Nightfall Page 34

  “The readings are sporadic, Admiral…it’s that damned jamming. But, there’s just something…about the mass figures, the energy readings…”

  “Attention…ederation fl…this is…inters.” The signal was weak, the words hard to understand, but Barron’s eyes darted back to the display. There were six contacts, and while the reported mass sizes varied, yet another effect of the enemy jamming, he quickly calculated an average.

  It was within five percent of Dauntless’s mass…for all the incoming ships.

  Is it possible?

  “Atara…”

  “On your line…” Travis’s near telepathic link to him was clearly in full force.

  “Vessels entering the system, please identify yourselves immediately.”

  Nothing. Just static.

  “Attention…”

  “Sir!”

  Barron turned toward Atara.

  “We’re picking up fragments of beacon signals, Admiral…Confederation beacons! I think one of those ships is Constitution!”

  Barron was stunned. Was it even possible?

  “I need that confirmed!” He grabbed the sides of his chair as Dauntless shook hard. Whatever was coming through that transit point, his flagship was still in the middle of a fight, and another hit had just rocked the battered vessel.

  Seconds passed, a minute. Atara was hunched over her station, her hands flying all across the controls. “It is Constitution, Admiral! And five other battleships. Confederation battleships.”

  Barron felt a rush of excitement. If Winters was back, did that mean his fleet had completed its mission? Or been repulsed and chased all the way back to Craydon? Were there Hegemony ships on his tail? He didn’t know…and he wasn’t sure it would matter. It would take at least two hours for Winters’s ships to close with the enemy…and Barron wasn’t sure his fleet had two hours left.

  He could hear the excitement spreading around the bridge, nevertheless, the sounds of officers talking in animated tones.

  “Enough!” he snapped. “We’ve got a fight here, and unless you want to get blasted to plasma before those ships get anywhere close to us, focus on the work at hand. Bring us in closer, Captain. All ships. I want us close enough to reach out the airlock and hit those bastards with a club!”

  * * *

  “Full thrust, all ships.” Or whatever passes for it.

  Clint Winters sat on Constitution’s bridge, amid the twisted metal and charred wiring. His flagship was in rough shape, though he knew she looked worse than she actually was. His damage control teams had worked wonders, and there was no mystery to him about that. Anya Fritz. He’d heard about Barron’s miracle worker, of course, about the famous engineering savant who had played such a role in his victories. But, he hadn’t really believed all the stories.

  He did now.

  She had worked nothing short of magic in his estimation, and beyond repairing Constitution’s damage at an astonishing rate, she had spent hours on the comm, mercilessly driving the engineers on the other ships to their limits and beyond. Barron had loaned him Fritz to keep the stealth generators working, but she had done far more than that. He didn’t think a single one of his ships would have made it out of the Olyus system without her wizardry, much less all the way back to Craydon.

  Constitution’s companions, the five other battleships limping in-system, were all that remained of the sixteen he had led to Megara. Losses like that always hurt, but this time they were tempered by the fact that the mission had been a complete success. Half the Hegemony mobile shipyards had been destroyed, and the others critically damaged and put out of operation for a considerable time. The reduction in mining, refining, and general stores of supplies had been over seventy percent, eighty by the most optimistic projections. The enemy would have one hell of a time trying to repair the damage it appeared to have suffered in the fighting at Craydon, and that realization told him, at least, that his people hadn’t died in vain.

  “Vector change, Commander. Thrust at…thirty percent.” He figured all his ships could manage thirty percent, though it was a good bet at least half of them couldn’t go much higher. He felt the urge to rush right at the enemy fleet, to hit them from the rear, even as the Barron and Nguyen engaged from the front. But, his ships were too badly damaged for that. They would join the fight, the Sledgehammer knew no other way, but they would hit the enemy flank, where they could limit the number of enemy ships they engaged. Getting his half dozen battered ships blasted to atoms wouldn’t do a thing for the fleet, or for the battle.

  “Navigation orders locked in, Admiral.” The tactical officer looked over and nodded. “Executing now…”

  Winters felt the pressure from the thrust as it overwhelmed Constitution’s damaged and barely functional dampeners. His people were going into battle again, and he knew this one would be to the end. The fleet would hold Craydon…or there would be no fleet.

  And, no Confederation.

  * * *

  Chronos was stunned. How was it possible for Confederation forces to come through that transit point? There was nothing between Craydon and Megara, not along that route. Nothing save two virtually empty systems.

  How could Confederation forces have come through the Olyus system?

  He felt his chest tighten. No, it wasn’t possible. There were garrison forces there, enough to protect the logistics fleet.

  But had they been ready? On the alert? No one, including himself, had expected anything as wildly audacious as a move on the supply ships back at Olyus. He wasn’t sure how it was even possible. His scouts would have detected anything heading for Megara.

  He tried to convince himself there was no way…but then he looked out at what remained of the enemy forces. He could finish them, he still believed that. But, it would cost. That had been acceptable moments before, when he’d been confident he could take the time to repair his damaged ships, to bring his fleet back to combat ready status.

  Now, there was doubt. Suddenly, his very long supply line seemed tenuous, vulnerable. He had already gambled bringing Grand Fleet so far from home, committing to battles that had inflicted such losses. Did he dare double down, not knowing the status of his supply and support units?

  He thought, analyzing the situation from every possible angle. He considered percentages, force ratios, tactical options. It was close. If he hadn’t been so far from home, if he’d been more certain of his supply situation…if he hadn’t been plagued by concern about how naked the Hegemony was with so much force deployed to the Rim…

  He turned slowly and looked over at his chief aide. “Megaron,” he said, struggling to sound as the eighth most genetically perfect human being in the galaxy should sound, despite the blackness he felt inside. “Command level order. All units are to disengage immediately and retreat on our entrance transit point.” A pause, long and uncomfortable. “We’re going back to Megara.”

  Epilogue

  Hegemony’s Glory

  Olyus System

  Chronos sat in his sanctum. He normally considered the elaborate domains to be wastes of space in warships, and needless enhancements to Master egos that were already far too inflated. But, now he needed the privacy, the silence.

  He’d been defeated at Craydon. He knew many of his colleagues, Masters focused as they so often were, on their self-images, would have characterized it differently. The Hegemony fleet was, almost certainly, still in far better shape than the decimated forces of the Confederation and its allies, and his retreat had ensured his force would remain at least somewhat in condition for the next fight, something his enemies would have difficulty matching.

  Now, he had much to consider. He would proceed with the war, certainly. That much he’d decided almost immediately. There was no choice. Too much had been lost to stop with no gain. The need to conquer the Rim was greater than ever. But, he’d been unprepared for the damage to the logistics fleet. He’d suspected the enemy had conducted some kind of raid when he saw their ships emerge behind his fle
et, that he would find some damage and destruction when he returned to Megara. But, his first warning that things were far worse had come when the fleet had encountered a courier ship bound for Craydon with dispatches for him. He’d listened to the reports of devastation to his supply and support ships, and even then, he’d assumed they were exaggerations from shaken subordinates.

  When Hegemony’s Glory transited back into the Olyus system, and he saw for himself, he realized it was far worse, even than his subordinates had acknowledged. He had nowhere near the supplies or repair capacity to service the fleet after the epic battle at Craydon. He would have to look elsewhere for support. The Reserve, certainly, though the thought of committing even more of the Hegemony’s massed strength only fed his tension and fear.

  Maybe, just maybe, he hoped, Carmetia had gotten things under control at Dannith and made some progress on erecting shipyards and fleet support facilities there. That would be helpful, though a supply line stretching even from Megara to Dannith would be long and vulnerable.

  He cradled his head in his hands. He was tired, exhausted beyond measure. He would rest. Whatever happened next, the Confederation forces were damaged worse than his own. It would be months before they could make a real threat out of themselves, and that gave him time.

  Time to develop a new plan. Time to prepare for a final offensive, one that would succeed. One that would conquer the Rim.

  But, first, he needed to sleep…and he needed to think.

  CFS Dauntless

  Orbiting Craydon

  Andi Lafarge stood in the doorway, looking across the room at Tyler. She was exhausted, as she knew we was…had to be. But, she hadn’t waited. She couldn’t wait. She had to see him…for many reasons, but most of all because she’d so been absolutely sure she never would again.

  He moved across the room toward her, and she stayed still…for a second. Then, she raced toward him, and the two embraced.

  “I am so glad you are okay.” She gripped onto him tightly, and she pressed her head against his shoulder.

  “I’m glad you’re okay,” he replied. “When I saw Hermes advancing…” He didn’t continue, and she knew why. She was attracted to Barron for a number of reasons, some of them stunningly obvious, but what had truly set him apart from anyone else she’d known was how matter-of-factly he’d always accepted what she was, who she was. From their first moments in each other’s presence, he’d never treated her as anything less than capable and independent, save, perhaps, for his periodic efforts to keep her from danger. Even those, she knew, had only to do with his affection for her, and not with any thoughts that she couldn’t take care of herself.

  Theirs was a union of equals, and while they were very different from each other in many ways, it had become more and more clear to her, they belonged together. She had fifty reasons why it couldn’t work, but she had no more use for any of them. She’d never allowed obstacles to stop her before, and she wasn’t about to start now.

  “There’s something I need to say, Ty.” She’d been thinking about what she wanted to say, but, speaking to him, she changed everything, forgetting most of what she’d planned. “I know you have duty stretching out in front of you farther than the eye can see…and I am part of that fight as well. But, when all this is over…” She resisted the urge to say, ‘if.’ Andi had been a cold realist her entire life, if not an outright pessimist, but she figured it was about time to try and embrace the bright side for once, to reach out and grab at some shreds of hope. “…I’m never letting you go again.”

  Grand Hall

  Craydon Assembly Building

  Barron sat at the immense table, some monstrosity of carved Balsacan Wormwood, or some other stunningly rare, and staggeringly expensive, material. It had been brought to the Assembly building to house the great summit meeting. Barron had just come through the costliest and most exhausting battle he’d ever fought, but he dreaded another session of relentless droning by dozens of pompous diplomats more than he did an enemy railgun aimed at his forehead.

  It was very simple to him. They all banded together and fought as one to save the Rim. Or they died. Or became slaves. The Hegemony had been beaten back. The forces of the Rim had secured their first victory. The cost had been almost unimaginable, and any real triumph in the war seemed as far away as ever. The victory, such that it was, bought some time, and nothing more.

  He detested the work involved in rallying nations to an alliance, pandering to rulers and politicians and ambassadors more focused on their own egos than the problem at hand. But, he couldn’t argue against Sara Eaton’s results. She’d saved the fleet from annihilation. It was that simple. For all her military skill, she’d never made as stark a difference as she had as an ambassador. If her force hadn’t arrived—and if it had gotten there just in time—the battle would have been lost. The resistance to the Hegemony would be down even then to scattered groups of surviving ships and system defense forces, and the war would be, for all practical purposes, over.

  Barron’s head was splitting, and his mind raged against the pointlessness of the whole foolish circus. The nations present would all remain in the alliance, and they would do it for one reason and one reason alone.

  Because they were all scared to death of the Hegemony. The framework of the agreement had already been laid out, and the pact combining the forces of eleven different nations even had a prospective name…

  Blood on the Stars will Continue with

  The Grand Alliance

  Book XI

  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 extens
ive 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.