Invasion (Blood on the Stars Book 9) Read online

  “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 defense
s…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.