prayed it wasn’t today.

He flipped a series of switches, routing more power to his transmitter. He didn’t have the fuel to waste, but he knew his priorities. Reaching one of the battleships now moving toward the transit point and landing, as unlikely as that goal may have been, it was second on his list.

Getting the message through to his comrades, letting them know their strategy wasn’t going to work, was a clear number one. Stockton didn’t think of himself as the sacrificial sort, but if it came down to helping his people understand what they faced, or having an infinitesimal chance of personal survival, he didn’t find it all that difficult a choice.

At least Stara will have a chance…

*

“Admiral, we haven’t been able to read most of the message, but the transmission code is ‘0001.’ That’s Jake’s ship, sir. Somehow, he must have survived and found a fuel source. Multiple fuel sources. He’s back…and we can’t leave him again. We just can’t.”

Winters sat in Constitution’s conference room , listening to the words—almost the pleading—of Sonya Eaton. He was alone, save for one other officer, his number two…and Sonya’s older sister.

“Captain, I understand your concern, and your attachment to Captain Stockton. He is a true hero of the Confederation, and his loss was—would be—a tragedy. But you don’t even know that’s him out there…and you’re asking me to risk the entire fleet to see who’s in that ship. Thousands of spacers, Captain, not to mention the losses the pilots will take if I authorize another launch.”

Sara Eaton looked across the table as Winters spoke, but she remained silent.

Winters was shaking his head. The fleet had fought like hell in Miramar, and they’d managed to come out of the fight with a kill ratio he couldn’t have imagined. The fight had gone as well as it could have, but he’d already been late in issuing the withdrawal order. Several of his task forces were taking heavy losses as they struggled to disengage, and if he slowed the retreat anymore, the enemy would be on all his ships, just as they reach the transit point.

“What do you think, Sara?” Eaton’s silence had become too much for him. He understood her hesitation to get involved. Stockton had served alongside her forces many times, dating back to the early days of the Union War. And her sister’s opinion had been stated in terms that could not be misunderstood.

“Admiral, it’s your decision, of course.”

“And I choose to ask your opinion, Commodore.” Winters was annoyed at Sara’s attempt to dodge the question, but he understood. From what he knew of the veteran officer, she probably considered herself unable to give an impartial opinion.

“I think the fighter squadrons will go crazy if we leave Stockton again, Admiral. If they find out before we transit, you’re going to have a mutiny on your hands. At best, we’ll get to the next system, and our single most important weapon against the enemy will be in a parlous state. You have to understand how the squadrons look up to Stockton, Admiral. He’s more than a leader to them, more than a role model. I’m afraid to see how they’ll perform if they lose him again. Also…”

“Also?” Sara hadn’t finished whatever she’d planned to say, but Winters wanted to know what she was thinking.

“Well, sir, this is just conjecture…but that ship has been transmitting almost constantly since it entered the system. I can see Jake trying to let us know he’s here, trying to get out an ID, or even a request for some kind of help. But what is all that data he’s been sending?”

“What are you getting at, Commodore?”

“I’m saying that, just maybe, he’s trying to send us some kind of information, something useful. Something vital to the war effort.”

“What could he know that’s so important?”

“I don’t know, sir, but Jake is the hardest veteran out there. He wouldn’t be sending us anything that wasn’t important…not with such a sustained effort.”

“If that’s even him.”

“Yes, sir…if that’s him. But can we take the chance? Abandon him and risk the fallout among the squadrons…and miss whatever he’s trying to tell us? He’s coming from the rear of the enemy fleet, along their route of advance…and their lines of communications. I can’t guess what he’s trying to tell us, but I’d bet anything it’s important.” She paused for a few seconds. “And, Admiral…we need any break we can get right now, don’t we?”

Winters paused, looking even more frustrated as he considered Sara’s words. “You understand, you’re talking about risking the entire fleet for a desperate attempt to recover a single pilot.”

“Yes, Admiral…though perhaps not the entire fleet. I could take a task force and move to recover Captain Stockton, while the rest of the fleet withdraws.”

“Now you’re talking about facing the entire enemy fleet with a single task force. You’ll be massively outnumbered…you could lose the entire force. You could recover Stockton—if that is him—just to have him killed when the ship he lands on is destroyed along with every other vessel under your command.”

“I think we can get him and get back out, Admiral. It’ll be tight, but I’m ready to give it a try.”

Winters stared across the table, uncertain what to do. The risk seemed insane. But if he abandoned Stockton, it might be more than just the pilots after his head. The strike force commander was idolized by almost every spacer in uniform.

“Very well, Commodore…but I don’t want you risking total disaster. You can try to recover that fighter…but I’m counting on you to push things so far, and no farther. I can’t lose you, and we’re outnumbered already, without throwing a whole task force away.”

“Understood, Admiral.” A pause. “I know what’s at stake.”

Winters nodded. “We’d better get you transferred over. Where do you want to fly your flag?”

“I don’t know, Admiral. Renown, maybe…or Defiant?

“They’re both toward the rear of the formation. We’ll have to race to get you over there by shuttle before things hit the fan, but we can probably make it if we…”

“Repulse is ready, Admiral…and we’re close to the back of the formation. You could put together a task force with the ships around us.” The voice was Sonya Eaton’s, coming through the comm. Winters had forgotten that the line was still open. It had taken nearly a minute for the signal to reach Sonya’s ship and to return.

He looked at the fleet display on the wall, and then he looked over at Sara. He wasn’t sure about the wisdom of sending Sara Eaton to her sister’s ship…but there was a certain logic to Stockton’s base ship being part of the task force trying to save him.

Assuming it was him out there. Winters still wasn’t entirely convinced.

“Commodore?” He looked at Sara, knowing he was giving his tacit approval.

“Yes, Admiral. Repulse is Stockton’s ship, and I flew my flag there for the White Fleet’s entire journey. We can put together a respectable task force from the ships in that sector.”

“Very well, Commodore…you better get going.” Winters paused. “And, good luck, Sara. Remember, no heroics. Make your best effort to get Stockton back, but whatever happens, get those ships back and out of this system. Understood?”

“Yes, sir. Understood.”

Winters wasn’t sure he believed her…and he wasn’t sure she believed herself.

*

“The commodore’s shuttle is approaching, Captain. Projected landing in four minutes.”

“Very well, Commander.” Sonya Eaton sat on Repulse’s bridge, calm to any who looked at her, but her insides were tight and tied in knots. She’d held on a course to rendezvous with her sister’s shuttle, but that had kept the battleship on a predictable vector, and the approaching enemy battleships would be within railgun range in a matter of minutes. She wasn’t sure which of the forward Hegemony vessels had operational heavy weapons—the lead ships had been heavily engaged, and some of them had significant damage. But it would only take one. Repulse had suffered in the engagement as well, and her primaries were useless scrap. Her port broadside had been raked badly, and two-thirds of the guns were offline. The starboard side was in better shape, and the depleted engineering team had managed to rig alternate power lines to keep the weapons operational.

“Any progress on clearing up that jammed signal?” Stockton was still transmitting, but the enemy jamming was wreaking havoc on the reception. They’d gotten a bit more cleaned up, but not enough to put together just what the pilot was trying to tell them.

The enemy was trying to stop the fighter, and over a dozen escorts had joined the hunt. Stockton’s maneuvers had kept him mostly out of firing range, and he had evaded the few shots the enemy had gotten off against him…but those efforts had also forced him off his direct course back, adding to the amount of time it would take him to reach one of the battleships.

Sonya had no idea what his fuel status was…but he was burning a lot as he zigged and zagged his way past his pursuers.

“The AI is working on it, Captain. The signal’s gotten a bit stronger, but it’s still a jumbled mess to human ears.”

“I want that audio cleaned up, Commander, and I want it now. Put every available specialist on it immediately.” Sonya was below the level of decision making that had decreed that the fleet would try to rescue Stockton, but she was sure whatever the pilot was trying so hard to communicate was enormously important. She was determined to rescue the captain, whatever it took, but if that effort failed, she had to make sure his final mission had not. She had to know what he was trying so hard to tell the fleet.

She sighed softly, her mind snapping from one thing to the next—Stockton, the audio cleanup, damage control operations. Her casualties in sickbay.

The mission to rescue Jake Stockton had delayed the implementation of heavy thrust, and that bought time for the patients in sickbay, particularly Anya Fritz and Walt Billings. The two stricken engineers were still fighting for their lives, both comatose despite repeated cleanse operations and extensive cell repair therapies. The doctors had been reluctant to offer detailed diagnoses, save to say it was a miracle either one of them was still alive. Sonya chose to take that as a positive assessment, though she was far from certain it had been intended that way.

“Shuttle making final approach, Captain.”

Sonya nodded, and even as she did, a flash whipped by on the main display. The enemy had opened fire. And they had only one weapon system with that kind of range.

Repulse didn’t shake, and the scanners didn’t report any hits. For a moment, she felt a short burst of relief.

And then she saw Typhoon. Or, rather, she saw that the cruiser was gone.

Just gone.

A few seconds later, the report came in. “Captain…Typhoon took a direct railgun hit. She lost containment, and…”

“Acknowledged, Commander.” There was no need to discuss the matter further. The ship was gone, and not a soul had gotten off…and all Sonya could think was, she was glad it hadn’t been a battleship.

The shot answered another question. At least one of the ships in that line approaching had active railguns.

“Captain…this is Lieutenant Davidoff in information technology. We’ve managed to clean up the incoming signal. Relaying to your station now.”

Sonya nodded, most of her attention still on the enemy ships approaching, and the cold feeling down her spine that another round of railgun fire could come at any moment. “Very well, Commander.”

She put her hands to the side of her head, pressing the headset against her ears, as the message began to play. It was Stockton’s voice. A little distorted by the jamming and the restoration the AI had done, but she could tell it was him. She listened to what he had to say, and when he was finished, she sat silently for a few seconds, struggling to hold back the bile threatening to rise up her throat.

Then: “Relay this to the flagship…now! Direct laser relay.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sonya leaned back in her chair as the report came in confirming her sister had docked.

“Evasive maneuvers, Commander.”

“Yes, Captain.”

She saw the light on her display, the confirmation that the signal to the flagship had been sent.

Whatever happened now, Clint Winters would know what Stockton had returned to report.

He would also know that his entire strategy, the battle plan he’d put together to try and stop the Hegemony, was useless.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Outside Senate Compound

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

“It’s good to see you again, Sam.” Jon Peterson walked up to the Marine officer walking down the street toward him, and he embraced his old friend. He hadn’t seen Sam Devane for better than five years, but it seemed like only a short time. You didn’t easily forget a fellow Marine, especially not one who saved your life.

In truth, they’d saved each other’s lives, and those of about sixty of their Marines. Peterson remembered every instant of that desperate moment, and the bloody battle on Carvellus, but there wasn’t time for reminiscing now. That could come later, over a few pitchers…assuming the two of them were still alive in another day or two. Right now, that prospect seemed just about even money to Peterson.

“Good to see your old carcass, too.” The officer returned the embrace, and the two stood for a few seconds before they stepped back and looked each other over. “I’ve got my people all over the street, Jon…and in a bunch of the buildings, too. I can’t speak for Troyus City overall—that’s going to depend on how some of the other regimental commanders break on this shit, and whether their Marines follow them or not. But this sector is ours, at least for now.”

Peterson nodded. He was a longtime combat veteran, but the current situation was beyond anything he’d experienced before. Not only were his people preparing to fight other Confederation personnel, even other Marines, but there were huge question marks hanging in the air, uncertainty about which sides the various units stationed in the capital would support.

“I’ll let Admiral Striker and Gary Holsten know. The plan is to go in today. We just don’t have any time to waste, and there’s no telling if a delay would help us or the Senate.” It sounded bizarre to hear himself refer to the Senate at the “other side.” His people had been on alert for a week now, and in all that time, he couldn’t recall a minute when his stomach didn’t feel like a deflated sack tied into knots. He would do what he had to do. He’d chosen his side, and he was sure he’d made the right choice. His people had come with him to a man…along with thousands of other Marines he’d helped to recruit. He was pretty sure Striker’s side had the edge in Marine strength…though there were commanders who had rallied to the Senate as well, bringing some or all of their people to side with the Lictors and Senate security…and most of the Troyus law enforcement agencies, eighty percent of which had rallied to the Senate.

It had been hard to claim legitimacy when standing against the highest legislative body in the Confederation, but Holsten and his people—still unofficial, but constituting more and more of Confederation Intelligence’s best agents—had managed to uncover a treasure trove of data from the ITN offices…all evidence pointing to Sector Nine involvement in the recent events. Peterson had expected the Senate to yield when the news had been released, but then he realized how foolish—or corrupt—those deeply involved appeared to be. They were holding out from reflex, from the desire to avoid being held to account for what they had done. It was hopeless, at least in the longer term, but Peterson suspected few of them had thought that far forward. And there was almost no limit to the amount of damage they could do in the short term.

Peterson reached down and pulled the small comm unit from his belt. He’d sent teams out the night before to seize most of the power generation and communications facilities in the city. His people didn’t control all of Troyus, but most of what made the city function was safely in his Marines’ hands.

“Gary…Jon here. Colonel Devane has his people in place just south of the Senate Compound. Defenses look light from here, but that’s not much better than a guess at this point. Anyway, we’re ready to go in, as soon as you give the word.

“There’s no reason to wait, Jon. Give me ten minutes to alert the others. Then, we might as well…” Holsten’s voice stopped abruptly.

“Gary?” Nothing. “Gary…is everything all right?”

“Yeah, Jon…sorry. Hold in position. Something’s happening…the orbital platforms just went on alert. I think Tyler Barron just got here.”

*

Lille crept through the alley, moving slowly, quietly. There were Marines all over, and every other sort of armed Confederation police or troopers. The lid was about to blow, and as much as he enjoyed watching the Confeds on the verge of shooting at each other, all it was accomplishing now was to get in his way.

He had a ship stashed under an alias at the spaceport, flight plans already filed. He just had a couple more jobs to do, and then he could bolt. Normally, he would take his time, move cautiously, but with the Confeds on the edge of an outright civil war, he was concerned the spaceport could close. Either side might want to shut the facility down if they gained control of it, and even if it remained in neutral hands, it seemed a distinct possibility launches could be suspended. The last thing he wanted was to get stranded on Megara in the middle of a war between Confed factions, his cover all but blown and his resources almost depleted.

No, that was the second to last thing. The last thing he wanted was to leave without completing his missions. Without finishing his vendettas. His self-worth was tied up tightly in his skill and experiences as a killer, and it simply wasn’t in him to board a ship and blast off while his enemies were still alive.

He’d been tracking Andi Lafarge for days now. He’d always respected the adventurer, but now he realized he’d underestimated her. She was proving to be an elusive adversary, and, truth be told, she’d come closer to taking him out than anyone ever had. On one level, he appreciated the challenge of hunting such a capable adversary. On another, he wished it could have come at another time, when he wasn’t under such pressure to finish and get out.

He’d caught a hint or two, but he hadn’t been able to catch sight of Andi, not since she’d taken the shot at him weeks before…and killed the agent he’d sent after her. Now, he thought he’d finally found something. He’d tracked financial dealings, hacked into the banking system and tracked an account he suspected was one of Andi’s aliases. It was a gamble—and even if it led to her, it was likely a trap she was laying for him. But it was all he had, and that fact made the decision for him.

He continued down the small service road, dressed not in his usual attire, but as a Troyus City police officer. Chasing Andi had been extremely difficult; spotting a Troyus cop about his size and dispatching the fool without getting blood on the uniform…that had been almost embarrassingly easy.

He crept up to a corner and peered around, looking down the street. It was almost impossible to tell whose side the various Marines, police, and other authorities were on…and that made his own cover vulnerable. His instincts told him to lay low, to wait and see if the storm blew over, if the Confeds managed to resolve their standoff without bloodshed. That moment of relief would be the ideal time, the moment for the skilled assassin to strike, when his targets were at their lowest level of alertness.

But there just wasn’t time. He had to finish things, and he had to do it quickly.

Where are you, Andi…where are you hiding?

*

“All right, Commander…let’s get this done with. We’ve been delayed far too long already. Whatever we’ve got to do, it’s time to stop worrying about it and just do it.”

“Yes, Admiral.” Atara Travis’s tone was hard and focused as she replied to Barron’s order. Dauntless had transited first into the Olyus system, but even as the battleship’s systems rebooted and adjusted to the reemergence into normal space, the other units of the fleet began to appear. Barron’s force was almost a third of the fleet’s entire strength, and it was coming through the point in combat formation.

“Set a course for Megara. Acceleration at 4g.”

“Yes, sir.”

Barron leaned back in his chair and looked out at the display. There was a small cluster of ships deployed on one side of the planet, a handful of escorts that had fled when the rest of Whitten’s fleet had changed sides and a pair of battleships that appeared to remain loyal to the now-imprisoned Whitten. Barron hated the idea of killing his fellow spacers, but the situation had become more desperate, the communiques from Admiral Winters too dire to allow him to humor foolish allegiances any longer. He would offer those ships one last chance to yield, or at least to stand down, and he would do the same with the orbital defenses. And then he would obliterate anyone who continued to stand in his way. He was going to unite the Confederation, whatever the cost, and those who couldn’t be persuaded of the need to join forces…he would destroy them. Utterly and without hesitation. It was brutal, cold…but it was the only way.

“Put me on the system-wide comm, Commander.”

“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later. “Live on your line.”

Barron sighed as he pulled the headset on. He closed his eyes, an image of his grandfather in his thoughts. I need you to be with me now…help me do what I have to do…

“Attention all Confederation vessels and installations, this is Admiral Tyler Barron aboard the CFS Dauntless. There have recently been unsettling developments in the government and military of the Confederation, including several fraudulent scandals and widespread misinformation. This was all part of a carefully planned effort to destabilize the Confederation…for purposes as yet unknown. I cannot explain why this happened, or who is responsible. But I can say one thing with absolute, iron certainty. It is over. Now.” His voice was cold, like the sound of a hammer striking an anvil. He was full of doubt and uncertainty, but not a trace of that escaped his lips.

He could feel the eyes of Dauntless’s bridge crew boring into him. His people were all with him, he was confident of that, but even loyal followers needed reassurance that what they were doing was right.

“I order all military vessels in the Olyus system to stand down at once. Any warship operating at full power will be targeted and destroyed without further warning. The Megara orbital defenses are also to power down and to prepare to be boarded at once.”

Barron could feel the anger rising up inside him, the rage focused at whoever was truly behind what had happened. He’d gone through all he had, he’d killed fellow Confederation spacers…and, perhaps worst of all, Clint Winters was trying to hold back a full-scale Hegemony invasion with a fleet cobbled together from bits and pieces from a dozen frontier bases. It was intolerable, and for all Barron’s hesitation on allowing anger and the need for vengeance to guide his actions, he knew one thing.

Everyone responsible for this debacle had to pay. Treacherous officers, government officials…even Senators. He would see to that.

“All defense facilities on the surface of Megara are also to disarm. All Marine and other units are to stand down at once and await further orders. I have over one hundred ships with me, and my fleet will secure every centimeter of this system. All space traffic is to cease at once. Vessels underway are to decelerate to a dead stop and await further instructions. All vessels docked or at spaceports will remain where they are.” He paused, then added, his voice as cold as space, “Any violations of this order will be dealt with immediately, and without additional warning. I urge everyone to take my words seriously. Do not test my resolve.”

He turned and gestured for Atara to cut the line. Then he leaned back in his chair, and let out a deep exhale. Well, if there wasn’t a case for treason against me before, it’s damned certain one could be put together now. Threatening the entire capital system is definitely beyond the given power of my rank.

Like it or not, Barron knew he’d taken another step. A life as a career officer, following orders, and moving through the system…and now all that was gone. He was a revolutionary, and he was on the verge of launching a coup.

Part of him couldn’t believe what he’d done. The other thought of Winters and his battered fleet, and the vast forces of the Hegemony…and he wondered what had taken him so long.

Chapter Thirty-Six

CFS Repulse

Miramar System

Five Transits from Dannith

Year 317 AC

“Captain, Commodore…we’ve got him! He’s in the bay, and he looks fine!”

Sonya smiled as she listened to Stara Sinclair’s report. She’d watched with baited breath, knowing Repulse could hold its position only so long.

Not if they were going to have any chance of getting out of the system.

“That’s good news, Commander. Very good news.” Sara responded before Sonya could get the words out, and that was fine with her. She was Repulse’s captain, but her sister commanded the entire task force, and as much as Sonya had grown into her role and developed more confidence, she was glad to stand aside and allow the older, more experienced Eaton handle the current desperate situation.

The battle was raging all around, and losses in the task force were heavy. The forward enemy ships had been badly battered, but that hadn’t stopped them from unloading savagely on the vessels holding their positions, waiting for Stockton’s fighter to arrive. She’d watched her sister direct the task force, and she was even more impressed than she’d been before. Sara Eaton had become a master at space battle tactics, a development Sonya thought shouldn’t be surprising since the commodore had spent no small amount of time fighting alongside Tyler Barron.

The task force had lost one battleship and half a dozen escorts. Bad, but perhaps not as disastrous as it might have been. The rest of the fleet had taken considerable damage in the fighting in Miramar…and a catastrophe had only been averted by the dedication and sacrifice of Stockton’s fighter wings, who had thrown themselves at the approaching Hegemony ships, targeting the two behemoths with still-operational railguns. The fearsome enemy main guns had torn apart Goliath, and severely damaged two of the other capital ships, as well as obliterating several cruisers. It had been a display of just what would happen if an intact enemy battle line ever managed to close to firing range of the Confederation battle line.

A reminder of just how vital the squadrons were in this war. As if we needed another…

“Recall all squadrons. I want those fighters back in the bays as quickly as possible.” She heard her sister give the order, one she’d expected. Sara had been pulling back the squadrons gradually, ordering them to break off as soon as Stockton’s fighter came within twenty thousand kilometers of Repulse. Most of the wings had considerable velocity built up already along preplanned vectors. If all went well, they would catch their motherships about three-quarters of the way to the transit point.

If things didn’t go well…an attempt to save a single hero could end up costing the lives of hundreds of his people.

“Fleet order four, Commander. All ships are to disengage immediately and proceed toward the transit point. Battleships are to have their bays ready to recover fighters while on the move. I want full emergency protocols on all vessels.”

“Yes, Commodore.” John Fuller was doing a solid job as an aide to both Eaton sisters, and Sonya was proud of her exec. She felt a spark of hope as well, knowing that Stockton was aboard and the fleet’s sole remaining duty in Miramar was to recover its squadrons and run. With any luck, the rest of the task force would get out of the system.

But then what?

She’d seen Stockton’s transmission, though she hadn’t spoken of it. Sara had seen it, too, of course, but Admiral Winters had ordered the information classified…and kept from the fleet’s crews. Sonya understood his reasoning, but she didn’t agree with the decision. The fleet had pursued one goal in both engagements with the enemy, a tactic that had worked in every war for a hundred years. And, now, it appeared the entire strategy was doomed to failure.

Even the immense supply and support train the Hegemony fleet possessed had to have its limits. But the initial analysis of Stockton’s images suggested the enemy could continue its advance far enough for the limits not to matter.

All the way to Megara.

It was terrible news, and when it became public, she couldn’t imagine what would happen to the fleet’s morale. Though the fighting at Miramar had been executed flawlessly, with considerably greater losses inflicted than sustained, in the end it was the same as Dannith. Another retreat. Another planet left at the mercy of the invader.

Another step closer to the very center of the Confederation, toward what would have to be a final, cataclysmic battle.

And soon.

*

Stockton slowly climbed down from his cockpit, every move a minor agony. To say he was stiff didn’t come close. He’d been in his fighter for almost two weeks, the only breaks being short spacewalks to pry his way into fuel storage tanks and snatch what he needed to catch the fleet. He’d stretched his emergency rations—supplemented by every stim he could scrape up in his personal kit—and the recycler had given him enough water to survive, but in no way could he describe the trip as anything short of hellish.

The fact that he had been desperately trying to deliver what could only be considered ominous news had increased the load he’d carried…though it had also bolstered his stubbornness, his unyielding insistence he would find a way to return. Whatever it took.

He had made it back, and as he thought about the trip, he realized he wasn’t sure if he’d believed he would make it or not. The doubts had nearly taken hold, and as he thought back, he wondered if they hadn’t gained control, at least for a while.

Not only had he been attempting a journey vastly beyond the normal capabilities of his fighter, but the space he’d had to traverse was no longer friendly. Winters’s fleet had pulled back from Dannith and abandoned a number of other systems, and Stockton was behind enemy lines in every sense of that phrase’s meaning. Even where the Hegemony forces had not yet landed on a system’s inhabited worlds, they had blockaded almost every planet and outpost.

The word “almost” in that assessment had saved his life. The Hegemony had been systematic and relentless, but they simply hadn’t had the time to deploy forces to every old mining operation or refueling station in the depths of each system. Stockton’s database had details on all of it, of course, every floating rust bucket orbiting some half-forgotten outer system gas giant…anything that might hold enough fuel to get him farther on his journey.

In the end, he’d found one that was still operational, its crew at their stations, nervously waiting to see what future—if any—awaited them when the enemy finally got around to sending a force their way. Stockton had been sorry his fighter didn’t have room for any passengers, and space to take on the dozen crewmembers of the tiny station. They had been patriotic enough to give him the fuel he needed, but as he watched them top off his tanks, he was aware he would be leaving them behind to whatever fate the enemy had in store for them. There were hundreds of millions of people on the system’s inhabited worlds, but it was different with these men and women. He’d spoken to them one on one, they’d helped him get his ship ready to press on, even managed to assist him with repairs…made it possible for him to escape from the system, where they were trapped, facing an unknown future.

He could still see their faces, remember the sounds of their voices, and he wondered, as he stood in Repulse’s bay, if they were alive or dead. The Hegemony didn’t appear to be genocidal, which was a relief on its own…but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t resort to tactical expediency with virtually irrelevant targets like a small refueling station. It would be much simpler to blast that kind of target to atoms than to divert landing forces to board and take control.

“Jake!”

Stockton spun around. He recognized the voice instantly, and even as he did, the grim thoughts of the journey, of those left behind, slipped away, and he felt a moment of unrestrained joy.

“Stara…” He took a few steps forward, still wobbly, unsteady on his feet. She closed the rest of the distance, almost at a dead run, and she threw herself into his arms. It was a decidedly unmilitary display, if one the officers and spacers on the flight deck were more than happy to pretend not to see. It was also an impact Stockton’s weakened legs couldn’t endure, and he dropped to the deck, Stara following and landing on top of him.

“Jake, are you…”

“I’m fine,” he managed to say, despite the wind being thoroughly knocked out of him. “It’s nice to be missed…” It was the extent of the humor he was able to muster, and the dark reality of the news he’d brought quickly forced its way back to center stage. “My message. Stara, did you…”

“We got it, Jake.” Stara’s tone followed his in became grimmer, more serious. “We were finally able to pull it through the jamming.” A pause. “Admiral Winters knows. He has the whole message.” She pulled herself back up to a prone pose, and reached out to help Stockton. Then she stood up and pulled the pilot with her. He stood there, looking no surer on his feet than he had before, but remaining upright nevertheless.

“He’ll want all the details I can give him…as quickly as possible.” Stockton craved rest above almost anything, and what strength he still had, he’d have chosen to spend with Stara. But they both had duty, and that came first…and his wouldn’t wait.

“Let’s get you into flight control, Jake. We can get a comm line to the admiral…and someplace for you to sit.”

He nodded. “Good. Let’s go.” He had to get to the admiral, make sure Winters understood just what he had seen in Dannith’s system, and the implications it held for enemy supply and logistics.

A direct line to the admiral was almost at the top of his list.

Just below someplace to sit.

*

The light hurt her eyes, and she turned her head, trying to shield herself from the intense glare. There was pain, soreness, and sharp, shooting sensations down her back as she moved her neck. She wasn’t sure where she was, who she was, for a moment.

Anya Fritz…that is my name.

She’d been lost, floating.

Where am I?

She was in a room, no it was smaller than a room. There was something right above her face, clear…the light coming through from outside. She was confused. Then suddenly, she remembered.

The reactor…the engines!

Panic filled her mind. Repulse was dead in space…she had to get the power flowing again. She was running out of time.

She tried to get up…but her body barely responded. She lurched up slightly, and banged into the clear barrier above her. She was in some kind of restricted space. Her impulse was to throw herself against it, but now she realized how weak she was.

There were IV lines attached to her arm as well. She almost tried to move her arm, to pull out the tubes, but then clarity returned slowly. She was in sickbay.

Her thoughts went back…yes, we got the reactor back online. The memory was fuzzy, but there was nothing after.

The radiation.

She was trying to recall her last memories in the reactor room…and then the canopy above her suddenly slid open. She could feel the air from outside, a bit cooler than it had been in the capsule. Refreshing, in a way.

“Captain Fritz…can you hear me?”

She could hear the words, but she wasn’t sure where they were coming from. Her vision past perhaps twenty centimeters was a complete blur.

She could sense hands moving over her, adjusting the equipment that lay all around her body.

“Captain Fritz…can you speak?”

“Yes…” She’d been surer of the answer when she’d first willed words from her mouth, but the scratchy rasp that came out told her she was barely able to speak.

“That’s okay, Captain…it’s normal. Just relax. This is Dr. Merrick. I can’t tell you how happy we are to see you awake.”

“How…long?” Fritz was still disoriented, but she’d managed to start to put things together. She’d been in a coma. The radiation. She hadn’t expected to survive. She’d been sure she was dead…she was struggling to get the reactor back online, to save Repulse. So, the crew would be able to escape. So, she didn’t die for nothing.

“You have been in a coma for three weeks now, Captain. We thought we were going to lose you…but you’re through the worst of it now.”

She felt lousy, not at all like she was “through the worst of it,” but she decided to take the doctor’s word. There was something else in her mind, hazy, distant. A worry. The reactor? No, that was obviously back online. Walt…

Walt Billings had been with her, working on the reactor. They’d worked side by side. She’d never have gotten the thing back online without him.

“Walt?”

“I think you should rest now, Captain. The cellular repair procedures seem to have worked, but you will be exhausted for quite some time. We can’t have you over-exert…”

“Where…is…he?” She moved her head, as much as she could, turning toward the doctor. He was still a blurry shape above her, though her vision was improving slowly. “How…is…Walt?”

The doctor hesitated, not responding for a few seconds. Then he said softly, the pain in his voice clear, “I’m sorry, Captain. Commander Billings didn’t make it. We lost him two days ago.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Senate Hall

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

“We cannot give in to Admiral Barron’s demands…even if there is some cause for his discontent. This body is the ultimate authority in the Confederation, and the day we allow the military to dictate to us is the day liberty is lost.” Tolbert Ferrell stood on the podium, addressing a Senate that was in utter disarray, if not outright panic. His carefully assembled coalition had fallen apart almost completely, and his speech was as much an effort to cling to the power he could feel slipping through his fingers as it was a defense of Senate integrity.

He’d been shaken when he heard of Desiree Marieles’s murder, along with those of a number of her associates. He’d been surprised on one level, though perhaps less on another. He’d come to the conclusion that the lobbyist had dealings with some unsavory sorts, and he cursed himself for his naivety in not questioning how she had attained the information he’d used to bring down Gary Holsten, and later so many others. Information that now appeared to be largely fabricated. Still, the truth was almost impossible for him to completely believe.

A Sector Nine agent?

He’d already distanced himself from her before her death, but he couldn’t erase the fact that she’d played a major role in his rise to prominence.

That he’d helped her implement her plan to destabilize the Confederation. That part of the whole sorry episode hadn’t come out yet, but he couldn’t imagine it would be much longer before it did.

He’d been a fool. An unwitting one perhaps, but a fool nevertheless, and the damage had been done. He couldn’t imagine Tyler Barron or any of the wrongfully accused officers accepting his explanation, and there was no doubt, none at all, that his political rivals would use it to tear him to shreds.

He had to hang on, pin his hopes on a defense of the Senate and its authority. Otherwise, he was finished.

“Your impassioned speech is impressive, Senator Ferrell…and yet you mention nothing of the Marine forces deployed just outside this Senate Complex, nor the indisputably powerful fleet under Admiral Barron’s command, situated just out of range of Megara’s defensive array. Even those defenses, though under Senatorial control at this moment, are inadequate to repel Barron’s fleet…and it is far from certain the officers and spacer there will remain under our control if it comes to imminent hostilities with the fleet.” Claudius Gerald stood up, staring across the hall toward Ferrell. Gerald had been one of those who’d remained mostly silent during Ferrell’s rise, throughout the entire Sector Nine plot, but now he spoke, and as he did, several dozen others rose to their feet in support.

“My esteemed Senator Gerald, you are a wise legislator and a man I am pleased to call my colleague. Yet, surely you are not suggesting that this body can abrogate its authority and yield to a military coup. If we do, we shall fall into the utter contempt of those who elected us. We shall shame these halls, to the disgrace of those esteemed legislators who preceded us.”

“Flowery language, Senator Ferrell, and quite stirring…if also phony.” Claudius was undeterred, and the growing faction that was rising and moving to stand behind him began to unnerve Ferrell. “Your journey from nonentity to a worldly manifestation of corruption is complete. You and your allies have brought disgrace upon this great house, and, in doing so, you have endangered the Confederation itself. You have allowed yourselves to be manipulated by foreign agents, and played a lead role in seeing false and libelous charges brought against many of the Confederation’s greatest heroes.” Claudius stepped forward, moving toward the podium, the throng of Senators behind him looking more and more like a mob. Ferrell could feel the fear, not so much that the other Senators might assault him, but that he was losing control. He bristled at the accusations leveled by Claudius…and yet Desiree Marieles and her associates had been tied to superbly constructed aliases.

Marieles had been Sector Nine…he knew it now. And soon everyone would know. He stood on the podium, near panic, trying to decide what to do, to find a way out.

But there was nothing. Only the tightening noose of Senators gathering around him, as his support dwindled, and his allies ran for cover.

*

“I’m very relieved to hear from you, Admiral. I’m afraid I had begun to fear the worst.” Barron sat in his office, alone, on the comm with Van Striker and Gary Holsten. He waited for a few seconds as the signal traveled to Megara and then back again with the response.

“I’m relieved myself, Tyler. Not to seem melodramatic, but I think Gary and Jon Peterson’s Marines got there just in time. I’m still not sure why Ricard kept me alive for so long, but I think my luck was about to run out.”

“I’m deeply happy and relieved that it worked out, sir.” A pause. “Any sign of Lille?”

A few more seconds, then, “No…none. It’s as though he vanished. I’m guessing he managed to get off-planet when the whole Sector Nine plan began to fall apart.”

Barron hesitated. Then he asked the question that had been eating away at his insides. “Andi…any word on her?”

There was silence on the line, for longer than the distance delay. Finally, Gary Holsten answered. “No, Tyler. Nothing.” Another stretch of silent seconds. “I’m afraid I missed her real reason for coming to Megara. She tried to kill Ricard Lille, just before we rescued Van. She came damned close to succeeding, too.”

Barron heard the words, and his insides twisted. He’d known Lille had held Andi captive on Dannith, but he’d listened to her assurances that her captivity had been uneventful, that she hadn’t been treated that badly. Now he felt like an idiot. You believed what you wanted to believe…you’re a damned fool. And you let her go back on some suicidal vendetta.

“Is she…” He couldn’t say it, and he left the two words hanging in the air around him.

“No, Tyler…don’t assume that. She’s very capable, more than we sometimes realize. My feeling is, she’s out there, looking for Lille.”

“But if he left Megara…” A pause. “Pegasus…did she…”

“Andi’s ship is still in the station dock.”

Tyler heard the words like an iron fist to his gut. If Andi had pursued Lille off-planet, she’d have taken her ship. She can’t be… He couldn’t finish the thought.

“We’re looking for her, Tyler…everywhere. We’ll find her.”

Holsten was trying to reassure him, but Barron barely heard him. You let her go. You were so focused on the Hegemony, on dealing with the situation on Megara. You just let her go.

He hated himself, and he struggled to hold back his despair. He’d failed her, let her down…as she had never done to him. He might not be able to help her anymore, but his grief demanded action. He would make sure all those responsible had paid…if he had to bombard Troyus City from orbit to do it.

“It’s time to end this. Now.” His voice was cold, and hard as steel. “Enough damage has been done. Enough good people have been lost.”

“Tyler…”

He stood up and walked away from the desk, leaving the comm line open.

“Tyler…”

He walked out into the short corridor and onto the bridge. “Commander, I want an open line to Megara…no code, full power, to all receiving stations.” His voice was utterly without emotion. Even Atara looked at him with undisguised concern. But he ignored it all.

“Yes, Admiral…on your line.”

He walked over to his chair and stood alongside. He pulled his headset on and activated it.

“This is Admiral Tyler Barron, to the Senate and people of Megara, and to all military personnel, including those manning the orbital fortresses. We, as Confederation citizens, have prided ourselves on our republican government, praised ourselves for our enlightened status, on a Rim dominated by despotism and tyranny. But we have lied to ourselves, prided ourselves on that which does not exist in any meaningful way. The Senate is corrupt, and the Union’s Sector Nine has been able infiltrate the highest sections of the government. Lies have been spread far and wide, and some of our best people have been maligned, arrested…or even killed. For the first time, I stand here in my uniform, one that I was born into and strove to wear with honor and pride…and I am ashamed. I am disgusted with my nation and the foulness and corruption that has steered it into darkness and imminent destruction.”

Barron could feel every set of eyes on Dauntless’s bridge boring into him, the utter silence all around as he continued. He’d lost all sense of restraint and diplomacy, and he imagined Striker and Holsten were desperately trying to reach him. He didn’t care.

“As I speak, Confederation forces under Admiral Winters are fighting to hold back an invasion from the Hegemony. They are a deadly new enemy, vast hordes of ships from the galactic core, where we had so long assumed no civilization remained. This is a threat like no other we have faced, deadlier and more ominous than the worst war with the Union. And, yet, Admiral Winters faces the enemy with the bits and pieces of a fleet he was able to scavenge on the frontier, because the rest of the navy was here. They were caught up in the foulness centered in the Senate, while our comrades fought against overwhelming odds and died in desperate, hopeless battles.”

His heart was pounding in his chest. He’d lost control. His grief drove him forward, his guilt. Andi might be gone, he might have failed her. But he would make sure that she had not died for nothing. And he would see all those responsible held accountable.

“We have been led astray, lost our way as a people. We have accepted platitudes and oft-repeated reminders of freedom and justice that were as much fiction as reality. Our society has gone on about its business, normal citizens, engaged in their trades, looking to their elected government for leadership and their military for protection. They received neither, and now we all look into the abyss, waiting only for the final push before falling forever into the darkness.”

Barron could see Atara, standing just to his side, as though she was considering whether to try and interrupt him. But she just stayed where she was, watching silently.

“That all ends, now! This standoff is over. This instant! To the crews of the orbital defenses, you have ten minutes to yield, to power down your weapons and join with me, and with the thousands of spacers following me. You will cease to defend a corrupt Senate, one that looks only to its own needs and wants, and has long forgotten its duty to the people. You will remember your own obligation to the people, and you will align with the forces under my command. Or I will destroy you. There is no question that my fleet can overwhelm the Megaran Planetary defenses. All you can accomplish with resistance, besides your own deaths, is to cause losses to the force that will ultimately face the invading Hegemony.”

He stood where he was, his hands clenched into tight fists. “Marines and other ground forces in and around Troyus City…I urge you to stand up, side with the units surrounding the Senate Compound. The time for patience is gone. The time for understanding is long past. Doom approaches us all, and our conflicts with each other must end now, in one last torrent of blood if need be.”

He sucked in a deep breath. He was shaking, and he could feel his heart pounding, but he pushed forward, willing himself to continue. “To the Senate, to that house so tainted by corruption and foulness, I offer you but one chance. Senators who have tried to resist such travesties, or even those whose complicity was born of stupidity or fear…you have this one last chance to act with honor, to move against those who have forever blackened the name of your institution. Rise up now, and take control of the Senate Hall, apprehend those who have led you to darkness, and open your gates to the Marines outside. Yield now, and ask the people for their forgiveness…or I swear on my honor, and on my grandfather’s spirit…I will leave you all charred dust in the blasted remains of the Senate Hall.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Occupation Headquarters

Port Royal City

Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“I want all patrols doubled in size immediately, Kiloron, and all high value convoys are to be escorted by armored detachments.” Develia stood next to the conference table she’d been using as a desk. She was too tense to sit, too angry about the latest in what seemed like an unending series of devastating guerilla attacks. Her forces occupied the entire planet, and she had garrisons in every city, maintaining tight control. But any force that set foot into the wilder areas of the planet was at great risk.

“Yes, Commander.” The Kriegeri was hesitant. The Hegemony armed forces generally adhered to military ranks and hierarchy, but it was still difficult for one not of Master rank to disagree with one who was.

“Speak, Kiloron. I seek your honest commentary.” Develia had considerable military experience of her own, but the Kriegeri was a veteran of many battles. There was no question, the struggle to pacify what appeared to be an insignificant frontier world was turning into a hard fight, and she was ready to listen to any point of view. Arrogance sometimes sapped the strength of Hegemony Masters, especially when dealing with Inferiors, but Develia was cool and rational, and far more interested in success than in feeding her ego. If the Kriegeri veteran could aid her in bringing the situation under control, she was more than willing to listen.

“Commander…Master…” The officer was a tough as nails sort, but he was still edgy in front of her. She agreed completely with the genetic ranking system, but she wondered at the arbitrary level that signified Master status, and all the benefits that accrued to it. The best should rule, but did the categorization that dominated Hegemony society achieve that, or did it just create another aristocracy, without regard for the achievements and accomplishments of those granted power and privilege. Genetic strength was an inarguable advantage, but how did training and experience compare to it? Did the privilege that accrued automatically to those of high ranking unintentionally divert many of the best from reaching their potential,? She knew she tread close to impermissible thoughts with that line of questioning, and she kept it to herself. But the questions lingered, nevertheless.

“Continue, Kiloron.”

“Yes, Commander. As you know…much of our combat strength was withdrawn to support the invasions of the next enemy planets. The force we have is barely sufficient for garrison duty, and…” Another nervous pause. “…I submit to you that the task before us is far greater than simply maintaining control over a partially-pacified population. We are not facing mere rebels. These are trained and veteran soldiers, Master Develia…I am sure of it. The lack of expected resistance to the initial invasion resulted in the accelerated redeployment of forces back offworld, but perhaps this was a significant error. It may be that we were allowed to land against minimal defenses to encourage us to reduce our garrisons, and so the enemy could withdraw their front-line units largely intact to prepared positions.” The officer paused. “If we increase the escort forces as you command, the cities themselves will be undermanned. We may open the door for the enemy to move on higher value targets.”

Develia looked at the veteran Kriegeri, and at the bandage around the man’s forehead, soaked through in the center with blood. He was not talking about theory or his analysis from maps, nor with the arrogance she had heard from so many of her Master comrades, pontificating on one topic or another. He was talking about what he had experienced firsthand. Develia knew better than to discount the words of a veteran of twenty battles simply because he was Kriegeri and not a Master.

She stood silent for a moment, her eyes cast down on the table. She had to do something. She had not projected the loss rates in personnel and material forward yet, not with any sense of accuracy, but it would be sobering when she did. Such a calculation was impossible without knowing more about the size of the enemy forces. Her people had gone through the planet’s records—with the full assistance of Administrator Cantor—but the military data had all been destroyed. Every record, every copy of an order of battle or supply manifest. Whoever was in command of the defense forces knew what he was doing. He had not left a clue, not a scrap of data useful in hunting down the defenders turned guerillas. She did not know if she was facing a few hundred fighters, or a few thousand.

Or more…

More was starting to look like a distinct possibility.

She doubted Cantor would be able to enlighten her. He was proving to be even more useless than she had imagined. Though I think it is time for the Administrator to experience some more aggressive interrogation techniques. She doubted it would take much to be sure he had told her all her knew.

She turned toward one of the other officers standing against the wall. “Hectoron…Administrator Cantor is to be brought to interrogation room four.”

“Yes, Commander.” The woman nodded her head forward for a few seconds, then she turned and marched out of the room.

Develia reached down to the desk and flipped on the comm.

“Yes, Commander?” A voice came through the speaker before she even spoke.

“I want a level two interrogation team in room four in ten minutes, Decaron.”

“Yes, Commander. At once.”

She turned around and dropped down into one of the chairs. She was not bloodthirsty by nature. She was not entirely comfortable with the Hegemony’s policy of forcibly absorbing all human societies into its own. But she had always done her duty, and in the ultimate calculation, she was a loyal Hegemony officer and a Master.

I will tame this planet, whatever it takes. She hoped, for their sake, the residents of Dannith would help her hunt down the insurgents…because if the attacks continued, it was they who would pay the highest price.

*

The line of Marines moved forward swiftly, crouched low, using the growing darkness for cover. Luther Holcott hustled alongside the row of advancing figures, pushing himself, trying to keep up as quick a pace as he could. He appreciated the usefulness of the dusk fading into night, but there were a hundred other ways for the enemy to detect his people…infrared, motion sensors, even preplaced laser markers. He’d been a veteran for too long to underestimate the Hegemony forces…their ability or their technology. Speed was still his greatest asset. His people had been digging tunnels for weeks now, boring through the solid rock of Dannith’s crust…creating avenues to move his forces around with some protection against enemy scanning capability. It was far from a perfect system. Kriegeri attack teams had found one of the tunnels, and they blew it open, trapping almost one hundred fifty of his Marines down there before they swarmed in themselves and killed them all.

Holcott had tried to imagine the scene down in the confines of that tunnel, a hundred fifty Marines fighting for their lives against probably twice as many Kriegeri. The Hegemony forces, bred for combat roles and enhanced with extensive robotic implants, were stronger than his own people. That had been a bitter pill for a veteran Marine to swallow, but Luther Holcott had never believed in self-delusion. Still, he knew how a hundred fifty trapped Marines could fight, and he suspected even the elite Hegemony soldiers had paid a heavy price on that operation. His people had been wiped out, but there wasn’t a doubt in his mind that they’d sold their lives dearly.

He’d heeded the pleas of his officers and remained in the hidden HQ bunker during the most recent operations, but the current attack was the biggest his people had attempted, with over one thousand Marines involved. They were striking not at convoys this time, but at over a dozen power generation and transmission facilities. He’ refrained from such targets before, both because they were heavily defended and because they would hit the populations as well as the occupiers. But the enemy had pulled strength from its fixed garrisons to increase its forces in the field hunting his people. That put a time limit on his guerilla campaign. Sooner or later, the enemy would discover his strongpoints, and one group at a time, they would find and destroy his units. He’d known from the beginning that the guerilla campaign could only last so long, that if the enemy wanted to crush it badly enough, and they deployed the manpower and tech assets to do it, they could eventually eliminate all resistance. Steve Blanth had known that as well.

Holcott hoped he’d run things the way Blanth would have wanted. He liked to think he’d done a job that would have made his lost commander proud. He credited what success his people had achieved to Blanth’s planning, and even as he’d made the decision to expand the types of targets his people went after, he was sure the colonel would have done the same.

Time was ticking away, and the enemy had left vital installations inadequately defended. He’d been focused mostly on extending the time his resistance could last, but this was a chance to do some real damage. He could hurt any chances the enemy might have to use Dannith as a base to support their invasion, or even to restore the planet to some semblance of a new normalcy as one of their own worlds.

He hated to think of Confederation citizens adapting to a place in such an alien society, but he knew some people—perhaps most people—lacked the strength to resist.

Holcott knew two things, himself. First, he would do everything he could to interfere, to push off the day that Dannith’s people woke up accustomed to living under the Hegemony.

Second…he would be dead in the field, with every one of his Marines, before that day did come.

*

The sound of a massive explosion shook the building, and even the Kriegeri guards, normally completely cold and unemotional, ducked down for a second. The soldiers recovered almost immediately from their surprise, and they resumed their posts, but Walter Cantor had ducked below the table, and he remained where he was, cowering, until Develia called to him.

“Walter…it is over. It was some distance from here.” She knew exactly where the sounds had come from. She had had reports of the guerillas attacking the main power plant serving Port Royal City. No, to be entirely accurate, she had dispatches of rebel activity all over the planet, targeting every manner of infrastructure installation. Her people were doing what they could, but the surprise was almost total, and if luck went against her, half the planet might be plunged into darkness as the electricity stopped flowing.

As it already had in her headquarters.

The room was shadowy. The light was still coming through the windows from outside, but the overhead lamps had gone dark. From what she could quickly assess, everything but the emergency power was off. Whether that was permanent, or simply a short-term result of the explosion, she didn’t know yet.

The rebels had upped their game. They had focused on targeting Hegemony supplies and isolated military units, but now, it appeared they had shed their unwillingness to cause damage to the planet and its inhabitants, as long as they also struck at the occupiers.

She shook her head and put her hands to her forehead, massaging her temples for a moment. It was not something she would have done in front of an important prisoner, but Cantor was such a worthless Inferior, she really did not care what he saw or thought. She would continue to use him for what little he was worth—he had given her decent intel on likely troublemakers among the population—but she did not need to manage him with any great care. Just the hint of physical coercion was enough to shatter any barriers the Confederation politicians tried to throw up. She had seen mutated Defekts that put Cantor to shame, and she wondered how many of his types infested the Rim.

She almost went to the comm to call in for a report, but she knew it would come as soon as the data was secure. She had only one real question, and the power outage suggested the answer would not be to her liking. Had the rebels managed to severely damage the capital’s primary power plant? Or had they just cut a line or a routing station, something her people could quickly repair?

“Walter…get up.” She did not try to hide the impatience in her voice. “It is over…and it was kilometers away.” If the rebels had hit the power plant, they had done so in a controlled manner. The explosions were all conventional ones, and it would not have taken more than a few engineers added to the strike team to convert the whole thing into an atomic explosion.

They are not ready to destroy Port Royal City…not yet. Will they be when they are more desperate, when we have hunted them down and driven them from their refuges?

Or, will they force me to do it?

Develia’s orders were clear. For all intents and purposes, Dannith was now a Hegemony world, and she was to treat it as such. Her primary goal was to complete the indoctrination of the people, to implement genetic testing as soon as possible, and to prepare the planet to serve as a long-term base for the absorption of the Rim.

That was beginning to look like a tall order, and her initial confidence had begun to fade. Despite her primary directives, she did have some latitude. She was to take all reasonable measures to integrate Dannith…but if the planet proved impossible to tame, if the occupation absorbed too many resources for too long, it was expendable. If Dannith could not be the first world successfully integrated into the Hegemony, perhaps it could serve as an example to the others. She did not like the idea of rounding up citizens wholesale and executing them…or even less, withdrawing her forces and glassing the place from orbit. But she would do what she had to do.

What they make me do…

Chapter Thirty-Nine

CFS Dauntless

2,000,000 Kilometers from Planet Megara

Olyus System

Year 317 AC

Barron stood next to his chair. His duty drove him, his devotion to the ideals of the Confederation, his anger and rage at the death of his comrades. They were lost because the Senate had allowed enemy agents to infiltrate Megara, because their corruption and lust for power had made them vulnerable to Sector Nine.

But, mostly, he was driven by grief, pain he felt at what he was sure was Andi’s death. Their relationship had been one of stolen moments, their lives simply not compatible for anything other than periodic trysts. But he’d loved her almost since he’d first met her.

It didn’t matter, though. He was still married to his job, still a creature of the navy, born into his role, and welded to it by long years of dedicated service and the shades of Barrons of past generations. Now, the Confederation faced its greatest challenge. Could he leave with darkness looming so close, even if he found that she was still alive? Could he desert his comrades, stand down when the greatest invasion in history was tearing through Confederation space, to slip off somewhere to sit in front of a fireplace with Andi?

No. He couldn’t. But thoughts of her death cut through him like a knife, and he channeled that raw pain, and the hatred it fueled, toward those who had caused the current mess.

And anyone who still supported them. Anyone who refused his commands to stand down would be destroyed. Part of him, deep in his mind, was shocked at such thoughts, but there was no question, he was ready to do whatever had to be done. He’d allowed his concern for killing Confederation personnel to rule his decisions, but now he let the darkness flow from deep within and take him. He would do what had to be done, without pause or hesitation.

Whatever had to be done.

Then he would hand the fleet over to Van Striker…and they would set out together to join Clint Winters and his forces. He was far from sure the Confederation and Alliance forces could defeat the deadly new enemy, but he was damned sure he was going to try.

On some level, where the pain raged unabated, he wondered if he might meet his end in the fighting that lay ahead…and he wondered if he cared. If he even preferred it. Andi was gone, and the Confederation itself was on the verge of collapse. He’d seen the Hegemony ships up close, and from the reports Winters had sent, the invasion fleet was almost unimaginable in size. Barron would keep fighting, of course. It was all he knew how to do.

But he had come to believe the war was unwinnable.

Whatever lay ahead, though, he wasn’t going to allow a bunch of crooked politicians stand in the way of the fleet mounting the best possible defense, certainly not so they could try to escape the consequences of their own vile dealings. Human history was an unending saga of political leaders escaping the punishments they deserved. As far as Barron was concerned, that ended now.

“Commander, the fleet is to accelerate at 3g, directly toward Megara.”

“Yes, Admiral.” Atara’s voice was like forged steel. She was with him, as he’d known she would be, and it was clear she wanted everyone on the bridge to know it.

“Get me a channel…wide broadcast.” What he had to say was for the crews on the orbital platforms, but there was no harm in letting the others hear it. The personnel in the ground installations, the guards at the Senate Hall…every man, woman, and child on Megara had a stake in what happened next. He wanted them all to hear what he had to say.

“On your line, Admiral.”

He nodded. “Fleet ships are to power up all weapons systems.”

“Yes, sir.”

He reached his hand to the side of his headset, and he activated it.

“Crews of the Megara orbital stations—the fleet is now approaching. You must decide where you stand, whom you support. There is no middle ground now, and no more time for debate or prevarication. The fleet will enter firing range in seven minutes. In seven minutes and one second, every ship will open fire on any station that has not powered down and yielded. I regret that loss of life that will result from this, both in my fleet and on the stations, but that will not stop me. We face too great a threat to continue the absurdity of this internal conflict. We have too little time to waste it here. It is time to pay whatever price is required to reunite the Confederation…and I shall brook no further delay.” He paused for a few seconds. Then: “You have six minutes remaining.”

*

“Let’s go…move. Let’s do what we know has to be done.” Jon Peterson stood next to a tall building, a massive skyscraper more than two kilometers in height. It was just one of many such structures in the central district of Troyus City. Glancing up at it, he knew just what was at stake, perhaps better than any of his Marines. He’d taken Tyler Barron at his word, and he had no doubt the officer would adhere to what he’d said, that he would do whatever he had to…including blasting the entire Senate Compound to radioactive dust.

Peterson wasn’t sure he wouldn’t be just as happy to see the arrogant fools of the Senate incinerated, but orbital bombardments were rarely surgical operations, and Peterson had a good idea just what Troyus’s magnificent central district would look like by the time such an attack was done.

He didn’t know what was happening inside the Senate Hall, or what kind of resistance his people would encounter, but he knew they had to go in. They had to resolve this nightmare right there, on the ground, while Barron’s fleet dealt with the orbital defenses. The cost of the struggle continuing any longer was just too horrible to imagine.

Peterson watched as his Marines moved toward the Senate Compound’s outer walls. The complex hadn’t been built with defense in mind beyond basic security, but that didn’t mean it couldn’t be defended. That all depended on what was going on in that building…and how many of the guards and security forces were prepared to make a stand against the attacking Marines.

A few shots rang out—defenders, Peterson knew, both by the pitch of the sound and the fact that he’d forbidden his people to shoot unless they were fired upon. Then, the familiar crack of Marine assault rifles rang out…his people returning fire. But it was far down the line, and definitely contained, and as he moved toward the wall in front of him, there was no real defensive activity.

He pulled up, waiting as the demo teams set the charges against the wall. His eyes darted all around, expecting some kind of defense, watching for any sign of movement, the glint of a weapon in the morning sun. But still nothing.

He knelt down on one knee, his rifle at the ready, and he prepared himself for the explosions all along the wall.

A few seconds later, a dozen charges went off with a deafening series of roars, and the wall along a three hundred meter length crashed into a heap of shattered masonry and billowing dust clouds.

He shook his head, trying to clear away the shock of the sound, putting his sleeve against his face as dust filled the air.

Then he stood up, and yelled, “Forward…to the Senate Hall.”

He leapt up and ran through the opaque clouds, with no idea of what was waiting beyond.

*

Claudius Gerard ducked down, a reflex action to the sounds of the explosions just outside. He’d been trying to remain calm and steady as the showdown in the Senate Hall played itself out, but the massive series of blasts was well beyond what his nerves could handle.

“There,” he said, regaining his composure as quickly as he could. “Those Marines outside…they’re not outside anymore. They’re on the way in, and there is no time left for debate. You all heard Tyler Barron’s messages, and you know his mettle. He will do as he threatens, I have no doubt of that…not that it will matter to anyone here. Those Marines will be in the Hall in a minute, maybe less. I call on my colleagues here, those who did not fall into the slime pit along with Senator Ferrell here, to stand up now. We must accept responsibility as a governmental body, and we must hold those who caused this accountable.”

Gerard had done his share of dirty dealings in his long political career—it was impossible to rise to the level he had without collecting a fair amount of private shame—but he had always been a patriot, and he would stand now on his legacy, face the Marines and Barron, and speak for the Senate…and he would hand over those who were guilty.

Most guilty, at least.

“Join with me.” He raised his arm and pointed at Ferrell. “You all know those who led us into this nightmare. Take them. Bind them with whatever you have. Ferrell first. And Styles, Jorgenson, Dimitrov, Agencio, Borgala…” He began rattling off the names of the prime movers, the Senators who had seized virtual control of the body, fueled by their relentless campaigns of persecution, first against Gary Holsten, and then the military and so many others.

Gerard couldn’t believe how low the Senate had sunk, the disgrace that had accrued to all those present. Yet he believed that Tyler Barron was a good man, that he did not seek to seize power…nor see Gary Holsten or Van Striker do the same. He could reason with Barron, make a deal. He was sure of it.

Together, they could end the disaster that had seen Confederation spacers and Marines fighting each other, killing each other.

The sounds of gunfire moved closer, just outside the building.

First, you have to make your deal with whoever is commanding those Marines…

The doors blasted inward, the six-meter high, carved wood works of art reduced to matchsticks that showered across the room.

He could see figures moving forward, armed, obscured by the dust and smoke.

“Stop,” he screamed, as loudly as he could push his voice. “The Senate yields. We have taken those guilty into custody, and we will offer no resistance. I request a meeting with your commander to discuss terms…and what is to come next.”

Claudius didn’t have any idea who was in charge out there, and he was far from sure whoever it was would listen to him, but he knew he had to try.

His had been a life of dirty dealings, mixed with no small amount of what he considered decent governance. Now he felt a calling. He had money, fame, and, if he managed to hang onto it in the coming days, power. But none of that meant a thing if the Confederation fell…and he had begun to consider what Tyler Barron had said months ago, the warnings they had all ignored in their zeal to prosecute an innocent man…and the more recent reports from Admiral Winters.

This was his moment to claim his place in Confederation history.

To ensure there was such a thing as Confederation history.

*

“This is CFS Vista, calling to all Confederation authorities. We have been sent by Admiral Winters with an urgent communique.”

Tyler Barron’s head snapped around. He’d just accepted the surrender of the last orbital platform. Three of the ships that had originally sided with Admiral Whitten had fled, heading for one of the transit points, but the others had all surrendered and sworn to follow his order. He’d let the three diehards go. He didn’t have time to worry about hunting down small groups of ships. He suspected the refugees might cause some mischief down the road, but he had much bigger things to worry about.

A moment after the final station yielded, he’d gotten Van Striker’s message from the ground. Peterson’s Marines had gone in, and they’d found the Senate divided, the guilty members—the most guilty ones, at least—the captives of the others. It was as good a result as he could have hoped for. Gary Holsten was negotiating with Claudius Gerard, trying to reach some kind of understanding between the rump Senate that remained, and the forces of what Barron knew had effectively been a coup.

A coup you started…

His satisfaction at the relatively bloodless resolution was short-lived. His stomach tightened immediately as he heard the first line of the communique. Any news from Winters was almost certainly bad.

But he didn’t realize how bad.

“The fleet has engaged the Hegemony forces again, at Miramar…and once again, we were forced to retreat. We have suffered heavy losses, but we were able to inflict even greater damage on the enemy force. However, the Hegemony armada is still vast, apparently unbeatable.”

Barron listened. Winters was falling back, maintaining his strategy of trading space for time…and now that the situation on Megara appeared to be resolved, he could bring his forces to join Winters’s.

Then maybe we can give these bastards a real fight…

He felt a moment of excitement, a small, transient spark. Then he heard the next words, the rest of Admiral Winters’s report…and all the hope in his mind faded away, replaced only by despair. Everything that had just happened, everything Winters and his people had done over the past few months…was all for naught.

Chapter Forty

Occupation Headquarters

Port Royal City

Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Begin level one sanctions immediately, Kiloron.”

“Yes, Master Develia. At once.”

Develia sat at the large table, her desk since she’d landed in Port Royal City to take command of the occupation. She’d been a bit disappointed to be assigned a mere frontier planet, but further consideration had changed her point of view. Dannith, she’d realized, was not only the first planet to be occupied, and a possible model for pacification programs on worlds occupied as the invasion progressed, it was also a crucial base, at the end of the long trip from the Hegemony’s inhabited planets. The supply and support ships of the logistical train could keep the fleet supplied almost indefinitely, but that did not account for needs like bringing more Kriegeri to the front lines or transporting rare and vital supplies. Even with the support units, the invasion would eventually need a major base, and Dannith was the logical location.

She scoffed at the notion of the planet as an “example” for future occupations. Her entire occupation was in a complete shambles. One on one, her Kriegeri were more than a match for the enemy warriors, and she was fairly certain her army still outnumbered the hidden defenders.

Still, despite her advantages, despite absolute and unchallenged control of the air and the space around the planet, she was struggling to put down the constant guerilla strikes. Her forces had rooted out a number of the enemy strongholds, but several they had attacked had been deserted—and booby-trapped. She was losing Kriegeri every day, and time was passing. The invasion schedule called for her to begin a number of construction projects crucial to the planet’s future role, but almost all the enemy industry she had expected to use had been shut down or destroyed outright by the resistance fighters. She had just gotten power restored to the capital city, and, in the ten days without electricity, the subjugated population had grown ever more sullen and restive.

She had come to realize that Walter Cantor was not terribly representative of his people, or, at least that there were many quite different in temperament and strength. While the guerillas were striking out from their hidden bases, she could feel the simmering resentment in the capital. She had tried to keep conditions something close to satisfactory, to ensure food was available, and the people were as comfortable as possible, but now she wondered if that was the wrong way to handle the Rim dwellers. What she had seen of their culture from the captured databanks and information nets suggested a certain…difficulty…a lack of the kind of pliability the other human populations had displayed when first contacted by Hegemony forces.

She had not intended to employ brutal methods, and she preferred to avoid such tactics, but the resistance fighters were not leaving her any options. She simply did not have the ground forces to cover the vast undeveloped areas of the planet, to root out the tunnels and caves and other places the enemy was hiding, while also protecting vital installations against attack. Not quickly enough.

Only a small percentage of the enemy’s elite fighters—Marines, they were called—seemed to have families on Dannith. But some did…and the local troops and support units among them likely all did. It was time to see how the guerillas responded to their loved ones being imprisoned in camps around the city.

She did not like the strategy, but she could not argue against its likely effectiveness. It would damage the morale of the fighters, and perhaps it would lure them into attempting rescue operations…attacks her own Kriegeri would be ready and waiting for.

She was intrigued by the nature of the Rim dweller’s relationships, their customs of marriage and raising children in family unit, of grandparents and aunts and uncles and the like being deeply rooted in people’s lives. It was not unlike the records of life in the old empire, but the customs that seem to have endured on the Rim had been abandoned in the Hegemony. Genetics ruled all there, and parents only paired for the act of breeding, after which children were raised in communal crèches, with periodic visits from their mothers and fathers, though almost never together.

It would not be entirely accurate to suggest that there were no emotional ties between children and their parents in the Hegemony…there certainly were. But it was clear such relationships were far more important on the Rim, as were connections to more distant blood relations, which were almost irrelevant in the Hegemony.

That was a weakness, and one she intended to exploit, despite her distaste for such tactics.

In the end, she had only one mandate. Secure the planet.

Whatever it took.

*

Raketh stood silently, staring down at the large display in the middle of the control center. His appearance was a surprise to most of those present, who looked on respectfully, and as unobtrusively as they could.

He glanced around for an instant, before deciding he did not really care. He rarely came out of his sanctum, so the unsettled effect on the control center staff was understandable. He was one of the top one hundred in the Hegemony, if barely so, and to his mind, that had always carried with it a certain need for aloofness to his behavior. That particular form of his status was unofficial, besides his rating of Ninety-Six, of course. The top one hundred meant nothing in particular, save for an informal honorific. The top ten rated citizens formed the High Council, but below that lofty group, little mattered save an overall rating. Ninety-Nine was higher than One Hundred One, but the difference was of no particular note.

Save to those like Raketh, whose egos pushed them to behave as they imagined their lower-ranked peers expected. He’d long endured the anticipation that one day, he would slip out of the top hundred, a designation relevant for no other reason than he had made it significant to himself.

But, now he needed to review the data on the main display. The contact from the Union representatives had been unexpected. Preliminary intelligence had suggested there were multiple polities on the Rim, but only now, with the information captured on Dannith, were the experts able to develop a truly useful view of the political and cosmographic structure of the Rim.

Raketh’s first impression was that the region was larger than he had expected, its population vaster than the highest estimates that had come before. That both increased the urgency for the Hegemony to absorb the new source of industry and genetic material, and increased the scope of the overall operation. The grand fleet was strong enough, even with the revised projections, but it was the time factor that most concerned him. He knew Akella’s directives to Chronos had been clear, as the fleet’s supreme commander’s had been to him. The commitment of the entire grand fleet, a century’s relentless construction and preparation, left the Hegemony home systems poorly defended. Raketh did not know if he believed that the Others would one day return, but now that he was hundreds of light years away, with most of the fleet deployed on the Rim, he found himself more concerned than he could recall ever being before.

The pacification of the Rim had to move swiftly, and the powers had to be defeated militarily in space, even if the planetary landings and full integration took considerably longer. It was simply too dangerous to keep the vast majority of the fleet’s strength so far from the centers of Hegemony habitation.

The Reserve had been left behind the main advance of the fleet, deployed in the area the Rim dwellers called “the Badlands.” The location had not been a random choice. The ships were close enough to support the invasion if they were needed, but also on a line back to the core Hegemony systems. Just in case.

Now the choice was between time and caution. Raketh had studied the Union, though the data available to him came exclusively from Confederation sources. The two powers had just fought a war, and the Confederation had won. The Union, though actually the larger of the two entities, had been badly defeated, and it had fallen into a brief period of unrest. He took the Confederation analysis with a healthy dose of skepticism, but it seemed almost certain that the basics, at least, were accurate.

That meant the Union had to be weak, that it could only be in the early stages of recovery from the recently concluded conflict. It seemed odd to him that the Confederation would allow their enemy to continue as an independent polity and to rebuild their armed forces, but he found many things about the Rim dwellers strange.

If he was right, he could shave considerable time from the schedule for pacification of the Rim…if he deployed the Reserve and hit the Union immediately. They had even been kind enough to tell him where their fleet was massed—likely a show of power to entice the Hegemony to ally with them. He had had the ambassador’s ships destroyed, which would have served as a warning to the waiting Union forces…but he had been careful to ensure that no drones the vessels had launched escaped.

The Union fleet was formed up in a single system, waiting for word on a treaty. He lacked the specific location…but he was confident he would have that information shortly. The ambassador was a captive, and likely finding his stay on Raketh’s flagship to be less comfortable than ideal diplomatic standards. Raketh had expected the fool to have talked already, but it appeared that the Union instilled a certain…fear…in its personnel, one the Confederation did not seem to match. The diplomat had turned out to be quite a bit stronger than expected, but Raketh had no doubt the man would break. Whatever had scared him so was back in Union space…and Raketh and his inquisitors were there, with him. It was far from a fair matchup.

Raketh wanted fleet strengths, details about the Union’s government, all sorts of information…but most of all, he wanted the course to the system where the Union ships were waiting, where they lay all together in one system.

Where he could destroy them all in one swift strike.

He had a bit more time for the interrogation to play out. He could not move forward yet, anyway. This was not an operation he could approve by himself. It required Chronos’s authorization, and he had dispatched a courier ship to make his case, and hopefully return with the orders he needed.

Then, he would cripple the second major Rim power in one great fight. His military reputation would be restored completely.

And he would never hear about the retreat from Dannith again.

*

“There are camps all around Port Royal City, Major. They’re bringing people into them. Civilians mostly, though they seem to have a few military prisoners as well.”

Holcott listened to the report, the third he’d had detailing almost exactly the same thing. The others had come from Devon and Clandith, two of the smaller cities near the capital. Now the same thing had been observed at Port Royal.

He didn’t know what was going on, but he was sure it wasn’t good news.

Holcott was no stranger to atrocities, and not even to concentration camps. He’d seen some terrible things on worlds that had been occupied by the Union during the recent war—internment camps, mass graves, the human remains of brutal Sector Nine pacification operations. But for all their aggression and arrogance, the Hegemony forces had not shown inclinations to brutality.

He wondered for a moment what could have pushed the invaders to increase the harshness of their operations. He didn’t have to think long. He knew. He had caused this, along with his Marines. The resistance efforts had gone far better than he’d dared to hope, and now he was seeing the enemy’s response.

He’d been committed to the guerilla campaign, but now he wondered if his people could achieve anything lasting, or if their efforts would just bring suffering down on the civilians of Dannith.

How far would the Hegemony go if his Marines continued to press them? Would those camps fill up, would they morph from detention facilities to execution centers? Would the Hegemony withdraw their forces if the resistance inflicted losses that were too great? That seemed like victory in one sense, but what would the Hegemony do if they were compelled to pull back to their ships?

Dannith didn’t have any orbital defenses remaining, nor any on the ground either. It would be almost ridiculously easy for the Hegemony ships to launch a nuclear bombardment, one designed to break the back of the resistance and any perceived support it was receiving from the population.

Or they could simply launch a full-scale attack, designed to exterminate all life on Dannith.

There was no room for romantic images now, no place to imagine heroic Marines waving flags after the enemy had been driven away. A planet of massive craters, of huge clouds of radiative dust floating over blasted and dead cities…that was just as likely.

Holcott considered if he should stand his people down, even surrender to the Hegemony forces. But he only thought about it for a few seconds. He just wasn’t built that way, and giving up wasn’t in him. He would keep up the pressure, see just how far the enemy could be pushed.

If he miscalculated, if the enemy ended up pulling back and glassing the planet, perhaps the ashes of Dannith would serve as a rallying cry for the rest of the Confederation forces. Holcott was a Confederation Marine, and he knew it was the war that counted, not any individual battle.

Even if he was dead center in this particular fight.

Chapter Forty-One

CFS Dauntless

Orbiting Planet Megara

Olyus System

Year 317 AC

Barron was in his office, standing next to his desk, talking into the comm. “The fleet is ready, Admiral. You’d better get up here…we’ve got to get moving. My guess is, Clint Winters is going to need our help, sooner rather than later.”

“I’m not coming, Tyler, not now.”

Barron heard Striker’s words, but he couldn’t quite believe it.

“Admiral…”

“No, Tyler, listen to me. You did all this. You assembled the fleet…and, as much as anyone, your presence made the peaceful end to the mess down here possible. That is your fleet right now. Those spacers swore to follow you, even when they knew they were risking treason charges to do it. You deserve to command. More importantly, they deserve to have you command. I’m free now, thanks to Gary, but I’m far from ready for action. I could take command of the fleet, but it would be nothing more than vanity. You’ve faced the Hegemony already, you and Clint Winters…not me. You’re ready for this. It’s what you were born for…go, and I’ll stay here and see to the defenses of Megara. I will rally the rest of the fleet, recall every unit we’ve got back to the Core.”

Barron heard the words, but he couldn’t completely believe them. He’d taken command of the fleet when he’d had no choice, when he’d had to face off against Whitten…but he’d never imagined leading it against the Hegemony, not once Van Striker had been found.

“Admiral…”

“You’re ready, Tyler. You are. I can see it. Everybody can see it, except perhaps you. I’m not fit to take command. I can barely stand. My vision is blurry. How can I lead the fleet on such a desperate mission? I would be putting my own ego above the interests of the fleet, of the entire Confederation. Go, and take all our wishes with you, and our prayers. If you and Clint Winters can’t stop the enemy before they get here…we’ll be ready when you fall back here. As ready as we can be.”

Barron was silent. He didn’t know what to say, and the thought of being in total command terrified him. But on a level that had nothing to do with war or the enemy, he was glad, too. The command of the fleet, the desperate fight…it would leave him with no time to think about anything else.

Least of all his grief.

“Admiral…yes, sir. Thank you for your confidence.” He felt he should say more, but that was all that came to him.

“You’ve earned it.” A pause. “And remember, Tyler…your grandfather is with you now, in every way that matters. He once set off with a fleet on a mission no less desperate. Know the pride he would feel in you now.”

Barron felt a surge of mixed emotions, but he clamped down on it hard. Van Striker had been a role model, a man he’d been proud to follow for the past eight years…and he took the charge the admiral had laid on him with deadly seriousness. He knew what he had to do.

“Thank you, Admiral.” He paused for a few seconds, glad he was alone. He didn’t even want Atara to see him now, not until he had a minute or two to gather his thoughts. “I’ll do the best I can, Admiral Winters. We’ll give them one hell of a fight.”

“I know you will, Tyler. We all know.”

There were a few seconds of silence, and then another voice came through the speaker. “Tyler, before you go, I’ve got someone else who wants to join you.”

Barron turned back toward the comm unit, confused. The voice was Gary Holsten’s…but then someone else spoke, too. It was familiar, but for an instant, he couldn’t place it.

“Admiral…it’s a bit of a violation of regs, but if you’re okay with it, I’d like to come aboard and go with you. From what I’ve heard of this fight, I think I could help.”

Barron stared at the desk for a few more seconds. Then: “Dirk?” Dirk Timmons had been a pilot, one of the very best in the fleet.

The only fighter jock who’d ever really given Jake Stockton a run for his money.

“You’re at the Academy now, aren’t you?”

“Yes…it’s the only place a pilot with no legs is useful. At least that’s been the case until now. But I can still fly, Admiral…pretty damned well if I say so myself. I spoke to Admiral Striker, and he’s okay with looking the other way on regs if you are. It’s a stupid rule anyway…my prosthetics are top rate. There’s nothing I can’t do now that I could do before.”

“You’re welcome on Dauntless, Dirk…most welcome. We can always use an extra pilot, especially one who flies like you do.”

“Well, Admiral…”

“What is it, Dirk?”

“Well…it’s not just me. Admiral Striker and I came up with an idea. There was a huge supply of new Lightnings in storage down here…and, well, if you don’t mind finding some extra space in those bays up there, I’ve got every upperclassman from the Academy’s flight program ready to go, all of them volunteers…and every one taught to fly under my supervision.”

“Every upperclassman?”

“Yes, sir…can you cram an extra three hundred Lightnings into the fleet’s bays? Because, from what I’ve read about the enemy, I’m betting you can use them.”

*

“We’re getting a message from the drone, Admiral.” Atara’s voice was crisp, but there was no disguising the tension level hanging over the fleet, and every officer and spacer in it. That included its commander, Tyler Barron, who was desperately trying to wrap his head around just what a massive force he now led…and into what kind of nightmare he led it.

He’d listened to Striker’s words of encouragement, and searched his deepest memories for images of his grandfather, memories, words the long-dead officer had spoken to him decades before. But most of what came to him spoke of a grandfather’s love for his grandson, of fishing trips and not stratagems of war. The elder Barron had died before he’d had the chance to truly pass on his wisdom and his experience in battle.

Tyler was out of his depth, with tens of thousands of spacers relying on him…and the very survival of the Confederation hanging in the balance. He wasn’t ready, no matter how many followed him, no matter what Van Striker said. No matter what last name he carried.

He wished that he’d argued more with Striker, convinced the admiral to take command…but he knew his friend and mentor wasn’t up to it. There was physical stress in battle, the pressure of g-forces, the crushing fatigue that wore down even the fittest of officers…and he suspected Van Striker belonged in the hospital after his long captivity, not on the bridge of a battleship.

Striker had been right. Tyler had to do this…however unprepared he was.

The fleet had been about to transit out of Olyus, the system that contained the Confederation’s capital of Megara. A place that would almost certainly be the enemy’s next target if Barron and Winters couldn’t find a way to stop the Hegemony fleet’s relentless advance.

At least I won’t have to choose where to make a stand. That weight is on Clint Winters’s shoulders.

Winters had done a remarkable job of dealing with the impossible so far, in Barron’s estimation. Knowing the officer as well as he did, he suspected the admiral rated his inability to stop the enemy as a failure…despite the gross inadequacy of his forces.

Barron stared at the display, watching as the small communications drone blasted in-system from the transit point. The fleet was formed up, Timmons’s fighters crammed into every available slot on any launch bay that could take an extra bird. Every ship commander and crew were ready for what lay ahead, desperate to find a way to prevail in the daunting fight they all knew was coming.

“Put it on speaker, Commander.” Barron had hesitated, thinking for an instant that he should listen to it alone first, but he put the notion aside. Everyone in the fleet had a right to hear whatever message that drone carried. They were all on their way into the maelstrom, into a fight every one of them knew could be his or her last.

“Yes, sir.”

Barron sat in his chair, stone still, listening as Winters’s voice blared through the bridge speakers. He bade them rush to join him where he’d drawn up his fleet, the place where he’d placed his forces for one last chance to stop the Hegemony.

The last chance to stop the enemy before they reached Megara.

Barron hadn’t known where Winters would stop, and when he heard the name, it struck him like a hammer.

He knew about the enemy supply and support assets, understood that the Confederation wasn’t going to get the months or years long delay such an invasion would normally require. The enemy could keep on coming, maintain the pressure, no matter how many battles they were compelled to fight.

But Barron was still stunned at just how far the enemy had advanced…how deeply Clint Winters had been forced to retreat.

Venga. It was a name that didn’t require checking any map. A smallish, yellow star with half a dozen planets, only one substantially inhabited. But that planet, Ulion, was indeed substantially inhabited. It was of the Confederation’s seven Core worlds, an original signatory to the Confederation Charter, a planet with a population in excess of ten billon.

Two transits from Megara.

Chapter Forty-Two

CFS Repulse

300,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The battle of Ulion – Prelude

“Understood, Admiral. We will remain here until ordered to withdraw.” Sara Eaton signed off and looked over at her sister. The commodore was in command of a large task force, one that included more than half the battleships in Clint Winters’s entire fleet.

She’d been stunned when Winters had told her his plan, but the more she’d considered the fleet’s options, the better she understood what seemed, on some levels, like a wild gamble. Winters had divided his already vastly outnumbered force, a tactic almost every manual—and, certainly “the book”—warned against, especially when facing a superior enemy. But Sara understood. She knew the hopelessness of the fleet’s position, and the struggle it would face to mount a defense at Ulion. If Tyler Barron and the fleet he’d gathered at Megara got there in time, Winters’s rump force would be massively reinforced, but even then, the combined Confederation fleets would still be heavily outnumbered. If Barron didn’t make it quickly enough, the fleet would be crushed no matter what its deployment.

Either way, the battleships she led would hit the enemy hard as soon as they entered the system, and they would keep up the pressure as long as she had a single squadron and a launch platform still in the fight. Her wings would pack almost double their normal punch…assuming Stara Sinclair could keep things moving on the overcrowded bays. Winters had sent every fighter from his own central force to Eaton’s ships, almost doubling her strike force. She had experience managing overloaded bays, stretching back all the way to the early days of the Union War, when she and Tyler Barron had crammed their ships full of orphan squadrons stranded when their base ships had been destroyed. She’d skippered Intrepid back then. The old battleship had been her first command, and one she’d held for five years…before she’d lost her beloved ship in battle. Intrepid hadn’t died with quite the fanfare and glory that Barron’s first Dauntless had, but the vessel had done its duty, and secured its place in Confederation history.

She scanned her eyes across her workstation screen, confirming the various stats, fuel, ordnance, other supplies. Repulse was packed to the rafters, loaded up with everything she could conceivably need in battle. Ulion wasn’t an ideal system to mount a desperate defense—the planet’s Peace Party had long dominated local politics, and of the seven Core systems, it was the most weakly outfitted with fortresses and orbital platforms. Still, forming up around a world with over ten billion inhabitants had its advantages, and a virtual armada of freighters and tankers had been making their ways all across the system, provisioning the fleet with all manner of supplies. Repulse and her sister ships were ready, and if Eaton could keep her task force away from the enemy heavy guns and avoid catastrophic damage, she could turn the fighter wings around five or six times. Maybe seven.

She would have to do just that that if the fleet was to have any chance at all. If she let the Hegemony forward line through intact or close to it, those giant battleships would blast Winters’s vessels to slag before they got a chance to return fire.

She glanced again at her sister, as Sonya looked back. They shared a short non-verbal communication. Sara knew her sister understood, and that the younger Eaton would command Repulse brilliantly. The battleship had been Sara’s own command when the White Fleet had set out, but now she was a task force commander, and she reminded herself to focus on that, and not on micromanaging Repulse.

Sonya can handle the battleship…maybe better than you could. Let her.

Focus on your real job…and it’s possible you’ll even get a few of these ships out of here when it’s over.

*

“Alicia, Olya, I brought you over here because I wanted us all to have a talk before the launch orders come.” Jake Stockton was sitting on a metal crate in Repulse’s launch bay, looking at the pair of officers who would help him lead the strike forces when the enemy fleet arrived. It was an odd place for a conference, loud, with flight crew moving all around, finishing maintenance work on the fighters. But even though there were meeting areas, ward rooms, even his own quarters available, the bay seemed, somehow, the right place.

Admiral Winters had been clear…he wanted every squadron in the fleet ready to launch on a few moments’ notice. That was a more complicated order than it appeared, and it took a lot of work to keep the Lightnings armed, fueled, and ready to go 24/7.

“I understand, Captain. It’s an honor to serve with you.” Alicia Covington had commanded Clint Winters’s squadrons, before Stockton and the White Fleet had returned and joined up with the admiral’s forces. She and Olya Federov were his two key subordinates, “super wing commanders,” he had dubbed them. They would each command a third of the task force’s fighters…and they would take his place if…

“You all know, we’re basically sitting around here, waiting for a drone to come through that transit point and let us know that the Hegemony fleet is coming. With any luck, the scouts on the other side will get the warning off quickly, and they’ll come racing back themselves. That will give us a couple hours, and enough time to be waiting exactly where we want to be, in perfect formation.”

“The squadrons will be ready, I can promise you that. As quickly as you can get your people in their cockpits, my teams will get you launched.” Stara Sinclair was sitting on one of the crates, about half a meter farther back than the pilots. Stockton had invited her, but she’d been hesitant to move up farther. She was a key part of the planned fighter ops, in some ways more important than any single officer who would actually be out there in a fighter. Running Repulse’s launch bays was only a tiny crumb on her plate. She was responsible for flight ops on every one of the battleships. It was an impossible job, a post that hadn’t even existed before the White Fleet had formed—and even then, it had been created with no expectation for serious combat. Still, whatever the obstacles in her way, the speed with which she could drive the crews and get the fighters back out would have a massive impact on the amount of damage the wings could inflict on the enemy.

She would have to keep things moving with almost twice the usual number of fighters in the ships’ bays. The vanguard, the force of battleships positioned on the flank of the enemy’s expected inbound course, carried almost every fighter the fleet possessed, stripped from the bays of Admiral Winters’s main task force. The plan was to bring as much force to bear as the enemy approached…and then, when the Hegemony fleet moved forward, Winters’s vessels would serve as forward landing and refueling platforms for the Ulion-based wings. The planet was lightly defended by comparison to Megara and most other comparable planets, but it was still part of the Core, and Winters had managed to get six hundred fighters ready for action by drawing on the regular service squadrons and activating the reserves.

“Thanks, Stara. I know just how good you are at this…but you’ve got a lot of ships to deal with, and that doesn’t even take into consideration the effect if we run into jamming and you lose comms.” Stockton managed a smile as his gaze lingered on her for just a second or two. He knew just how close he’d come to never seeing her again, and now, after just a couple weeks, he would be flying into another seemingly hopeless battle, one that could easily see them parted forever. Would she watch as his ship vanished from her display, the tiny fighter obliterated by a perfectly-targeted shot he knew was out there, one he knew would come for him one day?

Or would he turn to his display in the middle of battle…and notice Repulse’s icon was gone? Would the enemy line get close enough to blast the battleship to scrap, and Stara along with it?

Stockton had never let such concerns distract him in battle, and he had no intention of starting now. But he prayed silently, to the gods of war, or whatever form fortune took in such matters, to take him first if they had to die. It was selfish, but it was what he hoped for nevertheless.

“The waiting will be hard on the pilots.” Stockton turned his thoughts back to the primary topic. “We’re going to have to address them every few hours, keep their spirits up.” How do you do that when you—and they—know we’re all going to die? If not here, somewhere else, and soon. Tell yourself what you want, but we can’t stop that massive force, no matter what we do…

He tried to rally his élan, but this time the odds were just too steep, the prospects too grim. Even if Tyler Barron got there in time, Stockton had grave doubts the combined force could stop the enemy.

“I agree, Captain. I suggest we rotate, that each of us take a turn.” Alicia Covington sat almost motionless, clearly trying to ward off the same grim assessment Stockton had made.

“I agree, as well.” Olya Federov was one of Stockton’s oldest comrades, and another member of Dauntless’s legendary early war squadrons.

“Okay…we all know what’s at stake here. The enemy’s got nav information, that’s almost a certainty. There must have been a thousand databanks on Dannith with maps of the Confederation, more than anyone could have erased. If they get past us here…” When, he thought, but didn’t say. “…one transit puts them in Megon…” The system past Ulion was a planetless star, a nexus with no real support structure to mount another defensive effort. “…and then, one more jump…Megara.”

It was almost impossible to believe the enemy had sliced through Confederation space so deeply and so quickly…at least to anyone but Jake Stockton. He has seen the vast array of support vessels. He didn’t know how far the enemy would be able to go without finally pausing…but he was damned certain they could make it through two more transits.

And that would be far enough.

“All right…we all know the score. We know what we face.” Stockton paused, looking down at the deck’s steel floor for a few seconds before his eyes darted back up. “There are no people I’d want at my side more than the three of you. We’re facing an overwhelming situation, but you all know what will happen to the battle line if we can’t damage some of those Hegemony battleships…so there is no point thinking about the war, the next battle, even ten minutes ahead. Just do what you do best, focus on your people and the enemy…and let’s do what Admiral Winters is counting on us to do.”

*

“Commander…all ships are to launch fighters at once.” Sonya Eaton stood in the center of Repulse’s bridge, staring at the main display, at the space all around the transit point.

Where the enemy’s lead forces would appear in just a few minutes.

Sonya watched her sister, even as she leaned forward herself and issued the launch order to Repulse’s flight decks. She was Repulse’s captain, and Sara’s flag captain. The ship was her responsibility.

Her sister had over twenty vessels to command, and that was more than enough to worry about. She would make sure Repulse was well-handled…and the sharpest ship in the fleet.

“Fleet launch order issued, Commodore. All ships acknowledge.” Sara may have command of the fleet and Sonya of Repulse itself, but they were sharing John Fuller. The commander was acting as the admiral’s aide, and as Repulse’s first officer. It was a heavy load, but sometimes it just made sense to have the best person for the job, or half of the best, and in this case, Fuller was definitely the best.

Sonya had listened to the same message Sara had, that everyone else on the bridge had. The enemy was moments behind the drone. She didn’t know why the warning had come so late, or what had happened to the three scoutships that had been deployed in the system beyond the transit point.

None of that mattered, not now. The battle was there. For the third time in less than two months, Winters’s fleet would engage the vast forces of the Hegemony. Sonya hadn’t imagined back in Dannith that, seven weeks later, they would have been pushed back so far, that the enemy would have—could have—continued its relentless advance without stopping.

Or that Winters’s fleet still would not have been reinforced.

That, at least, would hopefully change. There had been no official announcements, but word had spread throughout the fleet. Admiral Barron was coming with a large force. She remembered when Barron had left the White Fleet to return to the Confederation, to give the warning about the Hegemony. She’d been shocked when the White Fleet had finally returned, only to find no massed Confederation navy waiting save what Winters had managed to scrape up from the frontier. She’d heard all sorts of crazy stories since then, even rumors about civil war…but she had no idea what was going on. Now, the word that Barron was coming gave her renewed hope.

If his forces arrive in time…

She looked up at the display. Repulse shook lightly every few seconds, vibrations from the ship’s launch catapults. A few seconds later, the squadrons began to appear on the screen, tiny clouds of almost-invisible dots. They formed up quickly, and they began to move toward the transit point. The battle plan was elaborate in ways, the fleet divided, and the smaller escort ships deployed far forward of the great battleships…but it was also simple. The fighters were to hit the enemy ships at the point, as quickly and as hard as possible. Then they were to return and rearm…and do it all again. As many times as they could.

“Flight control reports first wave squadrons away. Second wave will commence launch operations in four minutes.” Fuller snapped out the report, wearing his hat as Repulse’s exec.

“Very well, Commander.” Sonya knew the turnaround time had been outstanding, that it was almost a miracle that her people had managed to get the extra fighters jammed into Repulse’s bays and get her own squadrons out so rapidly. It wasn’t reasonable to expect the impossible from her people…but they needed the impossible. It was their only hope.

“Engine room, prepare for thrust on preset course as soon as the last fighters are away.”

“Yes, Captain.”

Sonya knew the battle plan. She didn’t need to hear her sister repeat it. The battleships were to pull back as soon as they’d launched their squadrons. She bristled at retreating as she sent her pilots to fight, but she knew what those railguns could do…and she understood Repulse’s best use in this fight was as a carrier, staying operational long enough to refit and relaunch its fighters.

She sighed softly and watched the display. Her squadrons linked up with those from the other ships, forming a great cloud moving toward the transit point.

A few minutes later, the scanner reports came in. Massive energy signatures at the transit point.

The enemy was coming through. The battle had begun.

Chapter Forty-Three

The Admiralty

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

“Dirk Timmons took the top class from the Academy and a group of retirees who volunteered to return to active duty. That leaves us all the regular Megara wings, including the reserves…plus another six hundred Lightnings in storage, assuming we can find anyone who can fly them.” Van Striker sat at the large conference table, staring at four or five tablets set down in a haphazard pile in front of him. He was playing a game of sorts, seeing how much naval fighting power he could conjure up from thin air.

He’d scoured the naval deployments, though he was unsure what units might have moved in response to communiques from Whitten or Tyler Barron when the two had been squaring off, on the verge of civil war. One thing was certain…there was a lot of confusion out there, and the sooner the various ships and flotillas knew whatever internal struggle they may have expected was not going to happen, the better.

“You’ve been at this for hours, Van…and I know damned well, that beaten up and half-starved body of yours isn’t managing this by itself.” Gary Holsten had walked in a moment before, and now he stared intently at his friend. “How many stims have you sucked down? Five? Eight? You know you’re nowhere close to healthy yet, don’t you?”

Striker looked up. “I’m fine, Gary.”

“How many?” Holsten’s voice made it clear he wasn’t going to be blown off, but Striker didn’t want to answer. In fact, he wasn’t even sure. He’d been popping them like candy, without bothering to count. What difference did it make? He had work to do, and if he could send Tyler Barron to command the fleet in his stead, he was damned sure going to do everything he could to make sure Megara was ready…and that every rusting, eighty-year old scoutship in spacedock somewhere was pulled back to defend the capital.

Where he was sure the final battle would take place.

“I don’t know…maybe eight.”

“Maybe more?”

“Look, if I wanted my mother here…”

“Van…there was a reason you didn’t go with Tyler. If you push too hard now, you won’t be ready when the fight here comes on us here. You’ve got aides and staff officers. Use them.”

Striker knew Holsten was right, but the hard truth was, he had only a few people he really trusted. When he looked at the others, he wondered what side they’d have been on, whether they’d have rallied to Tyler or to Whitten, whether they’d have followed his orders or turned on him if he’d been the next one caught up in the manufactured scandals. He had to get past it, learn to work with them all again. They all had to fight side by side if there was going to be any chance at all of holding back the Hegemony.

That was the true damage Sector Nine had done. They’d come to Megara to hurt the Confederation’s navy, to sap it of the strength that had made it strong. They’d done just that, in more ways than were obvious at first.

“Look, I know…I’ll get some rest. Just let me get through this last set of recall orders. We’re going to need every ship we can get. You know that as well as I do.” He paused, but just for a second. Then he asked, changing the subject, “Any sign of Andi?” He felt guilty as the words came out. He had asked as much to derail Holsten from pressuring him about his own health as because he expected any news.

“No. Nothing. I’ve got Confederation Intelligence back in my hands now—and I cleaned house…” He didn’t elaborate, and Striker wasn’t sure he wanted more details. “…but things are still a mess. I’ve got a hundred agents out looking for her—and for Lille, just in case he’s still around—but so far, nothing.”

Striker shook his head. He’d been fighting the belief that Andi was dead, but it was getting more and more difficult. She was very good…but Ricard Lille was the deadliest killer in the Rim. What chance had she had against the deadly Sector Nine assassin?

The two remained silent for a few minutes. Striker knew Holsten was extremely fond of Andi, and that he felt immense guilt for his role in involving her with Ricard Lille in the first place. The spymaster had a cold side. He wouldn’t have been very good at his job without that. But Andi was different, and Striker was worried about how Holsten would take it if it turned out she actually was dead.

Or how Tyler Barron would…

*

The alley was silent save for the sound of water dripping down from a faulty drainage pipe. The buildings were old in this section of the Outer Ring. Most of Troyus City had been rebuilt in the century the city had been the Confederation’s capital, but the lowest of the city’s poor lived in the Western District, and most of the structures there dated back to early Recovery days.

Maintenance seemed to be scarce as well, and the fact that the buildings still stood at all was a testament to the quality of pre-Cataclysmic construction. The Confederation’s citizens tended to be proud of their accomplishments, but as she looked around, her eyes cutting through the superficial disrepair and filth on a structure that was almost certainly imperial in origin, Andi realized there was a long way to go before humanity returned to where it had been four or five centuries past.

It was dark in the alley, too, and along the main street. The lights in the Outer Rim neighborhood were poorly monitored and maintained, and the spot Andi had chosen was in the middle of a stretch of eight broken lights.

She’d spent most of her time in the Outer Ring over the past weeks, in between expeditions into the more central districts. She imagined herself one of the giant spiders her people had seen out a forgotten world in the Badlands.

The spiders were apex predators, at least in the centuries since the humans who had once inhabited the world had been killed off. They were massive predators, their bodies two meters or more in diameter, and their fangs dripping one of the deadliest neurotoxins ever encountered in nature. She’d been mystified by the spiders, struck by their patience, by the constant, unrelenting attention they paid to the hunt. They laid webs, as many smaller species of their kind did, but they also actively pursued their prey. In their own way, they existed only to kill.

Andi allowed that thought to take her, to engulf her. She knew the Confederation was in turmoil, and possibly extreme danger. She was aware that Tyler and his comrades—her friends—were locked in a desperate battle, one where victory would only allow them to move on to an even greater, more unwinnable struggle. She knew her people were back on Archellia, likely frantically worried about her…and probably angry and hurt as well.

Those thoughts were all there, hazy and immaterial, pushed to the very reaches of her mind as her focus burned hot and bright on one thing.

Tracking her prey.

Killing him.

She’d searched all around Troyus City for Ricard Lille, laid traps for the assassin, interrogated any underworld skank she’d thought had the slightest chance of knowing anything. She’d even dodged a few traps Lille had set for her, which had confirmed her belief that the duel she was in had become a truly two-sided affair.

None of it had led to anything until that morning. She had a lead now. A thin one, and dangerous, too, but it was a trail that might take her to Lille, to the moment of her final vengeance.

She’d spent no small amount of time poking around Troyus’s illicit markets and underground economies. She needed weapons, and since she couldn’t get to any of hers, she had to find new ones. Troyus wasn’t the easiest place to trade in guns and bombs, and what was available was fiendishly expensive. Fortunately, she had enough money, pulled from one of her secret accounts. That had been a risky endeavor, but she was pretty sure she’d cut any trail that might have led to her now.

Her friends were probably frantic about her. Holsten had figured out what she was doing by now, that was a virtual certainty. But if her cover was as good as she thought, they wouldn’t be able to find a trace of her.

They probably think I’m dead…

The thought troubled her, the pain she was probably causing her friends…and Tyler. But she was too deep in to worry about any of that. If Lille won the duel, if he killed her, at least they’d be well into mourning her. If she prevailed, perhaps she could regain enough of herself to be for them what she’d been before, to return into their lives in a full and meaningful way, and not as an empty shell, lost and driven to madness by an obsession for vengeance.

She reached down into her bag, pulling out a small pistol. She had other weapons, but this one was special. It was tiny, easy to hide, and it was made of a special plastic. Normal detection mechanisms wouldn’t find it. Short of being strip searched, she could get the thing almost anywhere she might need it.

It only carried two rounds, but Andi was confident in her marksmanship. If she got close enough, she’d only need one shot. She’d missed Lille once…and she vowed to herself, if she got another chance she wouldn’t miss again.

*

Ricard Lille sat on the small cot, the only piece of furniture in the sparse room save for an old chest of drawers along the far wall. The place wasn’t plush, it wasn’t even average. By all standards applied to such things, it was a dump, the kind of place that served as a last stop for those approaching hopeless destitution.

It was perfect.

Lille was used to luxury. His career as Gaston Villieneuve’s number one killer had been one richly rewarded, and when he was away from his oceanside villa on Montmirail, he tended to patronize some of the Rim’s most luxurious hotels and living quarters. But, for him, the mission always came first, and he’d seen his share of filthy shitholes, too. He did whatever it took to stalk his prey. But there was something different this time. He was on the hunt…but now, he was being hunted as well.

Andi Lafarge. A Badlands adventurer and smuggler, who had ended up in places none of her peers could have imagined. Working with the naval high command and Gary Holsten’s Confederation Intelligence. Living among the wealthiest in the Confederation, on the spoils of her incredible finds out in the dead space of the lost empire. And, by all accounts, spending a fair amount of time in bed with Tyler Barron. Somehow, her travels had taken her on an excursion down the razor-sharp blade of the Confederation’s might, balanced between an odd sort of patriotism and the cusp of outlawry.

He’d known all of that…and he’d still underestimated her.

She’d almost killed him. For all his experience, for the fear he’d struck in the hearts of so many victims, he remained honest enough with himself to acknowledge that dumb luck had saved his life. He hadn’t been watching for a threat, he hadn’t expected her to come after him. By pure chance, his eyes had caught a brief glint…and his reflexes did the rest.

He smiled, though on him it was far from the pleasant thing it was on most people. Others would react to someone trying to kill them with anger, hatred, horror…Lille only respected Andi more for how close she’d come. He’d held her prisoner on Dannith, and he’d broken her, he was sure of that. Now it was clear there was something more inside of her than he’d imagined at first, some driving force from deep within.

Something he understood. It was the same thing that powered him, that pushed him forward and made him such a deadly adversary.

He’d never have released her back on Dannith, and if Holsten and his people hadn’t broken her out, he’d have killed her when he was finished with her.

She was dangerous then, an enemy worth killing. Now, she was a target truly worthy of the hunt. One who could defeat him if he wasn’t careful.

He’d finished off Desiree Marieles and her closest associates…and he’d sent the rest of Sector Nine’s personnel off Megara. He had two scores left, two final jobs to do, before he would follow them.

Two more people to kill.

Andi Lafarge would be his final victory on Megara. He reached down into the small bag on the floor at his feet and pulled out a tiny bottle of very expensive brandy. He rarely drank when he was on the job, but he was going to make a single exception. He was a figure roundly despised by almost all who knew of him, and that had never bothered him. What none of them understood was, he had his own form of honor, a code, if not of conduct, at least of respect and admiration.

He would have a drink, one toast…to a worthy opponent. To a woman worth killing.

“To Andi Lafarge…that rarest of creatures. The worthy opponent.”

Chapter Forty-Four

CFS Repulse

300,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The battle of Ulion – Phase One

“All ships, increase thrust to 5g, course beta-2.” Sara Eaton leaned forward, her body twisted at an odd angle. Sonya knew it was her continued, and largely ineffectual, attempt to find a position that didn’t send constant flashes of pain over her old battle wounds. A career spent at war carried its costs, even for those who survived, and Sonya watched her sister twisting and turning, trying to hide her pain from everyone else.

Maybe she’s keeping it from most of them…but I know her too well…

Sonya had been fortunate in her own combat encounters, and she’d escaped the kinds of gruesome injuries her sister had endured. She carried her battles with her as memories, some that woke her up nights…but not as much in the form of aches and pains.

“Yes, Commodore.” Fuller leaned over his station and repeated the command into the main comm. He watched as a series of acknowledgements came in and, after the last one, he turned toward Sonya.

Repulse’s captain was looking over at his station, waiting for him to finish carrying out her sister’s order before she issued her own. “Execute navigational instructions, Commander,” she said calmly. It felt a bit odd sharing her number two, but she’d learned to work her way around it. It annoyed her a bit that Repulse was the last ship to execute the order…left to her own devices, she prided herself on her fast responses to such things. But this was a special situation.

All things considered, she was glad to have her big sister on board. She knew, as well as anyone, how desperate a fight they faced, and how great the chances were that it would be their last.

The fact that two sisters were serving together, three meters apart from each other, was an odd one, and she suspected most people were surprised that Clint Winters had allowed it. They didn’t understand. The Eatons were an old navy family, and, while the two officers had a pleasant and loving personal relationship, they also had a very efficient professional one. The two were starkly different things, which neither Eaton allowed to mix.

Sara had always shown respect for her younger sibling, something Sonya herself had always appreciated and returned with pride, viewing her older sister not as a rival, but as a role model. Still, it did create somewhat of a bottleneck in the flow of orders on the bridge. That would have been a problem if John Fuller hadn’t been as efficient and capable an officer as he was.

Of course, if he hadn’t been so good, Sara would have brought someone else to serve as her aide.

Tension laid heavily across the bridge. Repulse’s officers, and every spacer at his or her post anywhere in the reaches of the vast ship, understood the situation. They were far deeper into Confederation space than any Union invasion of the past four conflicts had gotten. They knew the strength of the enemy forces…and that they were underdogs, outnumbered, outgunned, and facing superior technology.

But they would fight. Sonya would speak comfortably for all of her people on that, and she was confident the other crews out there were the same. No one had expected war again so soon after the terrible conflict with the Union, and certainly not against such a new and overpowering enemy. But they knew how to fight when they had to.

And, now, they had to.

The display was active, the squadrons already well over a million kilometers from the launch platforms and moving forward steadily. The fighters were about to engage the enemy fleet, the first wave less than twenty thousand kilometers out from their targets as she watched. The enemy ships had poured rapidly into the system, exhibiting extreme precision in their transit formations. They had half again as many ships through already as Sonya had expected to see, and they were accelerating at high thrust levels, clearly trying to get through the inevitable bomber attacks and close with the Confederation ships as rapidly as possible.

Admiral Winters’s plan was just the opposite…to hold the capital ships back as long as possible, while striking the Hegemony forces with one bomber strike after another.

Sara had responded to the enemy approach by pulling her battleships farther back, a maneuver that followed Winters’s plan, but one that would also increase the time for the squadrons to return and rearm.

That was a problem for later, though, after the first strike had gone in. Sonya’s eyes were fixed on the display as the wave of destruction moved toward the almost invincible line of massive battleships. She continued to watch, as twelve hundred bombers began their attack runs.

The Battle of Ulion had begun.

*

“All right, Lynx…take your people in now. I’ll come in behind you, and, Scimitar, your people will be the third wave.”

“Roger that, Raptor. We’re inbound now…all torpedoes armed!” “Lynx” Federov’s voice was grim, focused…no different than what Stockton had been hearing for years. The veteran pilot’s tone was all about business, and he suspected most of her pilots doubted she’d ever had a real emotion in her life.

He knew differently, of course, if only because he’d seen her pissed off and fuming at him a few times. Lynx was cool, calm—she didn’t lose it very often. But when she did…

He’d almost decided to lead the first wave himself, but sending Federov in gave him more time to stay back, get a feel for the oncoming formation. He wasn’t sure it would matter much, but target selection was crucial, and the cold hard truth was, there was no way but gut feel to pick out the battleships whose railguns were still operational from those whose main weapons had been knocked offline. If he was going to rely on anyone’s stomach for tactical advice, it was going to be his.

He’d almost hesitated before assigning “Scimitar” Covington to the final wave. Covington was an ace, a pilot whose list of accomplishments in the last war rivaled Federov’s, and even his own—almost, at least—but he was less familiar with her. They’d served in many of the same battles, but he hadn’t commanded her before, save for the desperate fights of the past few weeks, and he was relying to a large extent on what he knew of her reputation.

That reputation was of a stone-cold pilot and a leader who inspired her people and drove them to greatness. But for Stockton, hearing something just wasn’t the same as seeing it with his own eyes. Still, it would have to serve. He didn’t have time to doubt what he knew about Covington. He’d almost put himself in last place, but he didn’t want to be so far behind on the return trip…just in case the flight crews needed a little pressure to turn his ships around faster and get them back out on their second runs.

He watched as Federov led her huge group of squadrons, a “super wing,” Stockton had dubbed it. She had more than four hundred ships, and Stockton had sent them in against ten enemy battleships. Against any other enemy, he’d have narrowed the attack further, targeted five, or maybe six of the biggest battlewagons, looking to blast them to dust. But that wasn’t how tactics against the Hegemony fleet went. He had to knock out some of their railguns, or their advancing line would be as good as a firing squad for the waiting Confederation ships. That meant hitting a vessel just hard enough…and going on to the next. It was as much art as science, instinct as training. But it was the only way the fleet was going to put up a serious fight against so overwhelming an enemy.

One look at the size of the fleet coming on was enough to tell him he had no chance at all of knocking out every one of the heavy weapons, or anything close to that. His people could get a lot of them, and that would have to be enough. The enemy main guns were fragile, clearly reliant on an easily damaged power transmission system, much like the Confederation’s own particle accelerator primaries.

It was a new dynamic. If the enemy could maintain a sizable percentage of their railgun attack capability, they could blast the Confederation ships to scrap. If not, the particle accelerators equaled or exceeded the range of the enemy second tier weapons systems, and that swung the balance back toward the Confederation ships, if only for a brief instant before the edge slid back to the Hegemony’s numbers and technology.

That was all over-simplified. It all depended on maneuver, positioning, formations…and a dozen other factors. In the end, it boiled down to the same conclusion. The fleet didn’t have a chance no matter what he did, not unless Tyler Barron showed up in time. Even then, Stockton had his doubts. He suspected Admiral Winters did, too.

So, then it came down to two questions. Would Clint Winters throw the dice, commit to an all-in engagement, and bet his fleet that Barron would get there in time?

Stockton had a good idea of the answer to that question. An officer didn’t end up being called “the Sledgehammer” because he retreated a lot. He figured Winters had fallen back just about as much as he had the stomach for.

Certainly as much as he had the room for.

And the second question. Even if Barron got there in time…would it matter? Would the combined forces—and two of the best fighting admirals in the Confederation—be enough to stop the Hegemony juggernaut before it pushed on, straight through to Megara?

He thought he knew the answer to that one, too…but he ignored it. It was knowledge without a purpose. He had a job to do, and that was all that mattered.

*

Olya Federov stared at the symbols displayed on her screen, her eyes narrowed. The enemy battleship was huge, almost twenty kilometers in length, and hundreds of millions of tons in mass. It was a killing machine, a gargantuan chunk of steel and titanium and electronics designed for one purpose. To destroy.

But it had to get past her before it could destroy anything, her and the forty-three pilots hot on her tail as she blasted in at blistering velocity. She’d directed her other strike teams in first, and then, after she was sure the entire attack force was on target, she’d led the three squadrons of veterans she’d held back at the giant ship straight ahead.

Hegemony fleet organization was still somewhat of a mystery, but she’d have bet her last credit the behemoth in front of her was some kind of sub-unit flagship. She didn’t know if the enemy called their formations task forces, flotillas, divisions…or any of a thousand other terms, but a fleet as large as the one still entering the system had to have a fairly complex organizational structure.

If there’s some kind of admiral in there, or a commodore, it would be a nice bonus to take him or her out.

She had Stockton’s orders, and she wasn’t going to disobey them, nor even interpret them as loosely as Raptor himself had done on more than one occasion. But she had a gut feeling she knew where the control center was, and while it was probably well-protected, if she could hit hard enough right around that spot, maybe she and her people could scratch one flag officer off the enemy chain of command.

She moved her arm, changing her thrust vector, altering her course slightly, and increasing the evasive maneuvering that had so far kept the enemy’s defensive fire well at bay. Her eyes darted to the side, checking on her pilots formed up behind her. “Spider, Whirlwind…put some effort into those evasive maneuvers. You rely completely on the AI, and you’re going to get blown to bits.”

“Roger that, Lynx.”

“Yes, Commander.”

She shook her head. Her own hand slid to the left, and a couple seconds later, back to the right. It was easy to lose focus on evasion, to let your thoughts fixate on the target and the coming attack. That was how pilots ended up dead. She knew she’d lose a lot of people in the battle just beginning, but she was damned sure going to do anything she could to keep the names on that list down to a minimum.

She swung her arm hard to the side, and she stared straight ahead, confirming what she already knew. She was under ten thousand kilometers from the target. That was below the old standard range for launching torpedoes, but a new war and enemy had spawned new tactics. Without enemy interceptors raking the attack formations, the bombers could move to much closer ranges. They had to move in closer. The Hegemony engines were capable of enormous thrust, and their AIs could conduct bewildering evasive moves of their own. A torpedo launched from fifteen or twenty thousand kilometers had probably a one percent chance of hitting. Maybe less.

One launched from under five thousand upped that number to fifteen percent, or even twenty.

The pilots that had really taken it to the edge, taking their runs to the very limits of their ability to clear the targets…well, some of those attacks had attained hit percentages north of thirty percent, and, in a few cases, even forty percent.

That was the kind of damage the bombers had to inflict on the enemy, the number of torpedoes they had to deliver, if they were going to knock out enough main guns to give the Confederation battleships any kind of chance in a duel between battle lines.

The previous battles against the Hegemony had proven that such aggressive attack runs were possible. But they came at a cost, as Federov was reminded when two of her ships winked off the display, one right after the other. There wasn’t time to check to see if either pilot had ejected, and this deep into the system, in space the enemy would almost certainly control before the fight was over, she wasn’t sure it mattered. She’d never ditched a ship herself, a bit of an odd distinction for a pilot of her considerable experience. She’d brought a couple damaged ships into the bay, including one that burst into flames as soon as it hit the atmosphere inside the ship, but she’d never found herself floating in space, biding her time and hoping for retrieval before her survival gear gave out.

She’d always considered that just as well. In a situation like this, she was pretty sure she’d prefer to go out in one blaze of glory, rather than floating and considering the virtual hopelessness of her situation while she flipped a coin for a guess as to whether she would freeze or run out of air first.

Neither seemed terribly appealing.

Her fighter was streaking in toward the enemy ship, and the battleship’s defensive fire had increased its intensity significantly. Whatever mystery the small fighter craft had held for the Hegemony forces in the first engagements, it was long gone. The commanders and crews of those ships knew just how deadly her squadrons were, and despite the fact that they seemed to have no equivalent forces themselves, they had steadily improved the accuracy of their defensive batteries. And there was no getting around the fact that a Lightning outfitted with a bomber kit was a lot less maneuverable than one set up as an interceptor.

The enemy defensive batteries were powerful, and they were accurate. Clearly, the Hegemony had faced some kind of threat before, some enemy with missiles or another weapon requiring point defense as a counter. The Confederation didn’t use missiles; none of the Rim nations did, save for a few highly specific weapons systems…and ground bombardment systems, of course.

The Hegemony doesn’t seem to use missiles either…but those battleships are bristling with small batteries. Somebody out there uses them…or did at one time.

It was the first time her thoughts had gone beyond the immediate threat of the Hegemony, to consider what other powers might exist somewhere beyond. It was something that would have been unthinkable before the White Fleet had shattered centuries of serene confidence that those on the Rim were all that remained of human civilization. Now, it seemed more than possible. It was likely there was more out there, much more than the Confederation knew about. One question hammered that likelihood home like a pile driver.

Why did the Hegemony have such a vast fleet, when it had almost certainly considered the Rim utterly depopulated?

It was a troubling thought, but not one she had time for, not six thousand kilometers from her target.

She held her finger over the firing stud as she jerked her hand hard to the side, one last evasive move before she came in on her final approach.

She could see the flashes on her screen—enemy defensive fire, coming much closer now—as she cut her wild moves and bored straight in, targeting her torpedo. It was the most dangerous moment of her attack. The torpedo would leave her fighter with the same velocity and vector the craft itself had, and at such close range, there wasn’t time for the weapon to implement much in the way of a course change. She had to launch the warhead almost directly on target, and that left her badly exposed the enemy fire for a few seconds.

Her finger tightened, and she felt the jolt in her ship as the weapon disengaged from the bomb bay and blasted off toward the target.

The target…she was less than two thousand kilometers away, insanely close. Her arm pulled back hard, blasting her engines to clear the hulking mass of metal up ahead. She felt the engines responding, for an instant…and then her ship shook hard, and went into a violent spin.

She’d been hit, that was immediately obvious. She was also still alive, at least at that moment.

She looked down, her hands moving over her controls, trying to get an idea of how bad the hit had been. The enemy ship was just ahead…but she could see she’d gotten enough thrust to clear it. Barely. Even as she worked her controls, and realized most of her instruments were dead, she saw the vast metal hull of the Hegemony ship. Her scanners were down, but she was so close, she had clear visuals. Her best guess was, she’d come within a kilometer of the vast battleship, maybe closer.

She could feel sweat pouring down her body, fear gripping her body. She’d always had the kind of grim confidence the very best pilots shared, but now she knew she was in trouble.

She moved her hand, flipping the switch to engage the damage control circuits. Nothing.

“Are you there?” she asked the AI, not really expecting a response…and not getting one.

Damn…

She turned and pulled the cover off one of the control boxes. Her ship was as close to dead as it could be without being…well, dead. She still had life support, but when she checked, she saw that was running off of tanks and battery power. Her reactor was shut down, her engine power gone. There was no quick fix, she knew immediately, no part she could repair herself from inside the cockpit. Her fighter was done, and, even if it could be repaired, it would take a week in the bay.

She laughed, a bitter recognition of the irony. Twelve years in the fighter corps, eight of them—nine now—at war, and she’d never had to eject.

Until now.

She pulled her hand up, ready to activate her survival suit. Her other arm moved to the side, ready to trigger the eject system. She hesitated for a few seconds.

Her ship was on a ballistic course. The only reason she hadn’t been blown to bits yet, she was sure, was the enemy scanners had determined she wasn’t a threat, not while waves of armed bombers were still coming on. That wouldn’t last. As soon as the final waves finished their runs, the enemy would pick off the cripples. The fighters had taken a terrible toll in the war so far, and she couldn’t imagine the Hegemony forces would miss the chance to blast any of them they could to dust.

It would be an easier way to die, certainly a faster one. She’d imagined her death before—she suspected every pilot had—and never once had that image been of floating in frigid nothingness, choking on her last gasps of air as the frigid cold vied with suffocation to take her.

Stay…die in the cockpit…

She almost gave in to the thoughts, to the voice calling to her from within. But Olya Federov was a fighter, and as much as she’d never imagined herself suffocating in her survival gear, what she’d never even been able to conceive was giving up, surrendering.

She slammed down her helmet’s visor, and she reached out and pulled the lever, blowing the cockpit open and jettisoning herself out into space.

No…no surrender. Never. Death may take me, but I will leave claw marks around the pit before it does.

If they want me in Hell, they’ll have to come and drag me there.

Chapter Forty-Five

Occupation Headquarters

Port Royal City

Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“Colonel, we have had many conversations, you and I, and I think you will agree with me that you have been treated well.” Carmetia sat across a table from Blanth. As always, she’d sent the guards away, and the two sat alone. He was glad in a way, the cyborgs—and that was what he considered them, whatever Carmetia and the other Hegemony officials called them—were gone. They gave him the willies. Still, he found it rather unsettling that the apparently unarmed Master was so utterly unconcerned about what a Confederation Marine might try.

Are they really that capable? He despised the idea of eugenic controls of the sort practiced in the Hegemony, but he couldn’t argue with certain aspects of the results the enemy appeared to have attained. His uncle owned a horse farm back on Guilford, and there was no question that careful pairings had produced faster, stronger, and healthier stock. It was uncomfortable to think of people in those terms, but was there really such a difference?

“Yes.” Blanth’s answer was a grudging one, and he found having to reassure his jailor for not torturing him or inflicting whatever nasty surprises might have awaited him—might still await him—annoying.

“I do not wish to see you harmed, nor any of your people. Unfortunately, that is a goal that is rapidly escaping my grasp.”

Blanth felt the edginess close in, turn to fear. He cursed himself for the weakness, but he took Carmetia’s words to suggest that his period of humane captivity was over, that he would finally be taken to some dark cell somewhere, and…

And what? What is it you fear? Torture? Drugs? They won’t kill you, not yet. And you’ve felt pain before, on the battlefield…

Carmetia seemed to pick up on his reaction. “No, Colonel, I am not threatening you…though the day may also come when I can no longer protect you. I am referring to the people of Dannith.”

“You occupy Dannith. You control the entire planet.”

She frowned for an instant, the only chink in her otherwise seemingly impervious armor of emotional control. “Perhaps we could dispense with the back and forth. You know very well that your Marines are hidden in various strongholds around the planet. No doubt, you planned the operations, or at least the basic structure that sustains them. You will be pleased to know that these attacks have been extremely successful to date, though not without cost to your people as well.”

Blanth felt a flash of excitement. He’d had no idea how the guerilla campaign had gone, and Carmetia’s cold poker face had given nothing away in their prior discussions. The direction of this latest talk suggested his Marines had indeed gained some considerable successes.

“I can see from your reaction, you are pleased your Marines have caused measurable damage.” A pause. “Do not be.” Her tone became colder, darker. “The campaign being waged on the surface has delayed our goal to integrate Dannith into the Hegemony. You perceive this as a good thing, because you think only in military terms. But, you must realize, your resistance is pointless and wasteful. We have not come here to subjugate you…we have come to share our technology, and the prosperity of our society with you. The Hegemony is the rightful successor to the old empire, of which the Rim was a part. Once your people are integrated, together we will strive to regain all of the lost technology, and lead humanity to new heights.”

Blanth sat silently for a moment. He was angry, as he usually got when Carmetia told him how much better off his people would be if they surrendered to the Hegemony. But she’d been civil enough to him, and, for what it was worth, he believed she was sincere.

“Carmetia…” He was glad the two of them were alone. She’d told him to address her by her name, but whenever there was one or more of the Kriegeri around, he got nasty stares from the soldiers when he did. He didn’t need that kind of provocation. He knew the farm-bred cyborgs were deadly fighters, more than a match one on one for him…still, that didn’t mean he wasn’t ready to take one on if the chance materialized. “…my people will never surrender. My Marines will never give up, never stop. Not while there’s even one of your Kriegeri monsters still on the surface.” He knew he should try to be less provocative, but it just wasn’t in him.

“Colonel…I have told you numerous times, I am no more at the top of my ultimate chain of command than you are of yours. Indeed, I suspect you had far more latitude on Dannith than I do now. However, your Marines have caused considerable damage, and that has provoked a response. It is one of which I do not approve, but it is one I cannot stop. Nothing can stop it, or ensure the prevention of future escalation, save for the immediate and total pacification of the planet.” She held a small device in her hand, and she pressed her finger down on it, activating a screen on the far wall. It showed an image Blanth recognized immediately as the outskirts of Port Royal City.

There were fences, ten meters high, surrounding large areas. Guard towers were placed at the corners, and every hundred meters along the wall. He could see something moving above, dozens of small objects, flying back and forth over the space.

Drones.

“This is the crop your people have sown, Colonel.”

“What in the name of God is that?”

“It is a confinement center, Colonel, now commencing operation.” She touched the controller again, and the view zoomed in to a section of wall. There was a gate there, and a long line of people, moving forward, through the open entrance and into the vast section of open space beyond.”

“It’s a concentration camp.” There was disgust in Blanth’s voice, and renewed hatred. Carmetia had been humane to him, even reasonable when they’d talked. But at the moment, he considered lunging across the table, and wondered just what chance he had of killing her before the guards came in and finished him.

“You may call it what you wish, Colonel, however it—and the others like it—are a reality, and one as beyond my control as yours. They are the result of your resistance campaign, and of nothing else. At this time, they are detention facilities only. They are limited to those identified as potential sources of trouble, and, of course, anyone identified as related to your Marines and the others under arms.”

Blanth felt his stomach tighten. Most of the Marines had been shipped in from other planets, but at least a thousand of them had been permanently stationed on Dannith. He had no idea how many of those had families on the planet, but he was sure most of the local troopers and reserves did. What would happen when they found out their husbands and wives, parents and children, mothers and fathers, were imprisoned in concentration camps. Or worse?

He knew immediately that Carmetia—or whoever was in command of the operation now—was hoping they would come at the camps. It was hideous, a nightmare he could barely comprehend, but it could very well work. What would Luther Holcott do—assuming his old exec was still alive and in command—if the local troops insisted on attacking the camps, trying to liberate the prisoners? Any operation like that would be a death trap, but would that stop the soldiers whose families were imprisoned there? Would Holcott hold the locals back? Could he? Or would he give in and commit Marines to the hopeless assault?

Blanth reeled at the horror, but then he began to think about the situation, what his people were doing. He was a Marine, and he couldn’t think in terms other than fighting to the end, of keeping the battle going as long as there was breath in his lungs. But he’d seen atrocities before. The Union had been quickly to unleash Sector Nine on populations of occupied worlds, and he’d seen the empty, hollow looks in the eyes of the inhabitants once those planets had been liberated. The camps Carmetia had shown him were rough, the conditions moderately harsh. But there was no sign of active mistreatment, nor of executions.

Yet.

He felt the urge to fight surging through his veins with renewed energy, the Marine inside him towering above his doubts and fears.

But not his guilt. He would fight if he could, die if he had to, and he knew his Marines would as well. But should they? Risking their own lives was one thing, but what horrors might they bring down on Dannith’s civilians? Sector Nine had murdered children in front of their parents, forced prisoners to watch as their spouses were tortured. Would Dannith go down that same road…and if it did, would it be his fault?

It was war, and any battle against the enemy contributed to victory. Every transport destroyed, every patrol ambushed, was one step closer to triumph. He could reconcile with the loss of his Marines that way, doing their duty, fighting the war in any way they could. But how many civilian deaths could he justify, how much suffering?

Was harassing the enemy—and, if he was honest with himself, he knew that was all his people could achieve—worth the lives of every man and woman on Dannith? Because, looking at the screen, at the long column of stunned and bewildered people marching almost silently into the camp, he suddenly realized with stark clarity that the real question before him, before the Marines, could be just that one.

*

“It looks like the scouting data was accurate, Major.”

Luther Holcott was crouched down in the back of a burned-out transport, debris from the fighting of the first few days of the invasion, when the Marines were openly battling the attacking forces. It was a decent place to hide, and it was no more than two kilometers from the walls of the camp.

“It does, Captain.” It was all Holcott could manage to say. He knew what they were looking at. He’d known when he’d first seen the aerial reconnaissance, though the enemy had been so quick to shoot down the drones he’d sent in. He’d been able to keep alive some doubts, tell himself they were storage dumps or something similar.

Not concentration camps.

He’d come himself, with two of his senior officers and four other Marines. He had to see this for himself, get as much information as possible, whatever the risk. Because he would be making the decision about what to do, whether to continue the resistance campaign, or to pull in, ease the pressure in the hope the enemy would respond in kind.

He shook his head…no, there was no decision. He was a Marine, and he had only one charge, to maintain the resistance on Dannith, to hamper and harm the enemy any way he could. He hurt for the people he could see milling about in the vast open spaces inside the fence, but, militarily, they were irrelevant. That sounded horrible, to him as much as it would to anyone else, but there were billions and billions of people in the Confederation, and the future of every one of them hinged on the outcome of the war. Dannith’s population was small, but the planet sat astride the enemy’s route home. It was inevitable that the Hegemony would seek to establish a major base…and just as inevitable that Holcott and his Marines would do all they could to forestall that.

His Marines were mostly offworlders. It was a cold way to look at things, but when they found out what was happening, when they saw recon images, at least they wouldn’t be looking at the friends and loved ones.

But the planetary forces…

Most of the Dannith-based troops had surrendered after the initial fighting, but Holcott still had almost two thousand of them in his scattered forces, all seasoned veterans by now. They’d fought alongside the Marines, died with them…but what would they do now?

They couldn’t force him to attack the camps—an operation that almost screamed “trap”—but what if they tried to do something on their own? They were technically under his orders, but he was far from sure that was enough to keep the citizen soldiers in line.

If they made a move, if they violated his orders, what would he do? Would he keep his Marines in their bunkers, and do nothing while the Dannith troopers marched into ambush and death?

Could he do that? Could he sit in HQ and watch that kind of slaughter?

“Let’s go…there’s nothing to be gained by staying here.” He waved to the Marines crouched down beside him. It was time to get back.

He had to figure a way to convince his local troopers to stay where they were, to follow his orders…because if he lost control, if any of them launched some half-assed attack trying to rescue their families, every one of them was going to end up dead.

And, if things went really badly, all the civilians in those camps could die, too.

Chapter Forty-Six

CFS Repulse

300,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase Two

“Move it…I want those ships ready to launch in ten minutes.” Jake Stockton was racing around Repulse’s bridge, screaming at any flight crew who didn’t run away at this thundering approach. He was furious, in a terrifying rage, and everyone on the ship knew why.

Olya Federov. His right arm, his comrade from the old days, before the Union War had torn through his list of friends like a scythe. She’d been shot down.

He hadn’t believed the initial communications from her squadrons, the reports that her ship had been hit. Stockton didn’t underestimate the danger of the enemy defenses—his strike force had lost almost a hundred ships in the first assault. But Federov had always been one of the best, and one of the luckiest as well. She’d come back from battle after battle, always there, like a block of granite he could lean upon, even as so many others were lost.

No, not Lynx…not now. There’s so much fighting left to do.

There was still hope. His reports suggested her ship had been badly damaged, not destroyed. There were even a few claims that she’d ejected. But none of that mattered. There wasn’t much chance the Confederation forces would hold the system, and even if they did, the battle was far too large…it would go on for too long.

Every pilot out there will be out of life support before the fighting is over.

“I said get those ships ready to launch!” He lurched toward a pair of flight techs who weren’t moving as quickly as he thought they should be, scaring them to even greater speed.

“Yes, Captain…we’ll have the squadrons ready. If not ten minutes, no more than…”

“You’ve got nine,” Stockton roared with an intensity that seemed to shake the very structural supports of the massive bay.

The terrified technicians scattered, leaving behind all kinds of “yessirs” and “understoods.”

Stockton turned around and looked up at his own ship, and for a few seconds, he was lost in thought. Then he had an idea.

The rescue boats. Why couldn’t they launch now, along with the second strike? Confederation tactics were based on the expectation that an enemy would have its own fighters…and even green pilots could blast those unarmed tubs to plasma. But the Hegemony didn’t have fighters. It only had defensive emplacements on its ships…and with over a thousand bombers bearing down, would any of those battleships or cruisers waste shots with their point defense batteries on unarmed rescue boats?

He couldn’t be sure, of course. Enemy fighters had targeted rescue boats in the Union War. There had always been a certain mutual respect between the opposing corps of pilots, but there was no getting around the massive amount of time and resources it took to train a fighter jock. It was just too big of an advantage to cede to any enemy, to allow them to retrieve their ditched pilots. Another brutal reality of war.

And it was one that just might not apply against the Hegemony. Even if it did…

Stockton wasn’t proud of himself, but he thought about what would happen if enemy batteries targeted rescue boats. They wouldn’t be firing at his bombers…and the armed ships would be able to get even closer, and plant their torpedoes deep into the guts of the enemy ships. It was a grim calculus, but this was a fight for survival. By the time it was over, if the Confederation endured, it would have paid a price he doubted anyone could imagine.

We’ll do worse than use rescue boats as decoy targets before all this is over…

“Stara,” he said, as he tapped the comm unit on his chest.

“Yes, Jake?” She was clearly trying to sound calm, but he knew she wasn’t. She was scared to death, just as he was. Just like every spacer in the fleet. And Stara was doubly terrified, for herself and for Repulse…and for him, about to jump back into the deadly maelstrom.

“I need your help. I want to get some volunteers.”

“Volunteers? You’ve got every pilot in the fleet about to go back out there, and…”

“Not every pilot. I want to talk to the rescue boat crews, and the shuttle pilots. I want them to come with us, right behind the strike. The enemy doesn’t have interceptors…with any luck, we can recover some of our people out there while the bombers are hitting their line, and…”

“You don’t know she ejected, Jake. That’s just a guess…”

“So what? You know we’ve got pilots out there. Even if Lynx is…gone…how many can we get back, men and women who otherwise don’t have a chance?” He paused. “I wouldn’t ask you to order them out, Stara…just let me ask for volunteers. Please.”

*

“I want all ships to launch a spread of drones. Put together coordinates, Commander, and transmit designated scanning areas to all vessels. I want every meter of the enemy formation covered, with an overlap of a million kilometers on each flank.” Sara Eaton had been alternating between long, unexplained stares at the main display, and equally quiet periods of focusing on her smaller workstation screen. She saw something out there. She couldn’t explain it yet, but she found it unsettling nevertheless.

“Yes, Commodore.” John Fuller let a touch of confusion slip into his tone, but it didn’t slow him down at all. Sara could see the officer hunching over his own workstation, quickly calculating the coordinates to send to each of the task force’s ships. Sara suspected he was nervous, wondering what she was looking for. She’d have told him, but she wasn’t sure herself. Something was just…wrong.

She glanced over at the oblong cloud of dots, each representing one of the Lightning fighters Repulse and the other battleships had just launched. The second strike was weaker than the first. Casualties had been higher, perhaps no more than she’d expected, but more than she’d hoped. The enemy was getting better at anti-fighter operations, the difference in their targeting and tactics noticeable in each successive battle. Stockton’s wings had gone in hard, as always, almost ignoring the danger of the enemy defenses. They tore into the Hegemony battle line with vicious abandon, and they inflicted enormous damage. But they paid a stiff price for it.

Sara knew the data on lost fighters was unreliable, as much AI guesswork as hard scanning data. Some of the “lost” fighters were probably still out there, damaged, their transponders knocked out. There would be live pilots in some of those ships, at least for a few more hours, just as there were almost certainly others who’d ditched and were floating in space in survival gear. Their life expectancy was even shorter, given the limited resources of their suits.

Sara had seen many battles, and she’d always tried to rescue as many disabled pilots as she could…but this was the first time she’d ever sent out rescue boats with an active strike force. She’d felt an impulse to intervene when she’d heard what Stockton was doing down in the launch bay, but then she’d thought about it. The normal caution in dispatching rescue teams was based on fear of enemy fighters blasting the unarmed boats to atoms. But would the Hegemony ships, without fighters of their own, waste their defensive guns targeting unarmed rescuers?

No, almost certainly not. At least if they recognized them for what they were.

In the end, she’d let Stockton’s orders stand—though they exceeded his authority. The strike force commander had secured volunteers to run the missions, and he’d instructed them to follow right behind the attack groups. It was a reasonable idea, and one she cursed herself for not considering earlier. Facing an enemy without fighters changed many things, and Sara had to admit, she was still slow to fully grasp every opportunity the situation created.

“Orders transmitted to all vessels, Commodore. All ships acknowledge.” Fuller nodded as he gave Sara the report, and then he turned toward Sonya, waiting for her almost immediate order to lock the coordinates into Repulse’s computer and launch the battleship’s drones.

A few seconds later, Repulse’s drones launched, a full spread of a dozen, and the tiny craft quickly formed up with those from the other big ships, all heading straight toward the enemy fleet.

Sara almost spoke again, but she held her tongue. She wanted to share her suspicions with Sonya, and with Fuller, too. They were both excellent officers…but they couldn’t offer her anything meaningful, not until the scanner data flowed back.

She continued looking forward, waiting for enemy battleships to alter course and adopt a bearing toward her forces. But they just continued straight toward Winters’s waiting ships.

It didn’t make sense. Sara’s task force would be able to move around behind them, get on their flanks and rear. The Hegemony ships had the advantage in numbers and firepower, but, sandwiched between two battle lines and hit continually by fighter strikes from both, they would suffer badly.

What the hell are they doing?

She was still thinking that as she saw the first bits of data from the probes. Contacts, dozens of them. No, hundreds. Small ships, escorts—frigates, light cruisers…something like that. The ships were moving forward, at high velocity, and they clearly had some kind of countermeasures to deflect long range scans. The ships weren’t invisible—whatever they had was not true stealth technology—but they were too small and too far away for the sensors on her battleships to pick them up yet.

But the drones were relaying the data back…mass, location, course, velocity. And it didn’t take Sara long to realize the swarm of escorts was heading for her battle line.

No, wait…

They weren’t heading toward her battleships. They were on a course directly toward the advancing bomber wings.

*

Federov was floating. She’d had all the normal zero gravity training back at the Academy, and she understood how to handle herself in the frozen depths of space, but that all seemed hazy now, distant, like a memory from a past life.

All these years without ditching…and this is how it ends?

She was scared, but she’d also accepted the inevitability of her fate, at least as much as she could. She was one of the coldest veterans in the Confederation’s vaunted fighter corps, and she’d always known not just the risk, but the likelihood her duty would one day claim her. She was as ready as any person could be, and she was determined to maintain her dignity, to face death with a snarling smile, and not the stark terror she was holding down deep inside.

She’d imagined being able to watch the battle as she waited for her air to run out, or for the nearly perfect insulator of her suit to let just enough heat escape for her to freeze. The idea of watching anything was absurd, of course. There were fighters all around, she suspected, and warships a bit farther, not to mention other pilots like her who’d had to ditch. But the closest of any of them was probably hundreds of kilometers away, well beyond her visible range. And her eyes were all she had now. Her suit had a transponder, sending out a signal to any rescue boat close enough to retrieve her, but otherwise, there was no power to waste on anything but prolonging her life, preserving heat and recycling the scant air in her survival system…while she floated along, hoping someone would lock in on her signal. Someone friendly, preferably. She wasn’t sure if being a Hegemony prisoner would be worse than death or not…but she was wasn’t sure she wanted to find out. Giving up and accepting death was a difficult thing for her to do, but her rationality intervened. It was the only option. She tried to stay serene, to think of her comrades, her family back on Tyria. She wondered what Stockton would write to them, if his words would help her parents and her brother deal with the loss. She felt a wave a sadness thinking about it. Her mother, in particular, would have a very difficult time of it.

Her eyes were closed, her thoughts deep in the past. She’d always wanted to be a pilot, for as long as she could remember, and no one had been able to dissuade her. Now, she wondered if she’d been selfish. Pursuing a dream was a noble endeavor, wasn’t it?

But how much pain did you cause them all? And what will happen when they tell Mother you’re dead? It will destroy her…

She heard a sound, some kind of beep. She put it out of her mind, disregarded it as a hallucination…and then it happened again.

The transponder! It was picking up a signal.

She could hear it, but she couldn’t believe it. There was no way. The battle was still raging…and, if it wasn’t, that meant the fleet had bugged out. She couldn’t imagine the enemy had retreated.

So, how can there be rescue boats out now?

Her headset crackled to life. “Commander Federov…we are receiving your transponder signal. We are approaching and will commence recovery operations in four minutes. Pease acknowledge your receipt.”

She couldn’t believe it. It just wasn’t possible.

But she’d heard it. Emotion flooded from the depths of her mind. Tears welled up in her eyes, and a few flowed out as the rescue crewman began to repeat himself.

“Commander Federov…we are…”

“Federov here,” she said, pouring all the resolve and strength she had left into holding her voice steady. But in her mind was the image of her mother…and then it all crashed through her discipline and restraint, like a torrential flood battering through a dam, and the tears flowed out, defying her every effort to hold them back.

*

“Repulse flight control, this is Raptor. We’ve got bogeys ahead of us, some kind of escorts, low to mid-range tonnage. They’ve interposed themselves between us and the enemy battle line, and they are decelerating…just forming a line long our path. Any intel on these? Or orders?” Stockton almost smiled at the absurdity of his asking for additional orders. He’d always been a maverick, dancing along the razor’s edge between heroism and court martial. But he didn’t know what those ships were doing—it wasn’t like any maneuver the enemy had tried before—and he’d be just as happy for some more informed orders than any he could come up with.

He stared at the scanner as he waited for the message to reach Repulse and for an answer to make it back. He knew the commodore had sent out clouds of probes, but he hadn’t received any updates…which meant no one on Eaton’s flagship knew much more about what he was watching than he did. But he’d resolved to check anyway.

“Warrior, this is Repulse flight control. Negative on the escorts. We don’t know why they’re positioned there. Our best guess is, they’re hoping your strike force will expend its ordnance attacking them, and save the battleships from suffering more damage.”

Stockton didn’t believe that, not for an instant, and he didn’t think Stara did either. It made sense, in a theoretical sort of way, but he couldn’t imagine after the battles of the last months, the enemy could believe his bombers would allow themselves to be diverted by second-tier targets. The escorts could advance toward Eaton’s battle line, but her battleships would tear them to pieces before their lighter guns got into range.

No, that’s not it. The Hegemony isn’t stupid.

Then what?

“We can’t move around them, Stara. It would take too long to change our vectors, eat up too much fuel. They’re right where they’d want to be to make us fly through their formation. Could they just be trying to pick off some bombers before we can close on the Hegemony battleships?” He was asking himself as much as Stara…and he didn’t buy it, no more than he suspected she did.

There was nothing to do. His squadrons were coming on at high velocity, and he just didn’t have the time to waste. His people had to get in, execute their strikes, and get the hell back to their motherships to refit and launch again. Whatever chance the fleet had to survive the battle, much less win it, relied on getting the squadrons in and out on multiple attacks.

“We’re going in, Stara.” He shut the line before she could answer, and he switched to the open strike force channel. “Listen up, everybody… Warrior here. I don’t know what these ships up ahead have in mind, but my gut tells me, it’s not good. That doesn’t matter, though. We have a mission already, and we’re not going to deviate from it. Commodore Eaton, the admiral—everyone back on our motherships, and on all the other vessels of the fleet—are counting on us to hit those battleships hard. And that’s just what we’re going to do. So, we go through these bastards in front of us. Stay on target, all of you. Keep your focus…and follow me right to the enemy battle line.”

He cut the channel, and he looked up…just as his scanners went wild.

He saw flashes on his screen, dozens of them, no…hundreds. And symbols started disappearing. His fighters, his pilots…one after another. Five, then ten…then more than he could easily follow.

His eyes darted all around his display. The enemy escorts were firing…but their defensive batteries were different. The range was longer, and the rate of fire was vastly higher.

He concentrated his ship’s limited scanning power, focused on the closest escort. The batteries were firing three or four times their previous speed, almost like some kind of automatic weapons. All across his formation, ships took hits, and veteran pilots began shouting back and forth, their discipline tested by the unexpected danger engulfing them.

Stockton’s hands moved, jerking the throttle one way, and then another, increasing his evasion efforts. He tapped the comm unit, and yelled in a raw and scratchy voice, “All squadrons, evasive maneuvers…maximum intensity. Now!”

Chapter Forty-Seven

Occupation Headquarters

Port Royal City

Planet Dannith, Ventica III

Year 317 AC

“I need more time, Commander, and I need to retain several of the ground units scheduled for reassignment.” Carmetia sat in the plush seat in Raketh’s quarters, the beverage he had given her sitting untouched on the small table.

“I will be leaving soon with the Reserve, while there is still time to take advantage of the opportunity to cripple the Union forces. I project that operation will require approximately three months, from my scheduled departure in four days, until my fleet returns. I can give you that long…and not a moment longer.” Raketh’s tone was coolly professional, but it was clear his thoughts were elsewhere, on the attack he was about to launch against the Union. Carmetia was not sure if that was helpful or harmful to her cause, but he had given her a portion of what she wanted. She had hoped for more than three months, but she was sure that was as far as he would go, at least then. If I can show substantial progress by then, he will probably extend the deadline…

“Thank you, Commander. I am deeply grateful. I will pacify the planet and its population, without resorting to atrocities or genocide.”

“I wish you the best, Carmetia, truly…because if you have not reached that goal in every particular by the time I return, I will have to take matters into my own hands.” He didn’t add any details. He didn’t have to.

Carmetia knew precisely what that meant. She was privy to the orders Raketh had received from Chronos, both authorizing his attack against the Union and placing a hard deadline on the pacification of Dannith. She had three months to crush the resistance on the planet, or there would be mass executions. Assuming, of course, that Raketh did not just decide to obliterate the planet with nuclear fire. Chronos’s communique had expressly authorized him to do just that if he saw no other way to meet the timetable.

“I understand, Commander.” She paused. “And the units?” She was pushing her luck, but she needed all the force she could get if she was going to have any chance at all of pacifying Dannith in time.

Raketh paused for a moment, just looking back at her. Then he nodded. “Very well. Altering the transfer schedule exceeds my explicit authority, but I, as you, would prefer to see the planet subjugated without resorting to…extreme…measures. So, I will cancel the transfer orders. You have your units for three more months. But there will be no more time, Carmetia. That will not be my decision. If the people of Dannith are not under control by the end of that time, you know what we will be forced to do.” He paused for a few seconds. “See that it does not come to that.”

“I will see it done, Commander. I will pacify Dannith before you return.”

Whatever it takes…

*

“I know many of you have families, loved ones…and very likely, many of them have been moved to the camps we’ve all seen. I don’t underestimate the pain and fear you feel. We did not wish for what has come upon us, and, Marines and Dannith citizen alike, we would all rather be home, at peace. But we were given no choice. There is an enemy here, on your world—and God knows how much farther into Confederation space by now—and they have come to take from us all we hold dear. We must decide what to do. There is no doubt our resistance provoked some of what we see happening…but it is equally clear that our attacks have hurt the enemy. The sting of our strikes has driven them to aggressive measures. Now, what do we do? Yield? Surrender? Allow the Hegemony to take uncontested control of Dannith, to make slaves of us? Is that to be our future?”

Holcott stood at the workstation, his hand on the small microphone extending down from his headset. He’d have preferred to address his people in person, but they were scattered around in almost two dozen hidden bunkers. He was risking enough with the direct laser comm links, but if he’d pulled everyone out in the open to listen to his speech, he’d have put them at the mercy of the enemy.

“We have fought, with all the courage and fortitude we could muster, and, despite being outnumbered, and outmatched in every material way, we have put up one hell of a fight. We have taken heavy losses, but we have endured, and we have kept up the pressure in the face of repeated enemy counterassaults. I am proud of every one of you, prouder than I have been of anything in my life, and I am honored to lead you. But we have come to a moment where my orders alone are not enough. You have obeyed my commands without question. But I cannot order you, citizen-soldiers of Dannith, to remain with the resistance, to risk the escalation of what the enemy might do to the captives in the camps.”

He sucked in a deep breath. Now for the hard part. “I can tell you that my Marines will continue the resistance, even increasing the intensity of our strikes. I know this possibly endangers the prisoners, and risks pushing the enemy to greater efforts to crush the will and defiance of the people of Dannith…” Not to mention the possibility they just say, “the hell with it,” and blast the place to radioactive dust. “…but there is no other choice. It is not lack of care for those who might be hurt, but if the choice is between suffering and death…and surrender…then there is no choice at all. There is no treasure greater than freedom, nor any cause more worth fighting, and if need be, dying, for. The Marines have taken an oath, and the words we spoke leave us no choice. But I will not seek to enforce the intractability of our code on the Dannith units. Each soldier in those commands must decide for himself or herself…will you remain, stand with us and follow this fight to its end, whatever that may be? Or will you return to your homes to see if the enemy will pardon you, and if they will release your families from imprisonment.”

He turned and looked back at his senior officers. Not one of them agreed with his decision to release the local troops. He knew the arguments. They needed all the strength they could get, and the enemy would almost certainly interrogate any returnees, and they would gain information on the hidden locations of his bases. That was all true, but none of it mattered in Holcott’s estimation. The local units were a fraction of his combat power. It was the Marine units that really mattered, and letting the civilian soldiers go could only stretch his already-dwindling supplies farther.

The intel on his locations was almost as irrelevant. He had to move his forces anyway. No matter what he decided, what commands he issued, some of the local troops would desert. It was inevitable. In fact, some already had. His only chance of maintaining the secrecy of his positions was to hold the Dannith forces as virtual prisoners…and to shoot them down if they tried to escape. Some Marine officers might have, but he wasn’t one of them.

“Before you decide what to do, I urge you all to truly think about what you can do about the camps, and about the imprisonment of your families. Any attack on the camps would be doomed to failure, in fact, it is no doubt what the enemy hopes to see. Even if all the Marines joined in, such an assault would be doomed to bloody failure…and, as likely as not, the prisoners would all be killed in the fighting or executed by the enemy forces. Your urge to save your families is admirable and understandable…but I beg you all to consider the reality before you resolve to do anything foolish.”

Holcott paused for a few seconds. He felt as though he should say more, offer some kind of encouragement, sympathy…something. But there was nothing else. He didn’t know if Steve Blanth would have had any deeper insights, or more stirring words, but he’d done, and said, all he could. He’d made a decision. The Marines would fight, they would continue the struggle and never yield…and damned the consequences. That sounded cold, brutal, but this was war, and there was no way to make it a gentle pursuit. The Confederation was fighting for its survival, and it needed every man or woman to do what he or she could, the spacers in the fleet, and the ground pounders on every planet, holding back the enemy, or harassing them as his people had done. In the end, he’d felt his choice had been no choice at all, but he’d also realized he’d had to give the local troops the chance to leave.

He just prayed they would listen to him. If some thrown together force of Dannith troops assaulted the camps, they’d not only get themselves massacred, they’d probably get the prisoners killed as well.

“All local soldiers are released, but if you wish to go, you must go now. Anyone who stays is part of this military command, and we are in a state of war. Deserters after today will be shot, and this force will continue to attack the occupying army every way we can, regardless of the enemy’s response, either against us or against civilians. Make sure you all understand this…and act accordingly.” His voice was cold. He was in this fight, to the death…and every man or woman who remained with him would be as well.

Chapter Forty-Eight

1,150,000 Kilometers from CFS Repulse

300,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase Three

Stockton’s eyes were fixed on his screen, and they looked into a nightmare. Suddenly, it all made sense. The enemy escorts blocked the way to the battle line, and gunned down his fighters with deadly accuracy as they raced through.

He cursed himself as he watched the deadly scene unfolding. He’d seen the Hegemony tactics improve from one engagement to the next, adapting quickly to the need to defend against bombing attacks. Yet now he found himself shocked when the enemy deployed technical modifications…ships clearly fitted out to target fighters.

“All squadrons, break formation. Stay as far away from those escorts as…” He paused for an instant as his instincts jerked his hand to the side, pulling his ship away from a burst of incoming fire from one of the…frigates were the closest thing the Confederation had to them. Eight different shots converged on his prior position, and he didn’t doubt he’d be dead if he hadn’t followed his impulse.

“These ships are dangerous…” He didn’t know what to say, what orders to issue. His scanner confirmed just how deadly the enemy ships were. He’d lost several dozen of his people, just in the past two minutes, though the increased evasion efforts appeared to be slowing the rate of slaughter. He cursed himself again. He’d let his squadrons fly right through the enemy formation…he’d served his people right up to the Hegemony escorts. He’d had a reason, of course. At their current velocity, the only way his people could have gone around was to decelerate at full thrust, and pull back. It would have taken several hours before they’d reformed and reached the target battleships. The fleet just didn’t have that kind of time. The only real tactic Winters and Eaton had was to maximize fighter strikes, and Stockton knew that well. Which was why he’d led his people straight ahead.

And why so many of them were dying as he watched.

He angled his thrusters again, firing at full for a few seconds, then letting off entirely. He was bracketed between two of the frigate-like vessels, along with about half a dozen of his pilots. There had been more half a minute before, at least ten…but the defensive fire was raking the area with deadly effect.

Stockton was a veteran and an experienced leader, but now he froze. He didn’t know what to do. Send his ships through, gut out the worst the escorts could throw at them, and then press on to the enemy battle line? Or decelerate hard and attempt to turn about and attack the escorts? He was sure the plasma torpedoes would wreak havoc on the small enemy vessels, but the vector and velocity of his strike force was just about as bad as it could be to launch a bombing run on the frigates.

The indecision hung like a cloud in his mind, enduring for what seemed an eternity, though on some level he knew it was only seconds. Still, his people were dying during those seconds.

“Full thrust…forward. We’re staying on target. We’re going to hit those battleships, and damn these frigates.” He pulled back hard on the throttle, feeling the g-forces slam into him for an instant before the compensators intervened and bled off some of the pressure. He jerked his hand back and forth, adding some irregularity to his vector. “Don’t forget, evasive maneuvers the whole way. All it takes is letting off for a couple seconds, and you’ll end up a ball of searing hot plasma.”

He looked back at the screen, at the great gaps that had been torn in his formations. Some of that was disorder, his fighters breaking off along different vectors in their attempts to escape the incoming fire. But he was too old a veteran to fool himself, and his best guess was, he’d lost almost a hundred ships already. He could have asked the AI for a count, but he didn’t want to know. Whatever the number, it wouldn’t change what he was going to do. So, he left it for later. He had no time just then for grief and guilt…all he wanted was vengeance.

The enemy could cut up his squadrons, kill his pilots, but he could bring some darkness on them as well…and he damned well was going to do just that.

*

“Commodore, the scanning analysis is complete. Those escorts appear to have some kind of version of the standard Hegemony point defense lasers, but they’ve been modified to allow for rapid fire…almost like an automatic weapon. It appears they are also configured for slight adjustments in targeted firing bursts that cover a larger area, exponentially increasing the chance of scoring a hit. We should have more specific data in a few minutes, but it looks like functional accuracy increased by a range of six to eight times at optimal range.”

Sara listened to Fuller’s words, and even though she’d come to most of that conclusion already herself, the sound of her aide saying it struck her hard. She’d known the enemy would continue to improve its ability to face bombing attacks, and while her darkest fear was to one day see Hegemony strikefighters on Repulse’s scanning displays, such a program would take years to implement.

But changing their light escorts, replacing or improving the defensive batteries…you should have seen that coming…

She didn’t underestimate the engineering complexity of that kind of change. For one thing, the guns had a firing rate several times what she’d seen before. Beyond factors like wear and tear on lenses and other hardware, firing guns that quickly required delivering a lot of energy in a very short time.

A lot of energy.

She watched as the strike wings ripped through, grimly absorbing their losses and pushing on toward the enemy battleships. She might have expected the commander of the assault force to order the ships to move against the escorts that were hurting them so badly, or pulling back to regroup…at least, she might have expected that if Jake “Raptor” Stockton wasn’t that commander.

Stockton was acting as if he hadn’t even noticed the deadly attacks on his people, save for implementing enhanced evasive maneuvers. His squadrons were following him without hesitation, as if they’d just flown through serene, empty space, and not a screen of escorts that had taken down over a hundred of their number. Not for the first time, she felt pride in those pilots, and sadness at the quality of the people being sacrificed in the repeated assaults.

She turned her eyes back to the display, watching as the escorts continued to attack the final wave of bombers passing through their formation. The squadrons were moving at high velocity, and it would take the frigates considerable time to come about and pursue.

They won’t pursue…they’ll try to position themselves to hit the wings as they head back…

She almost ordered Fuller to get Stockton on her line, but she didn’t. He knew what the enemy would do, and he would almost certainly do anything he could to bring his people back without passing through the line of escorts again. She didn’t know if he’d manage it—the Hegemony ships were fast and maneuverable—but he would damned sure try, and her repetitive and unnecessary order wouldn’t do a thing to help.

Besides, he’s leading the strike in now. They paid in blood—and in advance—for this one…let him stay focused. Let him return the favor…

She took her eyes away from the fighters. Stockton knew what he was doing. She glanced back at the line of escorts, now clearly positioning themselves to intercept the fighters when they returned to the fleet. She thought about the guns, those deadly, rapid-firing lasers that had so hurt her squadrons. How do they provide enough concentrated energy to charge them so quickly? She didn’t know, but something nagged at her.

Antimatter.

The Hegemony utilized antimatter, most notably in its massive railgun systems. But by all accounts, they remained far behind the old empire in both the use and production of the precious material. Antimatter had various uses, but none more profound than as a source of immediate and massive energy. Was it possible? Had the enemy fitted their laser turrets to use antimatter as a power source?

The thought was a sobering one, both in terms of the strength of such a weapon, and in the enemy’s ability to so rapidly put it into use. But there was something else, a thought nagging at her mind.

Antimatter was volatile, dangerous to handle. Even a microsecond’s failure of containment could cause it to annihilate with whatever normal matter it encountered. That was one reason for the slow rate of fire of the enemy railguns. The antimatter fuel was stored in small canisters, held in the most remote and protected innards of each vessel.

But if they’re using antimatter to fire surface-mounted point defense batteries…

It was an idea floating in her mind, one perhaps not quite fully formed. More the kernel of one.

And she needed someone with a far better grasp of the science involved. She looked down at her comm unit, pausing for perhaps half a minute. She didn’t want to make the call, to disturb the one person she knew was most likely to figure out what she was just poking around.

She reached down, setting the channel herself as she pulled the headset on. “Sickbay…this is Commodore Eaton.” She paused, one last bit of hesitation before she pushed forward. “I need to speak to Captain Fritz…immediately.”

*

What the hell…

Clint Winters sat in his chair, staring at the incoming scanner data. He was looking at the past…and the future. Commodore Eaton’s fighters were five light minutes away from his battle line, and the images on his screen showed what had transpired roughly three hundred seconds before.

They also gave him a glimpse of what awaited the squadrons he’d been about to send forward, armed with torpedoes. Ulion’s defensive forces were ready to hit the approaching Hegemony battle line, following up on the damage Stockton’s wings had already inflicted…and were about to do again.

He was stunned at the effectiveness of the Hegemony escorts—and, somehow, not at all surprised at the same time. The enemy’s science and technology were advanced, and he’d been waiting for them to develop stronger defenses against bomber attacks. Yet it was surreal, watching as his squadrons were cut down by ships suddenly possessing four or five times the firepower they had before.

For an instant, he felt the urge to hold back the launch order, to pull his ships back and make a run for the transit point. Whatever meager chance he’d had of defending Ulion was probably gone now. He’d never get enough bomber strikes through the escorts to wear down the enemy battle line. It was a sobering thought for a military commander to contemplate a retreat that would leave over ten billion civilians to the mercy of the invaders. But without the fleet, the entire Confederation would be as good as lost. Tyler Barron had a powerful force under his command, and by all accounts, he was rushing to the system to join the fight. But if Winters lost his ships, Barron would only step into his shoes, commanding a portion of Confederation strength against the massed might of the Hegemony.

“All fighters…launch at once.”

The order blurted out almost unconsciously, but as he sat, waiting for the nearly immediate acknowledgement, his resolve hardened. His ships were still far out, and the enemy escorts would almost certainly have time to cut off the fighter strike. But there was no choice. None he would consider.

Losing the fleet would be disastrous…but he just couldn’t abandon Eaton and all her ships…and if his people bugged out just then, the Hegemony forces would cut off and finish every vessel she had. It would be a catastrophic defeat, and he would suffer irreplaceable losses…with implications far beyond the fall of Ulion. No, he had to follow through with the plan. He had to engage the enemy, at least long enough for Eaton to bring her task force closer to his, closer to the ultimate retreat route.

He looked at the far end of the display, at the line of symbols representing Eaton’s ships. They were accelerating, moving forward.

She’s going to engage the enemy escorts before they can savage her fighters again. He felt a wave of concern. Eaton’s battleships were also moving closer to the enemy battle line, and the utter devastation the remaining railguns would unleash on her vessels. But he found himself nodding as he watched, realizing it was what he would have done as well. Eaton’s task force had all the fleet’s veteran pilots. They were a vital resource, one the fleet simply couldn’t lose.

“All ships…prepare to initiate thrust at 8g, directly toward the enemy escort group.”

“Yes, Admiral.”

He would be bringing his ships in deeper, increasing the risk no one would escape from the battle, and his inner voice was screaming at him to hold back. He hesitated for an instant, a passing flash of uncertainty. Than he told his inner self to drop dead. Those were his people out there. And he’d be damned if he was going to let them fight alone…or leave anyone behind.

“All ships, engage. I want primaries fully charged and ready to fire as soon as we enter range.”

Chapter Forty-Nine

CFS Repulse

275,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase Four

“Get that fighter ready…now!” Olya Federov was standing on the flight deck, shouting with an intensity that had every tech in sight running for cover. Federov had always had a controlled demeanor, but all she could feel was anger and urgency. She’d never been forced to eject, not in all the years and battles in which she’d flown countless missions. Until this fight. Until the Hegemony. And she was going to make them pay.

Federov had never projected the overbearing ego that seemed almost mandated to every ace pilot in the fleet, but now it was clear to her that she had it too, and she’d just hid it well. She was infuriated at being shot out of her fighter, and worse, at being separated from her pilots, who were well into their second attack run. Without her.

And, by all accounts, they’d encountered enemy escorts that were far more effective than any seen before. He pilots were fighting their way through that, and dozens were dying…and she was standing on Repulse’s flight deck.

“I said now…I swear to God, if I have to get my pistol…” She moved toward the fighter closest to her before she realized it wasn’t her old ship. That was gone, left a crippled hulk in space…along with the small sidearm stashed inside. She turned and looked around, and then she grabbed a section of replacement conduit. It wasn’t the weapon her pistol was, but it was nearly a meter of solid reinforced steel…and by God, if someone didn’t get the ship next to her ready to launch, she was going to use it.

“Olya…” The voice was Stara Sinclair’s, and the shout had come from halfway across the open deck. Federov turned and looked over at her friend, and she waved her hand, gesturing for Stara to stay out of it. That was impossible, of course, since Stara commanded the entire flight deck, including the terrified techs cowering behind the stacks of equipment that blocked Federov’s view of them.

“Stara…if you’re going to get involved, order these techs of yours to get their asses in gear…”

“Olya, calm down for a minute.” Stara had been almost at a dead run, but now she stumbled to a stop about two meters from the crazed pilot. “Just wait…were you discharged from sickbay already?”

“More or less,” Federov grumbled. She considered it a discharge, though she suspected the medical technician who’d tried to stop her might have a differing viewpoint. Federov hadn’t actually used the multipurpose injector she’d held to the woman’s throat, but she had kicked her hard in the knee and left her behind, writhing in what she had to imagine was considerable pain.

No foul…there wouldn’t be any permanent damage, and she’d apologize later. First, she had business to deal with.

“Olya…what are you going to do all alone out there? At least wait for the wings to get back, and go out with the next strike.” Stara paused. “Think. This isn’t like you, not at all. I’ve usually got my hands full with problem children in the strike force, but you’re the one I always counted on to act rationally.”

“They shot me down, Stara…” The emotion Federov had been holding back began to pour out. “I’ve never had to eject before…”

Stara sighed softly. “Stara…almost every veteran pilot has ejected. Jake has done it four or five times. It doesn’t mean anything.”

Federov looked up at Stara. “My people are out there without me…because I let those bastards blast my fighter out from under me.”

“Olya…your people are just glad you got rescued. They thought they’d lost you. I sent the communique myself when the rescue boat confirmed they’d retrieved you. And the strike force is on the way back already. If you take off now, you won’t be ready to go out with them when they launch again.”

Federov heard the logic in Stara’s words, but it was a fight to calm herself. Finally, she nodded. “I’ll wait.” She looked down at the deck, and when her eyes drifted back up, they were watery with barely restrained tears. “Those escorts, Stara…they had to go through them without me. The losses…”

Stara nodded gently. “I know, Olya. But go back to sickbay…please. Get yourself cleared before the squadrons get back. You can’t change what’s already happened, but from the look of things, your people are going to have to go back out there, probably more than once. You have to pull things together, set the example for your wings.”

Federov looked up at Stara, struggling to hold back the tears. Finally, she just nodded, and then she turned and walked toward the lift. She’d wanted to say something—she wasn’t sure what, exactly—but she felt like if she uttered a word, she’d lose her fading control and the tears would come. She didn’t want to make more of a scene.

So, she hustled across the deck and got into the lift…just before the tears began to flow.

*

Stockton was staring at his screen in near disbelief. The strike force was heading back to the fleet. The assault on the enemy battle line had been devastating, with five battleships destroyed outright, and as many as ten more sufficiently damaged to knock out their railguns. That was a good result, better than he’d had any right to expect, but it still left the enemy fleet strong, with a second—and a third— untouched line moving forward as Stockton’s fighters raced back to their mother ships.

It was those vessels, Commodore Eaton’s battleships, that had him transfixed.

And horrified.

The battle group was supposed to be falling back, positioning itself out of range while the advancing enemy moved within striking distance of the squadrons from Admiral Winters’s force. The idea was to fight as much of the battle with the bombers, while keeping the fleet’s warships out of range. Any battle line engagement was to come only after multiple bombing runs, against an armada of battered and exhausted enemy battlewagons…but Eaton’s ships were moving forward now, accelerating at better than 8g toward the…

Toward the line of escorts…

Stockton understood immediately. Eaton had watched his people push through the escorts, seen the losses they’d taken. She was closing on the smaller vessels, her battleships ready to blast them to plasma. That plan would work. The escorts had sacrificed all their larger guns to mount a greater complement of point defense batteries. The Confederation weaponry, both primaries and secondaries, would obliterate the small ships before any of them were in range to return fire. The line of escorts would be destroyed, or at least scattered, clearing the way for Stockton’s fighters to return to their launch platforms unmolested.

But Eaton’s ships would be heading right for the enemy battle line at high velocity. Even if she wiped out the escorts and decelerated immediately, it was no better than a coin toss that she’d be able to pull back before the enemy’s remaining railguns opened fire. Even if her ships were able to pull back in time, they would be much closer to the enemy line, and the Hegemony ships had higher thrust capacities. Distance and positioning had been Eaton’s advantage in the planned exchange, but she was sacrificing both now.

She’s sacrificing it to save us from those escorts…

His plan, his orders, had been clear. Return to base as quickly as possible to refit for another sortie. But now, Stockton knew he had something else to do first.

“All wings, adjust course and follow me. We’ve got to hit those escorts, and we’ve got to hit them hard. The fleet’s coming in, planning to take them out for us…but if they do, they’ll be in too close. The commodore will never be able to pull back in time. I know you’re all down to just lasers, but those things aren’t battleships, they’re frigates, or something similar. You’re all veteran pilots, you all know the pecking order. The battleships are at the top, and we’re at the bottom. If we’re going to win this war, we need to protect our base ships…and that means cutting into these escorts. I know those ships have a lot of firepower, but they caught us by surprise on the way out…and that’s not the case now. Plus, they’ll be watching the battleships moving in on them, and probably trying to get away from that attack. So, let’s go in fast and hard, keeping those evasive maneuvers going every second…and let’s cut through with one hell of a series of strafing runs.” He paused, his voice lowering to an ominous growl. “The way I look at it, we owe these bastards something…and it’s repayment time.”

Stockton cut the line, and he tightened his grip on the throttle. Then he pulled back hard, hearing the engines whine as they blasted at full power, and the g-forces slammed into him, pushing him deep into the cushions of his seat.

*

“What the hell are they doing?” Sara Eaton had jumped up from her chair, and now she was staring down at the 3D display that dominated Repulse’s bridge. The fighter squadrons had been on a course back, one that would have allowed them to avoid the enemy escorts…but now they had changed their vectors. They were heading right for the small enemy ships.

Stockton saw us coming forward. He’s trying to get there first, to try and damage them with lasers so we don’t have to advance so close to the enemy battle line. She felt a flush of anger at the pilot’s efforts to thwart her plans…and a stronger wave of admiration for the risk the pilots were taking in an effort to protect the battleships.

It’s what’s been beaten into their heads since their first Academy days. The base ships are the most important, and have to be protected at all costs.

Eaton appreciated the dedication of the squadrons, but she wasn’t going to let them sacrifice themselves needlessly. Stockton was the best strike force commander the Confederation had, maybe that it had ever had, but he wasn’t going to wipe out those escorts with nothing but lasers, especially when his fighters were outfitted with the clumsy bomber kits.

She reached down toward the comm, about to order him to pull back. But she hesitated. She knew Stockton well. Too well. The maverick pilot would very likely disobey, and right now, she didn’t need the discord in the fleet. They were fighting an unwinnable battle, but somehow the fleet’s morale was still strong. The commodore and her strike force commander arguing over orders on the open comm wasn’t going to do any of them any favors.

“Commander…fleet order. All ships increase engines to flank.” She looked around the bridge, locking eyes with her sister for just an instant, but long enough to see the younger Eaton understood what she was doing and agreed completely. “We’re going in hard, and I want every battery firing the instant it’s in range.”

“Yes, Commodore. Roger that.” Fuller turned toward his station, activating his comm unit. “All ships, increase acceleration to flank. Advance and engage with all batteries as soon as they’re in range.”

Eaton looked ahead at the display, a frozen glare on her face. She might not be able to stop Stockton from coming in, but she could get her own ships there sooner. It would only make it that much harder to pull back and avoid the enemy battle line, but she decided she’d worry about that later.

*

“What the hell is going on out there?” Clint Winters sat in his chair, hunched forward, pointing toward the images of Eaton’s line.

“They’re accelerating, sir…toward the escorts. And the returning fighters are doing the same thing from the other direction. They should engage at about the same time, Admiral.”

“Send a message to Commodore Eaton. She is to…” Winters’s voice trailed off, his eyes fixed on the display. Eaton wasn’t violating his orders, not exactly, but she was running roughshod over their spirit.

She was right. She couldn’t abandon her squadrons to the fire of those escorts again.

And he couldn’t abandon her.

“Order the strike force to accelerate at full thrust and engage the enemy forward battle line.” Stockton and his veterans had pounded the lead Hegemony battleships hard, and now his fighters and Eaton’s battleships were attacking the escorts. That left an opening for the less experienced squadrons from the Ulion defense forces to slip through without facing the deadly small ships. They could hit the battleships hard, right on the heels of Stockton’s second, devastating assault.

And his battleships would be right behind them. Just maybe, the combined fighter attacks would knock out enough of the railguns, at least until the second and third enemy lines advanced into range. It was a chance to fight it out with the battleships, and a chance to do some real damage to the Hegemony forces.

“The battle line will accelerate forward at flank. Course directly toward the enemy battleships.”

Winters knew on some level what he was doing was a mistake. He was risking his entire fleet. But Eaton’s ships were already deep in, and he wasn’t prepared to abandon them, no matter what the risk.

Besides, he was tired of running. The enemy had chased him from the border to the very core of the Confederation. The campaign had been one retreat after another, one dancing, careful battle followed by the next…an unending cascade of frustration and loss. He was ready to get in close now and kill some Hegemony spacers. And, for all the risks, he was ready to bet his spacers were, too.

“Bring us in, Commander. Let’s show the Hegemony what a real fight looks like.”

Chapter Fifty

The Promenade

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Andi Lafarge walked down the Promenade. Troyus City’s main retail and entertainment center was a seemingly endless series of shops, restaurants, hotels. Its stunning architecture was a testament to the beauty of Troyus’s inner districts. There were thousands of people wandering all around, shopping, heading off for early dinners, or just browsing the wares displayed in a thousand windows along the wide and pedestrian-clogged street.

The whole spectacle made her tense, her shoulder blades feeling as though they were closing together, her guts tied up in one giant, unfathomable knot.

She’d been lurking in the outer districts now for weeks, hiding in alleys, sleeping in abandoned warehouses. She’d become one of the destitute homeless who inhabited Troyus’s worst outer neighborhoods, and she’d spent so long in the dank and damp filth of the streets, she’d almost lost her sense of who she was. It was hard to endure the crowds, the endless, penetrating eyes looking in her direction from all around.

She was dirty. Where she’d been, there were no washing facilities, no laundries, no fresh clothes. She’d lived like one of the destitute and forgotten, and now she looked like one of them, too. Smelled like one.

She’d done what she could when her clues pointed back toward Troyus’s center, stolen some clothes, tried to cover up her disheveled look as well as she could manage, but she’d still noticed some stares, the unrelenting gaze of disapproval she suspected was part of everyday life for the forgotten detritus of human existence, those she’d lived among now for the better part of a month. Those she’d ignored herself so many times in the past, without so much as a thought about what sequence of misfortune had led them to such dire straits.

She’d endured her time in the slums, where she’d tracked Lille, uncovered one of his safe houses, even killed a contact of his…a bit of overzealousness in her interrogation rather than a deliberate act. None of it was new to her. She’d been born into such a violent and destitute neighborhood, and she’d spent her youth digging through garbage for something to eat. The Outer District held no surprises for her. In fact, it was a good measure less dirty and violent than her old home.

It was transitioning into the government zones that shook her. She’d spent her share of time among the rich and powerful—indeed, she was one of the Confederation’s wealthiest herself now—but it was a stark change from seeing people searching for scraps of food to watching government functionaries falling all over each other to eat in the “right” places and shop for the momentarily fashionable clothes required to flit about Troyus’s elite circles. The whole sordid display sickened her, but she didn’t have time to think of such things. She had one purpose. She was hunting a man, and she finally had a trail, one that hadn’t gone stone cold by the time she’d set out to follow it. Ricard Lille had emerged from his hiding place, also somewhere among society’s lowest levels, and moved out into the open. She had prepared for this moment, planned, waited.

Now, it was time.

Her hand dropped to her side, a quick check to confirm what she already knew…that her small, undetectable pistol was still where she’d placed it, just under her left armpit. She’d been nervous at first, concerned that she would only have two shots. Lille was a wily target, and, perhaps worse, he was hunting her just as she was hunting him. But she’d finally made peace with the size of the tiny magazine.

It was simple. She just couldn’t miss.

She’d been stalking Lille, as he’d been stalking her…but now, the assassin seemed to be on another trail. It was an opportunity…but she was also worried. Had she missed something? Was Lille leading her into some kind of trap?

She’d analyzed every detail, reviewed it all again and again. As far as she could determine, she was clear. If she was right, Lille would uncover himself in the next few hours…and she would finally have her chance.

She tried to hold back the anger, the rage, the constant self-hatred that had driven her to chase her tormentor with such unstoppable ferocity. She’d lied to her friends, snuck off when they’d faced their own great challenges, broken more of Megara’s laws than she could easily count…all for the chance to strike at her adversary. To return to the man who’d broken her, and extract the terrible vengeance she knew was hers.

She turned her head abruptly, glaring angrily at a woman with two children who’d looked at her with distaste in her expression. Then she caught herself. That could be one of Lille’s people. That was unlikely, but it wasn’t impossible. And she reminded herself who she was up against.

The assassin seemed to be working mostly on his own the last few weeks, but he’d visited at least one of the black-market traders she’d frequented herself. She’d killed the gangster after she’d gotten all she could from him, and disposed of his body in the most efficient manner possible—by stuffing it into a fusion core. It was murder, and she was somewhat disturbed by the total absence of guilt for what she had done. The man had committed multiple capital crimes in his dark and shadowy career, and she told herself she’d just done the law’s job for them.

It didn’t especially disturb her that she tried to make such excuses for what she’d done, but it bothered her that she accepted them so readily. Nothing could be allowed to interfere with her tracking and killing Lille, and certainly not the disposal of a piece of human filth like the weapons dealer. He could easily have given her up to her enemy if she’d spared him. She’d saved lives by killing him, she was sure of it. And she’d save more when she finished Lille.

She jerked her body forward, a mildly threatening move. The woman reached out for her children and skittered off. Andi couldn’t be sure, but she bet the woman wasn’t one of Lille’s. It was gut feel mostly, and the wager she made on it was the highest stakes gamble she’d ever made. Lille was no one to be trifled with or underestimated, and if one of his people had marked her, her odds in the duel had just dropped.

*

Lille walked around the back of the building. It was a five-story job, tiny by the standards of the massive skyscrapers that dominated Troyus’s central districts. It was also old, preserved among its vastly larger brethren only because it dated back to imperial times. The denizens of Troyus City had never been hesitant to tear down their history to replace it with larger and greater structures, but imperial remains were nearly sacrosanct, as they were throughout the Rim.

And the relatively low structure had a perfect view of the street below. A field of fire.

He looked around, checking the access road, making sure he was alone. It was late at night, no, more accurately, it was very early in the morning. He’d have to wait in place for hours, but patience was a core discipline of his profession…and this was the only time he could be sure he could get where he was going unseen. He’d traveled around in the Outer Districts, mostly masquerading as a derelict of one sort of another, but the police in Central Troyus didn’t tolerate undesirables infecting the streets of the Confederation’s urban paradise. And killing police officers wasn’t the way to lay low.

He reached out, pulling down the small metal access ladder on the back wall of the building. He’d scoped out the location before. The ladder led to a catwalk along the third floor. He’d have to climb the rest of the way to the roof. He had the weapons he needed, the ammunition…but there had been no room for proper climbing gear. He would have to manage it by hand…and just make sure he didn’t slip.

He felt exhilarated. The hunt always filled him with excitement. He’d become vastly wealthy by killing, rewarded as he’d tracked and eliminated one of Gaston Villieneuve’s enemies after another. He’d always had a private smile when Villieneuve had showered money and properties on him, a wicked grin that said, “I would have done it for nothing…for the sheer satisfaction of the kill.”

He moved slowly up the ladder, more an effort to remain quiet than any real concern about falling. He pulled himself up onto the catwalk, and then he reached up, feeling around for a handhold before he hoisted himself higher. The climb wouldn’t have been a difficult one if he hadn’t been so heavily loaded. But he moved with extra caution, pulling down with his fingers, testing every hold before he put his weight on it and continued up.

The climb took about five minutes, though it had seemed longer. Lille was the consummate hunter, a natural born killer, but the last weeks had pushed him to his limits. Andi Lafarge had proven more than a worthy adversary, and she’d tracked him relentlessly, even killed his primary weapons supplier. He scolded himself for underestimating her, for not recognizing an animal cut from his own mold when she’d been his prisoner. Leaving her alive long enough to be rescued had been a terrible error, one that had come very close to being fatal a few weeks before. He couldn’t let that happen again. He’d been cautious, so watchful for any moves by her that his own efforts had slowed to a virtual crawl.

He hoisted himself up and over the small half wall that surrounded the roof, and he moved cautiously to the front of the building. He looked down on the street below, at the spot he’d selected. His target would be there in the morning, he was sure of that. He’d tracked, watched, analyzed. That was the location…and the roof was the perfect vantage point.

He reached down and pulled the sniper’s rifle from the large nylon bag he carried. It hadn’t been an easy thing to find in Troyus, and even more difficult to carry around, but this was as far as it had to go. He could discard it anywhere after he was done with it.

In a few hours, it would be morning. And Ricard Lille would do what he did best.

He would kill.

Chapter Fifty-One

CFS Constitution

210,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase Five

“All ships…open fire!” Clint Winters was a cool professional, almost always calm in battle.

Almost always. Now, his blood was up, and for once, he couldn’t hide the roiling emotions inside. He probably shouldn’t have ordered his battle line forward. His plan had been carefully crafted, designed to exploit the one advantage Confederation arms had over the Hegemony enemy. But, like most plans, it had barely survived implementation. The enemy hadn’t been idle as Confederation strike fighters savaged their vessels in one engagement after another, and the fight at Ulion had seen the deployment of a new group of enhanced escorts, ships modified to serve a single purpose.

To shoot down fighters.

The ships had taken Winters by surprise, and he cursed himself for that foolishness. He should have expected some kind of response to the repeated bombing runs that had, so far at least, held the Hegemony forces back from totally obliterating the Confederation’s battleships.

Winters had never been one to excuse failings in his subordinates, and he wasn’t about to look the other way when he was the one who’d dropped the ball. This is a tough enemy, advanced, well-organized. You have to be ready next time.

If there is a next time.

He nodded as the acknowledgements came in, and, seconds later, he heard the distant whine of Constitution’s primaries firing. He looked over to the display, watching as every battleship in the line opened up. The approach had been a successful one, and as far as Winters had seen, the enemy only had a single battleship with operational railguns in their front lines. That vessel had fired three times as Winters’s ships closed to their own firing range. Fortune had been with “the Sledgehammer,” at least for those desperate few moments. Two of the enemy shots had been clean misses, and the other had been a glancing blow to Terminus. Even a superficial hit from the deadly enemy guns was serious, though, and the battleship had lost a chunk just starboard of the bow…along with its primary batteries. But every other ship in the line was fully operational, and, as they opened up with their particle accelerators, damage assessments began to pour into Constitution’s bridge.

The range was still at the outer edge of long, and fewer than a quarter of the shots found a target. Nevertheless, the hits were mostly solid ones, and one enemy monster took two critical hits within seconds of each other. The vessel was huge, and even the massive impacts proved insufficient to destroy it utterly, but it was floating in space now, wracked by internal explosions, its engines seemingly dead.

Winters felt a rush of excitement, and he savored the brief seconds between his fleet entering range of its primaries, and moving into the slightly-lower targeting distance of the Hegemony’s secondary arrays.

Even as he savored the joy of the near-kill, he saw flashes on the display, dozens of the Hegemony’s high-powered x-ray lasers slicing toward the fleet. Despite their sophisticated AI technology, the Hegemony didn’t appear to have any miracle cure for the difficulties of targeting at extreme range, but along with a series of relatively close misses, three of the initial shots scored hits.

Constitution was spared, at least in the first round, but Illumination stepped up as the bad luck vessel, absorbing two of the three hits. No damage reports had come through, but a quick check of the status reports showed the ship was still in the battle line, maintaining its thrust. Winters’s gut told him the vessel’s primaries were down, an instinctive guess that was proven right when the rest of the fleet fired a second volley, and the stricken ship remained silent. She no doubt had plenty of firepower left in her secondaries, but it would be another several minutes before the broadsides came into practical range.

Winters looked at the longer-range display, at the second and third lines of the enemy formation. Those battleships were farther back, but they were mostly untouched. When they got into range and opened up with their railguns, Winters knew his battleships would be blasted to slag. His warrior’s spirit had taken control, unleashed the rage and allowed it to drive him into the maelstrom. But now he began to worry about the withdrawal, a stage of the battle he knew would come, no matter how fiercely his people fought.

He couldn’t get too far in…assuming he wasn’t already. And a quick look at Eaton’s forces twisted his guts into tangled knots. He didn’t know how any of her people, half his total strength, were going to get out.

And he didn’t know what to do about any of it. Should he leave them on their own, hope that some of the battered vessels might find a way to escape? Or should he press on, engage the enemy more closely…and give Eaton a chance to pull her people back?

He stared ahead, silent, grim. Then he turned toward the tactical station. “Fleet order…all ships, maintain forward thrust. We’re going right down their throats.”

*

“Commodore, there are thirty-three Lightnings in the task force that could launch now. Mostly ships with light damage that weren’t ready when the strike force went out, or ships whose pilots were wounded. I had to scrape through the fleet rosters, but I found pilots for the extra ships.” That was an exaggeration. Half the “pilots” Olya had found were Academy dropouts, who’d had basic flight training before transferring to other disciplines.

And two claimed to have shuttle piloting experience before they’d joined up, but nothing that showed up in the files. She took them at their word.

“Commander, you’re talking about ships scattered around the fleet, from all different squadrons…and more than a few pilots with…shaky…credentials.” Sara Eaton’s voice was strong coming through the comm, but Federov detected a waver in her determination…and she went in for the kill.

“I am, Commodore. I’m not saying it’s ideal. I’m saying we can get thirty-three more Lightnings into the fight, now…and I’m saying I’m ready to lead that wing, however cobbled together it might be.” She’d been arguing conventionally, trying to convince the commodore. But, now, she dropped the bomb. “What choice do we have, Commodore? Can we afford to lose any strength we can get in this fight?”

There was silence on the comm, for ten seconds, perhaps fifteen. Then, Eaton’s grudging voice returned. “Okay, Commander. Do it.” The commodore sounded like she’d have rather ordered just about anything else, but Federov had gotten what she needed, and she wasn’t about to push her luck.

“Thank you, Commodore.” She cut the line immediately, as if that would somehow prevent Eaton from changing her mind. She flipped the channel over. “Stara…we’re a go. Get those launch orders out now!”

She spun around, and she raced across the flight deck, toward the Lightning she’d commandeered, the replacement for the ship she’d flown since the closing days of the Union War. That blasted hulk was now floating out there in the system somewhere, shot to shit and left behind.

It was time to make a new fighter hers. Time to start racking up kills.

*

Stockton jerked his hand hard to the side, a sharp adjustment in his thrust vector. He wasn’t responding to anything in particular, just bringing his ship in on a wildly unpredictable course, doing all he could to throw the targeting from the escorts.

The enemy frigates were firing wildly, each shot following the last with almost impossible frequency. Stockton wasn’t an engineer, and he’d never claimed any particular knowledge of what made any ship’s system function. But he knew the batteries that had savaged his fighters required one hell of an energy source to maintain the rate of fire they did.

That has to be fragile…if we can hit these things hard enough, maybe we really can hurt them, even with just lasers…

“Listen up…I want all squadrons to go in on tight patterns, each targeting a single ship. Hit those bastards hard, and go in one right after another. Those things have got some serious power systems to feed those guns, and we should be able to chop those up.”

As he spoke, his eyes moved over his screen, choosing a target for himself. He sent full squadrons in against the other ships, but this one was his.

He listened as his squadron commanders acknowledged, a seemingly unending stream of voices that reminded him just how large a force he’d come to command. He wasn’t sure how he’d gotten where he was, how he’d come through the fury of war to lead over a thousand fighters in a desperate battle.

But he was sure of one thing. He wouldn’t fail. He couldn’t fail.

He moved his hands, bringing his ship around, focused on his chosen target. He felt the vibrations from his engines, heard the rumble of the thrust. His Lightning was like an extension of his own body, a strange symbiosis he’d felt from the first day he’d crawled into his trainee’s ship at the Academy. He couldn’t explain it, but he knew he’d been born to fly fighters, to lead wings.

He’d come through blood and death and suffering, but he’d do it all again if he had to. He could endure whatever was necessary, any nightmare that might come upon him…save being barred from the cockpit, from the one thing he needed like breath itself.

“Let’s go, all of you…let’s do this!”

*

“They’ve got to be using antimatter, Commodore. I can’t think of any power source on a ship that size that could allow those batteries to maintain that rate of fire.” Anya Fritz’s voice was hollow, frail, the weakness in her body clear in every word she uttered. But she’d responded immediately to Sara Eaton’s request. It had taken two med techs to help her up to Repulse’s sprawling control center, but she’d come nevertheless, and now she sat at the battleship’s engineering control station, reviewing every report and scanner reading on the enemy escorts.

“We figured they used antimatter for the railguns, too. Could they have that much of a supply?” It had become clear the Hegemony was capable of producing antimatter in substantially greater quantities than the Confederation, but the best guesses had maintained that it still had to be an expensive and somewhat rare commodity for them.

“I wouldn’t have guessed they could, but I think it’s obvious that’s what we’re seeing here. There’s no other way they could keep those guns firing like they do. Perhaps they reacted to the damage we’ve been able to do to their railguns. Maybe they transferred some of the antimatter supply to the escorts, so they could target the fighters who’d been so degrading their primary batteries.” Fritz paused, drawing a ragged breath. “My best guess is, this has to be throwing a wrench in their logistics, at least with regard to antimatter. They’re probably desperate to reduce their losses to bombing attacks, and they’ve certainly hurt our squadrons with these escorts. But, maybe, on the back end, this is hurting their battle line. Any antimatter they deploy to shoot down fighters isn’t available to fire railguns.”

“That’s a big assumption, Captain.” Eaton didn’t sound doubtful, not exactly. She just didn’t like trying to figure out a subtraction equation when she didn’t have any idea what the original total was. “It’s clear the enemy has been massing a great fleet for many years. Couldn’t they done the same with antimatter?”

“Maybe…but ships can float around in orbit, and remain functional with some basic maintenance. Antimatter isn’t the easiest thing to store, especially over long periods. A nanosecond’s failure in containment, and the antimatter—and everything around it—is gone. Failure percentages start to increase from infinitesimal to not all that rare when the timeframe moves to years and decades. Don’t forget, a single failure in one container destroys everything in the storage facility.”

Eaton’s mind had shifted to a matter of more immediate tactical significance. “Those are light ships. If they’ve got antimatter aboard…that’s a weakness.” The Hegemony battleships seemed to keep their antimatter stores in heavily protected magazines deep in the bowels of the giant vessels, but the small escorts were lightly armored, and a fraction the size of the enemy capital ships.

She looked up at the main display, focusing on Stockton’s squadrons as they moved in against the enemy escorts. The fighters were taking losses, bad ones…but not quite like they had on the first pass. The veteran pilots knew what to expect this time…and the escorts were maneuvering hard now, trying to escape Eaton’s approaching battle line. That upset their own targeting efforts. As she stared at the display, she saw one of the enemy ships wink out of existence…and then another.

Stockton’s fighters had scored hits…hits that had almost certainly ruptured antimatter pods. There was no other explanation for ships of that size being obliterated by fighter lasers.

And if a fighter’s lasers can do that…

“All ships, full thrust…now. We’re going in. All vessels are to open fire as soon as they’re in range and have a target.”

“Yes, Commodore.” Fuller repeated the order into his comm, even as Eaton turned her gaze back to the display. Stockton’s people were fully engaged…and the sooner she could get her people into the fight, the fewer of his would die needlessly.

She leaned back as Repulse jerked forward, the increased thrust momentarily overcoming the compensators before some semblance of normal gravity returned to the bridge.

She could see the enemy battleships on the display, a section of the main line branching off, heading for her ships. Engaging the escorts might cost her everything. Getting away after fighting the smaller ships looked like no better than a fifty-fifty proposition.

But she’d made her decision, and she was going to stand by it.

“All weapons…prepare to fire.”

Chapter Fifty-Two

Just Off the Promenade

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Lille sat on the roof, crouched down, watching the street below through the small, portable scope. He’d always had sharp eyes, a useful asset for an assassin, but he wasn’t trusting anything right now. He had two kills to complete, and then he would get off Megara. Things were way too hot on the Confederation capital, and he’d be glad to leave it behind.

It would be good to get home. He’d always enjoyed his work, but the fatigue was catching up to him. A good long break was an appealing prospect, and the sooner he could get back, the happier he’d be.

But, first, he had to finish his business. It always had been—always would be—his first priority.

The dark gloom of the rainy night had given way to fractured morning light that hinted at a sunny day to come. There were still clouds, and the sun took turns between hiding and shining through to bathe the still-wet streets in light.

It was almost time. Lille expected his target to appear at any moment.

He was ready. He’d checked his rifle twice, loaded it, even wiped the lenses of the sights with a special rag. He had analyzed every meter of the street, and he’d checked and double checked the distance from his perch to the target zone.

He’d had hours to prepare during the fading night and the newborn morning, and he was ready. The usual adrenaline was racing through his blood, his eyes clear and focused. Ricard Lille never felt better or more energized than he did just before a kill. He’d often considered retirement, spending the rest of his life relaxing in the comfort his career had earned him…but he just couldn’t give up the feeling of the hunt. He was an addict, no different than any other, and he couldn’t go that long without a fresh hit.

But the two victims he would claim on Megara would last him for some time, he was sure of that. These kills would settle some scores, eradicate the stink of failure that clung to him from his recent encounters. Lille enjoyed killing for its own sake, but there was something beyond description about settling a score, about righting a past mistake. Ricard Lille would kill any target he was sent to terminate, but he had to kill anyone who’d gotten the better of him, who’d escaped from his grasp.

He looked down the street, saw a small crowd of perhaps a dozen people approaching. He brought the scope around, moved from face to face, until…

A thought rang out in his head, cold, businesslike.

Target acquired.

*

Andi looked up at the ladder as she reached up and plucked the tiny drone out of the air. It had taken her weeks to regain Ricard Lille’s trail, but now she was sure she had him. Finding the drone in the foulest depths of Troyus’s deep black market had been difficult, and it had cost a king’s ransom, enough to buy a palace on some pleasure world. But the tiny device had proven its worth. It had accomplished its mission, and the ladder in front of her, pulled down from its normal, retracted position, was just another bit of confirmation.

She put the small device, which looked very much like an insect of some kind, into her pocket, and she moved her hand under her jacket, unsnapping the strap that held her tiny sidearm in place. The gun was still there, tucked snuggly under her shoulder.

She stared at the ladder, her eyes moving slowly up each rung, and then her hands gripping, slowly, carefully, searching for anything abnormal…a trap, an alarm, something. But the few she could reach from the ground were clear as far as she could tell.

She moved her foot up onto the first rung, and then she paused. Her boots were heavy, and if she was right, if Ricard Lille was on the roof above, silence was essential.

She pulled her boots off, and then she turned again, beginning up the ladder. She felt the cold of the metal rungs on her bare feet, and she paused at every step, securing her footing and struggling to remain silent while she checked the next section of the ladder for traps.

She was hesitant, even after she’d studied each step up. Lille was a master assassin, and traps of all sorts had always been a major weapon in his arsenal. There were more dangers than she could easily imagine, from contact poisons to f camouflaged explosives, but she’d accepted that she could only do what she could. She’d known going in, the matchup against Lille would be her greatest test. Her prey was likely to kill her instead of falling victim to her attack. She’d accepted that, and she’d struggled to keep it from interfering with her focus.

Still, now that she was so close, it was becoming difficult to keep such thoughts at bay. She imagined never seeing Tyler again, not having the chance to apologize to her crew for sneaking out on them.

Having her last thoughts be the realization that the man who had broken her had also bested her in the end.

She took a deep breath and moved up another rung, stopping again to steady herself, to check for traps. Five floors hadn’t seemed like that much to her, but she realized it was going to take her longer than she’d expected to reach the top. There was no room for a mistake. The slightest noise, or missing any kind of alarm Lille had set, would tear away her chances of success. If Lille so much as came to the edge of the roof to look down, she was as good as dead.

She continued to climb, even as the thoughts closed in, suffocating her. There was regret, sadness at the thought of never again seeing those close to her. And there was fear, deep and dark inside her, making her heart pound like a drum and her stomach convulse. She’d accepted the need to do what she was doing, realized she couldn’t go on without the vengeance her soul screamed for…but that didn’t eliminate her fear, or her desire to live. She thought of herself in Pegasus’s small wardroom, laughing with her crew over a few too many pitchers, and almost asleep in the cool darkness of Tyler’s quarters, next to the only man she’d ever loved. She knew those happy moments could very well be anchored to her past, that her future could extend only seconds farther, and into darkness.

She thought about turning around, climbing down…forgetting about her crazed need for revenge. But she just shook her head. She couldn’t live with things as they were. She needed her balance back, her sense of herself restored. Without it, she couldn’t be anything to Tyler, to her crew…to any of those she cared about.

And there was only one way to achieve that, to reclaim what she was, who she was.

She reached up and grabbed the next rung, pulling herself up slowly, silently…

*

“We’ve got over a hundred extra squadrons ready for action, and with a little luck, we’ll have them all berthed in another two days, maybe three.” Van Striker had spent much of the past week arguing with his subordinates on Megara’s orbital fortresses, listening to an endless series of reasons as to why they couldn’t take more fighters into their bays. Whatever the base commanders threw at him, he’d responded to each of them in the same way, a concise reminder of what Tyler Barron and Sara Eaton had done so many times before, how many extra fighters they’d crammed onto the flight decks of their battleships. That hadn’t always stopped the arguments instantly, but it had taken the wind out of them. There wasn’t a base station in Megara orbit that didn’t have more extra space than the largest battleship.

“That’s better than I thought we’d do…and that’s with Dirk Timmons taking all the Academy upperclassman with Tyler’s fleet.” Gary Holsten was walking down the street next to his friend, flanked by four guards and followed by a small cluster of aides. The two men and their staffs, both naval and intelligence, had been working around the clock to prepare Megara for the attack that was very likely to come. Striker suspected Holsten harbored some flickering hope that Barron and Winters would find a way to stop the enemy before they reached the Confederation’s capital, just as he himself did, but in his analytical mind, he knew that was almost impossible. There would almost certainly be a fight at Megara.

He’d done all he could to prepare. He’d called in every Confederation vessel he could reach, activated every reserve unit including the militias and local ground forces, and reinforced them with over one hundred thousand Marines, many of whom had been faced off against each other just weeks earlier, on the verge of outright civil war.

He’d exceeded his authority—on more than one occasion—but he doubted the Senate, which he could have disbanded less than a month before if he’d wished, was about to give him a hard time. He still had some play left from the fact that the military had called off a coup it could easily have completed. And just about every Senator in that building was scared to death, calling for the Navy to find a way to protect them.

One day, the Senate and the Navy would be arguing again about one issue or another, but for now they were both united, ready to face the threat everyone had finally accepted was real.

Striker appreciated the spirit of cooperation, but it was fear he relied upon most to keep the rancorous Senators in line. The politicians were used to passing laws, giving mandates…but they were usually very far from the fighting. Now they were on the front lines, and Striker imagined, with some grim amusement, that at least half the Confederation’s noble leaders had crapped their pants sometime over the past two weeks.

They had certainly lost all hints of restraint, and the august body had opened the financial floodgates, providing money for any endeavor the military proposed, up to and including arming their own staffs, in the—presumably unlikely—event the enemy was able to land sufficient ground forces to invade Megara.

Of course, such an eventuality was only unlikely in the way Striker had presented the idea. In truth, he was far from sure the system’s massive defenses would be enough to stop the Hegemony. He hadn’t put much effort into any plans for evacuation, but that was mostly because he couldn’t make himself face the possibility…not because he didn’t think invasion could happen.

Besides, there was no way to evacuate a population of twelve billion, and the thought of selectively withdrawing the politically connected while leaving everyone else behind turned his stomach.

“With any luck, the minefields will be…” He’d turned toward Holsten, but then his words stopped abruptly. He felt something…strange. He hesitated, for just a few seconds, and then he took another step forward.

And he felt his legs buckle.

Chapter Fifty-Three

The Promenade

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Gary Holsten turned back toward Striker, a quizzical look on his face. The admiral had been speaking, but then, he’d abruptly stopped. Holsten wasn’t alarmed at first, but when his eyes met his friend’s, his insides seized up into a series of impenetrable knots.

Striker was looking back, and his eyes were visions of shock…and fear.

The naval officer took half a step forward, and then he dropped to one knee, swinging around, his arm reaching toward his friend, grabbing onto Holsten’s jacket.

Holsten extended his hand, trying to hold onto Striker, but missing, even as the admiral coughed, and a geyser of blood erupted from his mouth. The admiral stumbled, ending up prone, his body wobbling in the middle of the rainsoaked street, as the blood poured down his chin and neck.

“Call a med team…now!” Holsten shouted toward the guards, pulling the pistol from under his jacket and looking around the street. He was on his knees, hunched over his stricken friend, alternating between searching for the threat and checking to see how badly Striker had been hit.

The guards, save for the one on the comm calling for help, had fanned out, weapons drawn, looking all around the street. The big Marines carried assault rifles, and they were looking, watching, waiting for any sign of the attacker.

Holsten had expected another shot, and he leaned down, remaining quiet, ready to try to get a read on direction. But there was nothing.

Nothing but the moist and gurgling sound of Van Striker gasping for breath, and the feel of the wounded officer’s fingers, struggling to hold onto Holsten’s arm.

Holsten leaned down, bringing his lips to Striker’s ears. “Help is on the way, Van. Hang on, my friend…just a few minutes.”

Striker looked back at Holsten, his head moving slightly, an imperceptible nod. But his eyes were cloudy and unfocused…and the strength in his hand, his fingers, was weakening.

Holsten scoured the street again, pistol in hand. Nothing. No more shots, no signs of movement save for the crowds, now beginning to scream and flee for cover, and the guards, still searching everywhere for the attacker.

He looked back down, scanning Striker for signs of the wound. He couldn’t find it at first, but then he reached around under the admiral’s neck…and he pulled back a hand covered in blood.

No…please…

Gary Holsten was a strong man by any measure, but now he felt as though he was descending into a nightmare. The Confederation had been saved at the last second from the disaster of civil war, and now it faced the seemingly invincible onslaught of the Hegemony invasion. The universe as he knew it was collapsing all around him…and leaning over Van Striker, his arms wrapped around his friend, holding him up in his prone position, was too much.

He looked around again, his eyes catching a cluster of Marines running down the street, the first response to the calls for help. He could hear the sirens, too, the Troyus police, no doubt…and the med teams as well.

His head pounded with rage and frustration, and he held onto Striker, comforting his friend, and listening to the sirens growing louder, wondering if they would get there in time.

*

Andi heard the crack, and she recognized it immediately. A sniper’s rifle…probably with a silencing cap. It had been quiet, so much so, she doubted she would have heard it at all if she hadn’t been so close to the roof.

Her first thought was Lille had discovered her, that he’d gotten off a shot at her. She checked herself, one hand on the ladder, the other feeling all over her body for blood or a wound. But there was nothing. And no sign of the assassin above her.

She felt the adrenaline in her body. It had already been flowing, but now if felt as though a massive hose had opened up. Whatever the risks, she knew one thing. She didn’t have time to waste.

She raced up the ladder, bounding up toward the roof. She saw the small tripwire too late, as her hand moved through it.

She reacted by pure instinct, without time for conscious thought. Four large spikes ripped through the air, two from each side. She jerked her body hard to the side…and avoided three of them.

The fourth one took her in the side. Her eyes caught it first, sunk close to ten centimeters into her body, just about at kidney level. The image was surreal for an instant, almost antiseptic.

Then, the pain hit.

Agony radiated out from the wound, and she almost lost her grip. She held on, as much through pure stubbornness as anything else. Her head jerked to the side, and she saw the alley, fifteen meters below. She’d never been crazy about heights, but her discipline took over. The drop, the wound in her side…they weren’t her worst problems.

Ricard Lille was up there, and he’d shot at something. And she’d just triggered his trap.

He’ll know I’m here…and that means I’ve got seconds at best.

She dredged up every bit of strength inside her, and she raced up the last few rungs, gritting her teeth against the throbbing pain. She grabbed her pistol as she threw herself up over the small half wall and onto the roof.

She could feel her strength draining away, but she dug down for all she had. Her eyes scanned the roof quickly, and her gaze stopped abruptly. She saw him, turning from the street toward her.

Ricard Lille.

Every bit of strength that remained to her flowed into her blood, and she jerked herself to the side as Lille brought the rifle in his arms around toward her.

The pistol was in her hand. She struggled to avoid Lille’s aim as she brought it to bear and fired…almost simultaneously to Lille’s shot.

She dropped down to the roof, hitting the synth masonry with a hard thud. The bullet Lille had sent her way ripped by, just above her head.

The impact from hitting the roof knocked the wind from her lungs, and her hand lost its grip. The tiny pistol with its single remaining round slipped free and skittered across the smooth, hard surface. She struggled to turn around, to bring her eyes to bear on her opponent. As she came up, she saw Lille, standing where he had been…but the rifle was no longer in his hand.

And his shirt was covered all along the left shoulder with a bright sheen of blood.

She was wracked with pain, the chunk of metal still firmly embedded in her side, blood oozing out all around. That agony was joined by the new torment in her legs, her knees, where she’d slammed into the roof.

But none of that mattered. This was the moment, the final showdown, the battle she’d driven so hard to fight. She was wounded…but she’d drawn blood, too. Her injury might be more serious, but that was splitting hairs. None of it mattered. The fight lay in front of her. Her nemesis, the man who’d broken her, who’d shattered her own sense of herself, was standing meters away, wounded.

She raced forward, pouring all her relentless stubbornness into ignoring the pain, the weakness, the fear. Nothing mattered in that moment, nothing but killing the man standing before her. She felt unadulterated hatred taking hold of her, every dark thought she’d kept penned in the deepest recesses of her mind pouring out.

She could see Lille reacting, shifting to the side, for an instant looking as if he was going to lunge for the dropped rifle. But as he saw her coming, he jerked back, reaching around behind him to draw a knife from the sheath hanging from his belt.

Andi saw the morning sun glinting off the assassin’s weapon, and she kept her eyes locked on it. But Lille wasn’t the only one with a blade. She pulled her own weapon from its hiding place as she ran, and she tightened her grip on it, leaping forward the last two meters into the final struggle.

The end of the battle she knew would be, had to be, to the death.

Chapter Fifty-Four

CFS Repulse

250,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase Six

Sara Eaton watched as the guns of her battle line raked the last of the enemy escorts. Stockton’s squadrons had already hit the small, deadly vessels, but with only lasers. The small fighter weapons had mostly caused minor damage to the frigates…except when a well-placed hit struck a store of antimatter somewhere near the outer hull. When that happened, the target ship simply vanished, nothing left but pure energy and some superheated dust.

The battleships had an easier time of it. The deadly particle accelerators were still at long range, and accuracy was less than she might have hoped. But when one of the deadly beams struck its target, the frigate was almost inevitably obliterated. The lasers of Stockton’s fighters damaged only a small area, making an antimatter hit a stroke of luck. The battleships’ primaries tore giant holes in the small ships, slicing into deck after deck. At least half the shots had caused antimatter explosions, certain death to the target, and most of the others were still powerful enough to cripple the small vessels.

The escorts were deadly to fighters, and that was something she’d have to discuss with Winters and the other senior officers. The next time Confederation forces engaged the Hegemony, they had to be ready to deal with the escorts…without sending the strike forces right through clouds of the waiting ships.

Right now, her people had a job to do. They had to finish the attack, destroy as many of the enemy escorts as possible, and then pull back, reverse course. If that even mattered anymore.

The Hegemony battleships were coming on hard, and Eaton was far from sure her own heavy vessels could escape. The forward line of the enemy was badly battered, and while there were likely still active railguns among the several dozen ships, she’d bet there weren’t many. But the second line, and the third beyond it, were untouched. As soon as they closed to range, they would blast her ships to scrap.

She would pull her forces back, try to get back on the original plan, but she’d lost too much time, and her ships had built up too much forward thrust. She might get away, but only if the enemy let her. If the Hegemony forces blasted at their incredible maximum thrust levels, they’d catch her, at least if she headed toward the transit point.

She might make it farther if she set a course directly away from the enemy, but that vector led only to deep space, and to a different, but no less grim ending. The faster enemy ships would still catch her, it would just take a bit longer, and her people would be well beyond any place help might arrive.

She put it all out of her head. She’d done what she had to do, and she was going to see it finished. Then she would deal with what came next. She would find a way.

As she always had before.

*

“Let’s go…there’s no way those bastards get away, not after all the damage they did.” Federov snapped the orders into her comm, once again the cool model of focused calm in battle. She led her patched together wing, a ragtag group by any rational measure, forward. Stockton and the returning strike force had already hit the escorts, knocking out a dozen or more, with only lasers. Then the battleships had opened up with their primary batteries, weapons so immensely powerful, even the barest of grazes blasted one of the vessels to oblivion.

Word had spread about the weakness of the enemy escorts. The small, lightly armored ships carried considerable amounts of antimatter. They needed the high-yield fuel to power their deadly rapid fire, but they lacked the bulk and the heavy armor to adequately protect it. Even the slightest hit in the right place could turn one of the escorts into a cloud of hard radiation.

And, hodgepodge or not, Federov’s fighters had plasma torpedoes. All they had to do was get close enough to launch and score a hit. Almost any hit would do. There were fifteen of the small enemy ships left, a tithe of the number that had savaged the fighter squadrons earlier, but as far as Federov was concerned, that was too many to let live.

One is too many.

In her mind, still fresh with images of friends and comrades blasted to atoms by the Hegemony ships, even allowing a single one to escape was unthinkable.

She brought her ship around hard, and the weaker half of her hastily-assembled force struggled to match her moves. Some of her pilots were weak. Perhaps a quarter of them had no business being in a Lightning under any circumstances, much less in combat. But this was a war that would call on everyone to give what they had, all they had.

And she wasn’t going to let those ships get away. When the Hegemony leaders congratulated themselves on their new anti-bomber defenses, she was determined to temper their satisfaction with the realization that not a single one of their creations had survived.

She was driven by the urgency of the situation, by the need for vengeance for the losses the wings had suffered…and also by the festering wound inside her, the rage she still felt at having her fighter shot out from under her. She knew she should just let it go, and she wondered if she’d lured pilots who weren’t combat ready to come with her on some pointless mission to strike back for something that really didn’t matter.

She shook her head. Not because she’d decided she hadn’t gone too far, but because she’d decided she didn’t care.

Every one of those ships was going down, and damned the cost.

*

“I need those calculations now!” Clint Winters roared out the order with an unfiltered intensity that made every officer on Constitution’s bridge tremble. His battleships were faced off against half the enemy’s front line, and the exchange had been a brutal one. Only two of the Hegemony vessels had still had functional railguns, but they’d claimed a heavy price before Winters’s primaries had come into range, and his remaining battleships focused all their fire on them.

One of the deadly ships was gone now, blasted to dust, and the other was heavily damaged, its railguns blown to scrap. But the battle had moved now to secondary range, and both lines lashed out at each other, firing every weapon they could bring to bear. It was a fight Winters thought his people just might be able to win. And one he’d have been happy to let them try…if there hadn’t been two more lines of enemy forces moving forward.

Their railguns will be in range in less than forty minutes…

“It’s impossible to be sure, Admiral, without knowing the condition of the first line ships, and how they might react. But, my gut is…” The officer hesitated, and that told Winters all he needed to know. All he’d already suspected. “…they’ll be able to catch us before we can transit.”

The words hit Winters hard, even though they’d hardly been unexpected. He’d let the battle slip from his control, allowed his ships to push too far in-system. He’d done it to buy time for Eaton’s ships, to reduce the pressure on the squadrons…there were a hundred reasons he could put forth. But, in the end, he knew he’d let his discipline crack. He’d given in to emotion, let his feelings for the ships and spacers under his command direct his actions.

And now, we’re all going to die.

He looked over at the display. Everywhere his eyes moved, the situation was disastrous. Eaton had led her battleships forward, obliterated the enemy escorts that had so damaged the strike forces. But now she was engaged with a pack of enemy battleships, the other half of the Hegemony’s first line. Her people were putting up a good fight, as his were, but they were even farther in than his own ships. There was no way they could get back to the transit point before the enemy’s second wave closed and began to rake her ships with railguns. She might make a run to deep space, but that wouldn’t accomplish anything…and he knew Sara Eaton well enough to guess that, whatever she did in the next couple hours, it wouldn’t be fleeing into the depths of the Venga system.

Constitution shook hard, and Winters reached out instinctively, grabbing onto the armrests of his chair. He was strapped in, and his harness was holding him in place, but old habits died hard.

His eyes moved down the figures scrolling across his workstation screen, status reports on the fleet. He had to do something. If his people continued on their present courses, the fleet was lost. He doubted more than a shattered hulk or two would escape, if that.

His people had fought hard, and they’d inflicted enormous damage against an enemy that outmatched them technologically, and massively outnumbered them. He tried to find some solace in such thoughts, but the response came from the part of him that had earned his nickname. “The Sledgehammer” saw defeat as defeat, and killing a few enemy ships before losing all of his was cold comfort.

Especially when he knew the enemy would just press on after his people were gone. Megara was only two transits away. The Confederation’s capital had never been attacked by an enemy, not even in the dark days of the War of Shame. If it was to happen now, Winters wondered if he wouldn’t be just as glad to be dead…but that smacked too much of desertion to him, and he wracked his brain, trying fruitlessly to come up with a way—any way—to get at least part of his fleet out.

Then his eyes caught something on the display, just as Constitution lurched hard to port, and a whole series of panels on the far wall exploded in a shower of sparks. The bridge lights died for a moment, replaced for a few seconds by the battery-powered backups before the main fixtures came on again.

Winters looked all around, trying to get a feel for how badly his flagship was hurt. He forgot the glimpse on the scanner for a few seconds…until the tactical officer turned toward him and almost yelled, “Admiral…we’ve got ships transiting in.”

A pause, and silence on the bridge as every eye focused on the display.

“We’re picking up a beacon, Admiral. It’s Dauntless. Admiral Barron is here, sir.” The officer looked back at his screen, and then he turned toward Winters again. “He’s got the fleet with him, sir. I’ve got a dozen battleships through already…and they’re launching fighters.”

Chapter Fifty-Five

Just Off the Promenade

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Andi felt the impact as her body slammed into Lille’s, pushing the Alliance assassin back almost a meter…close to the edge of the roof. She gripped her knife with all the strength she could muster from her pain-wracked and wounded body, and she slashed at her adversary, barely missing as he dodged back…and then shoved his arm forward in a quick stabbing motion.

Andi saw the blade coming toward her—she felt it, in her mind—and she let her body go limp and drop low, slipping away from Lille’s strike.

She leapt back up as Lille advanced. She saw the bright red on his sleeve, the large circle expanding as her enemy continued to bleed from the wound she’d given him with her pistol shot. She could feel the warm wetness on her own midsection, and down her leg, but the chunk of metal still lodged just above her thigh was holding back most of the flow of blood. It hurt like hell, and she’d had more than one impulse to pull it out, but she resisted, leaving it in place.

Her eyes flashed all around as she rose, looking for her gun, and for Lille’s. She spied the assault rifle, but it was too far for her to make a move. Her pistol was nowhere to be seen.

She looked across the small distance between her and her enemy, and their eyes met. Lille was a psychopath, and he’d always had a strange lack of emotion about killing. She remembered his manner when she’d been a captive, the cold, almost clinical way he’d administered the tortures that had turned her mind inside out, that had broken her. But now, there was emotion in his eyes. For the first time, she saw fear in the Sector Nine killer’s gaze…and she drew strength from it.

She moved forward, slowly now, carefully. She’d fought with a knife many times, and she watched his every move, scanned for weakness, for opportunity. She lunged forward once, then twice, both times pulling back, as Lille reacted too quickly for her to bring the strike home.

She jerked hard to the side, barely evading her adversary’s attack, and she moved right into a strike of her own, coming close—very close—to scoring a hit. But the two of them remained facing each other, both wounded, both losing strength.

And both coldly focused on what each realized was—and could only be—a battle to the end.

*

Holsten leaned over Striker, shoving his jacket under the wounded man’s head, trying to make the admiral comfortable any way he could. He could hear the sounds of the medevac airship, and he knew it would be on the ground in a minute, perhaps less.

He just wasn’t sure if his friend had a minute.

Striker’s wound was gruesome. The bullet had struck him in the back of the neck, a large, high velocity projectile that had ripped through the top of his spine and exited to the side of his throat. He was covered in blood, gagging for every breath. The shot had been well-aimed, the weapon a sniper’s choice.

Or an assassin’s.

Holsten had no information, nothing solid to go on…but he knew with a cold certainty. This had been the work of Ricard Lille.

He cursed himself for his failure in finding the assassin, for the readiness with which he’d been prepared to assume the man had fled Megara. Now, tragically too late, he understood…and he realized a man like Lille could never allow a humiliation like Striker’s rescue to pass. Gaston Villieneuve was a pure opportunist, a man who could pick and choose beliefs and codes of conduct to suit his needs. But Ricard Lille, though a cold-blooded killer, had his own twisted brand of honor.

You should have known…you should have foreseen this…

He looked down again at Striker. The admiral’s eyes were open, looking back at him. He was speaking, trying to say something.

Holsten leaned forward, putting his ear to his friend’s mouth.

“Tyler…” Striker’s words were soft, almost inaudible through the sounds of blood filling his lungs. “Tell…him…”

Holsten listened, as hope drained away, and cold guilt and remorse filled him. Striker was the closest thing he had ever had to a true friend.

“…I…leave the…fleet…to…him…”

Holsten was a man who had remarkable control over his emotions, yet now, for the first time he could ever recall, he felt his eyes watering.

“…tell him…he can…do it.”

Holsten’s eyes darted up for an instant. The med team had disembarked and begun running over.

“Tell him…I believe…believe in…him…counting…on him…”

Holsten closed his eyes tightly, struggling to hold back the tears trying to escape. He couldn’t remember crying, ever, not even as a child…but he knew he was close just then.

“I will tell him.” It was all he could manage, all he could say. Then the words were gone, and he just stared in pure horror.

The medical team raced up behind him, and Holsten stood up, turning to face them, his gray suit soaked with blood, his expression one of utter grief.

He looked at the head medic, and his eyes told the story, the grim fact that he confirmed a few seconds later with two words, choked out through the bitter tightness of his throat.

“He’s dead.”

*

Andi threw her hand up, grabbing Lille’s arm. The assassin struggled to bring his blade down. He was stronger than her, and she struggled to resist, but with each instant, the knife moved closer. She watched it, knowing it was her death, and, finally, she reached up with her other hand, dropping her own knife, struggling with all the strength that remained to her to hold back her enemy’s final blow.

She was losing. He was stronger than she was, and the fight had come to close quarters, to a battle of raw power. Her mind raced, and she tried with all the stamina that remained to her to come up with something, a plan, some kind of move. She would die if she had to. She’d been ready for that since Dannith, as long as she could take her enemy with her. But for Lille to beat her, for her tormentor to finish her and walk away…it was just too much to contemplate.

She stepped back, gasping in a ragged breath, and trying to somehow ignore the pain in her side. The blade was closer, moving slowly but steadily toward her throat. She could feel panic setting in, and her thoughts became jumbled, disordered, images of combat tactics mixing with personal memories, the faces of those she cared about.

She was almost finished. She’d put all she had into tracking Lille, and now she was fighting with every bit of dwindling power left in her. But she didn’t think it was going to be enough. She’d almost gotten Lille, she’d tracked the man with unyielding intensity, and probably came closer to killing him than anyone ever had.

But close was nothing, and losing was losing.

No…

She felt her stubbornness growing in intensity, some kind of strength, almost entirely from her pigheadedness, filling her, reviving the dead weight of her limbs. She couldn’t beat Lille in a test of strength…but she would find another way.

She dropped down to one knee, letting her body partially collapse, pulling herself down, away from Lille’s strike as she let his blade come down into the empty space where her throat had been an instant before.

The assassin leaned forward, the hard blow into the empty air costing him some portion of his balance…and Andi used the time well. She dove forward, screaming loudly at the pain that radiated to every part of her body, and she grasped her blade from the ground, bringing it up and around…and plunging it into Lille’s gut.

The assassin yelled, and he threw himself back, pulling his body off her knife. Against any other opponent, her perfectly executed move would have been the end. But Ricard Lille was a master fighter, and Andi was as exhausted and wounded as he was. Lille paused, for a fraction of a second, and then he lunged forward, reaching out and grabbing hold of the chunk of metal in Andi’s side, ripping it out and sending it skittering across the roof with a series of loud clanks.

Andi howled, every bit of breath in her body expelled as she screamed at the unbearable pain. Her mind went dark, and there was nothing at all but unyielding torment. Still, despite her agony, despite the fading strength of her body, she’d seen the opportunity Lille’s attack had given her. As the assassin was gripping the spike in her side, she’d plunged her knife into him once again.

Lille staggered back, blood pouring from his back now, and he stood, stunned, barely able to move. Andi faced him, wobbling on her feet, tears streaming down her face, blood erupting from her now grievously opened wound.

She had nothing left, but a look across the short distance told her that Lille didn’t either. She was close, so close. The assassin was almost done, hanging on by the same thread that kept her standing. She couldn’t fail now, not this close to her goal. She wanted to live, but if her death was the price of victory, so be it. It was unthinkable to come so close to killing Lille and to fail. She gathered up all her strength, every last bit of endurance and power she could muster…and she lunged forward, her arms extended in one last, desperate attempt to push Lille over the edge of the roof.

Her hands struck his chest, and the impact sending a wave of pain down her arms and all through her body. Her vision was almost gone, blacked out, and she was barely able to follow what was happening. She caught a hazy image, Lille, moving, falling back toward the edge. She wasn’t sure if it was real, or if she was hallucinating. She heard a yell from the figure in front of her, but she couldn’t understand what he said.

She caught the blur of motion, and now she was sure she saw Lille falling backwards, slipping over the edge…and his hand, reaching up as he did, grabbing onto the torn sleeve of her jacket, and pulling her after him.

Pulling her over the edge of the roof, as they both plunged into the nothingness below.

Chapter Fifty-Six

CFS Dauntless

250,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Phase 7

“All fighters launched, Admiral. The strike force is moving in-system at maximum acceleration.” Atara Travis’s voice was cold. She sat at her station, Dauntless’s command chair, and she juggled her duties, bouncing almost effortlessly between acting as the battleship’s captain and as Barron’s primary aide. It was something “the book” said was impossible to do, at least to do well, but she felt an almost telepathic link to her friend and longtime comrade…and something not too far from that with Dauntless itself.

This Dauntless.

Her Dauntless.

She’d loved the old ship with all her heart, but that one had been Tyler’s, in every way an inanimate object could grip a man’s soul. Barron had become attached to the newer, larger ship to carry the name, but she knew it could never be to him what its predecessor had been, his first command.

As the new Dauntless was her first.

“Bring us forward, Captain. It looks like the party’s well along without us. I don’t think Clint Winters would mind sharing, though…do you?”

“No, sir, I don’t.” Travis said, in a tone that had to send a chill down the spine of any living creature.

Travis worked her controls, sending the orders to her own engine room, as she relayed them to the fleet. “All ships…forward. Battle plan Omega-1.”

Dauntless vibrated as her engines fired, and the great battleship blasted forward at maximum thrust. Travis had served aboard both Dauntlesses in all manner of conditions and states of damage, but the battleship was in perfect shape as it moved forward, its dampeners and compensators making 22g acceleration feel like almost nothing.

“All ships accelerating at full thrust, Admiral. Project we will enter primary range in…sixteen minutes.”

*

“All right…I know most of you haven’t fought against the Hegemony yet…” Hell, a lot of them have never flown against any enemy. “…but you’ve read all the reports, listened to the briefings. You all know what to do, so there’s no point in beating it to death. Let’s just get the hell up there, and do the work.” Dirk Timmons sat in the cockpit of his fighter, feeling somewhat surprised at how normal it felt. It had been years since he’d been sidelined, relegated to training duty by the loss of his legs in battle.

He’d had a hard time dealing with his wounds, learning how to adapt. But it was mostly the pointless regulations that had kept him from combat duty. It had taken a while to get his prosthetic legs fully adjusted and matched to his body, but now they worked perfectly, so much so that he occasionally forgot they weren’t the ones he’d been born with. He’d tried again and again to have the regs changed, or to gain some special exemption to get himself back in the cockpit…but the end of the Union War had reduced the need for pilots. He’d been showered with platitudes, given medals and commendations, called a hero so many times he’d come to hate the word, and, the entire time, he’d been told again and again his place was training the next generation of pilots. A return to combat duty had eluded him, and as much as he poured his heart and soul into prepping his students for the war they would one day likely have to fight, he’d grown more and more lost, cut off from the one thing that had set him apart, the skill that had made him great.

The one that he’d lost, that he’d been compelled to leave behind.

All it took to get it back was a near civil war, followed by an unstoppable invasion from a previously unknown superpower. Timmons found the whole situation hard to believe…but he was deeply grateful to be in the fight and not stuck on the sidelines, reading reports and waiting helplessly to see what happened next.

“Captain Timmons, are you going to assign us targets, or should we pick them?”

He recognized the voice. It was one of his students, and that meant he was twenty-one or twenty-two years old. An adult by any measure, and as an Academy cadet, one of considerable aptitude and maturity. But, to the old veteran’s ears, he sounded like a child.

“We use call signs in battle, son…and mine’s ‘Warrior.’” Even uttering his old alias filled him with a sense of power. He’d despaired of every flying another combat mission, come as close as he could to making his peace with a life behind a desk, or in front of the fireplace. But now he was back…back where he’d never expected to be.

Back where he belonged.

“Yes, Warrior…”

“And, you pick your own targets. Any ship you think you can hit. This battle’s already sunk deep down into the pit of hell. There’s no more room for finesse here. It’s a close-range knife fight to the death, and there are no rules. Throw that blasted ‘book’ away and follow me in…and let your instincts come out and guide you, all of you.”

He pulled back on the throttle, closing his eyes for an instant as he felt the hard force of acceleration before the dampeners activated. It was an unpleasant feeling, almost like suffocating under ten or more times his body weight, but for “Warrior” Timmons, it felt like coming home.

“Let’s go…we’ve got some Hegemony ships to kill.”

*

“Bring us forward, Commander. I have heard about the Hegemony, discussed tactics for facing them, and listened to veteran officers wailing like children at their approach. It is high time I wet my spear with their blood.” Vian Tulus sat on the bridge of Invictus, the new Alliance flagship, named for the famed vessel lost ten years before. That titanic struggle had led, along a convoluted path, to the current Confederation-Alliance pact, and the strange situation where a Palatian Imperator called a foreign officer friend and blood-brother.

“Yes, your Supremacy.” Cilian Globus sat next to Tulus. He was the newly appointed Commander Magnus, the senior officer among all Palatians, second in authority only to the Imperator himself. “Your Supremacy, Admiral Barron has issued fleet launch orders.”

“Very well, Cilian…see to it. We wouldn’t want our Confederation brothers to seize all the glory, would we now?”

“No, sir…we would not.”

Tulus sat quietly, watching his people execute their operations, bringing the big ship into the battle. He knew his spacers were doing the same all across the fleet. The Alliance navy was still recovering from the grievous losses of the civil war, but for all the damage that conflict had done, now he looked around at former Reds and Grays, sitting side by side, working with each other, ready to fight together as single unit.

Palatian codes of honor had caused their share of pain and trouble in Alliance history, but they had many advantages, too. Tulus doubted any other nation could fight a civil war so bloody and brutal, and then reunite with so little rancor and residual bitterness. The vast majority of Palatian warriors had fought for the side they believed to be right, and their former adversaries recognized the honor in that, and accepted them back into the fold. There had been some tension, of course, a few remaining bad feelings, but the prospect of a deadly new enemy had cleared all of that away.

The Palatians were there, alongside their Confederation allies. Tulus was there, at the side of his blood brother, Tyler Barron. The fight was there, and Tulus vowed to himself, his people would show these Hegemony “Masters” just what sort of warriors inhabited the Rim.

*

Tyler Barron stood on Dauntless’s bridge, straight, tall, proud…setting an example for his people. He felt as though he’d come through fire and darkness, trod through the endless plains of Hell to get to where he was. The Confederation united, and his Palatian allies drawn up alongside his forces. The war was still a desperate struggle, perhaps an unwinnable one, but Barron knew that now he could give the enemy one hell of a fight.

He had new comrades at his side. Johannes Trent, the ace pilot who’d rallied to his cause early, who’d stepped up to fill in for the absent Jake Stockton. Trent commanded the fleet’s strike force, over a thousand fighters, all the regular squadrons assigned to Barron’s battleships.

He had old friends, too, trusted comrades from battles fought long ago. Much of Dauntless’s crew, of course, with Atara Travis at the top of that list. And another old ally, returned to his side…Dirk “Warrior” Timmons, the only pilot he’d ever seen with the audacity to challenge Jake Stockton for position as the fleet’s greatest pilot…and with the skills to make a contest of it. Timmons was leading another thousand fighters, the squadrons formed from the Academy upperclassmen and activated reserves and retirees…plus a few wings pulled from the Megara garrison for good measure.

Dauntless had been launching fighters for what seemed an eternity. He knew his flight crews were working diligently, and that not a spacer down there was dogging it in any way. His bays were crammed full of fighters, as were all his ships, and that complicated the launch process immeasurably. He imagined Stara Sinclair might have shaved a little time with her wizardry at managing the flight decks, but she was on Repulse now, deeper in the system, trapped behind an enemy task force he was about to hit with every bit of fury and power he could muster.

Fighter strikes were the Confederation’s sole edge against an enemy that outclassed its forces in every other measurable way. And Tyler Barron was going to hit them with a blizzard of torpedo-armed Lightnings like nothing they’d imagined. He wasn’t sure it would be enough to win the fight—in fact, he suspected it wouldn’t be—but he’d give those Masters, so full of themselves and their genetic pedigrees, something to think about for a good long time.

And, just maybe, he’d buy time to get his comrades out of the system, to open the way for Eaton and Winters to withdraw.

He felt another series of distant vibrations—more fighters blasting down the launch catapults and out into space. It was the last of Dauntless’s enhanced fighter wing, and Atara marked the moment with an announcement to that effect, followed perhaps two minutes later by a follow up declaration that the entire fleet had completed launch operations.

The fighters were inbound, some veteran squadrons that had rallied to Barron in his contest against Whitten, but also many rookies, new and garrison pilots whose performance wouldn’t match that of the experienced flyers…and whose casualty rates would likely be gut wrenching. But the Confederation was fighting for survival now, and there was no room for hesitation or half measures. Every Lightning that could fly was going in…and the battleships would be right behind. Barron couldn’t play games, he couldn’t build a strategy around avoiding the deadly railguns.

Not if he was going to have a chance of getting any of Winters’s ships out of the system.

“Engage nav plan Alpha, Captain. All ships are to advance and engage. All weapons are to be charged and ready to fire as soon as we enter range.”

“Yes, sir.”

The sound of Atara’s voice was reassuring. They had served together for so long, he could hardly remember what it was like for her not to be at his side. She’d been there whenever he’d needed her, and she was there now, as he led the fleet into the largest battle in Confederation history.

“Well, Atara…let’s go pull Admiral Winters and Commodore Eaton out of the shit, shall we?”

Chapter Fifty-Seven

The Promenade

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Gary Holsten had watched in stunned horror as the two figures struggled along the edge of the roof above, and then as they went over the edge and dropped to the ground.

His eyes were focused, and he could see the two still struggling, their final second spent in some perverse death struggle as they both plunged to the ground. One was a man, and the other a woman, he was almost certain of that, and as they dropped he had perhaps half a second of blissful ignorance before he realized the truth he’d somehow suspected all along.

Lille…and Andi.

The idea of the Sector Nine assassin falling to his death was an entirely pleasant one, and doing it while his latest victim, Van Striker, still lay dead in the street, seemed like a certain kind of justice. But the thought of watching Andi die, just minutes after he’d seen Striker slip away, cut through him like a hot knife.

He hoped against hope, wished with all his heart his initial impression was wrong…but he knew with a grim certainty he was right. Andi was one of the figures falling.

He watched, forcing his eyes to remain focused as the two bodies dropped. At the last instant, he realized what was happening, a desperate struggle, each trying to position themselves on top, trying to use their opponent to absorb the impact.

Then they hit the ground. Holsten had closed his eyes and looked away, his natural instincts winning out over his will. He turned back almost immediately, and he saw Ricard Lille, sprawled out on the street, covered in blood, his head split open like an overripe melon. There wasn’t a question in his mind, not the slightest doubt.

Ricard Lille was dead.

He rushed over, looking past the dead assassin to the smaller figure that lay just beyond. Andi had won the struggle on the way down, and she’d landed more or less on top of her enemy, bouncing off and rolling hard across the street when they hit the hard street.

There was blood everywhere around her, and as Holsten raced over he saw her wounds, the gaping puncture in her side, the cuts and scrapes, the swollen bruises…and then, he saw her chest move up, slowly, as she drew a shallow and ragged breath.

She was still alive!

He turned and shouted to the med team, the ones he’d called to help Van Striker. They couldn’t do anything for the admiral now, but Holsten let himself hope against hope they could for Andi. She was badly battered, grievously wounded, and even though Lille had broken her fall to an extent, he could only imagine the internal injuries she’d suffered.

“Help her…now.” He waved, and he repeated the command as the team raced over to her. “Save her…whatever it takes.” His words were valueless. The team would save her if they could…though his rational mind tried to prepare him, telling him she was too badly injured. His thoughts moved to remorse, to the nightmare of having to tell Tyler Barron she was gone, that he had watched her die…a job he knew would be his, for more reasons than he could easily count.

The team working frantically, but he could hardly see any of it. His mind filled with other thoughts…with regrets. It was his fault. He’d lured her out of safe retirement, brought her to Dannith. He hadn’t known Lille was active on the frontier world, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d put Andi in the monster’s grasp. And he’d failed her again when he’d let himself be blinded by his need to get back to Megara. He’d ignored the signs of what she’d intended.

He’d liked Andi since the moment he’d met her. She’d long ago won his deep respect, and his admiration. But she’d still stunned him with what she had just done. She’d killed Ricard Lille, a man who had left a trail of blood across a hundred systems, a killer who’d cut through a number of victims Holsten couldn’t begin to guess at. She’d defeated one of the most dangerous men on the Rim, very possibly the most dangerous. Amid the pain, the fear, the sorrow, the biting guilt, he felt raw admiration for his friend. She was a hero, in every sense of the word, in ways her brushes with outlawry and petty crime could never erase. She couldn’t die. She just couldn’t. Not now, not right after Striker.

Holsten had a grim view of humanity, of life. He’d seen ugliness, misery, combat, and death. But, even with his pessimism, forged through a tour of horrors that would turn most men insane, he couldn’t believe fate would be so cruel, so indescribably unfair, as to take Andi now.

The senior tech was saying something, but Holsten couldn’t hear it at first. He struggled to clear his mind to focus, while two of the crew slid a hard board under her and lifted her up onto a gurney.

“…sir, can you hear me?” Holsten had missed the man’s first words.

He turned and nodded. “I hear you…”

“She’s critically injured, sir, and she’s lost an enormous amount of blood. She’s still alive. I don’t know if we can save her, but we’ve got to get her to the med center. Now.”

Holsten nodded again. “Go…do whatever you have to, whatever it takes.”

He stood where he was as the man raced away, jogging alongside the gurney as his team pushed it onto the airship…and as the craft lifted off, carrying Andromeda Lafarge, or what was left of her, up into the brilliant blue sky.

He stood where he was, and looked up into the dazzling sunshine of an almost perfect day, and he sank into a pit of gloom and despair.

Chapter Fifty-Eight

CFS Repulse

260,000,000 Miles from Planet Ulion

Venga System

Year 317 AC

The Battle of Ulion – Final Phase: “The Retreat”

Barron watched as the Palatian squadrons raced toward the Hegemony formations, right behind Timmons and his rookies and garrison pilots. Warrior had put his recalled veterans, the cream of his force, in the front, likely in the hopes they would set the example, and provide a last-minute education for their more junior comrades.

And so it had been. The old salts had closed with abandon, ignoring the enemy defensive fire—and the losses it inflicted—and taking their fighters to within spitting distance before letting their torpedoes fly. The veterans hadn’t faced Hegemony ships before, and their hit ratios didn’t quite match those of Stockton’s squadrons—and Barron’s old wings especially—but they cut into a line of enemy battleships that had already been savaged by repeated sorties, and by an extended firefight with Winters’s battle line.

He stared at the display for a while, and then he almost activated his comm. Every fiber of his body wanted to fight to the end, to throw everything he had at the enemy…but as soon as he’d transited in and seen the size and scope of the enemy forces, he’d known immediately that was not a road his duty would allow. All he could hope to do was extricate Winters’s and Eaton’s forces…and pull the entire combined fleet back to Megara.

Van Striker had been clear—as had the Senate, for all Barron ultimately decided he cared what they thought. He simply could not bet the fleet on a battle at Ulion, especially one he couldn’t win. Barron believed in his people, and he knew the ferocity the Palatians would show in battle…but the math was unassailable. He could hurt the Hegemony, destroy dozens of their ships, hundreds even…but in the end, his fleet would be gone. And the Hegemony forces would still have enough power to take Megara, especially with no fleet units left to defend the capital.

Barron felt bitterness at the supposed importance of Megara, and he bristled at the notion of twisting his plans and sacrificing his people to defend a place full of corrupt politicians and bloated bureaucracies. But there was more to it than that. Megara was the center of the Confederation, the first world to pull itself from the disarray of the Cataclysm and reach back out into space. It was more than some arbitrary capital, chosen just to house politicians and government paper-pushers. If it had decayed into the mire of grotesque politics and pointless, ostentatious luxury, it had once been a vibrant world, its people hanging onto the technology lost in so many places, and placing the first bricks of a revived civilization in place.

It was the heart of the Confederation, and its system housed the greatest research facilities and stores of scientific knowledge anywhere on the Rim. Barron didn’t know if Megara could be saved, or if the Hegemony could be stopped at all…but he was sure if there was to be a final battle, a place where he sent the fleet in for a fight to the death, it would be at Megara.

As much as he wanted to fight where he was, with all he had, he accepted his mission now was to rescue Winters’s fleet. He had to pull back all he could from Ulion and mass every scrap of Confederation and Alliance strength under the guns of the capital’s massive fortifications. He didn’t take lightly the idea of abandoning ten billion Confederation citizens to the enemy, but if the navy couldn’t maintain a force in being, every one of the more than one hundred inhabited worlds flying the Confederation flag would fall.

“All ships…charge main weapons. Prepare to engage.” Barron’s plan was slightly different from those Winters had apparently followed. He had his battleships right behind the masses of fighters, ready to hit the enemy line hard, one punch right after another. It was a luxury that had been bought with Winters’s relentless attacks, the waves of bombers that had battered those forward battleships and knocked out most of their main guns. The fight would still be a nasty one, and it would get worse when the enemy second line closed and the railguns on those untouched ships opened fire…but it was the only way to buy enough time to extricate the rest of the fleet.

“Admiral, I have a communique from the Ulion Council Chairman.” Atara’s tone suggested she felt about that much like Barron did himself. He sympathized with the plight of Ulion’s people, even with the politicians if he was being charitable…but there was simply nothing he could do. There was no way to hold the system, and any chance he might try had long ago been lost by the planet’s Peace Party, and its decades of diverting funding from building and maintaining defenses.

There were reasons besides pure defensive power to choose Megara over Ulion for a desperate final battle, but the fact that the capital was surrounded by a deadly necklace of forts and orbital defense platforms made the choice an easy one.

“We don’t have time for that now, Captain. Just ignore it.” In normal times, he’d have expected repercussions, some kind of complaint lodged against him for lack of respect to lawful authorities, or something of the sort. But he suspected the “Chairman” of Ulion’s Council would soon have more to worry about than lashing out at one disrespectful admiral.

Probably figuring out how he can conspire to hang onto some remnant of his power and luxury…

“The squadrons are engaging, Admiral.” Atara turned and looked over toward Barron’s station, and the two exchanged glances. The massive bombing runs would almost certainly inflict enormous damage on the battered enemy line…but the mostly inexperienced pilots would just as surely pay a terrible price.

*

“Get those fighters back now, Commander. I’m transmitting a course to you…follow it exactly.” Stara Sinclair’s voice was heavy with the stress the flight control officer was feeling. Federov could only imagine the complexity of the effort to coordinate returning fighter wings with the retreating battleships.

Admiral Barron’s arrival had sent the flagging morale of the fleet soaring to new heights, but spirits had quickly plunged again as it became clear that even the combined force of Confederation and Alliance fleets was still too weak to fight it out, at least in a system as lightly defended by fixed fortifications as Ulion.

“Understood, Commander…I’m receiving your signal now. Will execute immediately.”

“Stay on it closely, Olya…it’s going to be tight getting your people on board, and we’re going to need every second.”

“I’m with you, Stara. Trust me, I’m not looking to take on this Hegemony fleet with twenty-seven fighters. We’ll make it back.” Federov knew the difficulties of bringing fighters back to retreating base ships under any circumstances…and with the bays as overloaded as they were on this campaign, a hundred things could go wrong. It was an almost certain bet that if it came down to it at the end, a group of fighters would be left behind before the admiral—any admiral—would risk his battleships.

“I know you will…” She could hear the tension in Sinclair’s voice, the distraction. She knew her friend was juggling fighters spread out all over the system…and it was a pretty good guess they weren’t all going to make it back before the launch platforms had to bug out.

She didn’t plan on making it worse by adding to that load. “Don’t worry about us, Stara…I’ve got it.” She cut the line. Then she called up her wing’s channel. She’d have to play nursemaid on this one, and lead her people—the inexperienced ones at least—back home.

And that was just what she intended to do.

*

“Get your ships through now, Sara.” Barron was in his chair, his harness pulled tightly across his chest. Dauntless was in the fight now, not only against the enemy first line, but also the forward elements of the second. And those ships had railguns online…and already firing. The range was still long, and that had kept the hit rate low. Only two of his battleships had been damaged, but one of those was almost crippled. He’d ordered the two stricken vessels out of the line, sent them back toward the transit point as Eaton’s ships followed.

“I’ve been damned glad to see you more times than I can count, Admiral, but I don’t think ever more than right now.” She paused. “We did all we could to give them a fight here. We just…” She hesitated, and Barron heard the guilt, in her tone, and even more, in the silence that followed.

“You hit them like death itself, Sara. I couldn’t believe the damage you inflicted. I’d like to keep up the fight here, too, but you and I both know, Megara’s a better place. We’ve got more support there, and assuming we can finish this withdrawal without any last-minute disasters, we’ll have the strongest fleet these guys have faced yet. Admiral Striker’s called back every fleet unit in the Confederation, and Vian Tulus has more ships coming, too. You and Clint Winters have done one hell of a job with your hit and run attacks. Without that campaign, they’d have gotten to Megara already…before we were ready.”

Barron understood how Eaton felt, and he couldn’t imagine the exhaustion his old second-in-command from the White Fleet felt. She’d been fighting almost non-stop since the moment he’d left in Dauntless to return to the Confederation…and she’d play a major role, along with Winters, in filling the gap left when his mission to rally the navy almost turned into civil war. He would tell her just how much he admired her, as he intended to do with Winters as well. But, first, he had to get the two officers and their battered ships out of the Venga system, and back to Megara.

“Thank you, sir…that means a lot coming from you.”

Barron nodded, and again, he caught the deep and profound fatigue in her voice. “Go, Sara…get your people out of here. You’ve done enough for now. We’ll hold the line long enough for you to transit.”

As he was speaking, Dauntless lurched hard to the side. You hope you’ll hold the line long enough…

He cut the comm, and then he sent a withdrawal order to Winters’s flagship as well, in the name of Admiral Striker. By most methods of calculation, Barron was the senior of the two—and he didn’t doubt Winters would follow his directives, but it was definitely not the time or place to take any risk of a pissing match between admirals. Every ship that failed to escape now was one less available to defend Megara…and Barron knew that would be the battle that counted, the one that offered the best—maybe the only—chance to stop the Hegemony’s onslaught.

Barron looked over at the display, the calculations running through his head. He needed to hold his position for another forty minutes, maybe an hour. Then Winters’s and Eaton’s ships would all be through…and he could begin to withdraw his own forces. His people had arrived late, but casualties were already high…and the closer the enemy’s second line got, the more ships he knew he’d lose.

The battle had been a near-cataclysm, a bloody disaster, but in his gut, he knew things were about to get worse. The monumental death toll he saw all around him was just the start. He’d viewed the Union War as a nightmare, a crucible that forged his people—those who survived, at least—into unbreakable iron. But now he knew, with heartrending clarity, that his people’s greatest trial still lay ahead.

Even in the depths of the war with the Union, or during the desperate fighting in the Alliance Civil War, he’d always believed in victory, that his side would ultimately prevail.

That was gone now, the easy confidence that had sustained him for so long. Now, as he looked out, he saw only darkness, a bloodletting without end…unless that end was total and utter defeat, and subjugation at the hands of the Hegemony’s Masters.

It was a nightmare, but there was no way to escape, to wake up. There was one option…to press on, through the fire, through the losses and devastation that lay ahead. But, this time, Barron didn’t believe in victory. He looked out over the display, at the vast forces of the Hegemony, and for the first time in his life, he didn’t think his people could win.

It was a dark an ominous thought, and for the first time, he imagined what life would be like under Hegemony rule, what brand of “Inferiors” they would classify him and the rest of his comrades as. He wondered if the Confederation’s billions would fight to the end, or if they would yield and adjust to life under the Masters.

He didn’t continue the thought. He didn’t think he’d like the answer. But, he could only speak for himself, and he knew one thing with unyielding certainty. He would not survive defeat. He would never bow before those who called themselves Masters. He would die fighting…and he was pretty sure a lot of his close comrades would do the same.

Dauntless shook again, and damage reports began to flow onto the bridge. He listened as Atara ran her ship, fielding the reports, assigning engineering teams, and he felt intense pride in her. She had become a tremendous captain. Better than you, he thought, with a bit of an inner smile.

He sucked in a deep breath. They had to hold another thirty minutes…survive another thirty minutes.

Then his ships could withdraw, and pull back to Megara to prepare for the final struggle.

Chapter Fifty-Nine

The Admiralty

Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III

Year 317 AC

Tyler Barron still couldn’t believe what he had just heard.

Dauntless had arrived in Megara orbit less than an hour before, and he’d been summoned down to naval HQ without explanation, along with Clint Winters and Sara Eaton. He hadn’t known what to expect…and he thought he’d been prepared for anything. He was still buoyed up by the excitement of the successful withdrawal of most of the fleet from Ulion, and also by the fact that the Hegemony forces had apparently been hurt enough to pause for repairs. It wasn’t likely to be a long break, but anything was a cause for gratitude just then.

But the words from Gary Holsten’s mouth hit him like a battering ram.

Van Striker. The fleet’s commander, the victor of the Union War, his mentor, and a man he considered a personal hero and a friend.

Dead.

It didn’t seem possible, and as he sat around the conference table, he struggled to grasp the cold reality of it.

“Ricard Lille?” There was venom in his voice as he repeated the name of Striker’s killer. Lille had also held Andi prisoner, and her quest for vengeance had led to her death as well. He felt the rage inside, not his usual fire, but something deeper, colder, more fearsome. He had duty, a war to fight, a desperate defense to mount. But in that moment, all he could think of was hunting Lille down and killing him.

“Yes.” Holsten’s tone was somber. Barron knew the two men had been friends, but now he realized how truly close a bond they’d shared.

“He has to be found…hunted down, whatever it takes.” Barron turned and looked at Winters and Eaton, and quickly confirmed they felt the same way.

“He’s already dead.” Holsten took a deep breath. “That’s what I haven’t told you yet, Tyler. Andi killed Lille.” A pause. “Right after Lille killed Van.”

Barron heard the words, but they didn’t make sense to him, not at first. He’d convinced himself Andi was dead, with a certainty that had killed part of his soul. He’d been sure that Holsten’s inability to find her had signaled the worst. Now, he clawed his way forward, grasping the meaning of what he had just heard.

“Andi is alive?” There was hope in his mind, though his words carried mostly lingering confusion.

Holsten paused. “Yes,” he said, hesitating again just after the word came out. “But she’s hurt, Tyler…badly hurt. There was a terrible fight…on a roof. She was stabbed several times, and…” He hesitated yet again, clearly struggling with what he had to say. “…they both fell off the roof. Lille was killed instantly, and Andi…”

“Where is she?” Barron’s words were like cold steel.

“She’s in the main Troyus Med Center. I have a transport waiting for you downstairs, Tyler. I knew you’d want to go over there right away. I just…didn’t want you to find out about any of this over the comm.”

Barron turned to move toward the door, but he stopped for an instant. He was facing away from Holsten when he asked, “Is she going to make it, Gary?” He felt as though he was going to throw up. The thought of Andi, wounded again, suffering, perhaps dying after all…it was more than he could take.

“I don’t know, Tyler. She’s in critical condition, and the doctors can’t say. But, she’s tough…”

“As tough as they come,” Barron snapped back. He wasn’t sure if the words had come out as a tribute to her strength or they were just what he needed to say…and to hear.

He slipped out of the room without another word, and broke into a dead run down the hall, toward the bank of elevators.

*

“I want to thank you all for coming.” Stockton walked across the restaurant and looked at the four figures sitting at the corner table. It was a quiet kind of place outside the overcrowded center of Troyus City, and he’d asked them to meet him there. It didn’t make any real sense to have the informal gathering in such a place when the Admiralty offered conference rooms and offices and the like, but Stockton had seen more war and death than he’d ever imagined, and he knew more lay ahead. He figured they could all use a change of scenery, even if the topic of the meeting was more war and death.

Besides, the food was terrific, and he’d eaten about as many shipboard rations as he could stomach.

Stara Sinclair was standing behind Stockton, and she smiled and nodded to the two men and two women present. “It’s good to see you all in one place.”

Stockton turned toward one of the men, and before anyone at the table had a chance to respond to Stara, he said, “It’s good to see you, Warrior, my old friend. I’m sorry it took an invasion to get you back in the cockpit where you belong, but you haven’t lost a step, not that I could see.” Timmons had led his assortment of recalled veterans and Academy upperclassmen into the fight at Ulion, and he’d ripped into the enemy battle line with unrestrained savagery. The losses had been high, especially among the inexperienced pilots, but they’d certainly left their mark.

“I’m sorry I had to leave so much of the fight to you in the past few years. Glad to be back at your side.” The words were clearly heartfelt, and Stockton returned the emotion. Timmons had been Stockton’s rival back in the day, and the two had shared something between intense competition and naked hatred. But they’d long ago put aside the friction of their younger days.

“You’ll have plenty of time to catch up. One thing is sure. We’re going to have some fighting to do.” He looked up at the others. “That’s why I wanted to speak to you all together. You all know the fighter corps is going to be front and center in this war. The enemy doesn’t seem to have any squadrons of their own…but that doesn’t mean they won’t continue to become more difficult and dangerous opponents. I’ve faced off against them for some time now, and I can say, their targeting and tactics have steadily improved…and anyone who faced that force of modified escorts in the last fight knows how deadly they were.”

He paused for a moment. “We have to stay ahead of the enemy. Our tactics need to be constantly evolving, and we need to find ways to make our bomber strikes more effective in each new battle.” He paused. “Admiral Barron has asked me to take command of the fleet’s entire strike force…” He hesitated again. “…and he’s bumped me up to commodore.” Stockton was pompous and arrogant in his own ways, those common to fighter pilots, but he still sounded slightly embarrassed as he announced his promotion. He could brag about his skill in the cockpit, but he found it harder when the subjects veered away from his exploits in a Lightning. “And he’s also promoted each of you to captain, effective immediately.”

He saw the reactions around the table, mostly surprise. Fighter pilots rarely rose to such ranks, mostly because not too many survived long enough…and those that did were usually burned out from the endless pressure of constant combat missions.

“You’ll all get your orders and your insignia tomorrow, and let’s skip past false modesty. Every one of you rates and deserves the bump…and you’re all going to earn the hell out of those captain’s salaries. I want everybody to order something for dinner, and settle in…because we’re going to be here for a long time. We’re going to revamp the entire fighter corps—deployments, tactics, organization, training…everything. Fighter tactics are going to win this war…or lose it.” He stared out at his companions. “And I, for one, don’t like to lose.”

A round of nods and acknowledgements made its way around the table.

“First things first…there’s one change in mindset you all need to accept. In the fighting to come, we are no longer just military officers, nor only pilots. We are the manifestation of death itself. We exist to kill, to destroy the enemy. And, that is just what will do, what we will inspire our pilots to do. I will command the massed fighter corps, and the four of you—Captain Trent, Captain Federov, Captain Timmons, and Captain Covington—you will be my deputies. Your skills are beyond question, and your loyalty and endurance are as pillars of granite. Now, we will show the Hegemony what we can really do.”

Stockton handed out tablets to each of the officers seated at the table. “These have orders of battle for every fighter in the navy and all the system defense forces, from the coldest veterans in the main battle fleet, to some half strength garrison squadron in the middle of nowhere. There is nothing extraneous in this war, nothing unneeded. Every pilot, every Lightning, will go forth into the maelstrom…and we shall battle our way through, to victory.”

He paused again, just for a few seconds. “I once read an old text, from pre-imperial days, even earlier, and something in it stuck with me, symbols of fear and devastation. You all have call signs, of course, but I have pulled something from those ancient words, a label I will use when thinking of you as a group.”

His looked at each of them in turn.

“The Four Horsemen.”

*

Barron stood next to the medpod, looking down at the battered and bruised figure inside. Andi was pale, half her body covered in casts and bandages, and nearly every centimeter of exposed skin black or deep purple with hideous bruises. There were monitors all around the pod, and a dedicated medical AI keeping track of her condition at all times.

Barron had seen wounded men and women, and he’d been badly hurt more than once himself, but he’d never seen anyone look quite as…worn out…as Andi did. But she was alive, and he felt elation as he looked at her, tempered only by his fear he could still lose her…again.

He’d been there a while, an hour, two, maybe more…he didn’t know. He’d lost all track of time. But just then, her eyes opened, and she looked up at him.

“Tyler?” Her voice was faint, weak, barely audible. But the slight whisper grabbed at his insides.

“Andi…I thought you were dead. I am so sorry…” Barron felt buried under guilt. For letting himself assume she was dead without proof. For not believing in her enough to have faith she’d survived. But, most of all, for letting her go, for not truly understanding what she’d gone through…and how it had affected her.

“No…no.” She tried to turn her head toward him, but she winced when she did. He leaned over farther, bringing his face closer to hers. “So…happy…to see…you.” Her words were clearly a terrific effort, but he could hear joy in there, too.

Barron smiled. “I’m so happy to see you, too.” He paused, for just a few seconds. “I love you, Andi…you know that. I always have.”

“I…love…you, too…”

“I sent word to your crew to let them know you’re alive. I’d expect them to show up sometime soon, as quickly as they can get here from Archellia. I advised them to stay, but if I was betting, I’d guess they ignored me completely.”

She twisted her lips slightly, managing something close to a smile.

“I didn’t see how much pain you were in, Andi, or realize how much you’d suffered. I was too focused on the war, on the disruption in the Confederation…but I promise you, that will never happen again.”

She held the smile, and he could see wetness growing in her eyes.

Barron felt a wave of relief. He didn’t know what the doctors would say, but he knew Andromeda Lafarge better than anyone else on the Rim…and one look into her eyes told him what he needed to know.

She was going to make it. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind.

“I’ll always be there for you, Andi, whenever you need me…” He smiled as he looked down at her. “Not that you’ll need it…because when word gets out you’re the woman who killed Ricard Lille, I doubt anyone is going to have the stones to cross you. I know I won’t!”

Epilogue

Grand Fleet Command Station

Confederation System Beta-4 (Venga)

“Our modified escorts proved themselves to be an extremely effective defense against the enemy’s small craft…though it is also clear we will need massive numbers of them, and also that they require heavier units to protect them from attacks by capital ships.” Chronos sat around a large conference table, looking out over the eight men and women present. They were the highest-ranked Masters in the fleet, save only for Raketh, who was engaged in a mission elsewhere. Those present formed his informal war council, and they were the key commanders in the fleet.

There was some discussion in response, but it was clear everyone present agreed with the fleet commander’s assessment…or, at least, that none were prepared to openly dispute it.

“Unfortunately, we suffered a total loss of those units, and it will take some time to modify standard escort classes to the anti-attack craft configuration.” A pause. “The rapid-fire batteries will also place considerable strain on our antimatter supplies, perhaps forcing us to limit the use of our railguns. That is unfortunate, but as you all know, the enemy small craft have been quite successful in disabling the primary weapons systems on many of our ships before they were able to fire anyway. I have decided, our main tactical consideration is to defeat the small craft. They cannot exist in limitless numbers, and if we are able to bring sufficient force to bear against them, we should be able to destroy them all…and then, the enemy fleets will be helpless before our own, superior forces.”

Chronos believed most of what he was saying, but he was also a realist, and not one to believe his own propaganda. In truth, his losses, while not sufficient to truly jeopardize the campaign, had been far higher than he had anticipated, even in his most pessimistic projections. He would still conquer the Rim, he was confident of that, but the losses to the Grand Fleet would leave the Hegemony perilously close to unprepared if the Others did return, as so many seemed to fear they one day would.

“We will pause in this system before continuing on. We will conduct what repairs we can to our damaged units, and we will commit the mobile shipyards to converting as many escort craft as possible to the new configurations. We will endure the delays this entails, and then, when all is ready, we will continue to our next objective…the enemy capital. They will no doubt commit to a defense of that system, and that will allow us to fully engage and destroy their naval forces. The combination of massive casualties and the loss of their primary system will very likely break their will to resist, leaving us only the need to mop up scattered resistance and begin full-scale absorption operations.”

A series of nods and acknowledgements made its way around the table.

*

“The scouts have returned, Commander. The Union fleet is indeed deployed in accordance with the information…provided…by the ambassador. It is a sizable force, but analysis suggests considerable efforts have been made to employ freighter and other non-combat craft to increase the apparent strength of the fleet, again, just as the ambassador said.”

Raketh nodded to the officer, but he remained quiet for a moment. The Union ambassador had appeared to be a weak and pompous fool, but in the end, it had taken considerably harsher measures to encourage cooperation than Raketh had expected. There was a deep fear in the man, and the Master took note of it. The Confederation appeared to be somewhat disorganized in terms of governmental authority, but it appeared the Union was run with a considerable amount of fear…and Raketh knew that would affect the manner in which its military personnel behaved, in ways both useful to his plans, and also dangerous.

He had most of the Reserve with him, a force sufficient to defeat the Union fleet…and he was determined to strike at once, to catch the enemy’s forces when they were massed in one location, and end the conquest of the Union in one fell swoop.

“You may issue the orders, Kiloron. The fleet will transit at once. The conquest of the Union will begin immediately.”

*

“It was Van Striker’s final command, Tyler. His last words. He chose you to take his place, and he told me to tell you he had complete confidence in your abilities.” Holsten’s words were clearly sincere, but Barron still couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He looked over at Clint Winters, and the admiral nodded back to him.

“I will follow you, Admiral Barron.” Winters had deliberately chosen a formal form of address, despite the fact that he’d called Barron, “Tyler” a hundred times in the past week.

“I appreciate the confidence, Clint…and from you as well, Gary. And Admiral Striker’s faith means more to me than I can put into words…but I’m just not ready. I’ll do all I can, of course, but I can’t command the entire fleet.” Barron felt like a trapped animal, desperately searching for a way to escape. “I don’t have the experience, the capability.”

“That’s nonsense, and you know it.” Holsten’s voice was crisp, decisive. “Besides, who is more qualified? There is no officer in the navy with your achievements, Tyler, and none the rank and file will more diligently follow. The Alliance forces will be vital to our chances to match the Hegemony, and no one in the Confederation is closer to Imperator Tulus or more highly regarded among the Palatians than you. You’ve come full circle, and now you stand where your grandfather once did. The call has come to you to save the Confederation, as it once did to him. Can you deny it? Can you ignore it? I know you too well for that, my friend. We face a terrible struggle, and it may be one we cannot win. But we will fight to the end, and you must lead our people.”

Barron felt as though he was trapped, and try as he might, he couldn’t find a way out. Finally, he just looked at the two men in the room with him, and he nodded. It was all he could muster.

Then he took a deep breath and sighed, his thoughts moving to the enormity of the task ahead, the almost insurmountable odds his forces would face. And, amid the fear, the astonishment, the sober analysis of the forces lined up against him, he saw an old man’s face, hazy, and off in the distance.

Grandfather…I’ve never needed you more than I do now. Please, somehow, be with me. Help me endure what is coming.

Blood on the Stars Will Continue with

Nightfall

Appendix

Strata of the Hegemony

The Hegemony is an interstellar polity located far closer to the center of what had once been the old empire than Rimward nations such as the Confederation. The Rim nations and the Hegemony were unaware of each other’s existence until the White Fleet arrived at Planet Zero and established contact.

Relatively little is known of the Hegemony, save that their technology appears to be significantly more advanced than the Confederation’s in most areas, though still behind that of the old empire.

The culture of the Hegemony is based almost exclusively on genetics, with an individual’s status being entirely dependent on an established method of evaluating genetic “quality.” Generations of selective breeding have produced a caste of “Masters,” who occupy an elite position above all others. There are several descending tiers below the Master class, all of which are categorized as “Inferiors.”

The Hegemony’s culture likely developed as a result of its location much closer to the center of hostilities during the Cataclysm. Many surviving inhabitants of the inward systems suffered from horrific mutations and damage to genetic materials, placing a premium on any bloodlines lacking such effects.

The Rimward nations find the Hegemony’s society to be almost alien in nature, while its rulers consider the inhabitants of the Confederation and other nations to be just another strain of Inferiors, fit only to obey their commands without question.

Masters

The Masters are the descendants of those few humans spared genetic damage from the nuclear, chemical, and biological warfare that destroyed the old empire during the series of events known as the Cataclysm. The Masters sit at the top of the Hegemony’s societal structure and, in a sense, are its only true full members or citizens.

The Masters’ culture is based almost entirely on what they call “genetic purity and quality,” and even their leadership and ranking structure is structured solely on genetic rankings. Every master is assigned a number based on his or her place in a population-wide chromosomal analysis. An individual’s designation is thus subject to change once per year, to adjust for masters dying and for new adults being added into the database. The top ten thousand individuals in each year’s ratings are referred to as “High Masters,” and they are paired for breeding matchups far more frequently than the larger number of lower-rated Masters.

Masters reproduce by natural means, through strict genetic pairings based on an extensive study of ideal matches. The central goal of Master society is to steadily improve the human race by breeding the most perfect specimens available and relegating all others to a subservient status. The Masters consider any genetic manipulation or artificial processes like cloning to be grievously sinful, and all such practices are banned in the Hegemony on pain of death to all involved. This belief structure traces from the experiences of the Cataclysm, and the terrible damage inflicted on the populations of imperial worlds by genetically-engineered pathogens and cloned and genetically-engineered soldiers.

All humans not designated as Masters are referred to as Inferiors, and they serve the Masters in various capacities. All Masters have the power of life and death over Inferiors. It is not a crime for a Master to kill an Inferior who has injured or offended that Master in any way.

Kriegeri

The Kriegeri are the Hegemony’s soldiers. They are drawn from the strongest and most physically capable specimens of the populations of Inferiors on Hegemony worlds. Kriegeri are not genetically-modified, though in most cases, Master supervisors enforce specific breeding arrangements in selected population groups to increase the quality of future generations of Kriegeri stock.

The Kriegeri are trained from infancy to serve as the Hegemony’s soldiers and spaceship crews, and are divided in two categories, red and gray, named for the colors of their uniforms. The “red” Kriegeri serve aboard the Hegemony’s ships, under the command of a small number of Master officers. They are surgically modified to increase their resistance to radiation and zero gravity.

The “gray” Kriegeri are the Hegemony’s ground soldiers. They are selected from large and physically powerful specimens and are subject to extensive surgical enhancements to increase strength, endurance, and dexterity. They also receive significant artificial implants, including many components of their armor, which becomes a permanent partial exoskeleton of sorts. They are trained and conditioned from childhood to obey orders and to fight. The top several percent of Kriegeri surviving twenty years of service are retired to breeding colonies. Their offspring are Krieger-Edel, a pool of elite specimens serving as mid-level officers and filling a command role between the ruling Masters and the rank and file Kriegeri.

Arbeiter

Arbeiter are the workers and laborers of the Hegemony. They are drawn from populations on the Hegemony’s many worlds, and typically either exhibit some level of genetic damage inherited from the original survivors or simply lack genetic ratings sufficient for Master status. Arbeiter are from the same general group as the Kriegeri, though the soldier class includes the very best candidates, and the Arbeiter pool consists of the remnants.

Arbeiter are assigned roles in the Hegemony based on rigid assessments of their genetic status and ability. These positions range from supervisory posts in production facilities and similar establishments to pure physical labor, often working in difficult and hazardous conditions.

Defekts

Defekts are individuals—often populations of entire worlds—exhibiting severe genetic damage. They are typically found on planets that suffered the most extensive bombardments and bacteriological attacks during the Cataclysm.

Defekts have no legal standing in the Hegemony, and they are considered completely expendable. On worlds inhabited by populations of Masters, Kriegeri, and Arbeiters, Defekts are typically assigned to the lowest level, most dangerous labor, and any excess populations are exterminated.

The largest number of Defekts exist on planets on the fringes of Hegemony space, where they are often used for such purposes as mining radioactives and other similarly dangerous operations. Often, the Defekts themselves have no knowledge at all of the Hegemony and regard the Masters as gods or demigods descending from the heavens. On such planets, the Masters often demand ores and other raw materials as offerings, and severely punish any failures or shortfalls. Pliant and obedient populations are provided with rough clothing and low-quality manufactured foodstuffs, enabling them to devote nearly all labor to the gathering of whatever material the Masters demand. Resistant population groups are exterminated, as, frequently, are Defekt populations on worlds without useful resources to exploit.

Blood on the Stars Will Continue with

Nightfall

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