Counterstrike

The Iron Fleet Book Three

Daniel Gibbs

Contents

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Starchart - Sagittarius/Orion Arms

CSV Margaret Thatcher Blueprints

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Counterstrike by Daniel Gibbs

Copyright © 2025 by Daniel Gibbs

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www.danielgibbsauthor.com

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Additional Illustrations by Joel Steudler—www.joelsteudler.com

This book is a work of fiction, the characters, incidents and dialogues are products of the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

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Also Available from Daniel Gibbs

Battlegroup Z

Book 1 - Weapons Free

Book 2 - Hostile Spike

Book 3 - Sol Strike

Book 4 - Bandits Engaged

Book 5 - Iron Hand

Book 6 - Final Flight

Echoes of War

Book 1 - Fight the Good Fight

Book 2 - Strong and Courageous

Book 3 - So Fight I

Book 4 - Gates of Hell

Book 5 - Keep the Faith

Book 6 - Run the Gauntlet

Book 7 - Finish the Fight

The Lost Warship

Book 1 - Adrift

Book 2 - Mercy

Book 3 - Valor

Book 4 - Justice

Book 5 - Resolve

Book 6 - Faith

The Iron Fleet

Book 1 - Battlestations

Book 2 - Intervention

Book 3 - Counterstrike

Book 4 - Danger Close (COMING IN 2025)

Book 5 - Check Fire (COMING IN 2025)

Book 6 - Decision Point (COMING IN 2025)

Galaxy Bridge

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Forward Command

Book 2 - Forward Hunt

Book 3 - Forward Pact

Book 4 - Forward Crisis

Book 5 - Forward Raid

Book 6 - Forward Shield

Book 7 - Reality Break

Book 8 - Reality Clash

Book 9 - Reality Restored

Breach of Faith

(With Gary T. Stevens)

Book 1 - Breach of Peace

Book 2 - Breach of Faith

Book 3 - Breach of Duty

Book 4 - Breach of Trust

Book 5 - Spacer’s Luck

Book 6 - Fortune’s Favor

Book 7 - The Iron Dice

Deception Fleet

(With Steve Rzasa)

Book 1 - Victory’s Wake

Book 2 - Cold Conflict

Book 3 - Hazards Near

Book 4 - Liberty’s Price

Book 5 - Ecliptic Flight

Book 6 - Collision Vector

Courage, Commitment, Faith: Tales from the Coalition Defense Force

(Anthology Series)

Volume One

Volume Two

Volume Three

Prologue

League of Sol Government General Complex

Geneva—Earth

13 April 2474

The sudden death of Minister Yvette Etienne had taken the Social and Public Safety Committee by storm. They were the most powerful men and women in the League of Sol and, as such, had around-the-clock protection. As Dmitry Borisov had predicted, while there was no direct evidence of assassination, rumors abounded—which was all part of his plan.

“The physical evidence is limited, Mr. Chairman,” a middle-aged woman of eastern ancestry said. She had apparently drawn the short straw to brief the committee on the investigation’s status. “There were anomalies in the minister’s bloodwork, but we could find no direct link to a poison or toxin.”

Makar Tarnovsky pursed his lips. “Nonanswers don’t cut it when one of our members dies under strange circumstances.”

Before the woman could respond, Borisov cut in smoothly. “Chairman Tarnovsky, I wouldn’t place too much blame on our investigators. I spoke with Minister Etienne just hours before her unfortunate demise, and I can say with certainty she appeared fine.” He’d briefly considered removing all trace of his visit but decided it was better to hide reality within a web of lies and half truths.

“You wouldn’t open your mouth if ESS didn’t have a theory. So out with it, Dmitry.”

Borisov shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious, Chairman? The Coalition’s Covert Action Units have grown ever bolder operating in the Orion Spur. I have no doubt this is one of their black-ops operations.”

“To what end?”

“Minister Etienne was a proponent of detente between our two countries. Isn’t it clear? Some element of the Terrans wants another war. Getting rid of her will make that easier.”

Tarnovsky blew out a breath. “Even if we accept that, the League isn’t ready for another conflict. I’d rather these revolutionaries cease their activities and let us return to biding our time. It will be at least ten years before our shipyards are pumping out enough tonnage for us to once again hold an advantage.”

On this one thing, we agree, Tarnovsky. “They’ve given no indication of that, Chairman. On the contrary, this is an opportunity for us to offer them clandestine support. Continue to destabilize the Terrans and effect the return of our Orion Spur worlds.”

“I’m not ready to back that yet,” Tarnovsky replied.

Of course you’re not. That would require taking a position. With difficulty, Borisov kept his trademark neutral expression in place. The longer he sat on the committee, the more he loathed virtually everyone on it. Killing them all would be the crowning achievement of his life, second only to defeating the Terran Coalition. “It would be simple to provide them with assistance that doesn’t trace back to the government.”

“And what if CIS and its infernally accurate SIGINT captures evidence they could share with their allies?” a minister toward the other end of the table interjected.

“Nothing more than a calculated risk we take with any actions authorized by this committee,” Borisov replied. “The Terrans must already believe we’re behind PFLOS.”

“But we’re not,” Tarnovsky replied forcefully. “And that will keep war from our worlds until a time of our choosing.”

Borisov crossed his arms. “Mr. Chairman, I would not place too much faith in that supposition. Somebody in the League Navy is supporting the revolutionaries. That much is obvious from the weaponry they use. Who knows what else might be in store?”

Tarnovsky shook his head. “We’ll deal with that when it happens. And what of the investigation into who’s behind that support you mention, Director?”

Borisov forced his lips into a thin smile. “It progresses.”

“Make it progress faster. Use whatever methods are required. And find out if the capitalists are behind the death of Minister Etienne. Do not fail us.”

“I will never fail in my oath to Society, Mr. Chairman.” Of everything Borisov had said, it was the one thing that was unequivocally true. His definition simply differed from the committee’s. This is a perfect opportunity for me, however. I’ll be able to remove anyone I want shortly and draw us closer to taking back what was lost.

The thought warmed Borisov’s heart. A lifetime of work would finally come together. It was about time.

1

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Five

17 April 2474

Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson scratched under his chin, which itched like crazy. He wasn’t exactly sure why, but it might’ve had something to do with the perfectly pressed khaki duty uniform he’d put on a few hours before. Every insignia, ribbon, and pin was to parade regulation. Normally, Arthur wouldn’t have given his uniform a second thought, as he preferred the black space sweater while underway. It was more formal than the utility jumpsuits but far easier to maintain.

But today was different. The promised reinforcements, led by the CSV Hermes, a Wade McClusky-class light carrier, were only minutes away. An air of anticipation filled the Margaret Thatcher’s bridge along with a touch of relief.

“Space aviators annoy the piss out of me,” Major Abigail Miller said under her breath so that only Arthur could hear her.

“Oh? Why is that?”

“They think their poop doesn’t smell.” She’d been the Thatcher’s tactical action officer and had served on the ship for several years under Colonel Savchenko.

Arthur’s lips curled into a grin. “Much like every space-warfare officer in the fleet.”

“Perhaps. Okay, maybe.” Miller couldn’t seem to stop herself from snickering, then she turned sober once more. “This time, though, I’m happy to see more of them.”

“I’d venture a guess that we all are.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. Inbound wormhole,” Second Lieutenant Nadia Yasin called out. Her tightly wrapped bun of black hair bobbed as she adjusted in the chair. Originally from Arabia Prime, Yasin had been a junior tactical officer until the PFLOS attacks. With Miller’s promotion, she had quickly settled into the role of primary TAO.

Arthur’s heart rate quickened. He ticked off two seconds. “Friendly or enemy, Lieutenant?” The only reason he uttered the words was to fill the nervous vacuum on the bridge.

Yasin paused for a moment longer. “CDF signature, sir. They’re ours!”

Arthur slowly nodded as a large wormhole appeared in front of the bridge windows in a brilliant light show of blues, purples, and yellows. Out popped Ajax-class destroyers, Meade-class frigates, and Thane-class escort carriers. Then came freighters, support vessels, and two hospital ships. The last one out was a Wade McClusky-class light carrier, which was the heaviest vessel sent, according to the order packet Arthur had read two weeks before.

“Conn, Communications,” Second Lieutenant Mousa Kaveh called out. The flag for the Persian Republic sat below the Terran Coalition emblem on his uniform. “Inbound text-only message from the CSV Lion of Judah, sir. Message reads: Regret we cannot join our blades with you. Godspeed, and may you slay the enemy. Signed by Colonel Aibek.”

That explains all those ships popping out of a single wormhole. The Lion’s antimatter reactor was always good for those sorts of jumps. “Comms, reply with my compliments, and tell them they can get in next time.” It sure would be nice to have the Lion of Judah joining them. She’d make quick work of anything PFLOS had in its inventory.

A moment later, the wormhole dissolved, leaving no trace it had ever existed. IFF tags that included the ship name and class activated on the mass of new contacts, and Arthur paid particular attention to the Wade McClusky-class light carrier. It carried eighty combat spacecraft under normal conditions and was far more effective at projecting power than the smaller escort carriers. It also had larger hangar and refurbishment facilities, allowing for more sorties in a short period of time.

“Conn, Communications. Incoming message from the CSV Hermes, sir.”

That didn’t take long. “Put it on my viewer, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The screen came down from the overhead, and an image of the carrier’s bridge flashed into being, with a woman in a CDF khaki service uniform appearing dead center. Various stations and officers were situated to the sides of the image, and a large holoprojector peeked from behind the CO’s and XO’s chairs. “Lieutenant Colonel Hanson, I presume?”

“Yes, ma’am,” Arthur replied.

“Colonel Sofia Kattan, commanding the Hermes and her attached battlegroup. For the duration of our mission, the Margaret Thatcher and what other vessels remain in the Orion Spur will join our flotilla. Any questions?”

Short, sweet, and to the point. Arthur had always appreciated directness from space-warfare officers when he was an engineer. She even managed to remind me I’m O-5, and she’s a full bird. “Only one, ma’am… when do we get to work kicking the League’s butt?”

Kattan grinned. “I like your style, Hanson. Don’t worry. We’re here to fight. I want you and the other COs of your remaining space-action group to join me within the hour for an all-commanders briefing on the Hermes. My space boss will send landing instructions. See you shortly, and Godspeed, Colonel.”

The screen went dark, and the Thatcher’s bridge lapsed into silence.

Arthur exchanged glances with Miller as he raised an eyebrow. “What’d you think?”

“Said the right stuff. Let’s see if she follows through. I’m just happy President Robbins didn’t pull Bastard Barton out of whatever hole he got stuffed into after the Third Battle of Canaan and put him in charge.”

The crack was a half step over the line of what constituted proper decorum on the bridge, especially when it came to comments critical of civilian leadership. But Arthur let it slide, mostly because he loathed the former General Barton more than any human outside the League of Sol. Even some Leaguers ranked above the disgraced officer because at least they were willing to fight.

“Conn, Communications. The Hermes has sent flight instructions, sir.”

Arthur stood. “I guess that’s my cue. XO, you have the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. This is the XO. I have the conn.”

I knew this was going to be an interesting day. I hope it’ll be a good one too. Arthur exchanged salutes with the two Marine sentries outside the bridge and made his way to the gravlift.

* * *

Summoning the top commanders of every military warship in the Orion Spur to the CSV Hermes was a risk. At least, that was how Arthur saw it. But Colonel Kattan was in charge, and as the commander of not only the Wade McClusky-class light carrier but also of the overall fleet, her word was gospel. So there he sat, in the cargo bay of one of the Margaret Thatcher’s shuttles, his mind racing.

Once the shuttle landed, a young private awaited him as an escort to the conference room. Being a carrier that housed over eighty combat spacecraft, the Hermes had more fleet command facilities than any other ship in the task force. It took almost fifteen minutes to walk through a labyrinth of passageways before the enlisted rating deposited him amidships, outside what was labeled Theater Briefing Area.

Arthur strode in and took a seat between Major Godat from the Tucson and another ship driver he didn’t recognize.

“Good to see you in one piece, Colonel,” Godat said as Arthur plopped down.

“Likewise. How’s that little boat of yours holding up?”

Godat grimaced. “Quit calling my boat little. I’ve popped just as much PFLOS tonnage as yours. Sir.”

Arthur grinned. “Touchy, touchy. Okay, I’ll try to stop referring to a ship less than half the length of a destroyer as tiny. What’s another word? Diminutive? Miniature? Minuscule? How about… itty-bitty?”

“I’m going to remember that the next time you call for help when some PFLOS freighter is lighting you up like a bad habit.”

Both of them laughed, as did everyone else within earshot.

The distinctive sound of a cleared throat echoed, drawing Arthur’s attention to the front of the briefing theater. A lectern stood there, with rows of pushdown chairs that could seat a hundred people, from his guesstimate.

“I didn’t realize we were at a comedy club, gentlemen. Would anyone care to come up here and warm up the audience?” Colonel Kattan’s eyes were narrowed and her expression harsh.

The laughter vanished, and everyone assumed eyes-front posture.

“Take your seats.”

All who were standing complied promptly.

That felt like being called in front of the principal. Arthur wasn’t sure what to make of their new commander. Stern was the word that came to mind.

Kattan shifted her gaze from left to right. “Officers of the Coalition Defense Force, I’ve asked you here for a simple reason: to reinforce face-to-face that I expect all of you to do your duty to the utmost. Our orders are to stop the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur. And that is what we will do. I know those who survived the onslaught were hoping for more, larger vessels and ships from our allies. But this is all we’ve got. At least for now. It is our job to be equal to this task. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am,” everyone echoed.

“Convoy systems work. That’s why in every major interstellar conflict, the Coalition and whatever enemy it was fighting implemented them. This is no different. I’ll be working with our government representatives to set them up within the next forty-eight hours then splitting the fleet into battlegroups to provide escort. There’re a lot of angry, hungry, and scared people out there. Time for us to show them they’re not alone.”

Someone in the front row shouted, “Hoo-rah!”

“Colonel Hanson, what can you tell us about this enemy?”

Arthur blinked. He hadn’t expected to be called on. Though I suppose I should’ve. He stood. “Um, they’re brutal, ma’am. I’ve never seen the likes of it before. Even Leaguers don’t destroy civilian liners. With PFLOS, there are no rules of war. Only causing as many casualties as possible.”

“I want you all to sear into your minds the images of passenger starships blowing apart and their escape pods being targeted,” Kattan continued. “That’s our enemy. Show him no quarter. You may be seated, Colonel Hanson.”

Arthur did as he was told.

“One danger I see, ladies and gentlemen, is that most of our vessels haven’t worked together before. Command pulled this fleet together in an ad hoc manner, thanks to the constraints put in place by our politicians. I’ll want as many drills as we can cram in, notwithstanding this is an active warzone.”

Kattan’s eyes swept the room. “This is not an easy task. Most of us are used to overwhelming firepower and technological superiority. We do not have our natural advantages going into this fight.”

Someone hissed loudly. Arthur wondered who dared to give voice to what they all thought and was quietly impressed.

“I heard that,” Kattan said after a moment with a stare that would melt alloy directed toward one officer in the second row. “And I do not disagree. But that doesn’t change facts. Our people need us, and we’re going to answer the call. Colonel Hanson will be providing all of you detailed information on the PFLOS ship classes and their combat specifications along with observed weaknesses.”

Arthur blinked. I am?

“That is all, ladies and gentlemen. Return to your vessels. Make them ready for war, because as Allah is my witness, we are here to wage war in its most horrible form on the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur. When we’re done… they will no longer exist.”

The way Kattan delivered that close, with absolute confidence and a tone of steel, made Arthur’s blood stir. He suspected the same of the others when cheers and fist pumps answered her.

As he started to stand and head for the exit, Kattan called over the mic, “Not you, Colonel Hanson. I’d like a few words.”

Arthur glanced at Godat, who pursed his lips and flashed a thumbs-up, before he marched up the aisle to the lectern. It took a few minutes for the sea of khaki duty uniform officers to exit, and the hatch clanged shut, leaving him alone with Kattan.

The entire time, she stared at Arthur in a manner that seemed as if she could peer inside his soul and weigh its contents.

“Do you play poker, Colonel?”

Arthur blinked. Of all the things he’d expected her to say or ask, that wasn’t it. “Uh. I’ve played a hand or two in my time, ma’am. If we’re talking card games, though, I prefer blackjack.”

“Why?” Her piercing gaze continued.

“Because I can affect the outcome better with math-based strategy.”

“Interesting. Because the way you rolled the dice with the station-hostage rescue, I would’ve expected you to be a poker player who bluffs big every time without caring for what you lose.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “With respect, ma’am, I took a calculated risk along with General Sinclair and leadership from the CDF. General Cohen himself approved our plan.”

“If that was an example of what you deem an acceptable risk, I don’t think I want to know what you consider reckless.”

Arthur’s cheeks heated. “It was calculated against doing nothing. When innocent people are being slaughtered, the aperture of acceptable risk goes up. A lot.”

She regarded him before nodding. “Yes, it does. But you will take no such actions without my approval. Clear?”

“Yes, ma’am. I recognize your need to establish a clear chain of command. But I would urge you to take the experience of those fighting PFLOS for the last two weeks into account because we put the hurt on those terrorists, even if the path to get there had more risk than you’d like.”

Kattan narrowed her eyes. “I don’t discount that. Tell me—do you think they’re on the run?”

“I think they’re licking their wounds. But on the run? No.”

“Good answer.” Kattan took a deep breath. “I believe we’re in what could be called the calm before the storm.”

Arthur kicked that metaphor around in his mind. It made perfect sense. Regardless, it didn’t change the task that lay before them. “With the amount of firepower that just arrived, I hope whatever they have left won’t pose much of a problem.”

“Hope is not a strategy, Colonel.”

“No, but it sounds like you have a plan.”

Kattan offered a thin smile. “Some moves for us are obvious. Like instituting a convoy system. The rest will come in time. Have an expanded report regarding our foes’ capabilities on my desk by the end of day.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Good hunting, Colonel. Dismissed.”

Arthur came to attention before turning on his heel and exiting the briefing theater. He pondered the situation on the walk back to the Hermes’s flight deck. Kattan’s as tough as nails. I appreciate that because we needed someone like her out here. He suspected he’d overlooked something, however. Perhaps there’s something we’ve all missed. Waiting for the enemy to attack and lacking the initiative was never a place a warrior aspired to be. But it was where they were.

And Arthur Hanson would meet the challenge, whatever came next.

2

LX Kornei Andrusenko

OEU-31—Lalande 613 System

18 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev had never expected to walk the corridors of a League of Sol Navy vessel again—at least, not unless he’d failed miserably in his mission and had been taken into custody. How his mysterious benefactor had access to the latest in League military hardware was beyond him. The ship was pristine, right down to the digital propaganda posters that festooned the walls, encouraging all to do their social duty.

They were sitting in orbit of an oxygen-extraction unit, which was parked in geosynchronous orbit of a gas giant’s moon. The station hadn’t been active in over a decade and had been left to rot by a megacorp that had mined the liquid-oxygen ocean below. Kovalev knew just enough about chemistry to be fascinated by the concept that the feature existed. And it’s just like a megacorp to come along and disrupt a one-of-a-kind deposit for their short-term profit.

Hai Gao rounded a corner and broke into a smile. “Ah, Comrade. I was looking for you. Your comm is off.”

“Yes, I wanted to be left alone for a few minutes,” Kovalev replied dryly. “Which is why I’m on the reclamation deck.”

“Comrade Truffaut reports life support has been restored on the station. He also wanted me to tell you that all branding from Nosamo Aerothermic has been removed and burned.”

Kovalev let out a chuckle. “If only removing the vile influences of the capitalists were quite that easy.” Even the League, with its communist outlook on life, did some level of business with the megacorps from the Sagittarius Arm. At least we generally get technology out of the trades. If it had been up to him, the navy would’ve simply taken over Nosamo’s space station, killed its corporate leadership, and freed the enslaved masses of workers who were too stupid to know what they were in the machine.

But he wasn’t in charge—at least he hadn’t been back then.

“You’ve taken this hard, Yevgeny.”

Kovalev closed his eyes for a moment before shaking his head. “Gao, everything I have done is for the betterment of humanity. Yet it hasn’t been enough. These damn Terrans stay one step ahead. We haven’t been able to destroy the last vestiges of their power, and they claw on. Worse, our fellows don’t flock to our banner. They’re weak,” Kovalev growled. “This individualistic disease the Coalition preaches… It infects men’s souls. This idea that anything besides the state has a right to decide for society, we know it must be purged. Forever.” He could almost taste the bitterness of the words on his tongue, mirroring what had consumed his soul. “And anyone who shows the remotest interest in such ideology must be reeducated or killed. The only thing that matters is preventing the infection from spreading.”

“With this ship, almost anything is possible, comrade. Don’t lose sight of that.”

“I know what you say is true, but my faith is shaken. Not in the cause but in myself.”

Silence descended over the passageway. The particle reclamators were silent, and it was as quiet as a tomb.

Gao stepped forward and put his hands on Kovalev’s shoulders while staring him straight in the eye. “It is acceptable to doubt yourself from time to time, yes? Keeps you honest and avoids the traps of those doddering idiots on the Social and Public Safety Committee.”

Kovalev tried to turn, but Gao held on tightly.

“But you have taken us far, comrade. I’m honored to stand beside you, and this effort… It doesn’t happen without you. Yes, the prisoners are gone, and the CDF got the better of us, but we can still win. We must win.”

Kovalev forced out a sigh and put his hands on Gao’s shoulders. “We will. We will not stop until the Coalition is destroyed and our brothers, sisters, wives, children, and families are avenged.”

Both men took a step back, and Gao nodded. “It is good to hear you say those words. Come. I have something to show you.”

“Oh? What new calamity awaits?”

Gao flashed a grin. “This ship wasn’t the only gift our benefactor sent. I found something else that we will be able to use to great effect.”

“That sounds like music to my ears. Lead the way, comrade.”

* * *

Second Lieutenant Avery Faulkner pushed the free weight above his chest and held it for several seconds. Then he slowly lowered the bar before repeating the cycle. He was on rep fifteen of twenty. Despite the cutting-edge technology all around them, the best way for humans to stay in shape was to actually do the work. That meant a minimum of one forty-five-minute workout daily for him plus five kilometers running in a loop around the Margaret Thatcher’s decks. Sometimes, I do wish this ship were bigger. Seeing the same corridor over and over got old.

The hatch opened, and while Faulkner couldn’t see who came in, footfalls got progressively closer on the alloy deck. The smiling face of Chief Hospital Corpsman Jeremiah Duprey appeared to his right as he pushed the weight up.

“Pumping iron, eh? You know that’s really on the nose for a Marine. We joke that all you leathernecks do is work out and kill things.”

“Kind of the job,” Faulkner grunted out while lowering the weight. “I know it gets hard to see real men working while you squids ferry us between combat assignments.”

Jeremiah laughed. “Oh, our respective services have been flinging these insults at each other for a few hundred years.”

“Probably longer,” Faulkner said as he lowered the bar into its latched safety position and let go. Sweat poured off his face, leading him to mop his forehead with his athletic shirt. “What brings you down to Marine country?”

“I thought I’d do a workout with a friend. If the Marines can handle a lowly corpsman who doesn’t touch weapons in their gym, that is.”

“I can beat you in just about anything, old man,” Faulkner retorted with a snicker. “But I do need a breather. Want me to spot you?”

“Sure.” Jeremiah swapped positions with him. “Set it for one hundred twenty kilos, please.”

The weight wasn’t as much as Faulkner had been working out with, but it was still a decent amount for a man who didn’t appear to hit the iron daily like most of the Marines aboard. He popped two weights off either side. “There. Good to go, and try not to hurt yourself.”

“Ah, you’ve got jokes.”

Faulkner smirked. “I’ve always got jokes, Chief. It’s in a Marine’s job description.”

They chuckled, then Jeremiah pushed the weight up with apparent ease. “Got any G2 on when we’re moving out?” he asked between reps.

“Nah, RUMINT isn’t that great. All I know is the flagship has some hard-ass in charge. Sounds like my kind of CO. Hope she’ll get us back in the fight.” Faulkner positioned himself to catch the weight if it looked like it would slip from Jeremiah’s fingers.

“I found myself hopeful that these guys would pack it in after the thrashing we gave them and the arrival of reinforcements.”

“Why, Chief? We’ve got ’em right where we need them now. On the run and more of us than them.”

Jeremiah paused and took a few breaths. “You haven’t been dealing with nonstop triage, son. My heart hurts after a while of putting broken bodies back together and especially after seeing the mental wounds on civilians that I doubt will ever fully heal.”

The Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur seemed to take great enjoyment out of mutilating prisoners, especially females. Almost every woman they’d rescued showed signs of sexual assault, which was one reason the Marine wanted to kill every PFLOS member and piss on their graves.

“Well, Chief, once we finish the job, there will be time to rest.”

Jeremiah pumped the weight a few more times before responding. “What’s finishing the job look like to you?”

“Find them, destroy their ships, kill every last one of them, and make sure the entire galaxy knows it. And you know what? That’ll send a message to anyone who’d try this shit again. We’ll have peace for a while.”

“Perhaps.” Jeremiah pushed the weight up then lowered it again and locked the bar into place before sitting up. “I know your heart’s in the right place, Avery. But… Look, don’t get desensitized to the violence, okay?”

“That ship probably already passed through the nearest wormhole.”

It was true. After you shot enough people, and the Lord only knew how many he’d shot and killed in the last two weeks, it started becoming second nature. Best not to think on it.

“Want to do a run? I hate doing those alone. Damn bulkheads start closing in after a few laps.”

Jeremiah grinned. “Yeah, sounds good. What kind of weight do you wear?”

“Uh…”

“I always carry a twenty-kilo pack. Helps simulate carrying medical equipment.”

Faulkner continued to gain more appreciation for how seriously the corpsman took everything in life, including continued training and physical fitness. “I’ll grab a pack too. Couldn’t hurt to pump up the endurance of these legs, could it?”

“I’ve had a few situations when my power armor failed or I didn’t have any. Trust me when I say it’s nice to make sure there’s a backup plan at such points.”

Faulkner pursed his lips. “Touche, Chief. You got any plans for the other side of this thing?”

“Once I hit my twenty, I thought it might be fun to open a gym that caters to office types. Too much obesity in the Coalition, you know? All these desk jobs and robots doing a lot of the hard construction work.”

Automation was certainly a large part of the Terran Coalition’s economy and on most of the Independent Systems Federation worlds too. But if one truly wanted a hands-on job, they still existed. Humanoid robots or androids were still banned across the entire Coalition and most of SATO too.

“Well, if you do, I’ll come look you up, Chief.”

“And I’ll put you to work.”

Faulkner grinned. “Works for me.”

“We might even start rebuilding the Spur and showing those communists in the League what a real civilization looks like.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself, Chief. Long way to go.”

Jeremiah bit his lip. “Yeah, I think you’re right. Let’s get this run on. I’ve got duty in seventy minutes, so just enough time to run five kilometers, hit the rain locker, and get some grub.”

Faulkner gestured to some backpacks latched to a piece of equipment. “Let’s do it.”

For the next half an hour at least, life seemed a little better.

3

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Six

18 April 2474

The conference room was so crowded that the two pilots had to stand in the back after not arriving in time to find a seat. At least, that was what Arthur figured when he walked in to find the space fuller than he’d seen it in weeks. Everyone who was sitting jumped out of their seats and came to attention. Something about how that worked, how natural it was, if Arthur was being honest with himself, he liked. That’s what I get for a decade as an engineer. Now, I’m at the head of the table. “As you were, ladies and gents.”

A collective scuffling followed as they sat and pushed their chairs forward.

“You all look bright-eyed and bushy-tailed. Good night’s rest?” Arthur asked as he dropped into his seat. Nods met his question. “Great, because we’ve got a lot of work in front of us. Colonel Kattan has tasked the Thatcher with providing escort for a freighter convoy that includes a hospital ship.”

“To where, sir?” Miller asked.

“Auxerre. It’s about three hundred light-years closer to League core space. The planet is currently facing an outbreak of a severe respiratory virus, and its health care facilities are not equipped to handle it. Masses of refugees who arrived following the PFLOS attacks have made the situation even worse. Our objective is to get the CSV Comfort there safe and sound. She’s got the personnel and supplies to make quick work of the outbreak before it causes serious issues.”

“Oh goody, convoy duty,” Miller interjected with an eyeroll.

“There’re a lot of bad guys out there still, XO. I’d wager most of them want a piece of us and especially a nice, shiny target like a hospital ship, judging from previous engagements.”

“Yes, sir. I’d just rather be out there hunting.”

Arthur’s eyes went to Major Colton Ramos, the Thatcher’s chief engineering officer. “Did we get our helium-3 tanks topped off on schedule?”

“Yes, sir. Mag-cannon rounds, Hunter missiles, and food supplies were sent over as well. We’re fully stocked, for now anyway.”

That news was a relief. Hunter missiles especially were impossible to find in the Orion Spur, since not only had PFLOS taken out most of the CDF combat forces, but they’d also nailed the few supply depots that existed. Arthur enjoyed having full stores again, as it opened up his playbook. Especially since we’ll be getting regular resupply again. “What about medical supplies?”

“All good, sir,” Dr. Wildstein replied.

“Any other departments have updates?”

Second Lieutenant Nadia Yasin cleared her throat. “Sir, if we have a couple of days, I’d like to have repairs made to the forward dorsal mag-cannon turret. It’s still a little, ah, off. From our last series of engagements.” The young woman seemed to be still coming to terms with her role as the primary TAO.

Arthur was certain she’d make a fine senior tactical officer someday. “You’ve got until tomorrow morning, when the last freighter arrives, Lieutenant. If it can’t be done by then, don’t start the project.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll consult with Major Ramos and determine whether we can meet that schedule.”

“Very good. Anyone else?”

Silence followed.

“All right, then. We’re on convoy duty as of oh eight hundred tomorrow.”

Faulkner crossed his arms. “Being a big damn hero was nice while it lasted.”

“There will be plenty of heroes yet to come, Lieutenant. And most of them will go home in body bags.”

“Way to kill the mood, sir,” Miller said. “I’d rather put the other guys into body bags.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “That most certainly remains the objective.”

“You got any action for us coming up, sir?” Captain Kevin Michaels asked from the back wall. He and First Lieutenant Nara Ichikawa flew two Ghost stealth recon fighters that had ended up parked on the Margaret Thatcher’s shuttle bay after their carrier, the CSV Bonhomme Richard, had been destroyed in the opening hour of the war.

“I think that’s up to our PFLOS friends, Captain.”

“Roger that, sir.”

“Sir, I received a transfer sheet with replacement crewmen half an hour ago,” Senior Chief Petty Officer Ezekiel Cooper interjected. He was the Thatcher’s senior-most enlisted soldier and acting command master chief for the ship.

“Ah, good.” While the need for replacements was sobering, to have them was far better than the alternative, which meant having undermanned shifts across the vessel. “Anything I should be aware of?”

“I’ll do a complete review of their service jackets as soon as we break, but they look good at a surface glance.”

“Beggars can’t be choosers.” Arthur licked his lips. “Okay. Good news all across the board. Anyone have saved rounds?”

At the silence that followed, Arthur counted out three seconds before he spoke again. “Very well. Dismissed.”

The command staff sprang from their chairs and headed out, followed by the pilots. Miller hung behind and waited for the last person to leave before shutting the hatch and dogging the handle for privacy. “May I have a minute of your time, sir?”

“I think we’re past that. What’s on your mind, Abigail?” He intended for the use of her first name to indicate permission to speak freely. It always felt a little weird to address people by their given names after almost two decades of referring to everyone by their surnames.

She sat in the right-side chair closest to him. “Your attitude is different. Something happened over on the Hermes, and I don’t like it.”

Arthur leaned back. “Colonel Kattan pointed out how risky our last op was, and she’s right. We straight-up rolled the dice and got absurdly lucky. I could’ve gotten us all killed.”

“Correction… President Robbins’s goofy orders and General Sinclair’s out-of-the-box thinking could’ve gotten us all killed.”

“I planned it. I own it. Period.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “In that case, you look like a tactical genius because it worked.”

Arthur shook his head and closed his eyes for a moment. “You know, I feel like I’ve aged five years in the last few weeks. Kinda look it too. I’ve read a lot of books on command, talking about how war seasons and changes a CO. I didn’t quite understand it until now.”

“What can I do to help you? As I’m your exec, it’s my job to relieve some of the burden. More than that, we’re all in this together.”

“Thanks, Abigail. But I think this is just something I have to handle. I, uh, have some inkling of how General Cohen and Colonel Savchenko must’ve felt all these years. It’s eye opening.”

She inclined her head. “I’m here anytime you want to talk.”

Arthur smiled, and it came from a genuine place in his heart. “Thank you. I’m sure in the coming weeks and months, I’ll take you up on it as we finish off these vermin.”

“Now, that sounds like a sentiment I can get behind.” Miller stood and hardened her expression. “I’m looking forward to having a few beers once we get rid of the last of them. Maybe I’ll show you how we do it back on Houston.”

“Uh-huh. Is this where you start talking about how it’s unwise to mess with Texas?”

Miller grinned. “You’d better believe it, sir.”

Arthur pushed himself up as well. “I’m gonna have to see this place for myself someday. See you on the bridge.”

“You, too, sir.”

* * *

Captain Kevin Michaels poked his head into a small office off the Margaret Thatcher’s shuttle bay. It had turned into the de facto crew chief area for the two SFS-3 Ghost fighters parked out in the landing area. The only one in it at the moment was Sergeant Ashlie Roth.

She glanced up from the tablet on her desk. “Hello, sir. One second. Trying to snag some spare parts for the old girls out there.”

Michaels laughed. “From where?”

“The CSV Brazer had a couple of pieces of equip the Hermes needs, so I worked out a multiparty deal.”

Remind me never to get involved in the inner workings of CDF logistics. Michaels plopped into a chair. “I figure we’ll be getting shipped to the Hermes if we’re lucky or one of those Thane-class escort carriers.”

“That seems logical, sir. I, for one, will miss having you on the deck.” The Thatcher’s enlisted crew had really embraced having the stealth fighters aboard. The shuttle bay ratings had ended up having colored jackets made to emulate a carrier, which they wore with obvious pride.

Roth’s was brown, as she functioned as the leader of the personnel who prepared the Ghosts for the void. Because of the limited crew, she also handled plane-director duties.

“For what it’s worth, you and your team have done a better job than even a carrier’s aviation division. You’ve made Ichikawa and me feel at home here.”

“Thank you, sir.” Roth smiled at him. “Who knows? Maybe you guys will stick around for a bit.”

“Who knows with—”

The hatch swung open suddenly, and Colonel Arthur Hanson walked in with a freshly pressed khaki duty uniform on, complete with spit-shined black shoes.

Michaels and Roth sprang from their seats and came to attention.

“As you were.” Arthur grinned. “I’ve been looking all over for you, Captain Michaels.”

“Sorry, sir. Didn’t realize it.”

“Just got back from the Hermes. Colonel Kattan sends her compliments.”

Michaels ran a hand through his short-cropped black hair. “Did she, sir? Does that mean Ichikawa and I have a new assignment?”

Arthur bit his lip and hummed. “Well, we decided that since you’ve acclimated to flying off the Thatcher, it would be best to keep the two of you here.”

Before Michaels could reply, Roth fist-pumped twice and let out a whoop. “Yes! We’ll show those Leaguers straight to the Prophet’s judgment!”

“That’s the spirit, Sergeant,” Michaels replied as his face broke into an enormous grin. “I’m glad to hear it, sir. This assignment leads to some interesting missions.”

Arthur’s eyes went to Roth’s arm, and he raised an eyebrow slightly at the Saurian flag below the Terran Coalition emblem but then returned his focus to Michaels. “Since we’re the only destroyer in the fleet with fighters flying off its deck, I should trust that uniqueness will continue, Captain.”

“Thank you, sir. It would’ve been easy to get rid of us… and me.”

“Almost everyone deserves a second chance, Captain. Keep proving me right.”

“Yes, sir.” Michaels set his jaw. “Won’t let you down, sir.”

“Carry on.” Arthur turned and walked out, the hatch sliding shut behind him.

Roth set down her tablet. “You should stop beating yourself up, sir. You consistently perform in the field of battle and match your blade with the enemy. That brings honor.”

Michaels closed his eyes. Memories of the accident didn’t come to the front of his mind every day like they used to, but whenever someone brought it up, he couldn’t help but visualize the shuttle exploding. “Yeah, it’s a tenet of my faith that you can’t make up for sin… any sin… through good works.”

“Then how do you atone?”

“I don’t think I can. On some level, I’ll carry this with me the rest of my life. And I’ll hope that the word is true and my sins are forgiven in the life to come.”

“The Prophet sees your actions, sir. And I believe He walks beside you.”

Michaels pursed his lips. “Well, I won’t turn down help from anyone.” He still wasn’t quite sure what to make of a human who believed in the Saurian religion. But Roth’s background was unique. And it makes her quite interesting to be around.

“Coming to the blackjack game tonight, sir?”

“Oh, I wouldn’t miss that. I’m looking forward to cleaning all of you out of your beer rations for the week.”

Roth briefly bared her teeth. “Good luck. We play to win.”

Michaels pushed up from his chair and headed toward the exit. “Of that, I have no doubt, Sergeant. See you around.” As he walked down the corridor and headed for the pilots’ ready room, where he hoped to find Ichikawa, Michaels reflected that he did have a second chance on the Margaret Thatcher. If nothing else, defeating PFLOS would bring some salve to his soul. He hoped anyway.

4

The Margaret Thatcher’s bridge buzzed with anticipation. Arthur could almost feel the excitement flowing through his veins. There had been no PFLOS attacks in days, no communiques since they’d freed the prisoners, and it seemed like the worst was over. That was how the holonews networks and the CDF’s public affairs office back on Canaan were portraying it. Something told him it wasn’t going to be that simple, though. Regardless, the reinforcements brought hope that they’d be able to win conclusively in the near future, and it was contagious across every member of the Thatcher’s crew.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. Ship launches from the surface. Classified as friendly civilians, sir,” Second Lieutenant Nadia Yasin called out from her station.

Arthur steepled his fingers, as if for a moment, he expected something. “Number?”

“Six, sir.”

That would be the rest of the convoy. Beneath the hope and excitement was something else for Arthur. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but whatever it was, the sixth sense he wasn’t quite sure he had tingled.

“This is quite the motley crew here. Coalition Merchant Marines, a hospital ship, an escort carrier, and our battlegroup,” Miller said just loudly enough for Arthur to hear.

“You know something I don’t, XO?”

“Only that besides the carrier’s assigned escorts, none of us have drilled this evolution, and I’d wager those Merchant Marine vessels haven’t participated in a convoy exercise in over a year, if ever, since the end of the League war.”

She was probably right, and the thought was sobering at best. There had certainly been a rush to move on from the trappings and reminders of constantly being at war. The peace dividend, as many had called it. Arthur struggled to recall some Latin saying General Cohen had uttered on more than one occasion. Something about if you want peace, prepare for war. Perhaps that was a wise course of action, but it was immaterial now.

“Conn, Communications. We’re receiving our first jump coordinates from the Valley Forge,” Kaveh interjected from his station to the right of the CO’s chair.

The Thane-class escort carrier was the center of their convoy and, as such, would direct all maneuvers. “Nav, plug in those numbers and charge the Lawrence drive.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Savitz replied. “Course plotted. Drive charging.”

Arthur’s eyes went to the ship-status screen above his head, which showed a rapid increase in energy stored for the Lawrence drive jump.

“Conn, Communications. CSV Valley Forge actual is giving the jump command.”

Outside the transparent windows at the front of the bridge, swirling vortices of blue, yellow, orange, and purple ripped through the fabric of the void. The sight was awe-inspiring, and even after seeing thousands of jumps, Arthur still found it beautiful.

“Conn, Navigation. Lawrence drive is fully powered.”

Arthur gripped both arms of his chair. “Activate Lawrence drive.”

In front of the Thatcher, another wormhole opened. A moment later, the destroyer powered forward, and in the span of a few seconds, it appeared on the other side.

“Sensors back online,” Yasin interjected. “No contacts except known friendlies. Populating the chart with Sierra One through Thirty-Seven, sir.”

Arthur exhaled heavily and glanced at Miller. “One down, eight to go.”

“Am I the only one who thinks this is too easy?” she asked under her breath.

“No. But let’s hope we’re both wrong.”

Miller merely nodded, and Arthur pulled up the engineering-status display. Four hours until our next jump for maximum safety, accounting for the civilian freighters. Lord, watch over us. He prayed they would get to Auxerre in time.

* * *

LX Kornei Andrusenko

Deep Space—Orion Spur

19 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev blinked. His eyes were dry and scratchy after he’d sat in the commander’s chair for hours, watching real-time sensor info from the CDF convoy. The enemy’s tactics were sound—for a conflict played by the old rules. But he wasn’t playing by those rules. Instead, Kovalev had, for once, the drop on the vaunted Coalition Defense Force. Their overconfidence was about to bite them in the rear, and it made him nearly giddy with delight.

“Hostile vessels’ jump completed.”

Kovalev’s lips curled up. “Navigator, plot our own jump and prepare to engage.”

“Yes, comrade.”

Gao leaned in. “Where did this technology come from? It’s like magic. How can it possibly predict the exit of the Terrans’ ships? They need a massive sensor network and half a planet of supercomputers to do it to us.”

Kovalev shrugged. “The benefactor told me it’s from some alien race in the Sextans B galaxy that has cause to hate the Coalition. The Admari.”

“They make friends wherever they go.”

“All the better for us.” Kovalev rubbed his hands together. It was time to make the Individualists pay. “Charge FTL.”

5

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Sector 18B—Orion Spur

20 April 2474

The third watch was always the least manned and most muted period on any CDF ship in the void. By adhering to CMT—Coalition Mean Time—the crew kept to their sleep schedules, thus enhancing their readiness level. It had been part and parcel of the CDF since the first iteration of interstellar warships hundreds of years prior.

It also happened to be First Lieutenant Esther Savitz’s favorite time of the day, not only because the CO, XO, chief engineer, and most of the other senior officers were asleep and, therefore, she was the de facto officer of the deck while on duty. No, the quiet enabled her to process the day’s events. After the ops tempo of the last few weeks, that was something sorely needed by all of them. I’m just lucky enough to get it by volunteering for extra shifts.

Savitz often wondered how her family was doing back on Egyptus Prime. Only urgent communications were transmitted over the limited commlink bandwidth. Personal messages were out of the question thanks to the PFLOS sabotage in the opening days of the war. It almost drove her to distraction, as her brother was only a month away from reporting to recruit training in the CDF.

“TAO, anything on long-range sensors?”

“As clean as a whistle, Lieutenant.”

Savitz stretched her neck from side to side. They were on schedule for the next jump on the convoy’s journey. “Navigation, reconfirm Lawrence drive coordinates from the CSV Moshe Levy.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.” With one navigator killed in the initial PFLOS attack, Colonel Hanson had been forced to use an enlisted rating as the third-watch navigator. It was a learning curve, to say the least.

“So, why do you volunteer for these graveyard shifts, Lieutenant?” the third-shift communications officer, Second Lieutenant Ashworth, asked.

“Because I like the experience.”

“Oh? Want your own ship someday?”

“Who doesn’t?” Savitz replied.

He shook his head. “Not me. I’m after those sweet defense-contractor credits. Finish out my stint then climb the corporate ranks.”

“Not for me.”

“Why not?”

Savitz made a face. “Because I want to be the sharp tip of the spear.”

Ashworth snickered. “Got your wish, LT.”

“We all did, whether it was our wish or not,” she replied with a grim chuckle.

“The Moshe Levy has cleared all convoy vessels for jump, Lieutenant.”

“Very well. Navigation, charge the Lawrence drive.”

“Aye, aye, ma’am.”

Savitz watched over the virtual shoulder of the navigator as he primed the FTL engine and executed the checklist of commands required to send the Thatcher hurtling through an artificial hole in the fabric of spacetime.

He executed them to her satisfaction before calling out, “Lawrence drive charged, ma’am.”

“Activate Lawrence drive.”

Moments later, the destroyer powered through the wormhole. The transit experience was something Savitz never tired of. Some complained that every jump was the same thing, but she didn’t see it that way. To her, every trip through an artificial wormhole was a trip through the fabric of the universe, and she never felt closer to God than during those one to two seconds of existence.

The Margaret Thatcher popped out on the other side, and her bridge crew collectively held their breath. It took anywhere from three to five seconds for the passive and active sensor systems to “see” again as electromagnetic interference cleared.

“Conn, TAO. Sensors online. No hostile contacts.”

Savitz exhaled heavily. “Notify engineering to commence cool-down procedures—”

“Conn, TAO! Aspect change. Inbound wormholes bearing one-zero-five, range four thousand kilometers.” The third-shift tactical officer turned in his seat. “League of Sol signature, ma’am.”

Training and muscle memory kicked in even as her heart skipped a few beats. She hit the button for 1MC on the CO’s chair. “This is Lieutenant Savitz. General quarters. General quarters. All hands to battle stations. I say again, all hands to battle stations. Enemy vessels inbound. Colonel Hanson to the bridge.”

“New contact. Rand-class heavy cruiser designated Master One. Multiple inbound wormholes. Known PFLOS signatures, ma’am.”

How did they find us? “Raise deflectors. Charge the energy-weapons capacitor.”

The Thatcher was too far away from the Rand to be attacked in the initial volley, but some of the convoy’s freighters weren’t so lucky. The hulking League warship rotated in the void and loosed its powerful neutron beams.

Then all hell broke loose.

* * *

Arthur pushed away a piece of debris, only to find his arms wouldn’t work. It seemed as if the commands weren’t making their way from his brain down his central nervous system. He was in a ruined passageway on the Thatcher, which had clearly taken serious battle damage. All around him, men and women were screaming in agony. Arthur could only watch, helpless. A portion of the corridor had blown out, and bodies shot into the void.

Right as Arthur was about to fly out of the ship, desperately grabbing at any handhold, the insistent buzzing of the general-quarters klaxon broke through his nightmare. He jerked awake in a cold sweat, his heart pounding, and for a moment, he didn’t know where he was. Get it together, Hanson.

He swung out of the bunk and nearly fell down as the vessel rumbled. Weapons fire. Not bothering to call the bridge for an update or put on his clothes, Arthur stumbled out of his day cabin on deck one and raced toward the portal that opened to the bridge. The two Marine sentries, present twenty-four hours a day, came to attention as he went by. It never failed to impress him how rigid the Marines were in their adherence to detail and regulation. Even when we’re in battle.

Arthur made it to the raised command area in record time and slid into the CO’s chair while reaching over to pull up his favored status screen on the integrated monitor. “Report, Lieutenant?”

“Inbound hostiles, sir. There’s a—”

The bridge window erupted in white light as a vessel exploded in the void. The telltale flash was what every spacer dreaded: a runaway fusion reaction. Arthur realized that a trio of red neutron beams traced back to another ship. Wait. No way. He double-checked his sensor readout. “Lieutenant, have I lost my mind, or is that a Rand-class heavy cruiser?”

“No, sir. It’s real, and it’s loaded for bear.”

Arthur had no idea what bears had to do with the problem. Nor did he have time to think about it. Okay. Work the problem. We’ve got plenty of combat power here, even if that thing does outclass all of us on an individual basis. “This is Colonel Hanson. I have the conn.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Colonel Hanson has the conn,” Savitz replied.

“Lieutenant, take Navigation. And get me an intercept vector on the nearest hostile contact.”

Savitz jumped up from the chair so quickly he almost couldn’t track her. It would take the senior officers a few minutes still to make it to the bridge, which meant Arthur had to rely on what was effectively the B team. Though even the third-shift watch officers had had their fair share of seasoning the last few weeks. But the trial by fire was still no substitute for time in grade and post.

“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from Moshe Levy actual. We’re ordered to engage the nearest enemy.”

Arthur would’ve preferred some better instructions than that. His eyes went to the tactical plot. Besides the Rand, PFLOS had brought ten of their Q-ship freighters to the fight. Two of them matched the configuration of their overloaded point defense boats, while the rest were the standard up-gunned Halcyon-class. All of them were headed into the heart of the convoy using a wedge formation.

The bridge hatch unlocked, and the echo of combat boots rang out. A moment later, Miller dropped into the XO’s chair. “Out of uniform, sir?”

Arthur glanced at her just so he could see the smirk behind the words. “Be glad I sleep in my skivvies. Otherwise, you’d be getting a real show.”

“Yeah, I’ll pass, thanks.”

Muted snickers sounded around them. Even in the throes of life-or-death combat, soldiers would latch on to anything to lighten the mood. Arthur had learned that a long time ago and embraced it down in the engineering spaces. He tried to carry it forward to his command style with mixed results.

“Intercept course plotted for Master Four, sir.”

“Engage at max thrust.” He turned back to Miller. “Get our fighters in the void.”

“Yes, sir. All hands on deck?”

Arthur nodded. “That’s all we can do.”

The friendly escorts raced across the freighter formation to meet the enemy head-on. The lead ships were slowing, which allowed the out-of-position vessels to catch up. As Arthur stared at the plot, new icons appeared around the Moshe Levy, denoting fighters and bombers. So far, there was no PFLOS small craft. Maybe that’ll tilt it in our favor. He couldn’t help but feel like they were fighting with one arm behind their back, however, with a Rand-class heavy cruiser on the other side. “That Rand have an IFF beacon active?”

“It’s showing up as a PFLOS asset, sir,” the third-watch tactical officer interjected. “No League ID.”

Arthur chuckled. “Of course it is, because anyone can just come to own League military ships these days. Nav, what’s the cooldown on our freighters and the hospital ship?”

“Another twenty minutes, minimum, for safe jumps, sir.”

Something’s wrong here. PFLOS jumps into deep space when we’re constrained by our cooldown timer, and they just happen to do it on third watch? No way. This was planned. The trouble was Arthur had no idea how and couldn’t spare the brain power. Still, it gnawed at him. Okay, focus. One problem at a time, and for starters, that’s the nearest freighter. “TAO, firing point procedures, Master Four, forward mag-cannons and neutron beams.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Make tubes one through six ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Arthur kept his eyes glued to the tactical display, anticipating ranging on the hostile. A couple of seconds before the red icon representing Master Four closed within the weapons-range graphic, he spoke. “Match bearings, shoot, forward mag-cannons and neutron beams.”

The Thatcher shuddered slightly as her entire fore weapons suite unleashed its fury on the PFLOS freighter. Twin blue spears of energy slammed into the deflectors of the enemy ship while mag-cannon shells peppered the surface, their EMP energy crackling in the void. Another CDF Ajax-class destroyer added its weight to the barrage even as the enemy returned fire with everything they had.

“Conn, TAO. Master Four forward shield quadrant reduced by half cohesion, sir.”

Arthur realized as the adrenaline wore off that he was quite cold. That’s what I get for parading around in my underwear. “Maintain firing solution, Lieutenant. Double-load the mag-cannons with two EMP rounds.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“ETA to reload?”

“Twenty seconds, sir.”

The deck shifted under Arthur’s feet as the Thatcher pitched to the right from repeated plasma ball hits. He held on for dear life, his knuckles turning white from the exertion, to keep from being tossed out of his chair. Amid a lull in the relentless barrage, he seized the fleeting moment to secure his safety harness, the metallic click providing a brief respite from the chaos. “Firing point procedures, Master Four, tubes one through six.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” After a momentary pause came “Firing solutions set.”

Arthur leaned forward, giving a ferocious snarl as a fire burned in his heart. I’ve got you the next time, you bastards. Retribution was coming.

6

Michaels woke up with a start as the scramble klaxon in his quarters blasted. The sound was nearly enough to lift him out of his bunk on its own. Like an automaton, he jumped up, took three steps to the clothes locker, and grabbed the nearest undersuit. It took him a few seconds more than he would’ve liked as he fumbled with one of the zippers several times before finally getting it into place. The mesh would regulate his internal temperature when paired with a standard-issue CDF flight suit.

Once both items of clothing were snugly on, he pulled on the boots and sealed them against the legs of the suit and put on his gloves. The helmet went under his arm as he tore out of the cabin within ninety seconds of the alarm going off.

The passageways of the Margaret Thatcher were sheer pandemonium as enlisted ratings rushed toward their assigned battle stations. Since it was in the wee hours of the morning, Coalition Mean Time—which all CDF vessels ran on regardless of where they were—most of the crew had been asleep. Michaels dodged a private who was struggling to get his arms into fire-retardant coveralls, followed closely by two young women still pulling on their utility uniforms.

Once to the gravlift, he used his officer-level command override to go straight to the deck with the shuttle bay. When the doors opened, Michaels ran like the devil himself was behind him, only to find that Ichikawa had beaten him to the bay.

Enlisted ratings rushed about the deck, performing final preparations on their two SFS-3 Ghost stealth recon fighters, while Sergeant Roth worked through a checklist on her tablet.

Michaels didn’t bother with pleasantries as he raced by, slid his helmet over his head and locked it into place, then clambered up the alloy ladder hanging off the side of his fighter. A moment later, he’d swung into the cockpit and was going through an abbreviated preflight checklist from memory.

“Ready for onboard power-up, sir!” Roth yelled, the noise of pounding boots on alloy echoing over the commlink.

“Roger that, Sergeant.” Michaels toggled the Ghost’s auxiliary power generator online, which, in turn, kicked its miniaturized fusion reactor into active mode. Less than sixty seconds later, the entire board was showing green. “Iota One, ready for launch.”

“Iota Two, ready for launch,” Ichikawa added.

Michaels gave a thumbs-up before saluting.

Roth returned the gesture before running out of the shuttle bay with the rest of the enlisted ratings.

In front of Michaels’s fighter, the shuttle bay doors rolled up, revealing the inky blackness of the void just a few meters beyond.

“Iota One, you are cleared to launch.”

Michaels’s hands went to the controls and jammed the throttle forward as he kept a tight grip on the flight stick. Manually guiding the Ghost out of the bay was something he’d sort of gotten used to, but it still felt like cheating death every time he did it.

Once he’d cleared the shuttle bay, Ichikawa quickly joined him in the void. It took a moment for the integrated sensor system to link up the command-and-control network, but when it did, the tactical map filled in nicely. Looks like the Moshe Levy got its alert fighters into the void. There were seven friendlies in Phantoms plus the two Ghosts—against more than twice their number of PFLOS combat craft.

Three enemy fighters chased a Phantom less than a hundred kilometers away from their position, and Michaels quickly decided to intervene. “Iota Two, form on my wing and follow me in. You get tone, take the shot.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Michaels accelerated to max thrust and zeroed in on one of the hostiles chasing the friendly Phantom, which came up as Theta Three on his tactical computer. The fighter went into guns-D as all three PFLOS craft lit up the void with streams of plasma balls.

“Iota One to Theta Three. I’m coming up on your seven o’clock. Stand by to break right and pull up.”

“Wilco, Iota One. Glad to hear your voice. Bastards splashed my wingman a minute ago” came a woman’s voice.

“Hang in there,” Michaels replied as he adjusted his course slightly. He purposely waited until he was well inside the weapons envelope to toggle his LIDAR-tracking system to active mode. After a few seconds, the lock-on tone sounded.

“Iota One, fox three. Theta Three, break now!” Michaels pressed the missile-launch button on the top of his flight stick. A moment later, an LT-47F Advanced Vulture active LIDAR-tracking warhead jettisoned from his Ghost’s internal stores bay. Its gel-fueled rocket motor engaged, and it zoomed into the void.

Because of the close range, it took less than ten seconds for the Vulture to hit its target, blasting through the PFLOS craft’s shields and taking out half the left wing. A moment later, the entire craft blew apart. “Iota One, splash one.”

The two other PFLOS fighters immediately turned and moved to disengage.

“Nice shooting over there for a recon guy,” the female pilot said. “I owe you one if we make it out of this furball alive.”

“I’ll take you up on that… Name, rank, location?”

A series of snickers from various pilots filled the channel.”

“First Lieutenant Tufa, CSV Moshe Levy. Come find me if you dare.”

“Captain Kevin Michaels, CSV Margaret Thatcher. We’ve got a better ready room,” Michaels replied as his eyes went to the HUD superimposed over his flight helmet’s visor.

“Maybe I’ll come see for myself one of these days.”

“It’s a date.” Michaels settled on the nearest PFLOS fighter, which had reversed course and headed straight for him. Yes, that’s right. I need another kill today to make triple ace. His hand gripped the flight stick ever tighter, and a nasty grin formed on his lips. Time to die, terrorists. Each friendly saved and every enemy destroyed was another mark on Michaels’s quest for redemption, and he would either succeed or die trying.

* * *

“Master Four evaded our mag-cannon shots, sir.”

Arthur didn’t care for the explanation from Yasin, who’d rushed to the bridge and taken over the tactical console, but she was only doing her job. The Thatcher’s shots were more ineffective than he’d ever care to see as the PFLOS vessels darted in and out of range. They’d changed tactics, no longer looking for a standup fight, and instead focused their fury on the civilian ships.

The result was spread-out escorts and not enough firepower concentrated in any one vector to take out the enemy.

“I don’t like how these guys showed up out of nowhere in deep space,” Miller interjected.

“We’ll do a complete comms scrub and change our encryption scheme after our next jump,” Arthur replied. He fully agreed with her.

Six Hunter missiles still tracked Master Four, however, and Arthur hoped they would be enough. He overlaid the tactical plot with a calculation of the gel fuel remaining in each warhead.

Meanwhile, another flash of white light filled the bridge windows, coming from only a few hundred kilometers from the Thatcher. Arthur checked the plot only to see another friendly civilian vessel gone. It was difficult not to feel helpless, but he tried to set that aside, focusing solely on how to defeat the enemy in front of him. What am I missing? Arthur used the plot’s tracing abilities to draw lines from the attacking terrorists on bearings toward the convoy. The objective became clear: the CSV Mercy.

“Conn, Communications. Colonel Firat for you on vidlink, sir.”

“Put him on,” Arthur replied.

A moment later, the screen above the CO’s chair came alive as it swung down on its mount. “We’re both a bit busy, so I’ll keep it brief, Colonel Hanson. What’s your read on these guys? If you have any clues on how to outflank them, I’m all ears.”

“I think they’re going after the Mercy, sir.”

“That’s my read too.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Jump the civilians out. That’ll leave clear firing lanes, and we can converge on these guys and finish off the escorts, and maybe the Rand takes off.”

“Yeah, I was thinking that too. Thanks for the confirmation.”

“Sorry I don’t have anything else, sir.”

“Catch you after the fight, Hanson. Maybe you’ll have some ideas about how these guys tracked us down in deep space. And put some pants on, would you? This vidlink is like a bad episode of War Patrol.”

Arthur’s cheeks heated. “Right after no one’s shooting at us anymore, sir.”

“Cheerio, then. Moshe Levy out.”

The screen went black and rotated back into the overhead automatically. Arthur glanced at Miller. “Where the hell did they get a Rand-class heavy cruiser from? That’s a major escalation. Not to mention how they found us.”

She shook her head. “Who knows, sir. It’s somewhat surreal. How do we destroy the Rand?”

“Put enough firepower on target, and League heavy cruisers blow up real nice.”

Miller smirked. “What are you waiting for, then?”

Arthur’s eyes went back to the tactical plot. Only three Hunter missiles remained in pursuit of Master Four. Damn, their point defense is better than any League ship has ever displayed. One by one, the warheads spent their fury against the deflectors of the Halcyon-class freighter. Her captain knew his—or her—business. By rotating the vessel as the fusion explosions occurred in real time, their power was wasted on two separate shield facings.

It wasn’t the first time Arthur had seen that particular trick. Coalition Defense Force vessels used it often. But it was rare for Leaguers to implement it successfully.

“Moshe Levy is sending out jump coordinates,” Miller interjected. “Looks like rally point Charlie.”

Arthur nodded. “Good. We’ve lost too many, but at least we can make it mean something.”

“Amen, sir.” Miller adjusted in her seat. “Personally, I want a Rand kill on my sheet.”

“Just remember the cost for the medal, Major,” Arthur replied a moment later. As the words left his mouth, he instantly regretted them.

At least until she bit her lip. “You’re right. We shouldn’t make light of the civvies’ losses. They’re spacers too.”

“That’s the spirit, XO.” Arthur turned his head back to view the void through the bridge’s windows. Neutron beams crisscrossed the area along with an occasional explosion. His eyes went back to the tactical plot. Why is it that every time we think these guys are on the ropes, they manage to show another card up their sleeve?

7

Michaels felt the g-forces pressing against his brain as he whipped his Ghost stealth-recon fighter into a tight turn. A PFLOS fighter was trying to line up on the lead bomber he was protecting, and that just wouldn’t do. He held on to the flight stick for dear life until the targeting reticle turned green. Michaels’s finger tightened around the integrated trigger, and he held it down.

Bright-blue neutron-cannon bolts shot through the void in a concentrated burst. The first set missed, but the second and third hit, hammering down the hostile’s shields even as it loosed a flurry of xaser fire coupled with an anti-fighter missile.

Michaels stuck to the enemy craft like glue, matching every attempt to evade move for move. He filled the void with another barrage of neutron-cannon bolts and, that time, succeeded in erasing the hostile from existence as its reactor went critical and blew apart.

“Iota One, splash one. You’re clear, Gamma flight.”

“Roger, Iota One.”

“Thanks for the assist, Iota,” one of the bomber pilots called. “Nice shooting for recon pilots.”

“We know a thing or two,” Michaels replied as Ichikawa appeared off his left wing. He checked the board only to see the hostile craft pulling back for their respective carriers at maximum speed, aided by active thrusters. Commonly referred to as afterburners, they gave space-superiority fighters or whatever unit that mounted them a burst of extra speed. Ghosts, by their very nature, avoided anything that added additional sensor signature. Stealth was key in staying alive.

Except when pressed into service as a dogfighter against civilian craft being used by terrorists to blow up freighters—at that point, just about anything was on the table, including armed shuttles.

“Should we give chase, sir?” Ichikawa asked.

“Negative, Lieutenant. Follow the bombers in. Add some neutron-cannon damage. Maybe we’ll get lucky and hit something exposed to the void.”

“Not good odds on that, sir.”

Michaels chuckled. “There weren’t good odds on us surviving this far, so I’ll take it.”

One of the friendly freighters jumped out in a brilliant display of color from its artificial wormhole, which closed a moment later in a bright flash of orange light. Another followed then a third.

So why are the terrorists pulling their small craft back? It didn’t quite add up unless they planned to bail out on fighting the military forces. But so far, PFLOS had shown no lack of interest in destroying CDF vessels.

Michaels filed the thought away, sure that someone else far above his pay grade was paying attention and noticed the incongruence.

Meanwhile, the flight of four Valiant bombers headed toward a Halcyon-class freighter. The craft were lumbering and slow compared to even a Ghost, but they had served well over the last decade and a half since their introduction during the latter half of the League of Sol–Terran Coalition war. Fifty kilometers from the target, they loosed a wave of anti-ship Javelin missiles toward the enemy.

Outfitted with a fusion warhead roughly half the yield of a Starbolt or Hunter, the Javelins represented the pinnacle of Coalition fighter-based anti-ship weaponry and had been iterated on for decades. They were fired just close enough to avoid most point defense, as they accelerated on a homing trajectory.

Michaels rode in with the bombers, only a few kilometers off their left side, his eyes flicking between the void for situational awareness and the sensor display on his HUD. Though he actively searched for threats, there were no enemy fast movers left to engage. Once the final tracking from the Javelins engaged, all four bombers peeled off. He pressed on, wanting to see the effects of the anti-ship warheads.

The light show didn’t disappoint.

Several massive explosions lit up the void as one after the other, the warheads slammed into the PFLOS freighter’s shields. As the last Javelin pierced the protective screens, it released its fury on one of the engine pods. The blast disintegrated an ion exhaust cone, exposing the propulsion system underneath to the void. As damaged as the terrorist ship was, it still had maneuvering ability thanks to the second engine emplacement.

Michaels toggled his commlink back to the all-squadrons channel. “Gamma, no joy. Master Seven is still combat capable.”

“Roger, Iota. We’ll reprosecute the target once we reach minimum safe distance.”

“Understand.” Michaels rotated his fighter back toward the bomber flight, with Ichikawa tight on his tail. “Settle in. This is going to be fairly boring unless the enemy reverse course on their space-superiority fighters.”

“I think I could do with some boring, sir.”

Michaels chuckled. “Nah. I prefer everything in the universe flying straight at me.”

“You should see about getting assigned to a Phantom squadron, sir. I’m sure somebody needs a good pilot.”

“No. I’m where I need to be,” Michaels replied as he adjusted his grip on the flight stick.

Another brief flash of light from an artificial wormhole got his attention. That one was much larger than the others. He checked his sensor readout to see that the CSV Comfort had jumped. Good. I feel a lot better fighting without a hospital ship in the mix. With most of the friendly civilian vessels out, at the very least, they had open firing lanes on the terrorists. Michaels grinned. Let’s see how you guys like getting ground into space dust.

* * *

The Margaret Thatcher plowed onward in the void, her neutron beams flashing in the inky blackness. A few kilometers away, the CSV Leonidas, which had been on the other side of the formation for most of the fight, had caught up to her. The Ajax-class destroyer added her weapons to the fray, sending a volley of mag-cannon shells into the same PFLOS freighter.

“Conn, TAO. Master Nine’s port deflectors are under ten percent cohesion.”

Arthur saw it as Yasin made the report, and his mind immediately leaped to how they could finish off the enemy. “Energy-weapons-capacitor status, Lieutenant?”

“Below twenty-five percent, sir.”

Not enough to punch through and make it count. Arthur hated waiting, but that was what he had to do—for another salvo of magnetic-cannon rounds to be loaded along with his missile tubes.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change. All hostile contacts are charging their FTL drives, while remaining enemy small craft are being recovered.”

They’re pulling out. Before he could give orders to attack Master Nine with anything they had, a wormhole opened in front of the Halcyon-class freighter, and it glided away into the multicolored maw. Arthur cursed under his breath.

“We could try chasing down the carrier,” Miller interjected. “But it’s at the periphery of the battle.”

“By design, I’m sure.” Arthur had long since realized that Kovalev was no slouch when it came to combat tactics. Well, at least we can lick our wounds and come up with a better strategy for next time. He looked forward to a little downtime. “Nav, plot an intercept—”

“Sir,” Ashworth cut in. “We’re getting distress calls from the freighters that just jumped out and the CSV Mercy. They’re under attack by PFLOS vessels that have appeared on top of them.”

Arthur’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head.

“How is that possible?” Miller asked.

“I don’t know,” Arthur replied. Logically, it had to be ships jumping out in front of them. But how could they track our ships in deep space? No one had that tech except the Terran Coalition. “Spin up the Lawrence drive. Set jump coordinates to the Mercy’s location.”

Arthur realized that his day was just getting started.

8

Seconds ticked by like they were caught in a time-dilation field. “Nav, why isn’t our Lawrence drive charged yet?”

“Sir, engineering is requesting a safety hold—”

Arthur nearly came unglued. “Lieutenant Savitz, I don’t care what anyone says but me. Charge our Lawrence drive and jump immediately. We cannot leave civilian ships without coverage.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied in a clipped tone.

Moments later, the Thatcher’s FTL drive tore a hole in the fabric of the void. She accelerated and punched through to emerge in the middle of a battlefield. Bright-red plasma balls were flung like children’s toys by the PFLOS vessels, seemingly filling every vector. As the Ajax-class destroyer exited her wormhole, one of the friendly vessels blew apart in a massive explosion.

“TAO, firing point procedures, snap shot, all available weapons, the closest enemy to us.”

Yasin was silent before she called over her shoulder, “Snap shot, all weapons, Master Six, aye.”

Magnetic-cannon shells raced away from the Margaret Thatcher, and her bow-mounted neutron beams struck home against the PFLOS freighter’s shields. It would be at least another ten minutes before the automated reloading system had a whole brace of Hunters ready to launch, which diluted the power of the volley.

Still, it was enough to attract the enemy’s attention. The hostile shifted its fire from a civilian target to the destroyer and sent a barrage of plasma balls their way. A red neutron beam erupted from an emitter amidships and slammed into the Thatcher’s port shield. Arthur felt thankful it wasn’t cruiser size as some of the terrorists’ other ships fielded. The weapon packed a wallop, however.

“Port deflector under half cohesion, sir,” Yasin called out.

Arthur smoothed out his sweater reflexively. “Senior Chief, pass down to the reloading team to have ratings with block and tackle working the aft end of the VLS while the autoloader handles the fore.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Cooper replied.

“Conn, TAO. Four hostiles moving to engage Sierra Fourteen, sir… CSV Mercy.”

Every alarm in Arthur’s mind went off at the same time. “Nav, intercept course. Put us between the incoming and Sierra Fourteen. Maximum thrust.” His eyes went to the tactical plot, which had nowhere near as many blue icons as he’d hoped for.

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Comms, direct all friendly vessels to redirect for Master…” Arthur double-checked his sensor readout before continuing. “Three, Ten, Eleven, and Twenty.”

“You’re not the fleet commander,” Miller said under her breath.

“The Hermes isn’t here, and I outrank most of these COs.”

She nodded and didn’t respond further.

Arthur steepled his fingers, mentally willing the Thatcher onward. A smattering of incoming plasma balls splattered over their shields, but Savitz did an excellent job of spreading out their effect with small evasive maneuvers. At the range they were operating, even minute changes had an outsized effect.

“Sierra Fourteen aft deflectors losing cohesion,” Yasin interjected.

This isn’t happening fast enough. Arthur punched up the 2MC intercom circuit, which linked to engineering. “Hanson to Ramos.”

“Engineering here, sir.”

“Push the reactor to one hundred twenty percent and direct all additional power to our ion engines.”

“Sir—”

Arthur was in no mood for questioning of his orders. He knew it would put undue stress on the torus and further reduce the operational life of the vessel. None of that mattered in the moment. “Now, Captain.”

“Yes, sir.” The line went dead immediately after.

“Nav, how much time did that shave off our intercept window?” Arthur asked.

“Uh, maybe forty-five seconds, sir,” Savitz replied.

“Steady as she goes.”

On the tactical plot, other blue icons also accelerated in the void, heading to the massive hospital ship. Purpose-built vessels, the Convalescence-class ships boasted the best medical technology in the Terran Coalition and were routinely deployed to assist in natural disasters as well as large-scale battles during the League of Sol–Terran Coalition war.

Like any hospital ship, the vessel was painted white, with giant red crosses emblazoned on its sides and dorsal hull. Under the agreed-upon rules of war in the Canaan Conventions on Human and Alien Rights, it was off-limits to attacks. But that mattered little to the PFLOS terrorists as they continued to pummel the Mercy.

Faster, faster. “Nav, can you get anything else out of the engines?”

“No, sir. We’re already red-lined. Even if we took weapons power and transferred that… I think we’d burn the system out.”

I knew that, of course. The feeling of helplessness was overwhelming. They were still four minutes away from being able to hit the terrorist freighters. All the while, the Mercy took blow after blow. Dread filled Arthur’s heart because he knew what would happen next.

Convalescence-class vessels, as part of their status under the Canaan Conventions, were prohibited from mounting anything but the most basic of defensive weaponry—point defense. The only tool left in the Mercy’s toolbox was trying to rotate her shields to waste the attackers’ shots as she headed toward the CDF vessels.

“They can’t take much more.”

Arthur glanced at his XO. “I know.”

With a few seconds to consider the situation, Arthur realized something didn’t add up. How’d these guys know where our civilian ships jumped to? The entire point of using deep-space waypoints is to avoid detection. No sensor existed that could forecast and track a Lawrence drive jump based on one data point. Except those guys from Sextans B. The gray dudes with big eyes. What do they call themselves? Oh yeah, the Admari. But how would the League get that kind of tech?

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Eight is attempting to jump, but I’m showing a massive—”

As a vessel exploded in the void, the brilliant white-and-blue flash blinded them all momentarily.

Arthur closed his eyes. “Exotic-particle release?”

“Yes, sir.” Yasin’s voice sounded like it was a thousand kilometers away.

“Conn, Communications. CSV Mercy is declaring an emergency, and all crew have been ordered to abandon ship.”

This can’t be happening. Arthur felt like he was a millisecond away from his brain shutting down. He forced himself to keep churning the OODA loop. How can I affect this situation?

“Conn, TAO,” Yasin interjected, her voice an octave higher than usual. “All missile tubes reloaded!”

Finally, at least I can give them something else to think about. “TAO, firing point procedures, tubes one through six, Master Three, tubes seven through twelve, Master Ten.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Confirm tubes one through twelve ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

“Confirmed. All doors open, sir.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve.”

The range was the absolute extreme a Hunter could manage, aided by the Mercy and the enemy contacts racing toward them. The Thatcher’s deck plates rumbled as the twelve warheads shot out of their launch tubes one after the other every half a second.

Arthur willed them to close the distance and make a difference as blue icons appeared on the tactical plot then raced into the void. Anything to stop the assault on the Mercy, even if the PFLOS force turned their entire attention on the Margaret Thatcher. It would be worth it.

* * *

CSV Mercy

Deep Space

Simultaneously

Dr. Brady Tobin had known from an early age that he would be a physician. His mother and father had both been medical doctors, one a general practitioner, the other a thoracic surgeon. Medicine ran in his blood and in the family. Their parents, too, had been doctors, with the occasional nurse, physical or occupational therapist, or psychologist thrown in among the aunts, uncles, nieces, and nephews.

A career in military service, though, had been Tobin’s idea, one his parents had objected to. He recalled his mother begging him to open a practice on Eire and provide hands-on primary care. But it wasn’t to be. He’d grown up reading the stories of the brave CDF soldiers who defeated the League and liberated their world in the early days of the war, and more than anything, Tobin wanted to serve.

That had been fifteen years ago. Currently, he was a lieutenant colonel in the Coalition Defense Force and a senior surgeon aboard the Mercy. And one of his worst fears was coming true—a hospital ship in combat and losing decidedly, he surmised from the order to abandon ship.

However, it wasn’t quite that simple on the Mercy. They had berthing for more than three thousand patients, and while they weren’t anywhere near full, at least six hundred civilians were aboard, receiving treatment in various wings of the vessel.

“All the ambulatory patients are out, Doctor!” Chief Claudia Jacinto shouted. She was the primary charge nurse for the thoracic intensive care unit.

“Three of them, right?” Somehow, he mustered a tight smile as the deck plates rocked under them.

“Four.”

Tobin ran his tongue over his lips. “Let’s start moving the nonmobile ones. I want you to triage by who you think has the best chance of recovery.”

“You mean the ones who are most likely to live,” Jacinto replied.

Playing God was something a surgeon did daily. It didn’t matter whether he wanted to or not—he had to make difficult calls, especially during wartime, when there were only so many operating rooms and only so many surgeries that could be performed in an allotted period of time. Patients died. He’d tried to make peace with it as much as humanly possible.

“We’re only going to get so many of them to the pods.”

A pregnant pause followed before she finally nodded. “Yes, Doctor.”

While standard-issue CDF escape pods had no facilities or even the capability to house a medical bed, including the portable types, the specially designed pods on the Mercy and all other purpose-built hospital ships did. With reinforced hulls and wide doors, they had enough life support plus a medical team and the proper diagnostic and treatment capabilities to keep four patients in serious condition alive for forty-eight hours.

Tobin had never before put another person in one except during drills. But that didn’t stop him from pitching in alongside everyone else in the ward, even as the Mercy continued to absorb blow after blow from PFLOS weaponry. The surplus of medical personnel in the thoracic intensive care unit proved beneficial, as they were able to load up four pods with most of those under treatment.

As Tobin helped lock in the last antigrav sled, he realized that math was perhaps not his strong suit. They were on the last of the life pods available to them—and it didn’t have enough room for everyone.

The others did the math in their heads. Nurses, corpsmen, and hospitalists traded glances with one another.

Tobin took a step back, off the pod. “Get these people out of here, Jacinto. I’ll take the next one.”

She leaned in. “There isn’t a next one. You know that.”

“I might be able to get a deck up.”

“We can squeeze you in.”

“Not if it takes more than a few hours for the fleet to pick us up.” Tobin put his hand on hers. “It’s okay. I’m done playing God. Now, get out of here and take care of our people.”

With that, Tobin propelled himself backward into the corridor and used his palm to authenticate himself on the panel that controlled the life pods. He toggled the autolaunch sequence even as Jacinto stood at the hatch with her hands on the window, tears streaming down her face.

“Godspeed,” he mouthed as the craft shot into the void.

Despite the brave words, Tobin felt fear. He’d seen and been a part of far too many deaths for his liking over the years. Some were peaceful, most were violent, and fear had been etched onto the faces of most soldiers whose hands he’d held as they took their last breath.

Checking the evacuation alerts flashing on monitors throughout the Mercy’s corridors revealed that the section of the ship was isolated. Worse, decompression was moving toward him as bulkheads failed.

Tobin thought of his wife and children, extended family, and friends. He wished he could see them one last time, and as those thoughts ran through his mind, he knew that was what most of his patients had felt too.

He decided to sit on the deck before bowing his head and offering a prayer.

Tobin did not consider himself a particularly good man, but he hoped his faith in God was not in vain. If there is an afterlife, perhaps I will see it. Such were his thoughts as a wave of fire blasted through the corridor and immense pain seized him. It faded after a few seconds of agony before a white light appeared. Tobin ran toward it.

* * *

Horror didn’t begin to describe the emotions that ran through Arthur’s mind and soul as the Mercy split in two and her reactor went up. Although he couldn’t quite pinpoint how, the bow section miraculously survived. The slowly moving series of explosions mixed with the sounds of life-pod launches replayed in his mind. Open-mouthed, Arthur was speechless.

“Sir?”

Arthur blinked. He heard Miller’s voice but couldn’t seem to turn his head.

“Sir, what are your orders?”

“Did our units hit? Any damage?” Arthur finally got out.

“Three got through, sir. No damage beyond shields,” Yasin replied a moment later.

Arthur felt about for the armrests of his chair. He breathed in and out, forcing his mind to get back on track. It was almost like rebooting a computer. “Okay.”

“Sir, I’ve got Lawrence drive powerups across the civilian ships.”

That was yet another blow to Arthur’s OODA loop. It’s been too many jumps. He turned to Ashworth. “Lieutenant, warn them off now.”

Somewhere deep inside, he found steel within. “Comms, broadcast to all ships that I’m taking over the fleet. Nav, plot general courses for all armed vessels to collapse into a sphere. Vector the civilians into the center.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Arthur glanced at Miller. “If you’ve got any ideas or advice…”

She shook her head. “I—”

One of the civilian freighters to the Margaret Thatcher’s fore blew apart in a brilliant flash of light, followed by an expanding debris field that was only visible in the void for a few moments as the glare faded.

“Sierra Eight destroyed. Sierra Ten destroyed,” Yasin called out.

The crazy thing was that as Arthur stared at the tactical plot, the CDF had the advantage in numbers—but PFLOS had far superior positioning. How did they know where our freighters jumped? That nagging thought wouldn’t get out of his mind.

“Conn, Communications. I’ve got a wideband vidlink from the PFLOS flagship, sir. It’s Kovalev.”

Arthur gritted his teeth. “Put him on.”

A moment later, the screen above Arthur’s head came alive with an image of Kovalev’s upper body in a shot that was clearly being taken from the bridge of a League vessel. The control surfaces of the Rand-class were visible behind him, identifiable from the additional stations compared to a destroyer or smaller ship.

“This is Comrade Yevgeny Kovalev, speaking to the entire Orion Spur and especially the Coalition Defense Force interlopers in front of me.” His mouth curled into a grin. “You continue to send your ships into our territory, our planets, our space lanes. I make this promise: the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur will continue to destroy them. We care not what they are or who is on them, only that they contain individualists seeking to destroy our society.”

Arthur gripped the handrests on his chair so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

“Think of the thousands of people the CDF is murdering by their continued attempts to retain control over our worlds. I say this to the Terrans… Release our people from your imperial control. We do not want your individualist notions of advancement and achievement. Humans are meant to be more than mere cogs in a wheel. Only by ensuring that everyone shares in prosperity can we ensure that everyone reaches their potential. If that’s a future you want, rise up against your oppressors. Join us.”

He leaned forward. “I will destroy every CDF ship and anyone who supports them. Know this, citizens of the Spur. If you help the Terrans, you will die. The Terrans will die. Anyone who fights against our Society will die. This is a total war, and there can be no end to it except with our triumph or death. Comrade Yevgeny Kovalev signing off.”

Finally, something we agree on.

The screen went black, and the only sounds on the bridge were the whirring of electronics and key tapping by the crew. Arthur put his fingers against his temples. “Nav, get me an intercept course on the PFLOS formation.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all hostiles. They’re a hundred eighty degrees from us and are accelerating into the void. Detecting Lawrence drive spin-up.”

Miller nearly came out of her seat. “Why are they leaving? That doesn’t make sense!”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Sure it does. They got what they came for… a lot of dead civilians. They don’t want to risk further losses to our consolidated force. And Kovalev knows without our fighters and bombers, we’re not stupid enough to try to chase down his heavy cruiser.”

“So we do nothing?”

Arthur turned to her as his face heated. “There is nothing we can do except deploy search and rescue.”

“But—”

“And thank God in heaven above that he’s not finishing us all off.”

Miller blew out a breath as anger radiated out of her body. After a few moments of silence, she finally replied. “Yes, sir. Deploying our rescue craft.”

Arthur turned back to the tactical plot as despair creeped into his mind. We can’t continue like this. Something had to be done to change the situation, or the entire Spur would be lost.

* * *

The Margaret Thatcher’s medical bay was absolute pandemonium. In Jeremiah’s entire career, he had never seen so many wounded people crammed into such a small space. The kinds of injuries he saw repeatedly were horrific. Flash freezing from vacuum exposure, blunt-force trauma from explosive decompression, and pieces of alloy impaled into flesh were common.

Jeremiah ran his scanner over a wounded woman who still wore CDF scrubs. Her insignia identified her as a nurse. “Hey, can you hear me?”

She stared at him in a daze.

The scanner didn’t show terminal wounds. While there was extensive frostbite on her extremities, that could be treated first with warm water and proper heating before dermal regeneration was applied. Or a robotic prosthetic until a new limb can be flash-cloned. He wasn’t quite sure her right foot would make it. “You’re going to be fine.”

The woman continued to stare blankly.

All around them, the cacophony of chaos continued.

Jeremiah put his hand on her shoulder. “Someone will be with you to treat that foot in a few minutes.” The statement wasn’t exactly a lie, but he had no idea how long it would take. Half the people rescued so far from the Mercy and the civilian freighter hulks had frostbite. Most had it worse.

At that moment, a commotion at the double hatch to the med bay attracted Jeremiah’s attention. Two Marines brought a patient in on an antigrav sled with a piece of alloy poking out of his chest.

Oh, Lord, help me. Jeremiah jumped out of the crouch he was in and raced over to perform triage. “Sitrep?”

One of the Marines, whose name stripe read Peters, stared blankly. “We hauled him off an escape pod, Chief.”

Jeremiah ran a medical scanner over the man, who moaned weakly. “How long ago did this injury occur?”

“Hell if I know, Chief. I’m just running them back and forth.”

We’re all in shock. Jeremiah instinctively knew that, but he’d been an emergency medical specialist long enough to push everything else aside and focus on the patient. Every life saved was one more notch of doing God’s work. He leaned over the man. “Hey, can you hear me?”

“Yeees…”

“Do you have any idea how long this thing’s been in your chest?”

“Dooon’t… know.”

The man clutched weakly at Jeremiah’s hand. “Going… to… die?”

Jeremiah laid down his medical scanner and wrapped his hands around the man’s. “Yes, but not today, not if I can help it. Focus on breathing in and out. Stay conscious. Fight. Do you have a family?”

The man nodded once while his eyes watered.

“Then you fight for them, hear me?”

“Yeeesss.”

Jeremiah picked up his scanner and waved a nurse over. “Get this patient to OR 2 immediately. Bump the next patient and put him on cardiopulmonary bypass.”

She took one look at the piece of alloy and shook her head. “He’ll take too long in the suite, Chief. How long—”

“Sergeant, that’s a direct order.”

“Yes, Chief.”

The two Marines followed, maneuvering the antigrav stretcher through the menagerie of people who blanketed the medical bay.

Jeremiah took the opportunity to stop for five seconds, close his eyes, and take a deep breath. Lord, help me. Please. Guide my hands so that I may save these men and women, in Your name. He opened his eyes to see Faulkner standing in front of him.

“Hey, Chief.”

“Lieutenant… got a patient with you?”

“Uh, no. Another rescue shuttle is ten mikes out, though.”

“How many more?”

Faulkner shrugged. “I heard there were several unexplored compartments in the bow section of the Mercy and still some life signs. Search-and-rescue teams aren’t giving up. That’s for sure.”

“What can I do for you, then?”

Faulkner swallowed. “I just want to help, Chief, since there’s nobody for me to shoot. Put me to work.”

“Do you have any first aid training?”

“Same as all Marines… basic battlefield trauma.”

Jeremiah gestured to the sea of humanity around them. “Then get some gloves and a medical scanner if you know how to use one, and start triaging patients as they come in. Basically, anything short of ‘they’ll die in the next hour’ is shunted to the side while we deal with the acute cases.”

“Got it, Chief.” Faulkner turned to go and took a step toward a station in the back of the bay that was stacked with medical supplies.

“Thanks, Lieutenant. Every one we save counts down here.”

Faulkner glanced over his shoulder. “Chief, when we find these bastards… I’m going to kill them all. Every last one.”

At any other time, Jeremiah would’ve corrected the Marine and reminded him of Jesus’s commandment to love your enemy as yourself. But in that moment, he realized he wanted the terrorists wiped off the face of the universe too. He’d ask God for forgiveness later. In the meantime, the only objective was to save as many as he could.

9

CDF Headquarters

Lawrence City—Canaan

20 April 2474

David Cohen’s life was an exercise in extremes. At home, he faced the banality of doing the same things almost every night—dinner, time with the children, getting everyone ready for bed, bedtime stories, prayers, and preparing for the next day. Not to say he didn’t treasure every moment, because he did, perhaps more than anything he’d ever valued in life. The moments of reading to Levi and instructing him on the proper way to say the Shema Yisrael were so beautiful that he never wanted them to end.

But the normalcy was still jarring compared to what awaited him daily in the COMSPACEFLT suite in CDF HQ. A brutal enemy waged war with barbarity as its weapon against the Terran Coalition. And I get to go home to my family every night and eat a hearty dinner. Acceptance was a struggle for him, and the situation brought shame. Yet he had no other choice.

David entered his office, which was like a small building within the massive headquarters. A team of administrative adjutants lined offices around his along with enlisted personnel who, in turn, supported them. He put his khaki duty uniform jacket on a coat hanger to ensure it stayed as presentable as possible and hung it on the rack in the corner.

Just as David was about to sit down and start on the first order of business—reviewing the redacted daily intelligence briefing—a young enlisted soldier popped his head in. “Sir, apologies, but you need to look at this.”

David motioned him forward and took the tablet from his outstretched hand. As he skimmed the details, the report read like something out of a nightmare. Then he reached the part regarding the destruction of the CSV Mercy. Destroying a hospital ship was unheard of. Neither the League nor the Saurians or the Matrinid had ever engaged in such an atrocity.

At that moment, white-hot rage exploded from every pore of David’s being. He launched the tablet across the room, letting out a guttural roar. “Damn them to hell!” The next swipe of his hand sent most of the objects on his desk flying, including the “Complaint Department: Please Take a Number” plaque that had a hand grenade with a 1 hanging off the pin bolted to it.

The soldier who’d brought him the tablet had an expression of shock, amazement, and terror written all over his face, and as David started to smash something else, he finally got the rage under control long enough to process that he was in the headquarters of the most potent military force known in the galaxy—which he ran—and worse, he’d just thrown a tantrum like a child.

One breath in then one breath out several times over led to the red haze receding. David strode over to the fallen data tablet, squatted, and picked it up. “I apologize, Private. That was uncalled for.”

“Uh, no, uh, apology needed, sir. I’ll get this cleaned—”

David stood and handed the device back to him. “No, you will not. I will sort my mess when I return. My mother taught me that, at least.”

“Where are you going, sir?”

“The White House. Robbins will be summoning me momentarily.” His handcomm buzzed. David flipped the device over, and it confirmed his words. “That’s her chief of staff now.”

“Good luck, sir.”

David chuckled. “I’ll need it. Dismissed.”

The young man came to attention before turning and scurrying away as fast as his legs would take him.

Only then did David realize he’d cursed.

* * *

Fifteen minutes later, David settled into the VIP helicar assigned to him by the CDF. Equipped with features like a bulletproof body, enhanced safety equipment, and upgraded communications, it allowed him to maintain contact with any unit from the uplink built into the vehicle.

David took advantage of that connectivity to punch up the vidlink app and select General Andrew MacIntosh’s private fleetlink profile.

A moment later, the Scotsman’s face appeared and, as was quite customary for him, held a frown. “Good morning. What disaster do you bring news of to me now?”

“Nothing more than the one that’s probably already reached you.”

MacIntosh made a face. “These PFLOS bastards need to be hung off the nearest yardarm. Every last one of them.” His Scottish brogue became even more pronounced than usual.

“No argument here.”

“Whatcha need, lad? I’ve got a lot going on this morning.”

“I’ve been summoned to see Robbins.”

MacIntosh pursed his lips. “Wanting some advice, I take it?”

“I don’t know how to shake her loose. I’ve tried everything. Logic, reasoned argument, debate… I even lost my cool and let it rip.”

“You insulted the president of the Terran Coalition?”

David looked away for a moment. “Yeah. I’m on her crap list. That’s for sure.”

“Is there any politician besides Spencer you can get along with? Or did you perhaps forget she’s the commander in chief?” MacIntosh affixed him with a stare that seemed to move through the vidlink and invade his personal space across the light-years.

“Her policies are idiotic. Not sending everything we’ve got, invoking Article Five, and ending this is… It’s a betrayal of the Coalition.”

“And what exactly does telling her that to her face get you besides unending hatred? Are you closer to convincing the government of the rightness of that position or farther from it?”

David knew MacIntosh was right. I suppose that’s a few extra decades of wisdom speaking. “Nothing.”

“Have you apologized?”

Bile rose once more within David. “I’d rather eat pork.”

MacIntosh roared with laughter. “Nevertheless, you must.”

“Thanks for making me feel like a second grader being scolded by his homeroom teacher.”

“If the shoe fits… Even a four-star general needs some instruction occasionally.”

David ran his tongue over his lips. “I’ll apologize.” The words felt like sandpaper on his mouth.

“What’s the plan if you can’t budge her?”

“I already played a hand there and got busted pretty hard. That’s what led to the blowout with Robbins in the first place.”

“The Oxford and Sinclair?”

David nodded.

“Consider other options along those lines. We have to figure out a way to get heavy units to the Spur. That’s the only way this ends favorably.”

“I’ll find a way to get it done. Perhaps Secretary General Spencer could offer an assist.”

MacIntosh snorted. “You and him… peas in a pod. He’s up to something, too, though I don’t know what. It’s better that way for both of us.”

David kicked that around mentally. I suppose if we’re both looking for ways to circumvent the lawfully elected government of the Terran Coalition, which could be construed as treason, compartmentalizing information might make sense. “I see.”

“Be careful. I don’t know who to trust over there.”

“Oh, I do.” David grimaced. “No one in the White House. That’s for sure.”

MacIntosh shook his head. “After three decades of war, we get a few years of peace, then we’re back to this. I wonder what kind of galaxy we’re leaving for our children.”

“One without the League of Sol, I hope.”

“We’re a long way from that.”

David shook his head as he glanced at the time-to-land indicator on the helicar’s HUD. “I’m afraid I have to cut this short, sir. Coming in for a security check at the south gate.”

“Godspeed. You’re going to need it.” MacIntosh forced a grin. “And don’t forget to apologize.”

“Yes, Dad,” David deadpanned.

Both of them laughed, but David realized even as he made the joke that his father’s sacrifice all those years ago still stung. Oh, it was grown over and buried, much like a well-worn callus. But the pain flowed underneath. “Goodbye, sir. I’ll update you after the sit-down.”

“You do that. And be careful in there.”

The screen blinked off, and David steeled himself for what was to come.

* * *

David practiced his apology mentally the entire walk to the Oval Office after being cleared by the uniformed close protective agents who manned the White House security perimeter. It felt like eating dirt. Something about faking it until you made it ran through his mind as he flashed a warm smile at the president’s personal assistant before walking through the door into the most famous room in the Terran Coalition.

“General David Cohen reporting, Madame President,” David said as he came to attention.

Robbins and her chief of staff, Jackson Harding, sat on one of two couches that faced each other in the center of the office. “Sit down, General,” she ground out.

“Before we begin… the last time I was in this office, I behaved in a manner inconsistent with my duty as a CDF officer and with the respect I owe the commander in chief. Please accept my apology.”

Harding glanced between the two of them before interjecting, “That’s appreciated, General. We’re all on the same side here, and emotions do get the better of us at times.”

David nodded and attempted a thin smile. “The stars on my uniform demand a lack of emotion, but I know what you mean.”

Robbins sat with a stone-cold expression, her lips in a straight line as daggers shot from her eyes. “I’ve already been briefed regarding the convoy disaster, General. You saved me the trouble of summoning you here to explain it. How did this happen?”

The enmity in the room was so thick that it could’ve been cut with a knife.

“Ma’am, you’re not going to like the answer,” David replied. He forced himself to not betray a shred of emotion.

“Go on.”

“With the amount of combat power authorized, it is virtually impossible to cover every convoy and planet properly. Colonel Kattan has to make difficult and painful choices about how to allocate her forces. In this instance, the enemy gambled and sent everything to attack one convoy.”

“And destroyed a hospital ship. How many dead?”

“We don’t know,” David replied in the most matter-of-fact tone he could muster. “But hundreds at least, if not thousands.”

“This is where you tell me to send large warships.”

David pursed his lips. “Yes, ma’am. Six carrier battlegroups, multiple space-action groups based around our antimatter fleet cruisers, and while you’re at it, invoke Article Five of the SATO treaty. I’ll have the Spur pacified and every last member of PFLOS rounded up within six weeks.”

“If it wouldn’t restart the war, I’d gladly authorize your course of action, General Cohen.” Robbins’s eyes flashed. “But I won’t see another League of Sol versus the Terran Coalition conflict while I’m in office if there is anything I can do to stop it.”

David bit his lip. “Madame President, are you familiar with Lanchester’s Laws?”

“I don’t need a math lesson, General. What I need you to do is solve this problem with the resources you have at hand.”

David sat back, his eyes going from her to Harding. What is wrong here? What am I missing? He could almost consider that Robbins was somehow complicit after her continued refusal to act. David forced that impulse down, considering it no better than the conspiracy mongers on the GalNet who lurked in the shadows, finding some vast plot in everything going on. Time to try something different.

“You could cite the use of a League of Sol Rand-class heavy cruiser as a justification to void the treaty.”

“The League already disavowed that ship, General.”

“Come on. Does anybody in this room believe the Leaguers didn’t hand it over with the access codes and an instruction manual?”

Robbins slammed her hand into the couch. “What we believe doesn’t matter, only what we can prove.”

“It’s not just about us, General. Our allies need to see that we’re taking our treaty obligations seriously,” Harding interjected. “If we declare war on the League now, that only exacerbates and gives ammunition to those who claim the Terran Coalition wants to rule the galaxy.”

“With respect, sending our heavy units isn’t invading the League. It sends a message that we’re not taking this lying down, and we’ll use whatever force is required to defend our citizens.”

Robbins glared at David for several seconds. “The answer is no. It will remain no.”

“How many League of Sol military vessels have to be mysteriously transferred to a terrorist organization before we treat this for what it is, in that case, Madame President?”

David might as well have injected liquid nitrogen into the room from the way the atmosphere turned cold. He instantly regretted his choice of words, though not the point.

“A lot more than one,” Robbins snapped. “Make do with what you have, General.”

“I’d like to send reinforcements based on what we lost.”

Robbins glanced at Harding, who nodded. “Fine. Ensure we adhere to the letter and spirit of the treaty.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“That will be all, General Cohen. You are dismissed.”

David sprang up from the couch, came to attention, then turned on his heel and marched out. The next minute was a blur as he passed through smartly dressed staffers who melted out of his way as they discussed domestic situations that had little concern to him.

What is happening here? David could not wrap his mind around the situation or Robbins’s reaction. It made no sense, and because of that, he felt like a glitching computer. Which is how I walk out of here each time.

In the recesses of David’s mind, the consideration of resigning then going public with his complaints about the government’s response so far was always present. But what then? Already, center-right politicians were loudly clamoring for a more robust military response, as were a few members of the ruling center-left alliance.

If I resign, I cannot effect any change, nor can I hold the president’s feet to the fire. Yet doing the same thing repeatedly is the very definition of insanity.

David had to find a way to change the equation. But first, I’ve got to send more ships. The thought of feeding his soldiers into the PFLOS meat grinder in less-than-overwhelming numbers sickened him to the bone. I must fix this. HaShem, help me to find and do Your will.

10

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

21 April 2474

Arthur steepled his fingers as he stared into the camera built into his tablet device. The vidlink was active, with a council of war between Colonel Kattan and every other ship driver in the fleet. To say morale was awful would’ve been a massive understatement. The previous day’s combat was among the worst ever recorded for the Coalition Defense Force. Even the Third Battle of Canaan hadn’t had such a horrific loss ratio.

The low mood was evident in the drawn faces and hushed voices of nearly everyone who spoke.

“How are we going to beat a vessel that has four times the tonnage of any noncarrier ship in the Orion Spur?” an Ajax-class destroyer commander asked.

“We still have superior firepower with the carriers, Major,” Kattan replied. “The operative problem is bringing superior firepower to bear at the right place. The enemy has to know he outclasses everything we have on a one-for-one basis.”

Listening to them drone on, Arthur finally had enough. “I think you’re all forgetting that someone already defeated a Rand—using a Block I Ajax-class destroyer.”

“Come on,” the commander said. “That was a once-in-a-lifetime Hail Mary, and Cohen got half his crew killed with that stunt, to begin with.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “It was more like thirty percent, and if he did it, why can’t we?”

“Are you volunteering for a suicide run, Colonel?” Kattan asked, her face an inscrutable mask.

“Uh, no, ma’am. I’m advocating for not giving up in the face of the enemy.”

The Hermes’s commanding officer stared at him as if accessing what was deep within his soul. “The problem we face is not knowing where the enemy sorties from. It would’ve been preferrable to keep tabs on that PFLOS station you found, for instance. If it hadn’t housed thousands of hostages.”

“That was the rub, ma’am.”

As crosstalk erupted, Arthur pondered the situation and the point Kattan had brought up. Maybe we do have a way to figure out where they’re hiding and get the drop on that cruiser. “I might be able to get additional information out of a terrorist HVT we have in custody on the Thatcher. Get us another target.”

Silence fell as his words filtered out to the rest of those on the vidlink.

“Burying the lede, Colonel Hanson?” Kattan replied.

“Possibly a long shot, ma’am. But I do like to turn over every rock I can.”

Kattan nodded. “Who is this prisoner of war?”

The use of the common term for a captured combatant angered Arthur as soon as she said it. Vannier doesn’t deserve that basic respect. “He commanded one of the PFLOS freighters and was forthcoming with information that led to our discovery of the hostages.”

“I see.” Kattan pursed her lips. “Get what you can then feed it to my G2 team.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“As for the rest of us, I’ll have convoy assignments in the next hour. We’ll do our best to put enough combat force to handle a Rand class in each one, but it’s going to be tough. I expect every man and woman in this fleet to do their utmost.”

“Yes, ma’am” echoed loudly across everyone on the channel.

“Colonel Hanson, keep your link active. We have something to discuss.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He wondered what she could want and found his pulse quickening. In time, I’ll learn how to work with her, but it’ll take some time to get used to.

One by one, the others dropped off the vidlink, leaving only the two of them.

Kattan leaned forward. “I have one very important question. Why would this man, Vannier, as you called him, offer us any help? From every indication, PFLOS is composed of fanatics who don’t care whether they die… only that they take some of us with them. My experience in life has taught me such individuals rarely give up any actionable information.”

Arthur shrugged as nonchalantly as he could. “Maybe he’s not quite that committed. Or it was a matter of how we framed up the questions.” Lying to a senior officer and his new commander felt wrong. Worse, how naturally the lie came out set off internal alarm bells.

“I see. Ensure that any intelligence you gather from him is credible, Colonel.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Arthur forced his face into as neutral an expression as possible.

“Contact me when you have results. Kattan out.”

The screen went black before Arthur could reply. Direct. I like that. It helped to know where you stood with a superior officer or in any hierarchical chain of command. I’m going to have to go down there and interrogate Vannier. Arthur set his jaw. He’d get the information out of the man and get them back on course. I hope he’ll remember last time and give it up willingly.

* * *

Arthur strode into the interrogation chamber within the Thatcher’s brig. Vannier sat compliantly in a metal chair, his hands cuffed to a bar that stretched across the lone table within. Everything about his body language, from the droop of his head to the slouched hunch of his back, indicated defeat. Vannier barely looked up when Arthur sat in the other chair.

“How are you doing today?” Arthur asked. It took every ounce of self-control he possessed to make conversation with the terrorist, who he regarded as a lower form of life.

Vannier finally raised his head. “I eat. I sleep. I wake up and do it again.”

“You’re still alive.”

“Why? I failed in my mission. I should’ve perished.”

“But you didn’t. And now, I need your help again.”

Vannier bit his lip as his eyes narrowed. “I have no more information to give you. Besides, I hear the guards talk. You found the hostages and rescued them. How else could I betray the cause and Society?”

“I would suggest you were doing something positive for humanity as a whole,” Arthur replied in the best conversational tone he could muster.

“You Terrans don’t understand.”

Arthur crossed his arms. “Try me.”

“In the League, our Society is everything. The individual means nothing. It is the whole that must continue. To even give thought to doing something that solely benefits yourself is a crime. One of the worst things we can do is engage in individualistic acts.”

“Most of the things people do are for themselves,” Arthur replied. “Even breathing.”

Vannier shook his head. “No. Not in the League. I exist so that I may discharge my duties.”

“Well, if that’s accurate, then why do so many people want to get out of the League? Aside from your merry band of terrorists, I haven’t really met anyone who liked your system. In fact, in the Orion Spur, most former League-held colonies voted to join the Terran Coalition.”

“Because they are weak and willing to trade creature comforts and better consumer products for our Society.”

Vannier spoke with a conviction that Arthur had to admit carried weight, but he found it revolting at the same time. “We have similar feelings about people in our nation that would trade our freedoms for what the League offers.”

“Oh?”

“Those who would trade liberty for momentary safety deserve neither liberty nor safety.”

“Freedom… You have no concept of this.”

Arthur crossed his arms. He wasn’t too interested in debating politics with the terrorist, but if it created some rapport and loosened his tongue, why not. “Oh, please lecture me on freedom or lack thereof.”

Vannier’s eyes narrowed. “You say you have complete freedom to do what you want in the Terran Coalition, yes?”

“Yes. Freedom of movement, speech, religion, assembly, to work for what and how we wish… as long as you obey the laws, you can pretty much do what you want.”

“Except if you do not pay your bills, do creditors not come and take your possessions? Put you out on the street and refuse medical treatment? Do you not have to work at a job to earn money, and is not that money the final arbiter of your life?”

“We have to make money, yes. But virtually everyone in the Terran Coalition has a job, and the few who don’t have access to a safety net until they can be employed. Hell, we have issues with not having enough workers on many worlds.” Arthur thought of the advertising campaigns attempting to attract lithium miners out on the rim colonies, away from the highly developed core of Coalition-controlled space around Canaan. Even with all our robotics advancements, we still need humans for some tasks.

“You can’t see that you’re kept compliant by your government and corporations.”

“Well, I think that’s bunk, but even if it’s not, we have far more choice than you do in the League. I was there when the CDF liberated the League’s outer colonies. They lived in horrible conditions and acted as slaves. Told what to do, when to do it, and left to survive with almost nothing.”

“Society demands sacrifice—”

“Correction. It needs cheap labor to keep the people at the top going in luxury. Yeah, we’ve seen the propaganda vids from Earth, Claude. Trust me. I can easily compare the two.”

“You have no idea how wrong you are. Yes, there are issues with corrupt members of the political class, but we will deal with them.”

Arthur smirked. “Once you’ve dealt with the Terran Coalition, I assume?”

“My brothers and sisters will never give up. You may be assured of that.”

“They’ll get what’s coming to them. The time has come for you to give me more information so your cushy existence here can continue.”

Vannier furtively glanced from left to right. “There is little else for me to say.”

“Oh, I think there is. Starting with where PFLOS’s other staging areas and static bases are. You’re not all just flying around the void. There’s some base of operations.”

“I wasn’t privy to such knowledge.”

“Do you really expect me to believe that? We got the main station, sure, but I know there’re others out there.”

“Perhaps. Comrade Kovalev was very careful in his operational security. Unless one had a need to know, the information was kept from them.”

Arthur leaned back. He didn’t believe Vannier for a moment. High-level commanders would have to know fallback positions, places of refuge in case of disaster, and caches of equipment for repairs. He had to know more. “Nice try. I need those coordinates.”

Vannier jingled his chains as he slammed his hands into the table. “I tell you I do not know. If Kovalev had further space stations under his control, we never knew about it.”

“Do you remember what happened the last time you refused to give information?”

Vannier’s eyes glassed over. He stared at a point behind Arthur as his breathing quickened. “Yes.” The word was barely more than a whisper.

“Unless you want that to happen again, I suggest you cooperate with me.”

“I tell you again I do not know,” Vannier said in a plaintive whine. “I would tell you if I did.”

Arthur stared into his eyes. He didn’t quite know what to believe. Surely, being threatened with the airlock would cause the man to cave. “Last chance.”

Vannier slammed his hands onto the table and rose as far out of his seat as he could, which was about halfway to standing. “I don’t know!”

For a moment, Arthur teetered between two outcomes. He could leave Vannier be and come back for another run at him later or perhaps have another officer attempt an interview. Or I could follow through on my threat. If I don’t, I’ll appear weak and put us at a disadvantage. Even as his mind wrestled with the competing thoughts, Arthur also considered the cost of not acting.

It’s not pretty, but we’re losing hundreds of soldiers and civilians in every lopsided battle. If I have to extract the answers out of Vannier, so be it. He’d made a promise to Colonel Katten—and to those lost, that they wouldn’t have died in vain. “We’ll see about that.”

“What?” the prisoner’s eyes widened, and a gasp escaped his lips as the implications of the words hit him. “No! No!”

Arthur stood and went back to the secure hatch. He opened it and motioned in a security detail made up solely of the Margaret Thatcher’s masters-at-arms. “Get this man to airlock five. Immediately.”

The senior corporal hesitated, a barely perceptible tremor in her hand, before nodding respectfully and beginning to uncuff the prisoner. With brutal efficiency, the four guards forced the prisoner from his seat. Vannier’s muffled shouts and the banging of his shoes against the alloy deck were the only sounds as they dragged him through the passageway.

Arthur followed less than a meter behind. Even with all the commotion, it didn’t take very long to manhandle him into the airlock and slam the hatch shut.

Vannier pressed his face against the transparent-alloy window as he pounded away with his palms. “Please, I don’t know what you want! Don’t do this, please!”

Arthur held up his hand. “You can stop it at any point. Tell me what I want to know, and you’ll be taken back to your cell.”

A guttural scream came from the prisoner’s throat. “I! Don’t! Know!” As he stared out of the airlock, his face was streaked with tears, his eyes wide and filled with a desperate, wild look.

“Okay. Have it your way.” Arthur turned to one of the masters-at-arms. “Get a medical team down here.”

“Yes, sir,” the young woman replied as she brought a handcomm to her lips and complied with the order.

Meanwhile, Vannier sobbed, his cries muffled by the reinforced hatch to the airlock. For a minute, he tried pleading, then he gave up and stood stoically.

All the while, Arthur stared at him with ice in his veins. Now he wants to cry? Vannier and his ilk murdered, raped, and rampaged across two sectors, killing God only knows how many innocents. He could find no compassion or even empathy within.

The moment the three-person emergency medical team appeared down the corridor, Arthur stepped to the controls and threw the one to evacuate the atmosphere within the chamber. “You’ve got about sixty seconds. I’d think long and hard about those coordinates if I were you.”

“I don’t know… I don’t… know… I don’t… I…” As the air was sucked out and the pressure went down to zero, Vannier weakly banged on the window before collapsing backward.

Arthur immediately toggled the pressure controls back to normal. “Revive him as soon as the airlock equalizes and goes green.”

“Yes, sir!”

Twenty seconds later, the medics had pulled Vannier out of the chamber and gone to work on him with a portable O2 mask, using an inflatable bag to force the air into his lungs while performing chest compressions. After half a minute, he suddenly sat up and tried to claw the mask off his face, even though his hands remained cuffed in front of him. “Please… Please… No more.”

Arthur crouched. “Tell me what I need, Claude. Coordinates to a PFLOS base camp. We’ll get you cleaned up, with a VIP meal.”

“Please…” Vannier’s voice was reduced to a whining moan as he began to cry once again. “I don’t know. I swear on Lenin’s grave I do not know.”

“Why don’t we jettison him into space?” one of the masters-at-arms interjected.

“Because he’s more valuable alive than dead,” Arthur replied. “Get him back into the airlock.”

“No! You can’t do this!” Vannier’s voice rose in pitch and volume, even in his weakened state. “This isn’t right. It’s torture!”

Arthur got two inches from his face. “You’re damned right it’s torture. Consider it a small taste of what you’ll get in hell.”

“There is no hell… no punishment or reward when we die.”

“Consider this your own personal hell, then, and pray you’re right so it doesn’t continue,” Arthur snarled back. Hatred oozed out of every pore in his body, and in that moment, he didn’t care how badly Vannier hurt or how much psychological damage was inflicted. The only thing that mattered was getting the information, because Vannier wasn’t even human after what he’d done.

That time, there wasn’t as much yelling or physical resistance from the prisoner. Instead, he seemed more resigned to being stuffed into the airlock. Arthur got a few inches from the window. “Ready to talk yet?”

“I don’t know what you demand! I don’t have the coordinates!”

Arthur snapped the toggle to purge the air out of the chamber with a clack. Once again, Vannier’s cries became weaker before he slumped to the floor. Arthur engaged the repressurization cycle, and the medical personnel went to work once the airlock had equalized.

It took longer for Vannier to come to, but when he did, his eyes rolled into the back of his head as he moaned. “I don’t know…. I don’t know…. Please.”

“Tell me what I want to know,” Arthur ground out, spittle flying from the corners of his mouth.

“Please…”

Arthur jerked his thumb toward the chamber. “Put him back in.”

“Sir, maybe—”

“Now!” Arthur’s eyes blazed with fury. “He’s going to talk. Or he will die.”

Silence descended over the corridor, and even minute sounds became amplified. The medical personnel exchanged glances, and it wasn’t difficult to discern their unease.

Arthur pushed it aside as he repeated the cycle. Alarm bells rang mentally as he started to consider the possibility that Vannier was telling the truth. But he pushed the horrifying thought down and instead watched silently as the medical team brought the prisoner back to life for the third time.

Vannier gurgled as he weakly raised his hand. “Please… Please… Just kill me rather than do this.”

“Not so tough now, are you?” Arthur asked as he knelt next to the man.

“You… You’re as much of a monster… as you say we are.”

Arthur bared his teeth. “You deserve this. The people you killed didn’t. Stop stalling and tell me what I want to know.”

Tears flowed from Vannier’s eyes, and he shook uncontrollably. “I don’t—”

“Yes, you do. Do you want to go back into the airlock? Because that’s what will happen next. Maybe you won’t survive this time. It’s a simple binary choice. Give me what I want, get cleaned up, and eat a hot meal, or die.” Arthur crossed his arms. “Do I look like a man who cares which one you pick?”

“No.”

“Then what will it be?”

Vannier closed his eyes and coughed weakly before turning onto his side. “Abandoned… transfer station… Velsk. Please… that’s all I know.”

Arthur stood. “Get him down to medical, stabilize his condition, then return him to his cell.”

“Yes, sir!” the lead medic replied as the three of them unrolled a portable antigrav stretcher, then they maneuvered Vannier onto it and strapped him down. They pushed the device at maximum speed as all three broke into a run. Within a few seconds, the stretcher was out of sight.

Even though Arthur had gotten what he wanted and needed, something felt wrong. And it wasn’t just him. Shame was written on the face of everyone else still present. It welled up from within Arthur’s soul, but he angrily pushed it down. Whatever pain Vannier suffered, it’s nothing compared to what he inflicted. I have no remorse for him.

“Corporal, get a deck force team down here and clean this mess up. Then report to the medical bay and stand watch over our guest.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur turned on his heel and marched off.

* * *

Several meters down the corridor, a young man stood, watching the events. As Vannier was taken away by a medic, he shook his head. A few tears dropped to the alloy deck before the young man—a private—balled his right hand into a fist and punched the bulkhead. He then turned and walked away.

If anyone had been paying attention, they would’ve noted the dent in the metallic surface and the private’s name tag, which read Waters.

But no one was.

11

Yevgeny Kovalev stared at a blank screen in his office on the LX Kornei Andrusenko. The mysterious benefactor, who’d provided the credits and contacts to get PFLOS moving, was on the other end of the commlink. Even though there was a vidlink and Kovalev’s face was transmitted via it to somewhere in the Orion Spur, he’d never seen the other man.

“The destruction of the CSV Mercy was an outstanding achievement, comrade.” The voice coming through the speakers sounded like it had been run through half a dozen filters to be unrecognizable no matter the tech level of who tried to analyze it.

“Seeing the individualists scatter did warm my heart. But it’s not enough to keep destroying the CDF’s ships. They’ll keep sending them and eventually send larger ones. The time has come to invade our former worlds and liberate them from the capitalists.”

A pause followed.

Kovalev hated the gaps in discussion because it felt like he was being weighed and measured by whoever was talking to him. I wonder if it’s one person. Or perhaps more than one. The entire experience was unnerving and had only become more so over time.

“I agree” came the answer finally. “Though you must acknowledge that some of your discourse is merely propaganda. Capitalism and individualism are corrosive. Most of our former citizens still living in the Coalition-controlled areas will require extensive reeducation.”

“Yes, comrade. I realize this.” Kovalev spread his hands out on the desk. “But it is also important to motivate our troops. Concrete results, such as flying our flag proudly over some of the mining worlds once more, would provide them.”

“What then?”

Kovalev pursed his lips. “Once operational control is established, we institute a caretaker committee and request the League take over jurisdiction.”

“We have discussed that in the past, but it may be necessary to hold the planets for some period of time. I would expect that the Social and Public Safety Committee will not act unless a significant Coalition effort to retake a captured colony fails.”

“Then we will defeat them if you can provide the ships. These additional combat forces you have sometimes mentioned would be useful as well.”

“Portions of the League Navy and Army remain loyal to the cause of defending Society, comrade. When the time is right, they will join our fight.”

“But when? There is only so much I can do with our existing forces.”

“It would’ve been far easier if you had succeeded with your initial task.”

And there it was. Kovalev sat back and took the reproach in stride. After all, the initial plan had been to eliminate the CDF in one fell swoop, take over a few of the most populated worlds, and invite the League of Sol in—all before the Terrans could so much as get more ships out to the Orion Spur. Before the infernal CSV Margaret Thatcher got in the way. The irony of his plans being stymied by a ship named after a famous figure from history who fought communism wasn’t lost on him.

It would make the final victory even more pleasant.

“Yet that is the past, and we are yet again winning every battle,” Kovalev replied.

“I will shake loose additional assets for you, comrade. Keep up the pressure in the meantime. The capitalists cannot be given a moment’s respite. You must demonstrate to every race in the galaxy that the League’s time has yet come again.”

“It will be done.” Kovalev made a fist and touched it to his chest. “I swear it by Lenin.”

The person on the other end of the vidlink made an unintelligible noise before the voice became clear again. “Good. I will contact you again soon.”

A moment later, the video-transmission light blinked off, leaving Kovalev to ponder what exactly was going on in the League’s government. He’d long suspected his benefactor led some group within the Social and Public Safety Committee that wanted a return to the older, better times of Society. I hope he or she won’t cut us loose. The thought came to his mind that if that happened, he’d find whoever it was and kill them—if it was the last thing he did in the universe.

* * *

League of Sol Navy Headquarters

Geneva—Earth

23 April 2474

Borisov realized as his polished black shoes echoed with each step down the marble-covered corridor that he’d spent more time in the League’s military HQ in the last few weeks than he had in years. He did not appreciate it. The stuffy offices of preening admirals and those who wished to become one, mostly for the wrong reasons, were never places he wished to go.

Fieldwork was preferable, though that was rarely open to him anymore. Instead, Borisov preferred the shadows and the subtle manipulation of the great game.

He pushed open a door leading to the largest and most opulent suite in the complex. Within it was housed the leader of the League’s space fleet, Fleet Admiral Xiaobo Shao. He’d taken over from Admiral Lambert and had so far proven halfway adequate in matters of military importance. Whether or not Shao would be useful in defeating the Terran Coalition remained to be seen.

“May I help you?” a young sailor behind the reception desk asked. He wore a regulation-perfect uniform.

“Director Borisov to see Admiral Shao,” he replied with a smirk.

“Ah… one moment, sir, uh, Director.”

It is so nice to be feared. Borisov enjoyed the reaction of mere mortals quaking in their boots, surely because they knew he could end their miserable existences with a word. “Of course.”

A moment later, the young sailor stood and gestured toward a set of ornate double doors made of hewn wood. The effect made them appear far older than they were. Borisov realized they were a recent addition.

He strode through them and walked into the office, which was much as he remembered, except for Fleet Admiral Shao. “Thank you for seeing me on such short notice.”

Shao gestured to a seat in front of his desk. “Always a pleasure to work with the External Security Service Directorate.”

Borisov sat, chuckling. “Oh, Admiral. We both know that’s not true. But I understand why you must say such things. It’s all part of the great game we play.”

“This concept eludes me. Our job is to ensure the safety of the League of Sol. Not waste time with petty games.”

“I’m not the first spy to embrace the concept, Admiral. There is very much something to matching wits with the enemy and beating them through guile and daring.” Borisov offered a thin smile. “Call it chess on a grand scale.”

Shao returned the thin smile with a smirk of his own. “I prefer Go, myself.”

Of course you do. The Chinese game had been played for almost three thousand years, and its complexity level surpassed chess, at least in terms of possible moves for a player to calculate. Borisov still preferred chess. “We should be allies, Admiral.”

“Oh?” Shao gave him a withering stare. “Is that because of the convenient fall at home that Admiral Lambert suffered?”

Borisov shrugged. “Accidents are known to happen, even in our glorious League.”

Shao threw his head back and laughed. “Helicar accidents, fatal medical conditions never documented, or in the case of one minister, falling out of an open window on the twentieth story of a building. One of those could be accepted as random. The string that has occurred over the last month defies any explanation other than malice.”

“An interesting theory, Admiral. Have you shared that with internal security?”

“Don’t play coy with me, Borisov. Anyone with an intelligence quotient higher than fifty can see you or someone allied with you is behind these… accidents. Just as you are likely the man who created and runs the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur.”

Borisov found Shao’s turn of phrase interesting. He harbors suspicions, but why not act on them? The man might be shaking the tree, as it were. “I do not know what you mean, Admiral. Perhaps you have me confused with another.”

The other man snorted. “I know your type. They get a lot of good sailors killed.”

“We all do what we must for the good of Society. This is the way of the League, as I know you understand, Admiral Shao. To do otherwise is to be… individualist.”

A mere mention of the word “individualist” was enough to make most citizens of the League of Sol’s blood run cold. Any behavior determined to be individualistic was enough to have one put into a reeducation facility. It could, of course, be used to describe almost anything the security apparatus wanted it to.

“Trying to start enough war so you can play your great game qualifies as individualistic behavior to me, Director.”

Borisov envisioned drawing the small pistol he kept hidden under his suit and shooting Shao between the eyes. But even he didn’t have quite enough political juice to do such a thing. At least right now. Your day will come, Admiral. “Defending the League of Sol is my only concern. The Terran Coalition is still our biggest threat, and they are rapidly encroaching on our territory while spreading their… culture.”

“They do not desire war. Their population is more exhausted than ours.” Shao waved a hand. “The Coalition isn’t a threat to us anytime soon. More than anything, we need to rebuild.”

“You are discounting the effect of their culture.”

“They have none. It’s a confounding mishmash of crap.” Shao crossed his arms. “Not to mention it’s illegal to own anything the Coalition produces.”

Borisov shook his head. “It’s close enough now that our people are hearing of them. Of how they’ve rebuilt our colonies. This disease, capitalism, it will spread. The Terran Coalition is nothing more than a cancer that must be cut out and removed.”

“We tried that and failed.”

“Because of gross failures by the Admiralty and the Social and Public Safety Committee over decades!” Borisov snapped as he slammed his hand down on the desk.

Shao pointed a finger at Borisov’s chest. “Listen carefully, Director. My only concern is the safeguarding of the League. That is the job of the Navy and the millions of sailors who proudly wear the uniform. I will not be a part of any intrigue you have planned. If you’re so intent on hanging, do it on your own.”

Borisov shrugged. “I have no intrigue, Admiral. Only lawful orders.”

“You’re not in my chain of command.”

“No, perhaps not.” Borisov smiled thinly. He was used to seeing the expression cause panic in others, but for some reason, Shao didn’t flinch. The man has a spine, regardless. That was worthy of respect. “There will be lawful orders in the coming days that I expect you to follow.”

“Then I shall execute them to the best of my ability, Director. Though I should warn you, if I receive orders that lack the necessary codes and fail verification, not only will I not comply, but I will also do my best to ensure those who sent them face justice.”

Deep within, anger burst forth like a white-hot flame. Borisov did as he’d trained for decades and ignored the emotion. If he’d been hooked up to a heart and respiration monitor, it would’ve detected no change. “I understand, Admiral, and look forward to working closely with you.”

Shao leaned forward. “Understand something. I’m not getting involved in your intrigue. I am neutral. Politicians and spies can fight it out. My job is simple: protect the citizens of the League of Sol from external aggression and internal enemies when called on by the Social and Public Safety Committee.”

“That’s a bit short-sighted, Admiral,” Borisov replied.

“It is my position.”

Borisov shrugged. “Then I shall respect it and you.”

“Good.” Shao stared at him for a moment as if evaluating his worth as a citizen and man. “If you’ll excuse me, Director. I have many tasks to complete today.”

“Of course, Admiral.” Borisov rose to his feet, gave the League salute, then turned on his heel and left the room.

The entire time he walked through the building on his way to a waiting transport, only one thought was on his mind: how Xiaobo Shao would rue the day he’d been born before dying. The only question was the timing. Borisov made a mental note to expend additional resources to ensure the next man or woman up would do as he instructed. I think I might kill this one myself.

If nothing else, it would be cathartic.

12

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

23 April 2474

With the PFLOS installation coordinates in hand, Arthur had little trouble convincing Colonel Kattan to approve a strike, especially since the source was an enemy prisoner of war who had already shared a significant amount of classified information. He suspected she was glad to have the initiative once more. Without question, he was too. That she hadn’t pressed him on how he’d obtained the coordinates was a bonus.

It had taken almost seventy-two hours to pull together enough forces to make the strike, during which the terrorists had struck another convoy and destroyed five more ships. One thing was certain: the loss rate the CDF and civilian freighters were sustaining couldn’t continue.

“Ramos reports total Lawrence drive maintenance completed,” Miller said.

Her voice barely penetrated Arthur’s thoughts.

“Pass that up to the Hermes.”

They’d been executing back-to-back jumps for a day, and Colonel Kattan had made a proper cooldown a priority. It made sense from a tactical perspective, but Arthur still longed to get into the fight.

“Conn, Communications. Flash traffic from Hermes actual. The fleet is moving out,” Kaveh interjected.

Arthur’s pulse quickened. “Navigation, plot jump and charge the Lawrence drive.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Savitz replied.

For the next few minutes, the bridge crew expertly executed the FTL sequence they’d done so many times before. It ended with the Thatcher and three dozen other vessels tearing out of artificial wormholes into normal space. Arthur gave thanks that they’d made it once more.

“Conn, TAO. No contacts within fifty thousand kilometers except friendlies,” Yasin called out.

Arthur furrowed his brow. There should at least be pickets here. A nagging doubt he’d suppressed about the information provided by Vannier rose to the surface. “Deep scan on the third gas giant, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He suspected that every ship in the fleet was doing the same thing—desperately searching for any signs of enemy activity.

“Conn, TAO. New contact. Looks to be a static space installation in orbit of the seventh planet. Designating it as Master One.”

Arthur turned to Miller. “Looks like we’ve got a target.”

She grinned. “Appears that way, sir.”

A weight Arthur hadn’t realized he carried rose off his shoulders. Until that moment, he hadn’t been sure Vannier was telling the truth. But he was, and that’s all that counts. “I expect us to see some hostiles coming out of the atmospheric soup in that gas giant.”

Miller nodded. “Agreed. And probably reinforcements showing up on our aft.”

“Conn, Communications. Hermes actual is ordering all vessels to proceed at max thrust and Marine VBSS teams to prepare for hostile boarding.”

Arthur’s eyes went to First Lieutenant Kaveh. “Send our acknowledgment.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Nav, set course to match the fleet. Engage max thrust.” Arthur pulled his black space sweater down. It would be at least an hour before the Thatcher and the rest of the fleet got within launch range for either Marine boarding pods or assault shuttles.

Anxiety gnawed at Arthur’s soul as the Ajax-class destroyer rushed into the void. Even the backdrop of the brilliantly colored blue-and-green gas giant, with storms moving across its surface, couldn’t quiet his thoughts. For just a moment, he allowed himself to take in the beauty of the cosmos.

Why can’t we come out into God’s creation and give thanks for the beauty given to us instead of fighting one another even in this wonderous, fantastic universe? It did not make sense. Then again, neither did most things humanity engaged in. He briefly thought back to Vannier’s face as terror overtook him inside the airlock. The mental image made Arthur shudder involuntarily.

“You okay, sir?”

Arthur glanced at Miller. “Just peachy, XO.”

It was a lie, of course. But after the number of those he’d told in the last few days, one more didn’t matter.

Half an hour ticked by then forty-five minutes. Though it seemed like an eternity, only the one-hour mark passed. Yet the sensor image didn’t improve for the station they’d detected in the gas giant’s atmosphere.

Arthur stared at the tactical plot, willing more detail to fill in. With our state-of-the-art technology, you’d think we should be able to see a millimeter microfracture on its hull.

All of a sudden, the sensor image improved dramatically.

“TAO, what happened?”

“One of the stealth boats, sir… I think the Tucson… got up close and personal.”

Godat’s always at the tip of the spear. Arthur studied the display. “Do you see any sign of a reactor signature there?”

“None, sir. I don’t think it’s been live in a while either. There’s no residual heat signature. Maybe they’ve got some cloaking tech over there.” Yasin turned. “Supposedly, the megacorps are working on that.”

“The Marines will find out,” Arthur replied. He turned to Miller. “Send notice down to Faulkner and his boys. Let’s blow the door in and see how many rats are left.”

“Gladly, sir.”

* * *

Avery Faulkner checked the seal on his combat armor for the eighth time in the last hour. He knew it was a nervous tic, but it helped pass the time. Everything was perfect, as it had been ten minutes prior. Next, he checked his battle rifle and confirmed the proper loading of the weapon and its linkage back to his suit’s tactical network.

Built into the heads-up display of his helmet and that of every other TCMC power armor suit was a computer system that tracked friendlies, hostiles, the terrain, how many shots he had left, and a variety of other information. Four weeks of firefights had made combat instinctive, building upon the muscle memory he’d developed during basic and advanced training.

The shuttle hurtled through the void along with dozens of others from the CDF fleet. The vessels that had just arrived carried Marine assault pods, which would make the job far easier. But Faulkner and his men had to make do with the Margaret Thatcher’s load-out. It’d be nice if we got some upgraded kit.

Jeremiah Duprey sat across from him, the bright-red cross wrapped around his right gauntlet indicating his status as a combat medic. The older man still carried no weapons, which was hard for Faulkner to accept.

“Ready for another op, Lieutenant?” Jeremiah asked.

Faulkner flashed a thumbs-up. “As ready as I’ll ever be, I suppose, Chief. You?”

“I suppose the glib response is ‘I was born ready’… but frankly, my bones are getting a little old for this crap,” Jeremiah replied with a chuckle. “Still. Knocking down the front door of these terrorists ahead of schedule? That works for me.”

“Me too, Chief.”

“Thirty seconds to dock!” the pilot called over the PA into the rear compartment.

Faulkner checked his weapon again. “Okay, ladies, one last time… Slow is smooth. Smooth is fast! I want ordered release, constantly check your corners, and get this right. The bastards know we’re coming, and they’ve powered everything down. I want them stacked in body bags, not us. You get me?”

“We get you, sir!” the platoon shouted as one.

The shuttle rotated and applied thrust a split second before thudding to a halt against the station’s hull, causing Faulkner to feel like his stomach had been run through a blender. He was especially glad he’d learned not to eat anything more substantial than a meal replacement bar before an op.

Moments later, the automatic restraints released, and the Marines sprang from their safety seats as the back ramp opened. Faulkner took point and was the first man off the craft. The sight that greeted him wasn’t what he’d expected.

They’d landed in a docking facility of some kind, and the first thing he realized was there was no artificial gravity. Auto-mag boots kicking on anchored him to the deck, and the power armor’s servos compensated in real time for the lack of gravity. He swept the area with his battle rifle and realized that whatever the place had been, it didn’t seem to have seen much use. And why leave a shuttle bay open to the void?

They’d found nothing beyond alloy exposed to the void, which made it even more eerie.

Faulkner took his squad to the right, while the second group headed left. Since they were in total vacuum, there was no sound except the servos within his suit. The noise from them normally blended into the background, but in the absence of all other sound, they were deafening. He couldn’t get over how empty it was. Not so much as a scrap of alloy was on the deck plates, at least in what was visible through the lights on their suits. Without that, the entire bay would’ve been pitch black.

The squad approached a double hatch large enough for cargo transfer units that probably led further into the interior of the station. Faulkner let his battle rifle drop into its one-point sling and cued his commlink. “Get a portable power cell up here.” He pulled up his suit’s internal sensors and frowned. Vacuum on the other side, too, if this is right.

A Marine trotted up with a bulky box and knelt next to the portal. Several others went to work with hand scanners, and one popped off a security cover. It only took a moment to wire up the device.

“Okay, crack it open. If there’s atmosphere, we’ll seal it back up and close off the bay before proceeding.” Even though Faulkner had no qualms about killing every PFLOS member on the station, he couldn’t take the risk of accidently killing any hostages that might be held either.

“Yes, sir!” one of the eager young privates replied before sending the command into the system to open the hatch by three centimeters.

It creaked open with a jerk, and Faulkner imagined that if they hadn’t been in the vacuum of the void, the noise would’ve split their eardrums. It was obvious from the lack of rushing air and the sensor readouts of half the squad’s power-armor suits that there was no atmosphere on the other side. “Okay, open it all the way up. We’ll proceed inward.”

“Yes, sir,” one of the Marines replied as they went to work.

Faulkner cued his commlink to the platoon-leaders channel. “Anyone got atmosphere or power? Docking bay alpha has nothing in it. We’ve got a bulkhead open and are headed in.”

“Nothing on bay Charlie.”

“Control center’s dead.”

“Team en route to reactor control, aiming for restart of the auxiliary generators at least. We’ve got enough cells to get almost anything going if the machinery is intact.”

“Understood,” Faulkner replied. He didn’t recognize the voices except that they were Marine leaders from other vessels in the fleet. Faulkner toggled back to his platoon. “All squads, we’re moving farther in. Fire Team Delta to post security and cover our six. We’ll seal the bulkhead behind us and lay explosive charges in case a hasty exit is needed.”

It took less than ninety seconds for the platoon to form up. Faulkner found pride stirring in his heart for how they moved like a human wave. They’ve gone from mostly raw Marines who’d never fired a shot in anger to polished combat veterans. It was truly beautiful and the pinnacle of what any Marine officer could hope for. Especially a butter bars.

For the next hour, Faulkner led his platoon in a methodical compartment-by-compartment search of the area around the docking bay. The search inched along, as they had to open each hatch manually, many with the help of an emergency power module.

All of a sudden, the overhead lights came on. His helmet’s light filter kicked in but struggled as they’d all had flashlights. Moments later, a rushing sound filled the air. That would be atmosphere coming out of the ventilation system. Faulkner deduced they were in an auxiliary control room of some kind, as a bank of monitors and controls sat on the far side of the compartment.

Boot sequences showed as they came to life, most of it in gibberish Faulkner didn’t understand. One of the Marines who specialized in electronics stepped forward and plugged a device into the port on one of the control panels.

“I think this stuff handles life support on a redundant hub, sir.”

Faulkner cradled his battle rifle. “Air good enough to breathe yet?” Saving some of their power armor’s life support would be welcome.

“Not quite yet, sir. If I’m reading this log right, the station’s been powered down for a couple of decades.”

“Decades?” Faulkner asked.

“Unless they wiped the logs, but it doesn’t look like that, sir. We’ll have to pull the system apart and let the G2 peeps do a deep dive.”

Faulkner keyed his commlink. “Lieutenant Kaveh, get me Thatcher actual.” Their day was about to get a lot longer.

* * *

“What?” Arthur repeated for the second time, incredulous at what he was hearing.

Faulkner’s voice crackled in a burst of static. “Sorry, sir, but that’s what all the squads are reporting. There’re enough physical signs down here that I believe the comms geeks, starting with no dust. That supports the idea of an extended period without life support.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Shit.

“Vannier lied.”

Miller’s words were obvious, but they had the impact of a sledgehammer on Arthur. What have I done? Did I lead us into a trap?

Before he could open his mouth to speak, Kaveh interjected. “Conn, Communications. We’re receiving distress calls from Convoy Fifty-Eight.”

Arthur could’ve sworn the bridge started spinning as he became sick to his stomach. He forced the feeling down and sucked in a breath. “Feed the coordinates to Nav. Lieutenant Savitz, plot a jump.”

“What about the Marines?” Miller asked.

“No choice but to come back for them.”

Savitz turned. “Those coordinates are three jumps away, sir.”

As an engineer, the thing that Arthur hated to hear the most was “we can’t do it.” His mind immediately went to work on how they could piggyback or execute a triple jump safely. Double jumps were considered risky. And we never do three in a row. Risking his ship and the entire fleet, by extension, if Kattan ordered a response, wouldn’t bring back the spacers who would die in the next twenty minutes.

“There’s nothing we can do, sir,” Miller whispered.

Arthur turned his head toward her before he let it drop. “Dammit. Comms, request instructions from the Hermes.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Kaveh paused. “Text-only message is to proceed with station mission. Other assets will attempt assistance for convoy fifty-eight.”

Well, that’s that. Arthur stared out the bridge windows, fury building within. Vannier played me. That son of a bitch knew there was nothing here. He balled his right hand into a fist and smacked it into his left palm a few times. I’ll deal with him later. For the moment, all Arthur could do was wait and stew.

13

Arthur pushed open the hatch to his day cabin. It made sense that Colonel Kattan wanted to talk. Correction—she wants to tear a bloody strip out of my hide. He didn’t want anyone else on the ship hearing that, so he’d had the vidlink routed to his tablet. It was only a couple of steps to the chair, but they seemed to go in slow motion.

Finally, Arthur had his device up and locked into the cradle on his desk. He made a point of making sure his uniform was neat and pulled himself up in a ramrod-straight posture before pressing the button to toggle on his camera and microphone.

Kattan’s face appeared on the screen a moment later. She wore what could only be described as a scowl and was also in her day cabin. “Nice of you to finally pick up, Colonel.”

Arthur kept his mouth in a tight line so as to not betray any emotion. “I apologize, Colonel. Discretion seemed in order.”

“Colonel Hanson, I’m not sugarcoating this. You failed. Miserably. That’s bad enough in war, but this screw-up cost lives. Hundreds of lives. On top of losing a hospital ship, our brilliant counterstrike ended up raiding a long-since-abandoned space station and put us out of position to defeat another terrorist strike.”

Arthur could almost feel the anger radiating through the vidlink as spittle flew out of Kattan’s mouth.

“Ma’am—”

“I’m not finished, Colonel!” she snapped. “Did you do any verification of the intelligence provided by Vannier? Corroboration with another source?”

“No, ma’am.”

Kattan pursed her lips. “I was blinded by your success so far… and should never have taken your assertions at face value. This is on me as much as it is you.”

One thing Arthur had learned in life was that sometimes, you had to own the failure and its consequences. He gritted his teeth. “Ma’am, this was my failure. I thought the intel was good because all the intel we’ve gotten previously from Vannier was spot-on.”

“And you didn’t consider that a terrorist might lie to you, Hanson?”

“We used enhanced interrogation techniques—”

Kattan threw up her hands. “I don’t want to know. What I do want… is your get-well plan. How are you going to unscrew this situation, Colonel? Because right now, we have an enemy that’s playing havoc with us, and there is precious little I seem to be able to do.”

“Command didn’t send enough ships—”

“Tell me something I don’t know. If it were any other general occupying COMSPACEFOR, I’d assume he or she simply sucked at their job. Since it’s your old CO, Cohen, my assumption is the politicians are playing games at our expense. Hear me when I tell you that doesn’t matter, Hanson. Our job is to protect these civilians, and by Allah, that’s what we will do.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kattan stared him down. “You caused this mess, Hanson. Put your head into it and help figure out a solution.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his lips as many dark thoughts shot through his mind. Most centered on extracting a price from Vannier. I’ll get the truth out of him, whatever it takes. “I’ll redouble my efforts on obtaining actionable intelligence.”

“Next time, we’ll send a commando team to scout it first.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Kattan narrowed her eyes. “I’ll give you credit for taking my anger like a man, Hanson. Solve the problem, and you might get back into my good graces.”

“I’ll do my best, ma’am.”

“See that you do. Hermes out.”

The tablet screen went dark, leaving Arthur alone as rage coursed through his veins. He’d barely kept it in check while talking to Kattan, but now he focused on an outlet: Vannier. We’ll see how he likes the penalty for lying. Arthur stood and swung the hatch open with purpose.

Once inside the gravlift, he touched the button to take him down to the Thatcher’s bowels, where the brig and security office were housed. In his mind, he went through the various interrogation methods that could be used on Vannier. I’ll start by locking him in that damn airlock. Maybe it’ll jog his memory.

The lift thudded to a halt half a dozen decks from his destination, and the doors swooshed open. A cargo sled poked in, and a young private guided it into the lift before coming to a halt. It was a half-size unit and, therefore, didn’t cram the carriage too severely.

“Good evening, sir,” the private said with a respectful nod.

Arthur glanced at him long enough to read his name tag: Waters. “Evening, Private.”

The doors closed, and the gravlift started moving once more.

“Where are you off to, sir?”

“The brig. I need to have a conversation with one of our guests,” Arthur replied. It wasn’t uncommon for enlisted personnel to engage in small talk with the CO, but he didn’t remember seeing the man before. His brown hair and eyes were nondescript.

Waters turned. Fire seemed to blaze from his eyes. “You mean you need to torture a prisoner.”

Arthur blinked, and his heart skipped a beat. “Yes. To get information to use to stop butchers, rapists, and terrorists who prey on the innocent.” As he spoke, the anger grew even more.

“Hypocrite!” Waters thundered. He jabbed a finger into Arthur’s left arm on the flag of the Terran Coalition. “You’ve made a mockery of morality, of the very things you and the rest like you claim to revere!”

“Who the hell are you to tell me what I’ve done wrong, Private?” Arthur saw red. “This situation calls for extreme measures—”

Waters moved his hand down and nearly ripped the Christian flag from Arthur’s uniform. “No! It doesn’t! There is no such thing as an excuse for evil! You do not repay evil with evil! You repay evil with good!”

Silence filled the gravlift as Arthur’s eyes widened. For a moment, he thought the young man would physically assault him. “That sounds nice in a sermon,” he finally stated.

“It’s not a sermon,” Waters shot back. “It’s a way of life. What do you think God thinks when He sees you barbarically killing another living being, bringing that man back to life, and doing it again?”

Arthur thought back to the hundreds of women and girls who’d come back from the PFLOS torture chambers, their lives forever altered and their innocence gone. “That’s the least they deserve. Every one of them should be killed in the most barbaric way possible to prolong the suffering! Death is too easy an out!”

“Do you believe that God judges all beings when we die?”

“Of course I do,” Arthur replied. Somewhere in the back of his mind, it registered with him that this was the longest gravlift ride he’d ever taken on the Margaret Thatcher or any Ajax-class destroyer, for that matter.

“Then who are you to judge this man? To decide you can punish him for all his crimes? Clearly, you must not trust that God will apply appropriate punishment in the life to come!”

“I want them to suffer now!” Arthur shouted back, his voice echoing in the confined space. “And for Vannier to get a preview of what burning in hell for eternity feels like.”

Waters took a step forward and jabbed his finger in Arthur’s face. “If you continue on this path, you will serve eternity alongside him in torment.”

Arthur wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. It seemed to be awfully hot all of a sudden. “And what am I supposed to do, Private? Since you’re so smart, what’s your solution?”

“Did you even try to do it the right way?”

“Of—”

“No. You. Didn’t.” Waters he pointed at the Christian flag on Arthur’s uniform once more. “Did you ever ask God for help?”

“What good is God going to do me in a combat zone?” Arthur shouted back. “Prayer’s great when I’m counting the dead or hoping for some absolution for my soul! It doesn’t give me actionable intelligence!”

Waters’s eyes blazed. “How would you know? You didn’t even ask!”

Why is this lift taking so long? Arthur glanced at the display, which showed them two decks away from the desired level. “I don’t have time for this, Private. You’ve got your opinion. I have mine. Return to your duties.” Come on. I’ve got things to do.

“You blame Vannier for the loss of life and for not defeating PFLOS. Instead, look in the mirror, because you are the guilty party. He’ll never give you what you seek because he doesn’t have it. Keep on this road, and you will doom the entire Terran Coalition to defeat.”

“That’s a lie. He has to know—”

“He doesn’t!” Once again, Waters’s voice overwhelmed the gravlift like a peal of thunder. “You know that! All you want is revenge and to inflict pain. Take responsibility for your actions and live up to the ideals you claim to live by! Or take that flag off your uniform and stop deluding yourself into thinking anything you do is for God.”

As if on cue, the gravlift glided to a stop, the doors opened, and Waters walked out with the antigrav sled calmly, as if nothing had happened, without another word.

Arthur stared open-mouthed as the doors closed again and the lift took off for the deck housing the security center and the brig. When the doors swooshed apart once more, he stood there, unable to move. The conversation with the young private replayed in a loop in his head.

As he continued to process his thoughts and words, the reality of the situation came into focus: Waters was right. Arthur had betrayed his oath, the uniform he wore, and worse, by his actions, caused a disaster that cost another two hundred innocent people their lives.

The weight of that realization was almost unbearable. With a trembling hand, he reached out and touched another button on the panel. Arthur wasn’t even sure what deck it was… just that it wasn’t that one.

* * *

An hour later, Arthur wasn’t certain where he was besides a dim sense in the back of his mind that he’d wandered up and down the length of the Margaret Thatcher several times. Over and over, he’d gone through his actions. The more he did, the more shame built within. I’ve dishonored my crew, my uniform, and everything I claim to believe in. Hypocrite wasn’t a word Arthur would ever have associated with himself, yet there it was.

If a wet-behind-the-ears private thinks so little of me, what does the rest of the crew or the officers say behind closed doors? Arthur knew the answer: they either gave in to the same bloodlust or had the same revulsion as Private Waters. As his mind churned, he walked onward, ignoring anyone who attempted to interact with him.

At one point, Arthur ended up in front of the chapel and briefly considered going inside in hopes that Chaplain Pelicot was still working, even though the hour was late. But the shame of what he’d done and the losses his actions had inflicted kept him from walking through the door. Instead, he kept walking.

Around oh-two-hundred hours, Arthur stumbled through the hatch to his quarters belowdecks. He took a few steps inside and collapsed onto the couch. Through gut-wrenching sobs, Arthur continued to try to make sense of it all. The shame and internal condemnation were overwhelming. I am a stain on the CDF. It would be better if I were no longer here.

Part of Arthur’s brain seized on that thought, because there would be no inquiry, no propaganda win for the terrorists, if he no longer existed. It didn’t take him very long to use his thumbprint to unlock the small weapons-storage unit beside his bed, where he kept a standard-issue pulse pistol.

With tears streaming down his face, Arthur fumbled with the power output until it clicked over to the setting marked kill and pressed the muzzle against his skull. “I’m sorry.” He closed his eyes and tightened his finger on the trigger.

“There’s a better way.”

At first, Arthur thought he was imagining the words he clearly heard in the quiet of his cabin. He opened his eyes, still holding the weapon to his head, and realized a man was seated next to him on the bed.

The man was unlike anyone he’d ever seen. Dressed in a simple white robe, with a thick beard and curled payot—sideburns grown out. Warmth seemed to emanate from him as he held out his hands toward the weapon and smiled. “There is never a reason for this.”

Arthur blinked. “Who… How’d you get in here?”

The man’s hands closed over Arthur’s and gently tugged the pistol away. “A friend, to answer your first question. As for the second, I have a way of gaining access to any place I am needed.”

Arthur let the weapon fall to the bed and stared at him in amazement. I am losing my mind. What do the docs call it? A psychotic break? He began to shake.

“What troubles you?”

“I… I tortured a man for information.” Arthur bit his lip. “And I got a lot of good people killed through my actions.”

“It is written, ‘Vengeance is Mine. I shall repay, says the Lord.’ Is it not?”

Arthur swallowed and nodded. “Yes. I know that’s in there somewhere.”

The man took Arthur’s hands in his. “Do you believe that the Son of Man died on a cross for your sins, that they may be forgiven?”

Once more, tears streamed down Arthur’s face. He forced his head up and down, as words wouldn’t come out.

“If you believe that, did you not read and accept the rest of His promises?”

“I…”

The man squeezed Arthur’s hands. “Do not repay evil with evil. It doesn’t matter how much you think they deserve it. That is not yours to judge. Nor is it for you to decide when your life ends in this manner.” He gestured to the weapon.

“You don’t understand. They’d be better off without me,” Arthur said in a monotone between sobs.

“Are you God? Do you see the plan of the Father? Have you some insight that no other man has?”

Arthur blinked a few times. “No…”

“Then you have no concept of what is to come. Only the Father sees all, hears all, knows all. Compared to Him, you and every being like you stumbles about in darkness.”

“What do I do, then?”

“These evil men… feed them when they are hungry. When they are thirsty, give them water. You cannot overcome evil by being evil. You only overcome evil with good. The wicked will receive their just reward on this side of eternity or the other.”

“But my job is to kill them.”

The man shook his head. “Your job is to stop them. That is different. Sadly, death is a part of the war, and war is horrific. And if it were possible, I would have every being in the universe live in peace with one another.”

“We make too much of a mess of things for that.”

“That, humanity does.” The man stared into his eyes with a piercing gaze that seemed to cut through every fiber of Arthur’s being, directly into his soul. “There is no one in this room to condemn you, Arthur Hanson. Only yourself.”

“The deaths of all those people are on me,” Arthur whispered. “How can I possibly redeem myself?”

“You can’t, and you know that. But you can be forgiven of these and every other sin you’ve committed.”

“How?”

“You would ask me this?” The man touched the Christian flag on Arthur’s uniform. “Have you no understanding?”

“I… But this… It’s not fibbing on a term paper. Or stealing a candy bar.”

The man shook his head. “You of little faith.”

Arthur couldn’t make sense of what his eyes, ears, and hands told him. A man sat on his rack, wearing garb from thousands of years ago on Earth, talking as if… As if He is the Son of God. He considered going to the medical bay and having Dr. Wildstein remove him from command and confine him on a psychiatric hold. “Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

Those words echoed in Arthur’s mind as he struggled to comprehend what was happening. All at once, the pain erupted from him like a flood. Arthur bawled like he’d never done in his adult life while grabbing at the hem of the man’s garment. Begging for forgiveness repeatedly, he barely felt the man embrace him.

When the tears finally slowed and the gut-wrenching sobs stopped, Arthur opened his eyes and dabbed at them with his uniform sleeve. The man sat, still smiling, with an unnatural warmth that overcame everything else. “Do not be troubled. Trust in God and also in Me.”

“I… I do.”

“You have so far to go.” The man took Arthur’s hands in his once more. “I died for you so that you might be forgiven and live. I tell you that no man here condemns you, Arthur Hanson. Go and sin no more, or… a worse thing may happen.”

* * *

Arthur opened his eyes with a start. His right hand still held the pulse pistol, and memories flooded back into his mind. He was lying on the bed, not sitting as he remembered from just a moment before. Was that a dream? The conversation… The man… They were so real. Arthur let go of the weapon, and it fell to the floor, bounced once, then stopped.

What happened to me? Unlike the frenzied mental turmoil he’d experienced only minutes before, Arthur felt peace. He’d never experienced such calm. Go and sin no more. It only took a moment of consideration to realize that those were words to live by. He reached down and scooped up the pulse pistol. Then Arthur stood, used his palm print to unlock the small safe, and returned the weapon to its proper place.

Wait a minute. Do I really think I had a conversation with Jesus?

The concept seemed so over the top, ridiculous, and without any rationality to it. Yet Arthur believed with all his heart that a man dressed like a Jew from the first century AD had been in his quarters only minutes before. Maybe there’s just something wrong with my head. He considered going down to the medical bay and having Dr. Wildstein examine him. If I do, he’ll rightfully relieve me of command.

Arthur stared at his hands. He wasn’t quite sure what to do. As the thought went through him, he knew it wasn’t quite true. I’ve got to do something to make this right. I was given a second chance. How many people get that?

With purpose to his movements, Arthur pulled on a duty uniform and exited his cabin. Since it was the middle of the third watch, nothing was stirring, and virtually no crewmen were in the corridors. For that, he was thankful.

A quick trip in the gravlift deposited him on the deck containing the chapel, and Arthur made his way down the passageway to the double hatch leading to the place of worship. It was nondenominational because it was the only religious area on the ship. Unlike larger vessels with thousands of crew who had access to a separate church, mosque, or shul, the chapel was utilized by all faiths, and the symbology was changed out as needed.

Since Chaplain Pelicot was a Christian, as was Arthur, by tradition, the standard display in the chapel was of Christian symbols and items. He found the cross comforting as he sat in the first row of the pews. The room was totally silent, as Pelicot had long since turned in for the night.

In the eerie quiet—even the ventilation system wasn’t generating noise—Arthur took measure of his soul. The events of the last few weeks and especially the last couple of hours weighed on him as nothing ever had. Intermixed with the peace he’d gained was a feeling he had to do something to make amends. Even though that wasn’t what he’d been told to do, Arthur seized on finding a solution to PFLOS that didn’t involve torture, criminal behavior, or sins against God.

Despite it not being necessary for God’s forgiveness—and Arthur’s unwavering belief in that—he still felt a powerful urge to make things right. Somehow.

In that moment, sitting in the pew, his head bowed and his eyes closed, the kernel of an idea came to him. Why he hadn’t thought of it earlier infuriated every fiber of his being.

Arthur forced the anger with himself from his mind. It didn’t matter. What he’d failed to do, he could fix. Then, I must answer to the proper authorities for my crimes. After a final prayer, he stood and headed for his day cabin. He had much to do.

14

Jeremiah didn’t get much time in his supposed office, which was akin to a broom closet. When he did, it was solely to finish writing medical notes. The Coalition’s medical tech was good enough to generate most of the narrative for a patient’s chart, but it required some hand touching, primarily because of general artificial intelligence being banned throughout human space. The Saurians and Matrinid also had extensive laws outlawing the practice.

Even megacorps were generally pressured not to engage in general AI research, so common AI assistants weren’t intelligent enough to do the entire document. That left a human to perform a final review and touch-up.

But Jeremiah welcomed the time. It let him decompress for a few minutes, even if those few minutes were filled with paperwork.

A knock at the hatch drew his attention. “Come in. It’s open!”

Lieutenant Faulkner poked his head in. “Got a minute, Chief?”

“Always,” Jeremiah replied with a smile. The two, despite their initial issues, had become friends. Which is as it should be once we overcome our differences.

Faulkner closed the hatch behind him and squeezed into the only other chair in the office. “Could this get any smaller?”

“I mean, sure… some bean counter could make us use standing terminals in the main treatment area.”

They both chuckled.

Faulkner closed his eyes for a moment. “I’ve got a problem, Chief. Thought you might be able to offer some advice.”

“This have anything to do with Vannier?”

“Yeah.” Faulkner pursed his lips. “I know what went down, even though the colonel made sure not to use Marines this time in his… torture.”

Jeremiah had heard too. The Margaret Thatcher, despite its size, was a very small vessel, and RUMINT spread like wildfire. “What are you thinking?”

“That our commander is committing war crimes. I pushed it aside the last time because I thought… hoped… that it was a one-and-done under horrific circumstances. This tells me it’s not. Worse, his actions cost a lot of people their lives and wasted our time.”

“You don’t know that for sure, son. We might’ve done just as badly if we’d engaged PFLOS rather than gone on a wild-goose chase.”

“Maybe. That doesn’t change that what went down was wrong.”

Jeremiah sat back. “Lieutenant, you’ve been down this road before. Less than two weeks ago, I might add.”

“That was… different.”

“Was it?” Jeremiah replied. He stared him down. “How, exactly? Is it acceptable to torture a man a little… but not a lot?”

“I…” Faulkner shook his head. “Maybe I thought that the results justified Colonel Hanson’s actions.”

“And now, you see that as it continues, perhaps that’s inaccurate?”

“Yes.” Faulkner’s eyes went to his feet. “Chief, I should do something.”

“Like what?” Jeremiah let the words tumble out of his mouth, not thinking where they might go. He realized that he, too, had ignored what was happening—a realization that disgusted him.

“I don’t know. Something. I… Dammit, Chief. I hate these butchers. When I’m on the battlefield, I pray every bullet I shoot ends one of their miserable, despicable lives.”

Jeremiah pursed his lips. “But?”

“But… what’s the point if we become just like them?”

“Avery, I know you’re a Christian from our talks, but allow me to ask you a personal question—why is it that you don’t wear any outward symbolism of your belief?”

Faulkner bit his lip. “I’ve never felt comfortable with it, Chief. Can’t really tell you why, except lately… My job is to deal death. And that doesn’t exactly jibe with Jesus’s teachings, does it?”

Jeremiah leaned forward. His uniform was the blue utility jumpsuit most enlisted ratings wore while underway. It proudly displayed the Christian flag underneath the emblem of the Terran Coalition. He put his hand on it. “Do you know who Dietrich Bonhoeffer was?”

“Uh, no, Chief. Never heard of him.”

“He was a Lutheran minister in Germany during the Second World War back on Earth.”

Faulkner tilted his head. “That was the one with the Nazis, right? I did pay attention in some history classes.”

Jeremiah chuckled. “Yes, that’s the one. Bonhoeffer was a unique man. I found his writings when I was a teenager. They helped shape me. And my reasoning for wearing the Christian flag is as simple as why I refuse to carry a weapon. Our lives as Christians are what the rest of the universe sees. Our actions should make nonbelievers question their disbelief in God.”

“Yours do, Chief. Every Marine in my unit talks about you. They revere your bravery.”

Jeremiah waved a hand in the air and shook his head. “It’s not about me. I am only doing my job to the best of my ability before God. You see, if you do not act, that is an act in and of itself. Refuse to speak up? That is speaking itself.”

“What are you saying, Chief?”

“I’m saying that it’s easy to sit in a small office belowdecks and have a hushed conversation with a friend about something you know to be wrong. It’s far more difficult to do something about it.”

Silence swept the tiny office, and Faulkner stroked his chin. “I could file a report with Colonel Kattan or push it up further to CDF HQ.”

“You could.”

“Or…” Faulkner closed his eyes, seeming to cross an internal Rubicon. “I could invoke CDF regulations and relieve Colonel Hanson of command.”

Jeremiah ran his tongue over his lips. “You’re a Marine, not CDF. The XO backs him too.”

“I’d have to figure out who in the chain of command thinks like I do.”

“And risk being arrested for treason,” Jeremiah interjected.

The statement gave Faulkner pause as he stared straight ahead for multiple seconds without speaking. Finally, he opened his mouth. “It’s what is right. That must be worth the risk. It certainly is when we’re charging into battle. If I don’t have the courage of my convictions off the battlefield, what good am I?”

Jeremiah regarded him with a smile and nodded. He got there himself. Good. “Your words, not mine.”

Faulkner took a deep breath and blew it out. “Yeah. This is easier said than done. Well… are you with me, Chief?”

And that was the rub. As an avowed pacifist, not unlike Dietrich Bonhoeffer, Jeremiah wouldn’t so much as pick up a weapon of war, much less use it. Yet I just called out my friend and told him he needed to do what was right. An internal accusation of being a hypocrite filled his mind. “We are not to simply bandage the wounds of victims beneath the wheels of injustice. We are to drive a spoke into the wheel itself.”

“Uh… yeah. I get that, Chief.”

“No, that’s not for you. That’s for me, Avery.” Jeremiah put his hands on the desk. “I’m not picking up a weapon. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help. I’ll talk to Dr. Wildstein on your behalf and others in the medical team.”

Faulkner pursed his lips. “Chief, you don’t have to do that. You’re not an officer—”

“If I don’t act, that’s an act in and of itself.”

The words hung in the tiny office, making the air heavy with their weight.

Several seconds passed before Faulkner finally nodded. “All right, I’ll take all the help I can get. Maybe say a prayer for me… for this?”

“Let’s do one better.” Jeremiah took Faulkner’s hands and bowed his head. As he began to pray, something inside told him it would all be okay. It was comforting, even though Jeremiah couldn’t see how.

* * *

League Army Headquarters

Aonia Terra—Mars

24 April 2474

After hundreds of years of terraforming, Mars was still a desolate place. Its atmosphere was barely strong enough not to require a pressure suit, but the gas mix still made a breather mandatory—if one wanted to survive outside for more than two minutes, that was. But Dmitry Borisov still found the landscape beautiful. In that rugged place, with extinct volcanos higher than any mountain on Earth, the League of Sol’s army trained and maintained its headquarters.

The men and women who grew up on Mars were a hearty lot, and they took pride in their accomplishments to the point that some might call it individualist. As a result, Mars had more political officers than any other core world.

Borisov knew how to exploit that dynamic. For over a decade, he’d made a concerted effort to develop friends throughout the Martian hierarchy of the League Army. As he traded the view of pristine mountains for the drab hallways of a military office complex, he hoped those efforts had paid off, as he’d pinned the next phase of his plan on them.

Clad in civilian attire, Borisov appeared like a nondescript visitor and used a false name and documents to avoid attracting attention to himself. Subtle changes in his appearance, thanks to the use of mouth prosthetics, would help fool initial AI face scans, though such tactics wouldn’t hold up to more vigorous scrutiny. Still, he figured it would be enough. For now, at least.

Borisov strode into the office of Colonel-General Dominic Schaefer, who hailed from what had once been America on Earth. Once shown to the inner vestibule, he closed the door behind him.

“You’re taking a grave risk, coming here,” Schaefer said the moment the latch clicked shut. “There are political officers everywhere. Especially since Yvette Etienne’s demise.”

“Half of them are loyal to me. The other half are running around like chickens with their heads cut off.” Borisov dropped into a chair facing the desk. “I apologize for it being so long since our last discussion.”

“You’ve been busy.”

Borisov raised an eyebrow. “In what way?”

Schaefer smirked. “Ever since the Popular Front of the Liberation of the Orion Spur began its attacks, I knew it was you. Add to it a seemingly random string of accidents befalling… shall we say less-than-friendly members of the League’s brass. That’s all the confirmation I need.”

The possibility that the man was attempting to get him to incriminate himself immediately flashed through Borisov’s mind. He drew a small device from his pocket and set it on the desk. “This will ensure we can talk privately.”

“Director, give me some credit. I have my office swept for listening devices twice a day by two separate people. Both of whom I ensure live in the lap of luxury… at least what passes for it on Mars. There’s a promise of a house on Earth for both of them too.”

“Not even you have that kind of pull,” Borisov replied.

“Correct, but they don’t know that.”

They both chuckled, then Borisov shook his head. “Do you not feel dirty from these interactions?”

Schaefer shrugged. “It is the cost of living in the League these days. But yes, I do. In some ways, I long for the simple days when I went to infantry training academy. I spent eighteen hours per day training, but at least I had a purpose.”

“You don’t have one now? The last time I checked, you commanded an entire corps of troops.”

Schaefer leaned forward and peered at Borisov. “I know you want something, so I’ll save you the trouble. You haven’t done nearly enough to get me to throw in with a conspiracy to overthrow the Social and Public Safety Committee. The public still backs them in principle, as do most of the senior military officers.”

“You guessed incorrectly, Colonel-General.” Borisov smiled thinly. “I have another ask in mind for you.”

“What?”

“PFLOS is having issues with the CDF.”

Schaefer blew out a breath. “All right. You want me to invade Coalition-held planets.”

“Our worlds. Not theirs.”

“Dmitry, how can I ask my men and women to die in an unsanctioned war without even basic logistical support? They’d get slaughtered. I’m tired of putting teenagers in the ground or, worse, cremating them before releasing the ashes into the void.”

Borisov put his hands together. “If we succeed, that will no longer happen. It’ll be the capitalists putting their children in the ground, where they belong. And you underestimate my abilities. I have drop pods, logistical support, and supplies of ammo and food.”

Schaefer’s eyes widened. “Seriously?”

“I swear on Lenin’s grave.”

“How?”

“You don’t need to know that information.” Borisov’s trust only went so far. His natural suspicion of virtually everyone had paid off over the years, helping him to avoid numerous plots and traps. It went so far that he’d never remotely entertained the thought of taking a wife. For the rare times when he felt the urge to relieve himself, there were those willing to do the deed for a price. And more than a few of them had ended up dead to ensure his secrets were kept.

“It is one thing to talk of the doddering old men in the Social and Public Safety Committee. Even I might, my friend, point out that we’re getting up there in age too.”

Borisov chuckled. “Yet another reason to take action? To do something besides talk?”

Scowling, Schaefer shook his head. “You are attempting to manipulate me.”

“Of course I am.” Sometimes, honesty truly was the best policy. “I want a specific outcome… your troops joining our struggle and striking a blow to restore Society. What do I have to do to get your support?”

“What is your victory condition, Dmitry?”

Borisov’s ears perked up. That was the sort of intelligent question League generals and admirals had long since quit asking. “For what?”

“Oh, I want the entire picture, but we can start with this PFLOS business. What is their purpose besides wanton murder?” Schaefer held up a finger. “Which I will not tolerate my men participating in, I might add. We are professionals, and professionals don’t behave like barbarians.”

“Their purpose is to destabilize the Terran Coalition and sow chaos.” Borisov crossed his arms. “That should be obvious.”

“Go on.”

“The next phase is liberating three of our worlds, at which point special people’s plebiscites will declare a desire to rejoin the League of Sol. This is where you come in.”

Schaefer sat back. “And if the committee doesn’t honor the request?”

“Then we establish an independent people’s socialist republic until I’m able to deal with those doddering old men.”

“By Lenin, you are either the most ambitious man I’ve ever met or completely insane.”

“Perhaps a bit of both,” Borisov replied. And probably true. What he was attempting had occurred few times in the League’s past. The men and women who’d tried it had a tendency to spend their final days in a gulag, tortured and beaten before death, any memory of them purged from the annals of history.

“I could move my corps on a training exercise. Zero-g, perhaps. That would make sense because of the strife in the Orion Spur. But it doesn’t get our heavy equipment in place.”

Borisov flashed a thin smile. “I have sufficient stocks to equip over one hundred thousand soldiers, which I believe is around the size of your corps.”

Schaefer sucked in a breath. “I want proof before I put my men into this.”

“That can be arranged but only once they’ve left their bases. I’m aware your corps is spread out between Mars and three other staging areas in different solar systems. Schedule a large-scale exercise, and I will send you coordinates for a rendezvous.”

“This is going to get much attention.”

Borisov shrugged. “Leave managing that to me.”

“If I do this, there’s no going back. We either triumph or die.”

“My mother used to tell me when we hunted for mushrooms… ‘Dmitry, if you’re scared of wolves, don’t go into the woods.’” He spread out his hands. “But of course, what we wanted to find was in there. So yes, this is a risk. But if we venture nothing, the same shall be returned.”

Schaefer pursed his lips. “My family has a certain lifestyle here. They would need to be protected and moved to safety.”

In Borisov’s decades of clandestine work, there was a moment in which every asset gave one notice that they were finally willing. And even a patriot such as you, comrade Colonel-General, has needs. He didn’t allow the smirk that wanted to announce itself onto his face. “Of course. I wouldn’t think of having it any other way. We cannot let our loved ones be used against us, after all.”

“There is one other small matter,” Schaefer said after a few seconds’ silence. “My mistress must be part of that, ah, relocation.”

Borisov couldn’t help the snort that escaped his lips. “Surely not together.”

“Ah, no.” Schaefer chuckled. “Certainly not. But I find her presence quite soothing, and I predict much soothing will be needed over the next few months.”

“Consider it done.”

Schaefer extended his hand across the desk. “Dmitry, I think you’re probably going to get us both killed. But you know what? I’m tired of the slow decline, watching the League dissolve from within. If we could change that, it’s worth fighting for.”

Borisov shook firmly. “There is no price on restoring our society, comrade. Together, we shall be like the heroes of old. Marx, Lenin, Zhukov, Mao, Ho Chi Minh… all of them made the capitalists quake in terror, and we will do so again.”

“Care to join me for a drink? A statement like that deserves a toast.”

“Gladly, comrade.”

15

ISV Kori Bustard

On Approach to Lingbao—Convoy Thirty-One

25 April 2474

Abaeze Ibekwe adjusted his position in his seat. Even with the finest supportive chairs money could buy—at least in his price range—after eight hours of being plopped on one’s rear end, there was some unease and restlessness. He’d worked the route from ISF space to the Orion Spur for almost three years. It was known for boredom and driving spacers stir-crazy.

He was a veteran of the Coalition Defense Force and nominally a member of the Coalition’s Merchant Spacers. But his current mission was under the ISF flag, as his ship was homeported to Trinidad Station. Taxes were far lower, and pirates tended to be a little gentler. Not that Ibekwe cared, because he’d spent most of his credits on upgrading the Kori Bustard.

She wasn’t the prettiest thing in the space lanes, nor was she as full of tricks as some of the richer spacers, but the Bustard could hold her own long enough to escape.

“Only another half an hour, boss,” the navigation officer called out.

Her voice brought Ibekwe out of his thoughts. “Then we get to stretch our legs unloading a few hundred tons’ worth of cargo.” They were hauling mostly foodstuffs and medical supplies because in the hyperconnected world of the Terran Coalition, most planets weren’t self-sufficient and relied on just-in-time logistics.

Which was great when moving cargo was simple and mostly risk free, but the war presented significant logistical challenges, particularly with the vast distances between the Coalition and its Orion Spur colonies.

“Convoy leader is sending an alert. They say they’ve got inbound holes, and one of them has a known PFLOS signature.”

Ibekwe groaned inwardly. He’d hoped that participating in a large-scale CDF-protected convoy would limit attacks. Those strategies had succeeded during the League of Sol–Terran Coalition war. But every conflict is different. “Raise shields. Charge weapons. Sound action stations, ship-to-ship warfare.”

“Action stations. Action stations. All hands to action stations, ship-to-ship combat.”

The computer-generated voice was soothing and disquieting at the same time.

“New wormholes opening, sir. Contacts emerging in a rough sphere five thousand kilometers away.”

The new vessels were directly between them and Lingbao. Which means we must go through.

During his time in the CDF, he had primarily worked as a supply specialist on planetary duty. The allure of flying through the void, though, was something that appealed to many a young boy and girl, and Ibekwe was no different. He’d always wanted to live the spacers’ life. And it’s not without its fair share of scrapes and dangerous situations.

The terrorists wasted no time in beginning their attack, as the sleek shapes of the Halcyon-class freighters coalesced into a wedge-shaped formation. At the core was a much larger vessel, one that gave Ibekwe, and he suspected everyone else in the convoy, pause.

“Boss, is that a—”

“Rand-class heavy cruiser. Pretty strong League kit, there,” Ibekwe replied. Fear stirred in his heart. Even with the upgraded deflectors and additional weapons mounts his freighter sported, it was no match for military hardware of that caliber.

As if to underscore his thoughts, the Rand’s neutron beams speared a Meade-class frigate from one end to the other in a single volley, even while a barrage of plasma balls splattered over its hull. The unlucky Coalition vessel ended up with molten armor peeling off its side as all outgoing weapons fire ceased and it stopped maneuvering.

Ibekwe swallowed hard before forcing saliva into his mouth to combat the sudden dryness. “Send a distress call, priority one.”

The spacer at the communications station nodded a moment later. “Going out, boss,” she said.

A silent wave of dread washed over the bridge, etched onto the face of every man and woman, a reflection Ibekwe felt acutely in his quickening, erratic heartbeat. “Lock weapons on the nearest vessel the CDF is actively engaging.”

“Aye, boss.”

“Plasma cannons locked. So are our xaser emitters.”

Ibekwe set his jaw. “Fire.”

The Kori Bustard neatly turned in the void and presented most of its energy-weapons emplacements to a freighter that was duking it out with an Ajax-class destroyer. Missiles flew from the CDF ship even as the PFLOS vessel fired its own neutron beam. Because of the red coloring, it seemed likely the device was League of Sol issue. Plasma balls from the Bustard peppered the starboard deflector arc of the hostile while the CDF destroyer put a volley of mag-cannon rounds into her.

As the combat continued, Ibekwe pulled up the Lawrence drive status display on his console. They were at least an hour from jumping without risk of exotic-particle release. Not that anyone had the luxury of waiting for a complete cooldown in a battle zone. But right now, the computer says over eighty percent chance of drive failure. The risk was far too significant and amounted to a choice between how one wanted to die. At the very least, he’d wait until death was certain against the terrorists.

“Boss, that hostile is shifting targets to us. We’re locked up real good.”

Ibekwe bit his lip. “Begin evasive maneuvers. And try to make them pay when we get a good look.”

“On it, boss.”

The Kori Bustard began a deadly ballet with the PFLOS ship, trading potshots and attempting to avoid incoming plasma-ball barrages. But it could only do so much. The Halcyon-class freighter had a fusion drive, and her crew pushed it to the max. Half the shots that Bustard took missed, while most of the terrorists’ weapons fire hit home.

“Ventral deflector cohesion is out, boss,” the helm officer called out.

A split second later, the pop, hiss, and groan of the hull hit Ibekwe’s ears. That would be decompression in cargo bay three, by the sound of it. “Seal bulkheads,” he ordered automatically. This is only delaying the inevitable. The convoy simply didn’t have the ships required to defeat a Rand. Ibekwe knew that and suspected the others did as well. Each minute, though, improved their odds of living if—no, when, they jumped.

Abaeze Ibekwe could hang on to that, even as his wife’s words of warning echoed in his mind. I should’ve listened, dear. I should’ve listened.

The only remaining question was whether more CDF units could arrive in time.

* * *

CSV Tucson

Deep Space

25 April 2474

Patrick Godat stretched out his legs, a luxury in the cramped control room of the Growler-class stealth raider. They’d been in the void for more than five months, and half the crew was going stir-crazy. He was one of them. I’d give just about anything for a thirty-minute walk out in nature. Or even on a different ship. Oh, he loved the Tucson and her crew. But doing and seeing the exact same thing day in, day out, for five months was taxing on the mind. After a while, the bulkheads started closing in on him. It was the life of a stealth raider crew in wartime—days, even weeks of extreme boredom punctured by moments of violence and raw adrenaline.

“Conn, Communications. We’re getting a distress call from Convoy Thirty-One.”

The Tucson was positioned in the void in such a way that she could respond to distress calls from anyone in the current sector. With the fleet stretched out, it was the only way to provide additional firepower. This beats supporting VBSS efforts any day.

“What’s the enemy disposition, Lieutenant?”

“Sensor packet suggests ten to twelve hostiles. One of them is a Rand-class heavy cruiser.”

Kovalev’s return was inevitable. Godat gritted his teeth as he mentally walked through what came next. “Nav, spin up our Lawrence drive and plug the coordinates from Convoy Thirty-One into the navcomp.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Godat toggled the intercom on his chair to 1MC. “Attention, all hands. This is Major Godat. General quarters. General quarters. All hands to battle stations. Set condition one throughout the ship and rig for ultraquiet.”

Letchford tugged at Godat’s uniform. “Fleet readiness says we’re the only additional asset in range. You sure you want to tangle with a heavy cruiser?”

“What choice do we have?” Godat shrugged.

“It’s insane that they didn’t send heavy cruisers and our best carriers.”

Godat nodded. “Amen, XO.”

“Jump coordinates locked in, sir,” Maxwell interjected.

The control room lights dimmed and turned deep blue as she spoke, while a single alert klaxon sounded.

“TAO, make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects. Keep the outer doors closed.” Godat’s order would have the effect of depressurizing all missile tubes but leaving the doors closed, which was important during an FTL transit if they encountered exotic particles.

“Aye, aye, sir,” Vafaei replied.

“Navigation, engage Lawrence drive the moment it’s fully charged.”

“Condition one set throughout the boat, sir,” Vafaei called out. “Tubes one through twelve ready in all respects. Outer doors remain closed.”

Lights flickering in the overhead was a telltale sign that the Tucson’s FTL was being engaged. Godat folded his hands in his lap, waiting. The transit was normal, even smoother than usual, and for that, he was grateful.

“Conn, Navigation. Jump complete. We’re clear and free to navigate, sir.”

“Conn, TAO. Sensors back online. Populating the board.”

Godat inhaled deeply. “Deflectors online. Open the outer doors on tubes one through twelve. Charge energy-weapons capacitor.”

The Tucson still had the prototype EMP gun mounted to her fore hull, and if he could just get the Rand’s shields down, it would be game over. That was the extent of Godat’s plan as the tactical plot came alive. He studied it. Our position is okay but not great. Would’ve loved to come in behind the enemy formation. But there was no sign that the enemy had spotted their reduced signature wormhole, or at least, they hadn’t reacted to the Tucson’s presence yet.

Godat sketched out a course that would take them around most of the pitched battle at maximum safe sublight speeds and forwarded it to the pilot’s station. “Pilot, lay in the route I just sent you. All ahead two-thirds.” That was pushing it, but time wasn’t on their side.

A blue icon representing a freighter disappeared from the plot, underscoring Godat’s dilemma.

“Conn, TAO. One Rand-class heavy cruiser designated as Master One. Nine Halcyon-class freighters designed as Master Two through Ten. Two smaller ships with a similar configuration and drive signature to previous PFLOS point defense vessels designated Master Eleven and Twelve.”

Leave it to terrorists to embrace combined arms warfare.

“Master One just got another freighter,” Letchford said.

“This isn’t happening fast enough. Pilot, push us to max thrust. TAO, firing point procedures, tubes one through twelve, Master One.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

A moment later, Vafaei glanced backward. “Firing solutions set, sir.”

Minutes crept by, and Godat could do nothing except watch the lopsided battle. The CDF destroyers and frigates had collapsed into a rough line, and the freighter overstressed their reactors to get behind them. They should’ve had a carrier in this battlegroup. That there wasn’t spoke to how stretched the friendly forces were.

“Conn, sensor room” came the voice of Chief Henderson over the intercom.

“Whatcha got for me, Chief?”

“I think our wannabe Leaguer friends are poking around for us. Picking up active LIDAR scans that are narrowing down into a search pattern near our course. Could be coincidence.”

Godat let his head go backward. If it’s not one thing, it’s five hundred more. “Roger, Chief. Keep me informed.” He clicked off the intercom.

“That doesn’t sound good,” Letchford said under his breath.

“Nope. Opinions, thoughts, XO?”

“Take our shot here. We’re well within range. Reload and try again if no joy.”

Godat had already reached the same conclusion, but it was always good to get his executive officer’s buy-in. “Agreed. TAO, reconfirm firing solution for Master One.”

“Confirmed, sir. All tubes ready.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one through twelve.”

The Tucson bucked as one after the other, all of her standard Coalition missile tubes launched the Hunters within. They were propelled out into the void by compressed gas, then their gel-fuel engines kicked in one hundred meters from the stealth raider.

“All units running hot, straight, and normal, sir,” Vafaei called out. “Four minutes to target.”

Godat tilted his head. “Pilot, slow to one third. Come to heading zero-nine-zero.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

He’d hoped the maneuver would throw off any pursuit as the battle continued. Weapons fire lit up the void, visible through the Tucson’s exterior cameras. It looked like something from a sci-fi holodrama or War Patrol. Except it was real, and good men and women were dying just a few hundred kilometers from where he sat.

One of the red dots suddenly changed course and headed straight toward the Rand-class heavy cruiser. Godat knew immediately it was one of the point defense vessels and confirmed that supposition a moment later. Dammit. “TAO, split our warheads into multiple groups. Try to spread them out and make it a little bit harder.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The tactical move might keep their Hunters alive longer, but it would also break up the one-two-three punch of multiple fusion explosions on the same shield arc in the same spot. Trade-offs.

Out of nowhere, the Tucson pitched forward wildly, and Godat strained against his harness. He tipped out of the seat and barely kept himself from flopping on the deck as one of the straps broke off. An enlisted crewman went flying, as did anything that wasn’t nailed down.

“They found us, sir. We’ve been bracketed by two Halcyon-class freighters, Master Three and Master Ten,” Vafaei called out over the din of an emergency klaxon.

Letchford pointed at a monitor. “Hull damage, section three, deck two.”

Godat grunted. “Where we’ve taken hits before.”

“Maybe they kept a record?”

“Who knows, XO.” Godat ran his tongue over his lips. On the tactical plot, multiple red icons shifted their trajectory toward the stealth raider. It’s a damn good thing we fully cooled down our Lawrence drive. “Chief of the Boat, stand by to release decoy. Nav, plot a jump out of here, deep space.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“We’re bugging out?” Letchford asked. “They’re going to get their rear ends handed to them.”

Godat grabbed the armrests of his chair as another barrage of weapons fire hit the ship. “If we stay, we’re dead.”

“Power lost to the EMP weapon and all forward tubes, sir,” Vafaei said.

If there had been any doubt about what had to happen next, that update made Godat’s mind up with finality. “Chief of the Boat, release decoy. Navigation, all ahead flank. Adjust heading to zero-three-five, five degrees positive declination.”

“Aye, aye, decoy away,” VanDyke called out.

The countermeasure drones were specifically designed to mimic the sensor output of a Growler-class raider, forcing the enemy to split their fire. Whatever sensor suites the terrorists had outfitted onto their freighters couldn’t tell the difference, and incoming fire slacked off considerably.

“Nav, where’re my jump coordinates?”

“Just finished inputting, sir. Wouldn’t want to come out in a star.”

Godat chuckled. “Yeah, no. Charge Lawrence drive.” As the seconds counted down to jump out, he lamented their inability to do much to alter the equation. Right as the Tucson shot through the artificial wormhole, he saw another blue dot disappear. The text next to it marked the ship as the ISV Kori Bustard. HaShem, have mercy on their souls.

16

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

26 April 2474

“This is unacceptable,” Colonel Kattan intoned on the vidlink monitor in front of Arthur. They were having yet another council of war to plan how to defeat the terrorists. It boiled down to not having enough military force to protect everything simultaneously. Each loss only increased the severity of the problem.

One of the other commanders piped up, “We don’t have the ships—”

“I want solutions, not obvious statements, Major,” Kattan snapped.

Arthur unmuted his mic. “I’ve got one, Colonel.”

“Your bad intel sent us chasing our tails last time,” the commander who’d spoken previously interjected.

“I’ll own that,” Arthur replied. “And this idea has nothing to do with HUMINT.”

“Continue,” Kattan said.

Arthur could almost feel her eyes boring into him through the vidlink screen. He tapped a button on his screen to share a map. “The solution to this problem is knowing where PFLOS will be and having overwhelming firepower ready to destroy them. Of course, that’s easier said than done. I am almost certain they have access to advanced sensor technology that lets them pinpoint jump-exit points.”

“No one has that.” The woman’s insignia indicated she was a frigate CO.

“That’s not entirely accurate. An alien species in Sextans B does, and a few of our ships do too. But we’ve hesitated on rolling that tech out because of concerns that it has back doors that would allow the Admari to spy on us.”

“How do you know about this and we don’t?” Kattan interjected.

“Because I was the chief engineer on the CSV Lion of Judah. The most obvious explanation is PFLOS somehow got this tech from the League. Maybe the Leaguers got it off the Admari through their people on Joint Base Sagittarius Arch. I don’t know for sure. This is a theory.”

Kattan stroked her chin. “It fits the facts. But how does this help us, Hanson?”

“Shiny tech tends to breed overconfidence. So does smoking your opponent multiple times in a row.” Arthur crossed his arms. “We can use their MO against them.”

“How?”

“I’m getting to that.” Arthur tapped at the controls and manipulated the map to show a series of jump points. “The Hermes has superior Lawrence drives to every ship in the fleet. I propose we use her to hold open a jump point so most of her escorts can use that wormhole instead of their own.”

“Why?” Kattan asked. “What’s the benefit?”

Arthur put his hands on the table. “If I’m right, PFLOS knows how many escorts we have, thanks to their FTL sensors, because of the number of wormholes. This tactic will allow two things. One is bringing more of our fleet to the fight and suckering them in. The other is after a back-to-back jump, they’ll be unable to jump without a high risk of failure, but our ships won’t have that limitation.”

“The Hermes will, and her air wing has most of the firepower.”

“Which is why we’ll disperse her fighters and bombers in groups of four to six between the escorts’ shuttle bays.”

One of the Thane-class escort carrier COs erupted. “That’s insane! You can’t fly combat spacecraft off a shuttle bay. Not to mention the risk of exotic-particle release from our flagship. What the hell’s wrong with you, Hanson? Are you not content to get a convoy destroyed and want to try for something bigger?”

Anger shot through Arthur’s chest. So did guilt. He forced himself to stay on task and not respond. “The Margaret Thatcher has been flying two Ghost recon fighters from our shuttle bay. As long as the small craft are fully fueled and armed before leaving their home carriers, it’ll work.”

Kattan narrowed her eyes. “That’s one of the more ballsy tactical plans I’ve heard in my career, Colonel Hanson. Kovalev is certainly aggressive, and that suggests he might fall for something like this.”

“You can’t be considering this reckless proposal, ma’am—”

Kattan raised her hand. “Unless you’ve got something better, I’m not interested in hearing idle criticism. Hanson, have you run the math on how much those jumps will stress the Hermes’s Lawrence drive?”

“Yes, ma’am. You’re good with an extra hour of cooldown for four jumps. Anything more is inadvisable.”

She leaned back. “I’m going to have my engineer go through it, then I want your shuttle bay personnel on a vidlink with my crew chiefs on the flight line. Once I have their inputs, I’ll issue a final decision.”

“Colonel, I must protest,” the same CO interjected. “This plan, if it could be called that, is madness. It’s too risky—”

Kattan slammed her hand onto her desk with a loud thud that translated across the vidlink. “We are losing. I’m all for taking acceptable risks to defeat the enemy, and this has the hallmarks of something that sounds wild but just might work. If you don’t like it, devise your own plan and send it over to my communications officer by eighteen hundred hours today. Meeting adjourned.”

The screen went black, and Arthur dropped the tablet to his desk. He closed his eyes, deep in thought. Am I leading us to further doom? Or is this plan the solution? All Arthur had done since the previous day was rack his brain to find a solution, and the most obvious ones all had something to do with his engineering knowledge. He’d embraced that even as competing emotions blasted through his mind, body, and soul.

He’d also tried praying, which seemed to bring a little peace. All the while, in the back of his mind, the events of the last few days and weeks played in a loop. The thought of being able to do something, anything, to make up for his actions was foremost in his thoughts.

Regardless, Arthur Hanson was determined to do one thing: not repeat his sins. It would be enough if he could get through the next few days without doing that and inflict a blow on PFLOS. Then, the next task would begin: how to handle cleaning up the mess he’d made with the Margaret Thatcher’s crew. At the top of the list would be repairing the rift with Lieutenant Faulkner. He has to know what I did with Vannier. There would be time enough later to deal with it. First things first… transfer Vannier to the Hermes.

* * *

Arthur approached the cell where Vannier was held with trepidation. Facing the man forced him to confront his actions and the shame that went with them. He paused outside the hatch before nodding to the lead master-at-arms, who opened it up.

Vannier lay on the bed as he stared at the overhead. His face was gaunt, and vital signs monitors were evident on his arms. “What do you want, Colonel?” he asked with a tight expression.

“I’m having you transferred to our flagship for processing and shipment back to the Terran Coalition for trial.”

Vannier raised an eyebrow. “Did you go to the coordinates I gave you?”

Arthur bit his lip. “You mean did we figure out they were fake? Yeah.”

“I hope that cost you some lives.” Vannier snarled.

“It did.” Arthur took a few steps into the room. Even though it was a brig cell, it still had some creature comforts, including a private toilet and a reading viewer. The device was disconnected from the rest of the ship’s network and functioned only in standalone mode. “I must ask for your forgiveness.”

Vannier’s jaw dropped. He jerked up and put his feet on the ground, openly staring. “Did I hear that right? You want my forgiveness? For what? Being a capitalist dog?”

“No.” Arthur shook his head. “For torturing you. I crossed lines that should never be crossed. I let my hate for you consume me and cause me to become just like you. That should never happen.”

“The one time you show a spine and do something beyond what a normal CDF lacky would do… you apologize for it.” Vannier laughed. “You Terrans… You’re all so weak. Serve a few years in the League Navy. In the harshness of the void, all must be one. That’s our motto.”

“That’s bullshit. The League doesn’t practice anything it preaches. We do. And through my actions, I brought shame to myself and the entire CDF.”

Vannier shook his head. “Do you really believe that? Beneath it all, we’re all the same. Every human… We’ll lie, steal, kill… Whatever it takes to get what we want. League, Coalition, independents. That’s how we evolved. The apex predator.”

“Humans may have a sinful nature. That, I’ll give you, Claude… but we don’t have to give in to it. We can resist temptation. We can embrace God and find salvation and forgiveness for our sins through him.”

“You’ll never get my forgiveness, Colonel. Because I cannot forgive you for being weak. At least when you tortured me, I could respect your power. Now, I sneer at your pathetic groveling.”

Arthur balled his hand into a fist behind his back for a moment before releasing it even as he chastised himself mentally. “The best revenge is to be unlike him who performed the injury.”

“Some religious platitude?”

“No. The words of a Roman emperor, Marcus Aurelius.”

Vannier shrugged. “He sounds like an idiot to me. The best revenge is to kill your enemies and force them to watch everything they hold dear destroyed before they die.”

Arthur shook his head. “I pity you.”

Vannier pushed himself off the bed and got within a few inches of Arthur’s face.

Two of the masters-at-arms rushed forward, but Arthur motioned them back.

“You, pity me? You’re a weak, disgusting Terran who doesn’t even realize his own power. I still have information. You could force it from me. You know how. Take me down to the airlock and pump the air out until I give in.”

“No.”

Vannier’s eyes widened. “What happened to you? Someone cut off your balls?”

Arthur chuckled, shaking his head. “I told you. What I did was wrong. And I will answer for it.”

“Disgusting. Perhaps some of your sailors here would care to do what needs doing.”

It dawned on Arthur that the man, even after what he’d been through, had a burning need to prove he was right, that the PFLOS way was correct. Though the desire to kill the prisoner was almost unbearable, a powerful internal struggle raged within him. Arthur refused to give in. Words spoken to him before rose to the surface. “Go and sin no more, lest a worse thing happen.”

A wave of malevolence hung in the air, seeming to emanate from Vannier.

“Corporal, take him to the mess deck and ensure he has a proper meal before transfer.”

“Sir?”

Arthur whirled around. “Did I stutter, Corporal?”

“No, sir.”

“Then carry out my orders.”

“Yes, sir.”

Arthur stepped to the side as the guard detail shoved the prisoner out the hatch.

From the passageway, Vannier’s voice echoed. “You’re just like us, Colonel. Act like it!”

No, we’re not. I’m not. His mental introspection was interrupted by the senior master-at-arms.

“Sir, are you sure you want us to take him to the mess hall for a meal?”

For a moment, Arthur considered tearing a bloody verbal strip out of the young man, as Savchenko probably would’ve done. Instead, he softened his expression. “If an enemy is hungry, feed him. If he is thirsty, give him a drink.”

The corporal’s face clouded over for a moment before he tilted his head to one side. “For in so doing you will heap coals of fire on his head. I think that’s how that one ends.”

Arthur nodded. “Yes. We’re better than this. It’s time to prove it, Corporal. Move out.”

“Yes, sir,” the youngster replied with renewed vigor in his voice.

* * *

Arthur flipped through different screens on his tablet as he put together highly complex calculations for jumps based on the mass of the freighters and warships in the Hermes battlegroup. The math was almost beyond him, even with the help of an AI-navcom application.

The entry buzzer to his day cabin interrupted his train of thought. With a groan, he put the device on his desk. “Enter.”

The hatch swung open, and Miller walked in. She quickly closed the hatch and held out her own tablet. “Lieutenant Faulkner’s trying to get you removed from command.”

Arthur blinked a couple of times as he read the correspondence. Not only that, he’s gotten several junior officers to support him. “How’d you find out?”

“Lieutenant Savitz brought it to my attention,” Miller said through gritted teeth. She paced back and forth. “I want to wait until lights out tonight and place him under arrest with a team of masters-at-arms we can trust. Put him in the brig, then we’ll sort out who in the Marine platoon can be trusted.”

As she continued, bile rose from the pit of Arthur’s stomach. If I don’t put a stop to this now, it’s going to get out of hand. “We won’t be doing that, Major.”

Miller stopped midstride and faced him. “What?”

“There will be no arrests or late-night raids on this ship.”

“Did you read the same thing I did, sir? Lieutenant Faulkner means to stage a mutiny. During wartime, I might add. That’s a death-penalty offense.”

“Not another mention of executions and Faulkner in the same sentence. Do I make myself clear?”

Her face turned bloodred as she squatted, seemingly to make better eye contact. “Sir, it’s us or him. You realize that, right?”

“I crossed lines that shouldn’t and cannot be crossed, Abigail. You know that.”

Miller narrowed her eyes and made a fist with her left hand. “It had to be done. The information was too valuable, and who cares about these guys? They’re rapists, murderers… spacing these assholes is too easy a death.”

“What makes us any better than them if we use the same tactics?” Arthur stared into her eyes. “Faulkner’s showing more respect for his uniform than I have.”

“He’s a wet-behind-the-ears wannabe who doesn’t know the meaning of the words he’s invoking!” Miller thundered. “Screw him, and screw anybody who follows him.”

Much like several points over the last twenty-four hours, this was yet another major inflection point. He could do what was right, or he could give in to expediency. There’s a reason it’s called a straight and narrow road. “No.”

“What do you mean, ‘no’?”

“I mean we’re out of the torture business.”

Miller slammed her fist down on his desk. “The hell we are! We need answers, and we get those answers by doing whatever it takes.”

“No.”

Stony silence descended over the day cabin. Miller pushed herself up and dropped into the nearest chair. “What… What the hell, sir? You led us to victory. Now, you’re giving up?”

“No, now, I’m doing it the right way.”

“If we don’t win, what’s the damn point?”

“The point is that there’s more at stake than wins and losses. If we become our enemy, if we do the same things that we point at and say are horrible just to win, what does that make us? I made a mockery out of my uniform, out of my faith, and the Terran Coalition itself.” Arthur fought down emotion. “I will not do it again. Nor will anyone else on the Margaret Thatcher as long as I’m in command.”

“If Colonel Savchenko could see you now, he’d be ashamed.”

The words were meant to cause pain, and they did. Arthur felt like someone had stabbed a knife into his kidney and twisted it. But he kept his expression neutral. “Perhaps he would. Maybe he would agree with me. Neither of us will ever know.”

“This is bullshit—”

“Enough, Major! This is policy now. You either get behind it or get the hell off my ship. Are we clear?”

“What kind—”

“Yes or no?” Arthur shouted. “That’s the only answer I want to hear out of you.”

Miller shook as she balled her hands into fists. “Crystal, sir!” she shouted back just as loudly.

Half the ship is probably hearing this. Arthur took a deep breath and attempted to calm himself. “Order Faulkner up here. I’ll deal with him in person.”

“And how do you plan to do that, sir? Give him a gold star and ask him not to mutiny?” Miller’s tone dripped acid so caustic that it could’ve burned through the alloy deck plates.

Arthur crossed his arms. “I’m going to explain the situation to him and tell him Vannier has been permanently transferred off the Margaret Thatcher.”

“So instead of taking decisive action, you’re going to ask a subordinate not to remove you from command? Do you have any idea how weak this makes you, sir? To your entire crew?”

“I’ve lost a good bit of my crew already, Major. By extension, so have you. There’s one way and one way only to make this right. We go back to the book. We treat prisoners by the rules of the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights, even if they deserve being tossed out the nearest airlock. For the last time, is that clear?”

“Crystal, sir,” Miller ground out. “I would remind the colonel that losing the confidence of his officers could extend to far more than a single Marine.”

Arthur stood. “It’s always harder to do things the right way, Major. That’s the entire point. Wide is the gate and broad is the way that leads to destruction.”

“The only thing that matters is killing these terrorists.”

“No. It’s not.” Arthur slapped the CDF logo on his desk. “Courage, Commitment, Faith. Would you care to tell me which one of those values we celebrate through torture and murder?”

Miller stared at him for several seconds before she set her jaw. “We will not agree on this, sir. The only thing I can promise you is that as an officer of the Coalition Defense Force, I will do my duty to the best of my ability as long as I’m on this ship. And if I see you shirk your duties in any way, I’ll relieve you of command. Do I make myself clear, Colonel, sir?”

“Perfectly, Major.” Arthur glared down at her. “Dismissed.”

Miller sprang up, came to attention in so sharp a manner that it would’ve impressed even the crustiest master chief, and clacked her heels together before leaving.

The hatch slammed shut behind her, leaving the day cabin in silence.

Arthur closed his eyes and blew out a breath before he sat once more. Maybe I didn’t handle that too well. But what am I supposed to do? It hit him that recovering from the litany of mistakes he’d made would be far more difficult than having done the right thing from the beginning. But how could I have gotten the biometric information out of Vannier? He should’ve tried harder. Go and sin no more. That was what the man said. Was it all a dream? Did it actually happen? Did I have a mental breakdown? He was pretty sure a civilian hadn’t randomly appeared in his cabin, especially not one who bore a striking resemblance to Jesus Christ. Probably a dream or something. Maybe something more.

Whenever Arthur thought about it, he felt like a glitching computer. I suppose it’s best to just push on. His next task was simple: keep a lid on Lieutenant Faulkner, at least until after the current crisis was over. Then, all of them would have to face the music. Arthur didn’t exactly forward to it.

Someday, when we get back to the Sagittarius Arm, I’m going to book time with a counselor.

* * *

Faulkner briefly considered checking a sidearm from the Marine armory but decided against it. If Colonel Hanson was going to have him arrested, others might stand up. But he wasn’t willing to start an armed mutiny against his commanding officer, at least not yet. Major Miller’s message had been terse, ordering him to report immediately to the CO’s day cabin.

He stepped onto deck one a split second after the gravlift’s doors swooshed open.

The two Marines at the end of the passageway stiffened, and he acknowledged them with a nod before pressing the button for the hatch buzzer.

A moment later, Arthur called out, “Enter!”

Faulkner opened the hatch and walked inside. As the alloy door clanged shut, he squared his shoulders and came to attention. “Second Lieutenant Avery Faulkner reports as ordered, sir.”

“At ease, Lieutenant. Have a seat.”

“Yes, sir,” Faulkner replied as he dropped into the nearest chair while maintaining a ramrod-straight posture.

“Do you know why you’re here, Lieutenant?”

Faulkner narrowed his eyes. Does he want me to incriminate myself on the record? He chose his words carefully. “Ah, perhaps, sir. Why don’t you lay it out for me?”

“I know you’ve been gathering support from the junior officers and department heads to relieve me of command. Presumably, that includes any officer who supports me as well. I believe the plan was to turn us over to Colonel Kattan.”

An uneasy silence descended over the small office, and Faulkner stared at Arthur with unflinching eyes. I don’t have too many choices here. Lying sure isn’t going to cut it. I came into this life shooting straight. Might as well go out that way too. He narrowed his eyes. “With respect, sir, you have disgraced your uniform, the Coalition Defense Force as a whole, and the officers and crew of this ship with your illegal and unethical actions. Worse than that, your antics wasted valuable time and cost God only knows how many people their lives because we were off chasing falsehoods.”

Arthur sat there impassively and waited until several seconds had ticked by, as if he wanted to be sure Faulkner was done. “Your assessment is correct, Lieutenant.”

Faulkner’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. Of all the reactions he’d thought might happen, that wasn’t one. “Then—”

“Why do it? Because I thought in the moment that it was the right call. The initial torture of Vannier got us invaluable intelligence. And I figured that well wasn’t dry. In hindsight, I should never have done either. And as you put it, I dishonored the entire CDF.”

“Sir, I—”

Arthur held up a hand. “I’m not finished. Vannier is being transferred to the Hermes. I— and everyone else on this ship—am out of the torture business. Any captured terrorists will be afforded their due process rights under the Canaan Convention on Human and Alien Rights.”

Faulkner blinked several times, trying to take in everything that was said and process it through what had happened over the previous forty-eight hours. While his initial reaction was to mistrust Arthur and search for deception, the words came across as genuine. Something about a person telling the truth spoke for itself. “Sir, even if I accept what you’re saying as the gospel truth, that doesn’t change the fact that crimes were committed according to the UCMJ.”

“No, it doesn’t. And depending on what Colonel Kattan has to say, I’ll deal with the consequences either now or at the conclusion of my tour of duty here. All I ask is that you hold on to your logs and report until we get through the next couple of days.”

“Why, sir? It won’t change what happened.”

Arthur finally turned away. He closed his eyes and exhaled heavily. “Because I created this mess, Lieutenant. And I have to try to fix it. Please let me do that. It’s the only thing I’ve got to atone for my actions with.”

Who would I be to deny him that? In the grand scheme of things, the colonel will face the music one of these days. He’s been a damn good commander outside of this. “As long as you understand that at some point, it has to come out, then I agree to hold my report, sir. I must inform you, however, any attempt to torture a prisoner or break the CDF’s rules on such matters, and I will immediately attempt to remove you from command. To hell with any consequences too.”

“I respect that, Lieutenant. The XO wanted and I believe still wants me to put you in the brig for the duration of this mission. But given that your overall thesis was correct, I’m not going to do that. Instead, if you can find it within yourself, I ask for your forgiveness for my actions. I dishonored you and disrespected your Marines. Perhaps in time, I will be able to regain your trust.”

Faulkner pursed his lips and swallowed. The skipper, asking me for forgiveness? It felt like the older man was baring his soul in a way few people did. “Colonel, no one questions your fighting ability. Yeah, there was talk about how an engineer would do in combat, and I think more than a few jokes about pocket protectors landed. But this was never a matter of your combat qualifications. Only in doing what’s right. Look, I have no sympathy for those PFLOS bastards, okay? I look forward to them being executed for what they’ve done.”

“But it’s not my place or yours to do so once they’ve surrendered or otherwise been captured.” Arthur bit his lip. “Yeah, I know. I forgot that, and I let my hate for these people take over.”

In that moment, Avery Faulkner knew his commanding officer might have seriously screwed up, but he was also a man of honor. “I think you’ve figured it out now, sir.”

“I had some help,” Arthur replied somewhat cryptically. “But yes, I believe you’re right.”

Again, an uneasy silence descended over the cabin. Faulkner ran his tongue over his lips. Not really sure what else to say here. The entire conversation was surreal, and the longer it went on, the more uncomfortable he got. “Yes, sir.”

“All right, Lieutenant. We’ve said our piece. Do I have your word this… ah, whatever you want to call it… ends here?”

Faulkner nodded. “Yes, Colonel. It’s over.”

Arthur stood and extended his hand. “Good.”

Well, that’s one way to end things. Faulkner followed suit and shook warmly. Firm grip for an engineer. “The Marines will do the Margaret Thatcher proud, sir.”

“Of that, I have no doubt, Lieutenant. Godspeed.”

“Godspeed, sir.” Faulkner turned on his heel and smartly exited the room. He closed the hatch behind him and walked down the corridor toward the lift. What the hell just happened there? Part of his brain wondered if he was being sold a bill of goods. I don’t think so, though. At the very least, I think the skipper believes what he just said. Ugh. I’d better go have some one-on-one conversations and dial this thing back.

Once the battle to come was over, then he’d revisit what to do next.

17

Flying two SFS-3 Ghost stealth recon fighters out of the Margaret Thatcher’s shuttle bay was challenging. With the orders to add two more small craft, it had become almost impossible. But Michaels and the rest of the ad hoc aviation force were determined to make it happen regardless of the issues. He stood behind Sergeant Roth in the control room, his eyes glued to a real-time scan readout of the two Phantoms that were inbound.

The mainstay space-superiority fighter of the CDF, the Phantom was a fifth-generation craft capable of engaging multiple enemy targets simultaneously and carried an upgrade package of AI-controlled drones that were configurable for offensive or defensive action.

“This is going to be tight,” Roth said for probably the twentieth time in the last ten minutes.

Michaels grinned and slapped her on the shoulder. “Don’t jinx us, Sergeant.”

“We should’ve moved more of the shuttles to the Hermes.”

“Colonel Hanson wanted flexibility to deploy Marines.” The truth was he agreed with her, but undermining the chain of command wasn’t something he’d ever engage in, and he felt even stronger in that position with the RUMINT going around about Lieutenant Faulkner objecting to the enhanced interrogation techniques the skipper had used on Vannier. “After how things have gone, we’ll probably need them.”

“Yes, sir.” Roth exhaled heavily. “Beta One is lined up.”

Michaels squatted next to her chair. The shuttle-control facility was tiny. It only held three people, and generally, the process was automated. Of course, since fighters weren’t designed to fly off a destroyer—or any other vessel besides a carrier, for that matter—the software didn’t function, and they had to do everything the old-fashioned way: by hand.

“Guide him in, Sergeant.”

On the display, the blue dot representing the fighter started closing with the shuttle bay graphic. Immediately, a warning flashed. “Danger. Maximum safe speed exceeded,” a taciturn computerized voice called out.

Michaels waited, wanting her to figure it out without instruction.

“Beta One, slow to ten meters per second immediately.”

Good. That’s it. Keep them coming in.

“Roger, boss. Slowing to ten meters per second. Call the ball.”

“Vector up two degrees. Slow to five meters per second in… twenty seconds.”

“Wilco.”

Time seemed to slow as the Phantom approached the aft force field protecting the bay from the void. The fighter got so close that Michaels could make out the pilot inside through the cockpit canopy.

“Beta One, slow to two meters per second and set down on marked pad C.”

“Wilco, boss. That’s a mighty tight area you got there. Sure we shouldn’t go back to the carrier?”

“You’re stuck with us, Beta One,” Roth replied.

Outside, the craft edged forward. Its nose cone touched the force field, which was designed to allow the alloy to penetrate during launch and recovery operations while maintaining a tight seal. Michaels didn’t quite understand the underlying tech, only that it worked as well as magic.

“Slow to one meter, Beta One. You’re off by two meters to the right. Compensate immediately,” Roth barked into her commlink.

The Phantom banked to one side, its wing almost hitting the alloy deck plates, but at the last second, the pilot straightened out and hovered to the designated landing pad—which was actually just some colored tape on the deck.

Michaels blew out a breath. “Nice, boss.”

“What’s that mean anyway?” Roth glanced up at him.

“On a proper carrier, the air boss controls all flight operations within one hundred kilometers. Typically a senior officer too. So you got promoted.” Michaels winked.

“Maybe CDFPER will up my pay,” she replied dryly.

Michaels snickered, as did another enlisted rating. “Yeah, fat chance. The only mistakes they make are on denying pay already owed. Okay, let’s get the other one in then go meet these guys.”

The next landing evolution was simpler, as the next pilot had a path to follow, having watched Beta One come in and set down. Within five minutes, the Phantom had touched down, and the impromptu flight crews ran ladders out to both craft.

Michaels and Roth headed downstairs to meet them even as the entire shuttle bay crew rushed forward to secure the Phantoms and start maintenance procedures. As they entered the flight-operations area, one of the pilots climbed down the ladder attached to the side of his craft, while the other’s canopy popped open.

“Hey, who’s in charge of this half-assed operation?” he called out as he thudded onto the deck and removed his flight helmet, revealing short-cropped blond hair and a deceptively young face.

“Do you want refueling or not, Captain Brambilla?” Roth asked in as no-nonsense a tone as Michaels had heard out of her.

“Whoa, don’t have to go weapons free on the first retort, Sergeant.” Brambilla blinked and did a double take at her uniform, his eyes resting on the Saurian religious patch for a moment before he recovered. “So, how long till our birds are ready to fly?”

“No more than thirty minutes, sir. But that might increase to forty-five if you insult my team again.”

Brambilla pursed his lips before his face broke into a grin. “Okay. I’ll hold the chops busting if you have my ride ready in thirty minutes. Anything more, and I’ll be all over you being slower than standard aviation ratings. Capisce?”

“You got it, Captain.” Roth gave him a jaunty salute.

Michaels cleared his throat as the other pilot walked up.

He, too, had his flight helmet off. “These terrorists won’t know what hit them when fighters spill out of every ship in the fleet,” he said with a big smile.

“That’s the plan, gents,” Michaels interjected. “You boys play cards?”

“What pilot doesn’t? One of the few things to do to pass the time when we’re on ready fifteen.”

“Then I’ll invite you to join me and the rest of the team for some poker or blackjack later today in our ready room.”

“This ship has a ready room?” First Lieutenant Pabalat asked.

“We took something over and made it our own.”

She smirked. “I’m gonna like it here, I think. Why don’t we meet up after we find our bunks?”

“Good plan,” Michaels replied. Cleaning the new guys out was going to be fun. He couldn’t wait. It would be, as Pabalat had said, a great way to pass the time until the battle was joined.

* * *

Arthur realized as he slid his exhausted frame into one of the officers’ mess chairs, which had comfortable padding and all the trappings of a nice restaurant back home, that the simple joy of a hot meal was one of life’s greatest pleasures. That his feet no longer actively ached helped too. For most of the day, he’d climbed through the engineering spaces and inspected repairs. At one point, he’d put on a space suit and personally reviewed armor welds before signing off on them. Thanks to the repair vessels brought by the Hermes, the Thatcher was as close to being fully repaired as she’d get outside of a full overhaul in a CDF space yard back in the Sagittarius Arm.

The battle to come would be decisive if PFLOS took the bait. Arthur felt it all the way down into his bones. I’m developing some kind of sixth sense, I think. He couldn’t explain it, but from hearing General Cohen talk, he thought it was something ship drivers seemed to pick up along the way.

“Mind if I join you, sir?” The diminutive form of his chief engineer, Colton Ramos, stood nearby.

“Go for it.” Arthur gestured to the other side of the four-person table. “You look about as tired as I feel.”

Ramos sighed. “I don’t want the youngsters to hear me, but sometimes, I start feeling old.”

“I saw a study once that said for every year of active military service, there’s four years of wear and tear on your body.” Arthur wiped his eyes and took a sip of water.

“Sounds about right.” The younger man—Arthur was in his forties, while Ramos was in his thirties—slid into the seat. “But my grandfather, he served in the Second Saurian War. Even in his hundreds, that guy could outwork all of us.”

“My old man is the same way. I swear, I think he could outdo me for straight-up physical labor.” Arthur grinned. “At least I got some of those genes, though.”

“So, how’d my teams do?”

That was fast. Ramos and Arthur had had a strained relationship over the last few weeks, to put it mildly. He’s a lot more cautious than I am. It didn’t help that Arthur had a nearly encyclopedic knowledge of the Ajax-class’s design specifications and consistently used that knowledge to get the most out of his ship. I step on my chief engineer’s toes to do it too. “Outstanding, Major. Truly, I was impressed and only noted a few deficiencies. Most of those, I might add, came from the external repair crews.”

Ramos nodded and grinned. “Glad to hear it, sir. It would go a long way for the ratings to hear that from you.”

We’re in a war. I don’t have time to coddle anyone. As soon as the words popped into Arthur’s head, he realized that Savchenko’d had a lot more influence on him than he might’ve realized. That’s exactly the thing General Cohen would do. “I’ll make a point to visit during first shift tomorrow and deliver it in person.”

“Thank you, sir.”

Out of the corner of Arthur’s eye, he saw Yasin walk in and make a beeline for the order line. Once she’d turned toward them, he held up his hand and waved.

She kept a neutral expression for a moment before flashing a thin smile and walking over. “Good evening, gentlemen.”

“Where?” Arthur deadpanned.

The crack was rewarded with a chuckle before she took a seat next to Ramos. “Chicken is back in stock. I am happy.”

Arthur took another drink of his water. “It’s the small things.”

“Yes. Very much so,” Ramos said.

Tension lay directly underneath the surface. Arthur figured both of them had either been approached by Lieutenant Faulkner or, at the very least, heard about his inquiries. He couldn’t help but feel uncomfortable, but he could do little about it except put on the mask of command and act like nothing was wrong.

At that point, Miller walked into the mess. Arthur’s stomach churned, and he could’ve sworn he heard it shift gears and growl. The temperature in here just plummeted about fifty degrees Celsius. To his amazement, she placed an order and immediately walked over to his table.

“Mind if I snag that open chair?” Miller asked with an affable smile.

“Please. The more, the merrier,” Arthur replied, thinking on his feet. Awkward didn’t quite fully describe it, as they’d barely spoken since having it out in his day cabin the previous day.

“You look like you’ve been out checking hull patches,” she said.

Arthur glanced down at the grease stains on his utility jumpsuit. “Guilty as charged.”

“Space warfare officers tend to clean up before eating,” Yasin interjected with a mischievous grin.

“Yes, yes, I know I’m the one who’s not like the others.” Arthur took another sip of water.

The mess steward approached the table with a tray containing everyone’s plates. He deftly deposited each in front of the appropriate person before walking quickly back toward the galley.

Arthur sniffed, taking in the smell of herb chicken, mashed potatoes, and corn on the cob. Half the time, they’d been on combat rations—meals ready to eat—and the food in front of him was from the VIP stores in comparison. “Who wants to say grace?”

Miller glanced at Yasin. “How about you, Lieutenant?”

“Gladly.” She cupped her hands and brought them close to her face. “O Allah, bless us in what You have provided us with, and protect us from the punishment of the fire.”

“Amen.” Arthur opened his eyes.

“And may Allah, God, the Flying Spaghetti Monster, and any other deities I left off kindly assist in sending the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur straight to hell,” Yasin continued.

“I can get behind that too,” Arthur replied to chuckles from the others.

Arthur’s tablet beeped, and he let out an exasperated sigh. “I thought I turned that thing off.”

“No work in the mess,” Miller deadpanned. “Colonel’s Savchenko’s rules.”

“And mine,” he replied as he pulled up the device to toggle it fully off. At that point, he realized a gold-level override had gone through, making the fleet-com messaging application beep. “Well… it appears Colonel Kattan has approved my suggestion.”

“Oh goody,” Miller replied. “We’ll all get medals or drummed out of the service if it doesn’t work.”

Arthur smiled thinly. “Better clear some space on your ribbon bar, then.”

“You guys hear what’s going down with the pilots tonight?” Yasin asked between bites of chicken.

“No, but you’ve got my attention.” Arthur would put hardly anything past pilots. In his mind, they were every bit as fanatical as the Marines.

“Let’s say that real credits and gambling are involved.”

Miller smirked. “Poker?”

“Could be. RUMINT didn’t have the game, only that it was going down.”

Arthur exchanged glances with Miller. Even though things were definitely off, they still had some mutual understanding between them. “How about we go down there and have some fun after dinner?”

“That sounds like the best idea I’ve heard all day,” Miller replied.

“You in, Captain?” Arthur asked Ramos.

“If it’s all the same, sir, I’d prefer to get some rack time. Tomorrow will be a long day.”

“Of course.”

Yasin gave them all a dazzling smile. “May I join?”

“We’ve got to watch this one,” Miller muttered just loudly enough for all to hear.

They all chuckled, and for a moment, Arthur felt some peace. It was nice to have his senior staff sharing a meal, regardless of what the next day would bring. Because at least that night, they did so in one accord.

* * *

After the meal concluded and Ramos headed to his quarters, Arthur, Miller, and Yasin all took the gravlift down to deck six, where she’d heard the pilots’ card game was being held. Quizzical looks from random enlisted crewmen followed them at the sight of three officers walking with purpose together down the passageway.

I bet we cause some RUMINT of our own. Arthur chuckled.

“Care to share?” Miller asked.

“Nah, I’ll keep it to myself.”

Yasin stopped and gestured at a door to a shared junior officers’ quarters being used by Michaels. “This is where it is, per my source.”

“Who is?”

She shrugged. “Don’t want to betray a confidence, sir.”

Arthur reached over and hit the entry chime.

The sound of a chair pushing back, followed by footfalls, echoed in the corridor before the hatch swung open to reveal Captain Michaels in his athletic gear. “Uh, hi, sir.” The pilot took in the other two, and his eyes widened.

“I heard there’s gambling going on in here. With real money.”

Michaels blinked. “Uh…” Beads of sweat erupted on his forehead. “It’s a friendly game, sir. We, uh—”

Arthur couldn’t contain himself any longer or keep the stern expression going. He burst out laughing, as did the others. “I’m just busting your chops. Got room to deal three more in?”

Michaels exhaled heavily and wiped his face. “Ah… yeah. Sure, of course, sir.”

“Stow the sir stuff for the night.” Arthur gestured to the open hatch. “Yasin, why don’t you go get set up? I need to go over something with the XO real quick.”

“Yes, sir.” She ducked inside and closed the hatch.

Arthur motioned Miller over a few steps to the side. “I feel like we’re in an alternate reality here. What’s going on?”

“Rumors are running rampant all over this ship, sir,” Miller replied. The smile she’d been wearing most of the time since dinner disappeared immediately. “I disagree with what you’re doing, and I believe that appeasing Lieutenant Faulkner was a weak move, but I am your executive officer. It is my job to implement your orders, and the last time I checked, I don’t get to pick and choose which ones to obey.”

“I seem to remember telling you that.”

Miller made a face. “Don’t rub it in too far.”

“So this is us being professional officers in a war?”

She shrugged. “More or less. And for what it’s worth, the jump trick you came up with is pretty brilliant. I wouldn’t have thought of it because I would’ve immediately discounted the damage to the carriers’ Lawrence drive.”

“We’ll see if it works. Until then, you’re absolutely right. We present a united front and, I hope, tamp down on the out-of-control RUMINT.”

“I’m also planning to clean you out, sir.” Miller gave him a dazzling, shit-eating grin.

“Never gonna happen,” Arthur replied with one of his own as he gestured to the hatch. “Ladies first.”

18

The night had been longer than Arthur would’ve liked. He’d stayed in Michaels’s quarters until almost oh-one-hundred hours. One of his hidden talents was counting cards in most games of chance, and blackjack was one he was quite skilled at. It hadn’t been too difficult to clean the pilots out.

Then someone demanded poker be played in an attempt to reclaim some of their money. The pot never got above a few credits, and Arthur found that game far less to his liking. He’d never gotten the hang of it because it seemed to revolve around bluffing and reading people. I’d prefer to monitor computers and engineering systems. Perhaps that was the rub.

Technology was inherently logical and unaffected by emotions except in the user’s inputs. Humans, on the other hand, ran entirely on emotion at times, and Arthur always felt more at home with his tools.

He gave some thought as to why during the morning routine before grabbing an egg sandwich on the way to the bridge for the morning watch. I guess that’s how I’m wired. Arthur exited the gravlift onto deck one and exchanged salutes with the two Marine sentries. As he walked through the hatch, he pulled on his cover—a Margaret Thatcher ball cap.

“Colonel on the bridge!” an eagle-eyed enlisted rating called out.

“As you were.” Arthur approached the raised dais where the CO and XO’s chairs sat. “Major Miller, I have the conn.”

She glanced up from her readout. “Colonel Hanson has the conn. Aye.”

Arthur settled into his seat. “How’s the ship this morning, XO?”

“Good, sir.”

He turned toward her. “Any updates?”

“Only that about an hour ago, another group of cargo vessels arrived along with the CSV Comfort.”

“Another hospital ship,” Arthur replied. He steepled his fingers. That should be enough for a significant convoy and, I hope, large enough to attract a PFLOS attack.

“Conn, Communications,” Kaveh interjected. “Flash traffic from Hermes actual, sir. Colonel Kattan sends her compliments and orders us to move out with the rest of the fleet.”

Arthur glanced at Miller. “You’d almost think she’s got cameras in here or something.”

“Or she’s punctual and gets moving shortly after the first watch starts.”

“That too.” Arthur leaned back. “Nav, program the first set of coordinates into the Lawrence drive and prepare for jump.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Arthur closed his eyes. Lord, I have made a horrible mess of things. My crew shouldn’t pay for my sins. Please, help me. Give me wisdom, guide me, and allow me to do something to right these wrongs. If it costs me my life, so be it. I only ask that you protect my crew and those in this fleet. Give us victory over this horrible foe. Forgive me. Please. Amen.

“Lawrence drive ready to engage, sir.”

Arthur pulled his black space sweater down and smoothed it out. “Let’s get this party started.” The crew needed to see as much bravado in him as he could muster, and he hoped the attitude would become a reality.

* * *

LX Kornei Andrusenko

Deep Space—Orion Spur

27 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev steepled his fingers. Dim red light bathed the bridge of the Rand-class heavy cruiser as they ran at battle stations. So far, they’d tracked the Coalition convoy through two jumps. Clearly, the enemy didn’t want a repeat of the destruction of the last hospital ship, since what passed for the local flagship was part of the escort.

“They’re still too close to other concentrations of possible reinforcements,” Hai Gao interjected as if reading his thoughts.

“I know.” Kovalev let his hands drop to the armrests of the Kornei Andrusenko’s commander’s chair. “But I want them, Gao. It’s time to break the back of the CDF once and for all. These fools trade on the idea that some magical deity in the sky helps them, and they chalk up every improbable victory to it.”

“So if we kill enough of them, they’ll lose their faith?”

Kovalev nodded. “Morale is a fickle thing. Theirs has to be in the toilet about now. If we can crush it, they’ll become far easier to beat.”

Gao licked his lips. “Don’t let a morale officer hear you agreeing with their entire schtick.”

That prompted laughter from the rest of the bridge. League political officers, who always went by the title of morale officer, were detested by everyone, including their fellows.

“A man or woman who believes they will win will fight five times harder than one who believes the cause is lost.” Kovalev gestured to those around him. “We believe in our eventual victory. Look how far we’ve come! In the last three weeks, we’ve destroyed more tonnage for fewer losses than any League of Sol military force in history.”

The statement was factually accurate if somewhat stretched. But regardless, truthful propaganda worked. Kovalev saw that immediately reflected in the brightened expressions of his crew.

“Comrade, I must urge caution,” Gao whispered as he leaned in. “There’s a lot more firepower with this convoy. The Hermes outclasses us entirely if she can get her whole fighter complement in the void.”

Kovalev licked his lips. “I know the risks. The key is to get them to make the same set of mistakes as our last engagement.”

“Surely the CDF isn’t that stupid.”

“They’re stupid enough to send a small relief force when they should’ve sent their entire fleet.”

Gao tilted his head. “True, comrade. Still, don’t forget that the military officers over there know their business, unlike the politicians.”

Kovalev knew his friend’s words held wisdom. “We’ll bide our time until this group is out of range of any support. Then strike on our terms.”

“As you command, comrade.”

Blasting apart the Coalition’s de facto flagship, another hospital ship, and anything else they could was going to feel good. Not enough to fill the void in his soul from the loss of his children—but every dead capitalist was another step toward victory.

* * *

Something Kevin Michaels didn’t miss was drawing the short straw for alert status and spending a six-hour shift at ready-five status in his fighter. It was grueling duty because one couldn’t leave the cockpit for any reason except a medical emergency.

And on the Margaret Thatcher, it was even worse, as most of the day was spent at ready-five status after their fourth jump because command assessed that an attack could happen at any point. He didn’t dispute the notion, but after seven hours crammed into his Ghost, Michaels was practically praying for PFLOS to get on with it already.

Just about anything is better than the cramps I’m getting.

Worse, he’d already relieved himself into the emergency waste system three times. At least that’s not emptying onto the deck. Or I’d never hear the end of it.

“You think they’d notice if we got out and stretched our legs, sir?” Ichikawa asked over the commlink.

“If we did, PFLOS would pick that moment to attack,” Michaels replied. He adjusted his knees, as both ached severely.

She cleared her throat. “I figured you’d say that, sir.”

“Then why ask?”

“Because I’m bored out of my mind and didn’t sign up to polish my cockpit displays with a cotton swab.”

Michaels laughed loudly. “I’m going to remember that one. Are you actually doing that, Lieutenant?”

“Well, you gotta do something to pass the time, sir.”

“First time for everything, I suppose.” Michaels examined the dust under a couple of the knobs on his missile-type selection controller. Yeah, I guess she’s got a point. He made a mental note to order the enlisted personnel to clean it after the next mission.

If we survive.

The stakes suddenly came back into focus, as did the risk.

Yeah, PFLOS needs to get it going already. I want this over with. At some point, every warrior wanted to join the battle and roll the iron dice. Waiting was for others, not the sharp tip of the spear.

Captain Kevin Michaels continued waiting as he released yet another stream into his bladder relief system.

Any time now. Any time.

19

LX Kornei Andrusenko

Deep Space—Orion Spur

27 April 2474

Yevgeny Kovalev felt anticipation coursing through his veins as he thought of the Terrans’ blood freezing in the void once his fleet was through with them. Another hospital ship with freighters and some liners would soon be lost to the firepower of the popular front. Our patriots will plow the space lanes in their bones. The best word to describe their successes was glorious.

“They just jumped again,” Hai Gao said.

His words pulled Kovalev out of his meditation. “Is that irritation I detect, old friend?”

“Not at all. I am impatient, if anything.”

Kovalev narrowed his eyes. “I believe the time has come to mete out our revenge on this new group of capitalist dogs.”

“I will not lie, comrade… I cannot believe the CDF hasn’t sent its heavy carriers and the vaunted Lion of Judah to fight. It defies logic.”

“The individualists have a strange way of doing things,” Kovalev replied. “Consider that the political situation is of more concern to their leader than our wiping out their precious CDF and the traitors throughout the Orion Spur. It is also true of the Social and Public Safety Committee, however, that they place politics above Society.”

“So how many of the Terrans do we have to kill?” Gao asked.

Kovalev smiled coldly. “As many as they send, until they tire of their soldiers either going home in coffins or being lost to the void. I understand the religious types hate not having a funeral service with a physical body. Until then, the enemy trying to fight us with one arm tied behind its back is delicious.”

The utter contempt Kovalev held for the Coalition Defense Force oozed through every pore of his body. He relished their deaths and killing as many of them as he could. When the endeavor had started, Kovalev doubted he would live to see the liberation of their people. But now, he had a stirring within, one that told him that, improbably, he would live to make a mark on the course of human civilization.

“Navigator, prepare the fleet for jump.” Kovalev leaned forward. “This will be momentous, Hai. Two hospital ships, dozens of freighters, and half the CDF’s reinforcements destroyed in one stroke.”

“I look forward to it, comrade.”

“So does all of Society.”

“FTL charge-up sequence completed, comrade,” the navigator called out.

“Begin jump sequence,” Kovalev replied. Soon, he would strike another blow for his sons and the sons and daughters of everyone who still held true to the League’s ideals. It drove him ever forward, and their resurgence would be liberated with the blood of the Terrans. It was a joyful day.

* * *

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space

Simultaneously

Sitting on the edge of one’s proverbial seat for hours on end was a tiring exercise. Arthur hated it, and of all the things he’d been forced to adjust to, that one was one of the hardest from a day-in, day-out perspective. In the engineering space, there was always something to do. If needed, he could invent things to keep the ratings busy—and himself by extension.

Up on the bridge, in the time when nothing happened, the events of the last few days filtered through Arthur’s mind on a loop—his failings, the near mutiny by Lieutenant Faulkner, and the horrible depths to which he’d sunk. Despite the despondency that threatened to totally take over his mental state, part of him recognized that inflicting a massive defeat on PFLOS would somehow make it all worth it.

“Conn, TAO. LIDAR effects. Assess inbound wormholes. There’re a lot of them, sir,” Yasin called out.

And that would be the enemy. Arthur instinctively slapped the intercom button on his chair for 1MC. The automated bosun’s call would echo belowdecks before his voice transmitted. “Attention, all hands. This is Colonel Hanson. General quarters. General quarters. Set condition one throughout the ship. Man your battle stations. I say again, man your battle stations. This is not a drill.”

The bridge lights immediately turned blue, and the klaxon sounded twice.

Arthur pursed his lips as he toggled off the 1MC. “Ladies and gentlemen, remember what we’re doing here. This is the best opportunity we’re going to have to strike a decisive blow against these terrorists. Give ’em hell and make every shot count. TAO, raise shields and charge the energy-weapons capacitor.”

“Aye, aye, sir!” echoed across the bridge from every officer and rating.

Arthur pulled his black commando sweater down and smoothed it out in an absent-minded action.

“Conn, TAO. Condition one set throughout the ship. Deflectors active. Energy-weapons capacitor charged. New contacts bearing zero-one-six, range fifty thousand kilometers. Master One classified as a Rand-class heavy cruiser. Master Two through Twenty-Six classified as Halcyon-class freighters, all showing enhancements. Two converted bulk-hauler carriers and six point defense vessels detected in their formation as well, sir.”

My God, that’s everything they’ve got. Arthur glanced at Miller with a grin. “We should feel honored. They brought the house.”

“Then let’s hope this works, sir.”

“Amen.” Arthur’s eyes went to the tactical plot, and he took in the force disposition. The PFLOS vessels had jumped in behind the convoy, and while there was three-hundred-sixty-five-degree coverage from military vessels, they happened to get lucky enough to jump into a slot that meant the escorts in the front would have to reverse course to get to them.

“Nav, come to heading one-eight-zero. Ahead flank.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Rand-class heavy cruiser was close enough to immediately lash out at a Coalition Ajax-class destroyer, which she did with precision. The friendly vessel’s shields collapsed on the port quarter even as it rolled to present the ventral deflector. Return fire lit up Master One’s defensive screens but failed to impact the hull. As the escort moved away rapidly to avoid destruction, the Rand turned her attention to the nearest freighter. A volley later, the cargo ship blew apart as heavy neutron beams sliced through the hull.

“Sierra Eleven destroyed, sir. No life pods.” Yasin’s words echoed across the bridge, muting any excitement that had existed only moments before.

Arthur clenched his jaw. The situation was likely to get worse before it got better. He glanced at the tactical plot to see that the Hermes had vectored most escorts toward the hostile force. Which is the plan. Arthur closed his eyes. Lord, please help us to defeat the PFLOS terrorists, and please… spare the lives of my crew and those who fight the enemy.

20

“Nav, intercept course on Master Twelve,” Arthur barked over the noise of enlisted ratings sharing information between fire control and sensor stations. “Push us up to one hundred ten percent thrust on the ion engines.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Savitz glanced over her shoulder. “Sir, that’s over the red line.”

“We’ll deal with the aftereffects later, Lieutenant.”

Pushing the Thatcher to her limit in every engagement wasn’t a great strategy. Arthur knew that from plain common sense and his engineering knowledge, which told him while most CDF vessels were overengineered and could take a beating, they weren’t designed to be subjected to that treatment day in, day out. But he had no other choice. It was either push the limits or die.

“Twenty seconds to maximum range on the mag-cannons and neutron beams, sir,” Yasin called out.

For the ruse to work, it was vital that they behaved exactly like a typical convoy escort would. That meant charging the enemy formation as quickly as possible to disrupt them and launching fighters. A cluster of blue icons appeared around the CSV Hermes on the tactical plot, and they split into elements before racing toward the opposing force.

“TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Twelve.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

The moment the red circle around the Thatcher’s icon on the tactical plot encompassed the PFLOS freighter, Arthur spoke. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons.”

Once more, Yasin sent everything the Ajax-class destroyer had at the enemy. Mag-cannon rounds raced away from the turrets mounted on the dorsal and ventral hulls, followed up a few seconds later by concentrated spears of energy. Even as she unleashed her fury, however, the enemy replied with a barrage of plasma balls and directed energy weapons of their own.

The exchange was more or less even—significant deflector-cohesion reduction but no vital hits, while all around them, the battle raged. One of the PFLOS freighters sporting the point defense configuration that had caused so many problems blew apart under combined bombardment from two Ajax-class destroyers and a Meade-class frigate.

Meanwhile, another freighter split in two from relentless enemy plasma-cannon fire, its stern exploding a moment later in a blinding flash of white light as the reactor went supercritical.

Losses were to be expected, but something Arthur hadn’t anticipated was how each one hit deep in his soul. Perhaps it was because of the experience only a couple of nights before, or it could’ve been that it was his plan. The freighter crews knew the cost going in, and they’d offloaded as many crewmen as possible.

That didn’t change the fact that good people were making the ultimate sacrifice all around Arthur.

“It looks like they’re taking the bait,” Miller said in a low voice.

“Yes.” Arthur sorely wanted to unleash the Hunter missiles loaded into the Margaret Thatcher’s VLS but had to hang on to the combat power they held until the next phase of the operation.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, Master Twelve. She’s reversed course, headed straight for us.”

Arthur bit his lip. He had the Halcyon-class freighter dead to rights if the missiles were in play. “Nav, rotate us ninety degrees and stand by for a high-energy starboard turn. TAO, firing point procedures, all available weapons, Master Twelve.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” the officers echoed.

The two warships once again exchanged fire at close range, and the Thatcher came off the better, hammering down one arc of the PFLOS vessel’s shields and scoring a single neutron beam hit, which melted through the outer hull. With no secondary explosions, however, it was clear the enemy remained fully combat-capable.

“Conn, TAO. Sierra Seventeen and Twenty destroyed.”

Two more friendly freighters. “That’s enough. Comms, signal the Hermes to get the friendlies out of here.”

“We need to let it develop more,” Miller interjected.

Fury blazed in Arthur’s eyes as he turned toward her. “We’ve already lost enough innocents.”

“And their sacrifice is meaningless if these bastards don’t take the bait.”

Miller’s words were harsh, but Arthur knew she was right, even though he hated himself for it. “Comms, belay last.” His eyes went back to the tactical plot. Master Twelve was already coming around, the turn unlike anything a freighter should be able to accomplish. Correction… a nonmodified freighter.

In the Sagittarius Arm, if you had enough coin, independent shipyards could modify virtually any civilian ship. Successful trade captains installed upgrades that gave their ships a leg up on pirates in hopes that criminals would pursue someone else. Most of the time, it worked.

Arthur had never seen a cargo transport turned into a weapon of war, however. From an engineering perspective, he was impressed. But that didn’t dampen his desire to destroy every last one then find the shipyard that made the abominations and blow it apart too. “Comm, send Colonel Firat on the CSV Moshe Levy my compliments and request he launch four space-superiority fighters.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Better sell the ruse.”

She nodded. “You’re hoping they’ll believe we’re holding something in reserve.”

“Kovalev is many things. A professional military officer is one of them. I’d wager he gets the whole sortie generation game. And losing four Phantoms won’t alter the balance of power too much. We’ve still got a two-to-one positive ratio on small craft.”

“Logical, sir.”

Arthur tilted his head up. Master Thirteen had completed its turn and rushed back toward the Thatcher. The battle had devolved into a series of small duels between a few ships each, which was the plan. Make the enemy think we’re losing cohesion and are on the run. Arthur hoped they’d draw some blood too. He certainly aimed to.

“TAO, double load high-explosive shells into all magnetic cannons.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

“Nav, come to heading zero-six-five. Slow to two-thirds.”

The course adjustment was only ten degrees, but it should be enough for what Arthur had in mind. He counted off the seconds as the Halcyon-class freighter plowed toward them, its plasma batteries filling the void with bright-red balls of superheated plasma.

“Conn, TAO. Forward shields under thirty percent cohesion, sir.”

“Steady as she goes,” Arthur replied.

“Mag-cannons reloaded, sir.”

Miller turned. “What are you doing?”

“Wait for it,” Arthur replied with a smirk. He returned his gaze to the tactical plot as the red icon representing the PFLOS vessel got ever closer. “Nav, max power to the lateral thrusters. Come to heading two-seven-five. Master Chief, sound collision alarm.”

He didn’t intend to hit anything, especially the enemy ship, but the alert klaxon would, per CDF training, prompt everyone on the vessel to secure themselves, which was exactly what Arthur needed for what came next.

The Margaret Thatcher seemed to almost pivot in space as all the excess power from her propulsion system only going at two-thirds-of-max thrust forced a high-energy turn. The maneuver was dangerous and could easily overload the thruster system. But in a pinch, it was something in Arthur’s bag of tricks, and he needed to use one of those right then.

G-force increased markedly as the destroyer skewed in its course, and Arthur grabbed the armrests of his chair to avoid being tossed out of it.

Miller seemed to finally grasp his intended outcome and shook her head. “You’re nuts, sir.”

“Crazy like a fox, Major,” Arthur ground out as the enhanced g-force made talking difficult. “TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Thirteen.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

Arthur had to time it perfectly. The moment the Margaret Thatcher crossed the freighter’s bow and opposite shield arc, he spoke. “Match bearings, shoot, neutron beams.”

Twin beams of concentrated energy lit up the void with their brilliant-blue glow. Moving at the speed of light, they instantly connected with the PLFOS vessel’s deflectors. It held for several seconds before collapsing just as the Thatcher’s energy-weapons capacitor ran out of juice.

“Match bearings, shoot, all magnetic cannons.”

Three turrets of mag-cannons spoke as one, with a total of twelve projectiles—two from each barrel—launched toward the Halcyon-class freighter. All slammed into its outer hull, causing a series of explosions that left patches of molten alloy briefly visible before they rapidly cooled. As the Thatcher accelerated away, the enemy ship peppered it with plasma discharges from League-style turrets.

“TAO, how bad did we hit Master Thirteen?”

“Still combat capable, sir, but she’s damaged. Lost half her turrets fore of amidships.”

It wasn’t the knockout blow Arthur had wanted, but it was better than nothing.

“Sierra Three destroyed, sir. One life pod launched.”

Any momentary satisfaction from nailing the terrorist ship evaporated. I hope the entire crew got off. The friendly freighters were all running with small crews of no more than eight, and most civilian escape pods could hold six to ten people, so the math worked. Arthur told himself they had, for no other reason than to assuage his guilt.

“I think we’ve made this real enough for PFLOS,” Arthur said under his breath as he stared at the tactical plot. “Comms, signal the Hermes to get the civilians jumping out.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Arthur glanced at Miller, who was engrossed in one of the displays on her chair. He returned his gaze to the bridge windows. Outside in the void, energy weapons crisscrossed each other as the fleet battled it out. God, help me to make wise decisions and save these people under my command. In the next thirty minutes, the outcome of perhaps the entire war would be decided. The weight on Arthur’s shoulders was more than at any other time in his life.

“Conn, Communications. Text-only message from Hermes actual routed to your display.”

“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Arthur replied as his eyes went down to the small monitor built into his chair’s left arm. The message was simple and direct: Don’t screw this up. He took a deep breath. It was all or nothing.

* * *

Kovalev’s lips curled into a knowing smile as the first freighter jumped out. Capitalist dogs running from their doom. Another jumped then a third. The vaunted CDF can’t save you now. The energy on the Kornei Andrusenko’s bridge was infectious. As their force cut through the escort’s line, headed straight for the CSV Comfort, the monstrous hospital ship suddenly opened a wormhole in front of her and accelerated through.

“Aaagh!” Kovalev slammed his hand onto the armrest of the commander’s chair. “Navigator, plot an intercept course once their destination is computed.”

Gao turned to him. “Should we not finish off their military force, comrade?”

“This ineffective carrier?” Kovalev gestured to the tactical plot. “I’d rather take out the Comfort.”

“Without the Hermes, they will lose the ability to project power in the Spur.”

Kovalev considered the words and stroked his chin. “From a military perspective, yes. But this war will not be won solely on the cold battlefield of the void. Instead, a struggle rages within the hearts of every man and woman once a League citizen in the Orion Spur. If we show them that the CDF cannot even protect its most valuable noncombatant assets, their spirit will waver. The moment that happens and they start to abandon these fools from the Terran Coalition… we have won. That must be our goal, above all else.”

“And we get there by blowing up more freighters and a hospital ship?”

Kovalev offered a thin smile. “More aptly, right under the capitalists’ noses. And just like before, all they will hear is the screams of their countrymen begging for help they cannot offer. This is how you break men, comrade.”

Gao nodded. “As you say.”

“Navigator, where are my jump coordinates?” Kovalev asked.

“Inputting now, sir.”

Kovalev settled back. In a few minutes, they would be mopping up the rest of another Coalition convoy. How many more will they send? He couldn’t imagine that the feckless politicians in the Sagittarius Arm would risk much more in the way of human life. They were headed toward another victory, and he could sense the tides of fortune changing under his feet. It felt glorious.

* * *

Arthur wasn’t sure he’d ever sweated as much as he was in that moment. He mopped it from his forehead as his eyes stayed focused on the tactical plot. Come on, you bastards. Take the bait. Second after second ticked by, each one forcing him to confront an awful possibility: the enemy was wise to what they’d planned.

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all enemy contacts. Lawrence drives charging.”

Thank you, Lord. “Navigation, program preplotted jump point. Comms, confirm all vessels are ready to jump and begin their charge-up procedures the moment the last hostile is out.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” echoed out from the officers.

Enemy ship after enemy ship lit up artificial wormholes and accelerated through as the CDF vessels made every effort to stop them. Arthur had been precise on that point, as the ruse had to work to perfection. The moment the board was clear of hostile contacts, he sprang into action.

“Nav, confirm jump coordinates.”

“Confirmed, sir. Lawrence drive charging and at forty percent.”

Come on. Come on. Arthur licked his lips as his heart raced. It seemed as if every tick of the seconds position on the Thatcher’s chronometer stretched for an eternity.

“Lawrence drive fully charged, sir!”

“Execute jump,” Arthur barked.

Within fifteen seconds, the ship had opened a vortex in front of her and charged through to the other side, crossing almost seventy light-years in the blink of an eye. Once they were out, it took between three and five seconds for the LIDAR array to come back online and give an accurate sensor reading.

Arthur didn’t wait for any of that. “XO, launch our fighters. Comms, order all friendly vessels to launch their fighters and form up in deployment plan Charlie.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Miller replied.

He gripped the armrests of his chair. As he was the de facto fleet commander with Colonel Kattan out of contact, everything new fell on Arthur’s shoulders. No pressure. Don’t screw this up, because we’re not getting another shot.

21

The cockpit of Kevin Michaels’s SFS-3 stealth recon fighter was eerily quiet. The only indication there was a space battle going on outside the confines of the shuttle bay was the occasional rumbling and shifting of the deck, which caused the craft to rumble against its chocks. He was about to pull up the sensor display when Major Miller’s voice cut through the commlink.

“Launch all fighters! Launch all fighters!”

You don’t have to tell me twice. Michaels whipped out his final preflight checklist and gave it a last once-over to make sure everything was ready. “I’m green across the board, boss,” he said after adjusting his commlink to the shuttle bay control frequency.

“Roger that. I show all four small craft preflight ready,” Sergeant Roth replied.

He glanced out of his cockpit window to see her pulling Remove Before Flight! pins from several places on his craft as the other enlisted ratings did the same for the three other combat spacecraft.

Roth turned and saluted him after pulling the last pin.

Michaels returned the gesture before flashing a thumbs-up sign, at which point she and the rest of the enlisted ratings raced off the deck. Meanwhile, Michaels put one hand on the throttle and the other on the flight control. He’d flown off the destroyer enough times now to be halfway comfortable with the evolution, but it still felt foreign—on a carrier, the flight computer controlled everything, and to mess with either control would invite disaster.

“Iota One, you are clear for launch.”

“Wilco, Flight,” Michaels replied.

“Godspeed, sir. Splash a few of those bastards for us.”

“That’s the plan, Sergeant.” Michaels waited for the bay doors to open and pushed the throttle forward to one-third power. The Ghost shot forward into the inky blackness of the void, which wasn’t quite as dark as it usually was. Energy weapons crisscrossed the area, and the telltale blue trails of neutron-cannon bolts were visible here and there—signs of dogfights in progress.

Blue dots appeared all over his sensor display before turning into squadron icons. Most of the Hermes air wing along with the entire fighter complement from the CSV Moshe Levy entered the void simultaneously. It dawned on Michaels it was the first time they’d had more firepower on the field than the enemy. Time to make these bastards pay. His hand tightened around the flight stick as a glint came to his eyes. It felt good.

* * *

Kovalev couldn’t believe his eyes. Icons appeared around every CDF ship as small craft roared out of their shuttle bays. First, he thought it was perhaps decoys. Then, the targeting computer classified each one as either a space-superiority fighter or heavy bomber. He quickly did some mental arithmetic and realized those forces constituted the balance of firepower on the CSV Hermes.

“The enemy has a two-to-one superiority in fighters, even if we launch everything,” Gao said on the muted bridge as the knowledge of what was happening spread from officer to officer.

“And if we jump, we’ll be subjected to fifty percent or more losses from exotic-particle release.” Kovalev glanced at him. “Damn them.”

He couldn’t believe that the Coalition, with its numerous regulations, would try such a stunt. Even the League, which had run fighters off noncarriers in the opening days of the war, had switched to purpose-built heavy carriers because of the numerous safety issues. Briefly, Kovalev wondered if the tactic was another one from the Margaret Thatcher’s CO. The man had become a personal nemesis, and more than anything, Kovalev wanted to see him off.

“What do we do?”

Gao’s words rattled around in Kovalev’s mind. There was precious little he could do—either accept battle or leave. And if we leave, we lose half our force. “Order both our carriers to launch their remaining fighters. We stand and fight.”

“The odds aren’t good.”

“No, Hai, they aren’t. But what else can we do? Everyone in this fleet,” Kovalev said, his voice rising in volume, “knew what the risk was and the possible cost. That is what it takes to strike a blow for Society and against the accursed capitalists.

Nods of approval swept the bridge, and Gao forced a grim smile. “At the very least, we can take a few more of the damn Coalition dogs with us.”

“Yes, we can. And we will. Navigator, plot an intercept course.”

“Which vessel, comrade?”

“The CSV Margaret Thatcher. It’s time I settled a score with Colonel Hanson.” Eliminating the pestilence named after one of the worst leaders of the capitalist West would settle some of the scores. Besides, Kovalev had long noted how the Coalition’s morale lived or died by its heroes.

Let’s see how they perform after losing their fearless leader.

* * *

Arthur stared into the barely controlled chaos of the Thatcher’s tactical plot. Only it wasn’t as chaotic as it initially appeared. Squadrons of SF-106 Phantoms formed up along with the Valiant heavy bombers, launching from every CDF ship still in the fight. By some stroke of luck or perhaps a minor miracle, the military vessels more or less jumped in a formation, most of them in the relative front of the civilian ships, at least in terms of where the enemy attacked from.

He couldn’t have asked for much more. What was it Colonel Savchenko liked to say? Time to roll the iron dice. “XO, order all small craft to engage. Bombers to focus their attacks on the Halcyon-class freighters. Target at your discretion.”

Miller nodded. “Aye, aye, sir.”

“Nav, intercept course…” Arthur double-checked the screen and picked a midpoint PFLOS vessel. “Master Twelve. Send to all friendly vessels to mirror our approach and form up into a line formation.”

There was nothing too fancy about Arthur’s tactics. They had the enemy at a numerical disadvantage, and it was time to ram that down the terrorists’ throats.

“Conn, TAO. VLS is fully reloaded, sir.”

Arthur tugged down his black space sweater. “Make tubes one through twelve ready in all respects and open the outer doors.” He decided to wait to launch the Hunter missiles until they’d closed the distance a bit more.

“PFLOS has put its fighters into the void off the two bulk haulers,” Miller interjected. “I count about thirty-five contacts, all neutral-space-built antipirate models.”

Arthur turned and gave her a thin smile. “Against four squadrons of the best space-superiority fighters in the known galaxy? I like those odds, XO.”

“Something about not counting chickens comes to mind.”

“I never got that idiom.”

Miller snickered. “Yeah, maybe it’s a Houston thing.”

“Must be.”

“Conn, Navigation. All ships report ready with intercept courses plotted.”

“All ahead flank, Lieutenant.” Arthur paused as his eyes swept the bridge. “Let’s get this done, people.”

22

Michaels fought the flight stick of his SFS-3 Ghost stealth recon fighter. It wasn’t designed to get up close and dirty in dogfights, but he’d found over the last couple of weeks that the stealth features combined with superior inertial dampers allowed him to turn faster than the enemy. Well enough to keep me alive, anyway.

The craft in front of him jinked wildly in what would be called guns-D by CDF pilots. However, the pilot wasn’t good enough to avoid all of Michaels’s shots. As the civilian craft lost aft shielding, the lock-on tone sounded.

“Iota One, fox three,” he called out over the commlink as his finger depressed the missile launch button. A moment later, a LIDAR-tracking warhead dropped out of his internal-stores bay thanks to the artificial-gravity generator. Before it cleared the shield envelope, the gel-fuel motor kicked in.

Because of the short range, the Vulture accelerated quickly before slamming into the unprotected hull of the PFLOS craft. The high-explosive warhead shredded the composite alloy and blew the fighter apart.

“Iota One, splash one. I say again, splash one.”

“Iota Two, splash one too.”

Michaels chuckled. “It’s not a race, Nara.”

“Oh, but it is, sir. I want triple ace and some time at the academy.”

“You realize they’ll probably penalize us for fighting inferior tech, right?”

A brief burst of static came over the commlink. “Don’t destroy my dreams, sir.”

Michaels whipped his fighter around, searching for more targets. “Wouldn’t dream of it, Lieutenant.”

“Bandits, bandits, two o’clock high,” Ichikawa called out.

It took Michaels a moment to find them on his HUD. Four of the snub-nosed civilian fighter craft were headed straight for a formation of friendly bombers, which, in turn, tracked a PFLOS freighter. “Got ’em, Iota Two. Break and attack. You take the two on the left. I’ve got the ones on the right.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Michaels toggled his power-allocation levels to shunt everything spare into his engines in order to speed up the intercept. Unlike space-superiority fighters, which were equipped with rapid-acceleration thrusters pilots referred to as afterburners, Ghosts had no such devices. They weren’t needed, of course—at least, that was what the CDF bean counters and ship designers thought.

Then again, I shouldn’t be dogfighting in a nearly forty-five-year-old recon craft. He realized he’d do almost anything for a proper SF-106 Phantom as the bucket of bolts he was flying pushed forward, the range decreasing with each moment. Come on. Come on. Spit flew out of Michaels mouth as he grunted.

“I’ve got tone,” he said. “Iota One, fox three.”

Once more, a Vulture LIDAR-tracking missile dropped out of the internal-stores bay, leaving him with only two more of the precious ordnance. Michaels milked every kilometer per second he could and, the moment his targeting reticle turned green, filled the void with blue neutron-cannon bolts.

Perhaps PFLOS was using rookie pilots, or maybe the technology in their civilian-grade craft was so poor that it didn’t pick up on the incoming fire. Regardless, his target didn’t flinch until it took a missile straight up the aft quarter. The hostile attempted guns-D, but Michaels had such a locked-down attack vector that nothing he or she did mattered. Moments later, the snub-nosed fighter blew apart with a smear of orange flame as the limited oxygen on the craft exhausted itself.

“Iota One, splash another one.”

Out of the corner of Michaels’s eye, he saw eight pinpricks of flame in the inky blackness of the void. They grew brighter momentarily then quickly faded from view. On his HUD, the four icons representing the bomber formation suddenly veered off. He keyed his commlink mic. “Ichikawa, watch your blast radius on Master Six. The BUFFs just dropped some anti-ship missiles.”

“Roger, sir,” she replied. “BUFFs?”

“Big, ugly, fat—”

“Oh, that,” she interjected.

Michaels pawed the vacuum, searching for his next victim as the PFLOS fighters split in every direction. “You got something against cursing, Lieutenant?”

“Uh, er—”

“Nothing wrong with it if you do,” he replied with a chuckle.

“Well, sir, if I’m being honest, yes. I think when we allow foul speech from our mouths, it dishonors God. And us.”

“Point taken, LT.” Michaels didn’t agree and felt a good F-bomb every now and then livened life up. But he also respected Ichikawa and made a mental note to keep the profanity to a minimum around her.

A series of powerful fusion blasts derailed the conversation as all eight Javelin missiles hit home. Deprived of their interlocking point defense and especially of the fiendishly effective PD freighters, PFLOS was taking it across the chin. It took two-thirds of the warheads to collapse the Halcyon-class freighter’s shields. The remaining third blew the vessel apart by burying themselves amidships before exploding. What was left tumbled through the void, onboard lights fading quickly as atmosphere vented from every area exposed to the vacuum.

Under normal circumstances, Michaels would feel a pang of sympathy for spacers caught on a rapidly decompressing ship. One of the worst ways to die, I think. Trapped in a compartment with no air, no suit, and rapidly dropping temperatures. But he couldn’t find a shred of it within him. Instead, the belief that PFLOS’s terrorists were getting what they deserved before final punishment in the afterlife was ever present at the forefront of his mind.

As if a final exclamation point, the aft sections blew apart in a blinding flash of orange-and-blue light.

Michaels cued his commlink to the guard channel. “Commie ships still burn real good.”

The comment brought a smattering of snickers and laughs.

Meanwhile, the battle raged all around them. Michaels consulted his HUD’s sensor display and picked out the next group of hostile small craft. Only a few were left. As he rotated his fighter toward the proper vector for intercept, a sense of relief washed over him. We might survive this yet. He toggled his commlink back to the normal element channel. “Lieutenant Ichikawa , form up on my wing. Let’s go pad our kill count.”

“Gladly, sir.”

* * *

Blue icons and dots crowded toward the outnumbered enemy forces on the Margaret Thatcher’s tactical plot. Warmth spread through Arthur’s chest as they raced ever closer even as the hostile forces tried to evade. His ship was at the sharp tip of the spear and moments from engaging. “TAO, firing point procedures, neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Eighteen.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

The two Ajax-class destroyers to port had the same target, and Arthur had already ordered them to engage when he did. “Match bearings, shoot, neutron beams and magnetic cannons.”

Yasin worked her magic, making the Thatcher’s mag-cannons speak in the void. Those, coupled with six rounds each from the two other vessels, meant a total of eighteen projectiles with EMP warheads slammed into the Halcyon-class freighter’s enhanced shields. It was enough to hammer down the entire starboard quadrant and leave the vessel open to further assault.

The trio of destroyers immediately followed up with neutron beam strikes that left molten holes in the side of the hostile ship before one of them got a lucky hit on a reactor or weapons magazine. A process feared by every human space crew began, and within seconds, the freighter blew apart.

While the CDF was certainly getting a favorable rate of exchange, the terrorists weren’t taking their beating lying down. Everywhere, the PFLOS vessels flung their defiance back into the faces of the fighters, bombers, frigates, and destroyers that made up the Coalition battle line.

“Conn, TAO. CSV Rafael Peralta has suffered shield failure, sir. They’re pounding her hard.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Nav, adjust course by five degrees to port. Comms, signal the Peralta to turn aside and make for the rear at best speed.

“Aye, aye, sir,” the officers echoed as the Thatcher changed her trajectory. The effect was slight, but the deck plates vibrated when the ship turned.

“TAO, firing point procedures, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons. Target the nearest enemy to the Peralta.”

“Firing solution set, sir.”

“Match bearings, shoot—”

Arthur closed his eyes involuntarily as a blast of white light spilled through the bridge windows and nearly blinded everyone.

As he tried to recover along with the rest of the command staff, the Thatcher’s deck pitched upward then violently to the side. “Status!”

“We got caught by a shock wave from the Peralta’s reactor, sir,” Miller interjected. “It went hypercritical. No survivors.”

Arthur got control of his mind and turned to the task at hand. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons.”

While their weapons suite lashed out at the terrorist freighter, Arthur studied the tactical plot. Not much was left between them and the Rand-class heavy cruiser. If I go up against it with destroyers, it’ll use its superior firepower to kill a lot of soldiers. The solution was obvious: use the heavy-bomber squadrons to remove the ship from the board.

“I can see the wheels in your mind turning,” Miller said.

“Gaming out how to eliminate our good friend Mr. Kovalev.” Arthur flashed a thin smile.

“The bombers?”

Arthur nodded. “Only play that makes sense and keeps our casualties low.”

“What about rushing them with all available firepower from different angles? The way our fleet is positioned, it would force the terrorists to divide their counterfire.”

“Because Kovalev knows what he’s doing, and he’d focus his weapons on one ship at a time.” Arthur pointed at the plot. “My bet is they jump out anyway. Let’s hope we get a few of them thanks to exotic-particle release.”

Miller appeared as if she wished to dispute the point, then she tilted her head to one side. “That does make sense, but I still prefer a proactive approach.”

“Shoving a couple dozen Javelins down their throat is pretty proactive, XO.”

She chuckled. “Fair point.”

Arthur toggled the tactical plot to only show fast movers and removed the friendly icons. Almost no hostiles were left. Our Phantoms really made fast work of those civilian fighters. “We’ve almost got a clear board here for small craft. Send our bombers in, supported by a squadron of space-superiority fighters. And hope Kovalev won’t figure it out until they’re right on top of him.”

Even as Arthur uttered those words, he knew it was unlikely. Our opponent is a skilled tactician.

“Bombers retasked, sir.”

“TAO, status of weapons reload?”

“Alpha strike ready, sir.”

“What’s closest?”

The Margaret Thatcher rumbled from a barrage of plasma spheres as the remaining freighters closed in around their flagship. Neutron beams from the other CDF ships lit up the void in reply.

“Master Twenty-One, sir.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Let’s finish them off.”

* * *

Kovalev stared at the fleet-status readout on his console in shock. Most of their remaining combat-effective vessels were gone, and the enemy’s bombers were headed for their flagship. As powerful as a Rand-class heavy cruiser was, it couldn’t stand up to two squadrons of bombers alone. Everywhere he looked on the tactical plot, the infernal Coalition Defense Force units had wiped his from the void.

Bitter recriminations for failing to destroy the Margaret Thatcher and the other ships that had survived the initial assault before the individualists could get further reinforcements flooded into his mind. That was quickly followed by hate. He ran a mental calculation on whether he could ram the vessel before the rest of the CDF force took them down. It was unlikely.

“The battle is lost,” Gao said under his breath as he leaned in. “We must retreat.”

Rage broke through the careful mask of command Kovalev maintained on the bridge, and he slammed his palm into the screen built into the chair’s armrest. “Our engines have jumped too many times to do so safely.”

“It’s either that or die here.” Gao put his hand on the sleeve of Kovalev’s uniform. “How does that serve the cause? The CDF isn’t going anywhere. We can continue to strike them but only if we survive.”

Kovalev knew his trusted confidant was right and that his hubris, if unchecked, would lead to their downfall. Yet he hated to admit it. “Navigator, what are our odds of exotic-particle release? Communications officer, obtain that same information from the remaining ships in the fleet and send it to my viewer.”

The navigator swung around in her chair. “Comrade, I estimate an eighteen to twenty percent chance of exotic-particle release. The rest of the ships would be higher.”

Kovalev turned his head away as the words hit him in the face like a sledgehammer. Every fiber in his body said to stay and fight to the last. But that was foolhardy and served no purpose. In fact, as Kovalev pondered it, he realized a suicide run was downright individualist. He pursed his lips. “Prepare for jump. Communications officer, send to all ships… jump to our preassigned rally coordinates.”

“But—”

“Carry out my orders now, comrade!”

A moment of silence passed before both respectfully nodded and complied.

“It’s the right call. The only one left,” Gao whispered.

Kovalev felt lost, as he didn’t know what to do next. It was a unique feeling, one he’d never really experienced during his time in the League Navy because there were tens of millions of other men and women at his back. But this was all of them—ten small vessels against the largest capitalist empire the galaxy had ever known.

“Jump coordinates plotted, sir.”

“Charge the FTL drive,” Kovalev replied. We will press on. It remains the sole option. Lenin save us.

23

With almost a dozen combat engagements under his belt, Arthur had started to learn the rhythm of battle. Each one had its own character, but at a definitive point, one felt the momentum turn. Arthur could sense in his soul that PFLOS was about to break. They’d taken the full fury of the Coalition battlegroup on the chin, and while the enemy had extracted blood, the exchange rate was acceptable for once.

“Conn, TAO. Friendly fast movers have cleared a path to Master Two,” Yasin called out.

Arthur gave a fierce warrior’s grin. “Outstanding. Vector all available bombers in. I want that converted carrier blown out of my sky.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” she replied with a touch of levity in her voice.

The Thatcher rumbled as a smattering of plasma balls slammed into her forward shields. One of the Halcyon-class freighters had altered course so it could catch the destroyer in a broadside.

“TAO, how long until our missile tubes are reloaded?”

“Tubes one and two are complete, sir. The rest are in progress.” Yasin glanced over her shoulder. “At least ten minutes.”

The energy-weapons capacitor was fully charged, per the status display Arthur kept up on his in-chair monitor. That’s something. “Mag-cannons?”

“Ready, sir.”

“In that case… firing point procedures, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons, Master Fourteen.”

Yasin tapped at her console for several seconds before replying, “Firing solutions set, sir.”

Arthur tugged his black space sweater down. “Match bearings, shoot, forward neutron beams and magnetic cannons.”

A moment later, the telltale flash of the Margaret Thatcher’s primary weapons was briefly visible as the three turrets gimbled on their mounts and launched six EMP rounds toward the enemy at ten percent of light speed. Like a surgeon, Yasin followed up that strike with the twin directed-energy weapons mounted fore. The shells from the mag-cannons, with their EMP loadouts, detonated against the deflectors of the PFLOS freighter while the neutron beams sliced through the armor and into the ship’s hull.

The bombardment wasn’t enough to put the hostile out of action, but she did adjust course and move off the broadside. More importantly, the barrage of plasma balls ceased, as did their ability to cause more damage to the Thatcher.

“We got them, sir. I’m reading fluctuations in Master Fourteen’s reactor.”

Arthur pumped his fist. “Good shooting, Lieutenant.” He saw Miller glance at him out of the corner of his eye.

“Might survive this yet.”

“Did you ever doubt?”

Miller smirked. “Oh yeah. The entire ‘Let’s park a carrier’s air wing on a dozen different destroyers.’ That one was a bit nuts.”

Arthur grinned. “But it worked.”

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all hostiles. I’m reading Lawrence drive power-up across the enemy fleet.”

And there it is. “Communications, put me on fleetwide.”

“You’re on, sir.”

Arthur sat up straighter, even though he was on a commlink and not a vidlink. “Attention, all vessels. This is Colonel Hanson. We’ve got the enemy on the run. Focus your fire on the weakest ships. Every one we destroy is one fewer to fight later. Hanson out.”

“Master Eleven is the closest thing to us,” Miller interjected.

And no weapons left, which is why the fleet stopped shooting at it. “TAO, firing point procedures, all loaded missile tubes and forward neutron beams, Master Eleven.”

“Firing solutions set, sir.”

“Confirm tubes one and two ready in all respects and open the outer doors.”

Yasin glanced back. “Ready, sir. Outer doors open.”

“Match bearings, shoot, tubes one and two. Execute a time-on-target attack with our neutron beams at your discretion, Lieutenant.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

The Thatcher’s deck rumbled as the two Hunter missiles shot out of the amidships VLS. Their gel-fueled engines ignited, and the warheads accelerated into the void, quickly becoming lost in the never-ending blackness of the deep. Meanwhile, the other CDF vessels around them lashed out with their weapons suites, while the PFLOS ships were conspicuously quiet in terms of return fire.

“Tubes one and two fired electronically, sir. Both units running hot, straight, and normal.”

Arthur’s eyes went to the tactical plot as the Hunters bobbed and weaved through the battle space while PFLOS point defense tried to find them. Without their fiendishly accurate modified PD freighters, however, the Hunters’ shackled AIs were back to their usual levels of effectiveness.

Moments after the warheads slammed into the Halcyon-class freighter’s shields, neutron beams from the Thatcher’s bow raced across the void, the twin beams of brilliant-blue light casting shadows across the hull. Both drilled through the armor plating and burst out the other side.

Not to be outdone, the CSV Leonidas added her weapons to the mix in the form of a volley of high-explosive mag-cannon rounds and additional neutron beams. Explosions ripped through the PFLOS freighter, blossoming outward as munitions cooked off within the ship. A final blast of orange-and-blue flame severed the bow from the stern, and both sides blew up moments later.

“Comm, send Major Garner my compliments,” Arthur said as he searched for another target.

Meanwhile, the fast movers had scattered, each group trying to take something else out before the opportunity was lost. He silently wished them all Godspeed.

* * *

Michaels got the notification that the PFLOS ships were charging their FTL drives at the same time as every other pilot and bridge officer in the fleet. The Coalition’s tactical network facilitated the practice of integrated combined-arms warfare, among other benefits. He was already committed to an attack on one of the terrorist carriers, so the information altered little except to make the next thirty seconds that much more meaningful.

While they’d swept the void clean of enemy fighters, those were far easier to get one’s hands on than a new bulk freighter refitted and configured for the launch of such craft.

“Iota, we’re going to ripple fire our Javelins with no lock and set them to proximity-detonate mode,” the bomber leader called over his commlink. “Suggest you pull up when we launch.”

“Roger,” Michaels replied.

The tactic had been used sometimes during the war but generally as a last resort because the anti-ship warheads would have zero ability to track or maneuver. It also required point-blank range. “We’ll follow you in and engage any point defense turrets on your vector.”

“Ballsy, Iota. Be careful. Tight windows here.”

“Wilco.” Michaels toggled his commlink back to the pilot-to-pilot channel with Ichikawa. “Feel like living dangerously, Lieutenant?”

“With respect, sir, any time I’m in the void with you is living dangerously.”

Michaels chuckled, though the comment brought back memories of the combat where he’d lost Evan Fletcher. He forced himself to dismiss any other thoughts and maintain his focus, understanding that a moment’s inattention to the enemy would be fatal.

The Valiant bombers picked an attack arc that only had two PD turrets. With the rest of the PFLOS force scattered, the bulk hauler was without its escort, and that made it vulnerable. Michaels settled into a vector that was twenty degrees off dead on but still within the lock-on envelope of his Vulture missiles.

“Iota One to Two. Let’s see if we can take the heat off those Javelins by taking out one of these turrets. I want you to launch two Vultures and put as many neutron-cannon blasts as you can on target.”

After a pause, she asked, “You want to fly straight at a point defense emplacement?”

“No easy day and all that.”

Ichikawa chuckled. “That’s the Special Warfare slogan, not ours.”

“Who do you think they stole it from?” Michaels replied with a snicker of his own. “Follow me in and adjust your shields to reinforce the forward arc.”

“Wilco, sir.”

Michaels rolled his Ghost and accelerated, wanting to close the distance as rapidly as possible to get out in front of the lumbering bombers. He took his own advice to Ichikawa and adjusted the fighter’s deflector-energy allocation so that most of it was directed into the forward generator. The strategy offered an increased chance of survival. But only if we take out that turret.

For some reason, it was of paramount importance to Michaels to see the carrier off. After a split second of thinking as he waited for the missile-lock-on tone, he realized why: it would avenge, in some small way, the CSV Bonhomme Richard, his fellow pilots, and friends.

The buzzer indicating hard LIDAR lock sounded, and Michaels toggled his missile selector to release two warheads. Then, he pressed the button to launch. “Iota One, fox three.”

“Iota Two, fox three,” Ichikawa called out a split second later.

Four Vultures dropped out of the internal-stores bays of the Ghost recon fighters before their gel-fueled engines ignited and all raced toward the hostile vessel. At about that point, the bulk hauler’s point defense systems realized the danger, or whoever manned that particular system on the vessel did.

The end result was the same: both turrets engaged Michaels’s fighter with a barrage of projectiles. Enough hit his shields to cause primary-deflector cohesion to drop a third, at which point he started jinking in guns-D. Used when an enemy fighter had you locked in from behind, the trick with the maneuver was to keep closing with the target.

As the void lit up with flashes from the point defense turret, Ichikawa poured neutron-cannon shots into the general area of where it sat on the vessel’s hull. Only ten to twenty percent of her bolts hit, but it was enough to distract the turret’s AI or human operator.

That allowed Michaels to pivot back onto an attack vector and send a flurry of weapons fire toward the turret. The ballet traded off between the two of them for almost forty seconds, until the Vultures achieved terminal-guidance mode at about the same time the Valiants launched a couple of dozen Javelin missiles.

“Iota Two, break off,” Michaels barked as he ceased fire. One of his warheads slammed into the turret, while the other struck harmlessly to the side. Both of Ichikawa’s flew true, and when the explosion from them cleared, the point defense emplacement was no more.

Michaels pulled back hard on his flight stick as he redirected all possible power to the engines from weapons and shields. The sudden burst caused the Ghost to rocket forward through the void at twice its normal acceleration, which taxed the inertial-damping system to the limit. G-forces pushed him back into his seat, but he held firm.

The moment Michaels’s fighter evened out, he killed the inertial-damping system and rotated the nose toward the bulk hauler, because whatever happened next, he had to see it with his own eyes.

He wasn’t disappointed. While the Javelins’ engines were tiny pinpricks in the void that he could barely make out, that changed when the first one hit home. Taking advantage of the enemy vessel’s weakened deflectors, the first three warheads spent themselves against what remained, hammering the shields down and allowing the rest to slam into its armor-plated hull.

Explosion after explosion blasted out of the side of the bulk hauler as pieces of cargo holds converted into hangar bays blew apart in brilliant displays of orange-and-blue flame then quickly faded in the void as they used up all available oxygen.

The ship absorbed far more blows than Michaels would’ve expected from a civilian vessel, which only underscored how heavily modified it was. But there was a limit to what any physical object could take, and one of those warheads had hit a weapons magazine or perhaps the reactor, because in one giant flash of light, the carrier blew to bits.

Michaels stared at the carnage and noted the lack of life pod launches. You stand avenged, my friends. Rest easy. For a moment, he somehow knew that it would all work out in the end. Then he let out a guttural roar that combined fury, grief, pain, and satisfaction all in one.

It felt good.

* * *

“Conn, TAO. Aspect change, all remaining enemy contacts. Wormholes are open—” A bright flash nearly blinded everyone on the bridge. “Master Seventeen destroyed. Runaway Lawrence drive failure.”

Serves the bastards right. Arthur stared out the windows, unemotional except for a sense of ease that he wouldn’t have to fight them later. “Anyone else happen to share their fate, Lieutenant?”

“Negative, sir. Remaining hostiles have jumped. The board is clear.”

All at once, clapping broke out throughout the bridge. Enlisted ratings high-fived one another as cheers went up everywhere. Yasin and Savitz shared a hand slap while Miller turned to Arthur and pumped her fist.

In turn, he stood and yelled at the top of his lungs and was joined by others. That had the effect of causing an even greater tumult on the bridge as weeks of pent-up emotions poured out. Nothing eased that quite like the destroyed wrecks of almost twenty enemy vessels and a few dozen combat spacecraft.

After at least thirty seconds, Arthur raised his hand. “All right, listen up! We’re not done here yet, ladies and gentlemen! But this battle is a turning point. We just wiped the floor with this enemy, and we did it with superior CDF technology, numbers, and training. No gimmicks from CDF Intel needed. Today, everything changes. Now, we’ve got them on the run.”

More cheers and claps rang out across the bridge.

Arthur held up a hand once more. “Okay. We’ve had our victory lap. Lieutenant Yasin, start a sweep for escape pods and active pilot beacons. I want S and R in the void, picking up survivors from all ships.”

“What about PFLOS pods, sir?”

His heart skipped a beat. Every fiber within Arthur’s being wanted to order them to ignore the enemy lifeboats and focus solely on their people and the civilians. But that’s against the rules, and I must lead by example. “Mark them for transport and triage based on hull integrity and O2 levels.”

“Aye, aye, sir,” Yasin replied.

Arthur returned to the CO’s chair and caught Miller cutting her eyes at him out of the corner of his vision. And I don’t care what you think, either, XO. He kept his mouth shut and put his gaze on the tactical display. The fleet was banged up, and more than a few pilots had paid the ultimate price. But it was worth it because the butchers had most of their remaining combat power wiped out of the universe.

As he stared out the bridge windows, Arthur realized they’d beaten the enemy the right way, without torture or violating the laws of war. I could’ve done that from the start. Instead, I picked a shortcut that almost cost us everything. The realization sank in, and while he felt pride in the performance of the Margaret Thatcher’s crew and every other ship in the fleet, shame lapped over his soul within.

Arthur didn’t know how to make that shame go away… or if it ever would.

24

CSV Margaret Thatcher

New Rostov Orbit—High Loop Six

29 April 2474

Cleanup after the battle had taken two days of painstaking searching to go through every wreck, recover all escape pods, and find every ejected pilot. Despite their bluster for wanting death, more than a few PFLOS prisoners suffering from oxygen deprivation, starvation, and lack of water were apprehended from the bowels of freezing emergency shelters.

Arthur had already seen to it that all POWs were transferred to the Hermes and, from there, transported back to the Sagittarius Arm for trial. He didn’t trust himself to hold any high-value detainees aboard the Thatcher.

“Armor-plate repairs are ongoing on our port quarter,” Cooper said. They were all gathered in the deck-one conference room, with the entire senior staff lining both sides of the table along with Captain Michaels.

“Let me guess. You got privates out in space suits, performing final inspections and cleaning?” Arthur asked with a grin.

“Oh, that would probably be against regulations, sir, so we’ll just leave that one open. I’m almost certain that some of our newest crewmembers are chasing down cable stretchers, hydraulic blinker fluid, and thruster wash.”

Pranks and gentle hazing were a standard in the military, especially during downtime. I see they’re still doing the same stuff as when I was a newly minted second lieutenant. “Carry on, then, Senior Chief. Who’s next?”

“We’re still short some Hunter missiles, sir,” Yasin replied. “I’ve put in a request to the Hermes quartermaster to get us a full war load as soon as possible.”

“How short?”

“Twenty-eight.”

Arthur winced. He hated having anything less than full stores, especially during a lull, which they were undoubtedly in, but the enemy was still out there. Lurking and waiting for us. “Does the fleet munitions ship have Starbolts?”

“Tons of ’em, sir.”

“If you can’t get a full load of Hunters, I’ll take those rather than empty racks in our missile magazine.”

“Yes, sir.”

Savitz leaned forward. “Any word on our next assignment, sir?”

“Itching to get back to the fight that quickly, Lieutenant?”

She blushed. “Yes, sir. Doesn’t feel right to not be out hunting those bastards.”

Arthur ran his tongue over his lips. “Convoy duty for us. Since there’re less than a dozen combat-effective enemy vessels that we know of, Colonel Kattan wants to get the space lanes back open as soon as possible. Relief supplies are ready to pour in, and we can finally start going through those wrecks to recover bodies.”

The families of those killed in the terrorist attacks so far had been waging a highly public pressure campaign on the Terran Coalition to locate and recover as many remains as possible, but until now, there hadn’t been enough combat force to do so. Several deep-space repair-and-salvage vessels included in the Hermes fleet would help that effort too.

“A break from nonstop combat would be good for everyone on this ship,” Dr. Wildstein interjected. “Despite whatever our Marines would say.”

Faulkner snickered. He hadn’t spoken the entire briefing. “Doc, I’m more than happy to take an operational pause to rest my muscles before taking another crack at wiping out PFLOS.”

Wildstein chuckled, but his lips barely moved, and he made no effort to banter back.

“Any saved rounds?” Arthur asked. General Cohen always asked that. I guess I assimilated it into my command style. He counted off five seconds before continuing. “All right, then. We’ve got forty-eight hours to complete our repairs, top off our stores, and get underway. I want you all to know how proud I am of all of you and this crew. The Margaret Thatcher has lived up to her name since this war started.”

“Hear! Hear!” Miller exclaimed, followed by almost all the others.

“We’re going to get through this… together. Dismissed except for the XO.”

They didn’t have to be told twice after a thirty-minute-long staff meeting. Faulkner led the way in charging for the hatch, and the rest of the senior staff filed out behind him.

“What do you need, sir?” Miller asked a split second after Lieutenant Yasin had shut the hatch behind her.

Arthur had rehearsed what he wanted to say fifty times. It still caught in his throat as he began. “It’s time we clear the air.”

Miller raised an eyebrow. “I thought we’d been doing okay the last few days.”

“Perhaps, but everyone on this ship knows what went down… probably all of it with how fast RUMINT flows.”

She crossed her arms. “And?”

“And we won by doing things the right way.”

Miller gritted her teeth. “You devised a pretty cunning strategy, sir. It still would’ve been easier to score a knockout blow if Vannier had given up the goods.”

“No. If we stick to the straight and narrow, things will go our way—”

“And if they don’t?”

Arthur waited for a moment and affixed her with a piercing glare. “Then we carry on by the book, doing what’s right, until we win or we die, but there will be no more cutting corners or torture or anything else that violates the Canaan Conventions on Human and Alien Rights. Do I make myself clear, Major?”

“Crystal, sir,” Miller replied.

He found himself surprised at her matter-of-fact tone. “If this way of doing things isn’t acceptable to you, put in for a transfer, which I will approve with a letter of recommendation and no ill feelings.”

Miller scoffed. “No ill feelings? I encouraged the torture.”

“And I did it. I’m not a hypocrite. God willing, I’ll never be one.”

“This will be the second time you’ve indicated I should be open to a transfer,” Miller replied. “A girl could read something into that.”

“I don’t want to put you or myself into a situation that isn’t positive for the ship. Nothing more.”

Miller nodded. “My answer hasn’t changed, sir. I’d like to stay here if you’ll have me.”

Arthur stared at her. “You made it clear you weren’t happy with my decisions vis-à-vis Vannier.”

“I also trashed your leadership and generally acted like an ass. With respect, sir.” Miller pursed her lips. “Look, I may disagree with you about how to treat captured members of PFLOS, but I respect you taking a stand.”

“That stand may place you in command of this ship in the near future, Major.”

Miller tilted her head and blinked. “What do you mean?”

“I plan to inform Colonel Kattan of my actions. She will have to decide what my punishment will be.”

“You don’t have to do that, sir.”

Arthur shook his head. “I do. I promised Faulkner I would, but moreover, it’s the right thing to do.”

“That takes guts, sir. While I don’t agree, it’s impossible for me not to see it. For what it’s worth, I hope you retain command.”

“In that case—”

“It’s your ship, sir. It’s my job to do it your way and offer my advice and input where that is appropriate.”

“We’ve exchanged words like this before.”

“Yes.” Miller set her jaw. “I think both of us have reached a place where this is the end of the internal division.”

Arthur flipped a mental coin. I’ll have to take her comments at face value until I see evidence to the contrary. “All right, then we move on from here.” He stood.

Miller followed suit and extended her hand.

He shook it. “I don’t know about you, but I’m looking forward to finishing off the last few PFLOS ships. If I get the chance.”

“Then what?”

Arthur shrugged. “Our tour’s up soon, and we head back to the Sagittarius Arm.”

She nodded. “Well, sir, I’ll be on the bridge.”

“I’ve got to prepare to head over to the Hermes.”

“Good luck, sir.” She flashed a small smile and strode through the hatch.

Arthur lingered for a minute, thinking about what would happen next. All I can do is do my duty. That’s it. The only game in town. And whatever else happens, happens. That would be how he approached life from here on out.

* * *

LX Kornei Andrusenko

Deep Space—Orion Spur

29 April 2474

Kovalev stared blankly at the wall in his office. Once more, the sense of defeat coursed through his body like an overwhelming flood. He’d had the Coalition Defense Force and their traitorous lackeys right where he wanted them, and yet again, the damned individualists had outwitted his forces. No, they outwitted me. Perhaps that was what made him burn with rage the most. For most of the last ten years, Kovalev had been convinced that if only he were in charge, things would be different.

Now, he was in command. And despite initial successes, the CDF seemed to even it up and win the day with a combination of technological prowess and unconventional tactics. That a ship named after Margaret Thatcher was leading the fight only made it worse.

One of their stupid holoentertainment shows couldn’t have scripted this any better.

Kovalev’s emotions ranged from rage to despondency and everything in between. Above all, he dreaded talking to the benefactor who had shown much trust in his leadership and vision. I have let down both him and all the comrades behind him who have contributed so much to the cause.

The tablet on his desk buzzed as the unique encrypted communication app popped up with a vidlink from “unknown.” Kovalev touched the onscreen button to accept.

“Greetings, comrade.” The disembodied voice on the other end of the link echoed in the small office.

Kovalev closed his eyes. “I have failed.”

“In what way?”

“The Terrans defeated our fleet soundly. I only have half a dozen ships left. At this point, the movement is over. We will have to cease our activities and rearm. I am prepared to take whatever consequence you mete out.”

After a pause, the other man spoke. “That is not necessary, Comrade Kovalev. This setback will yet be overcome.”

“How?” Kovalev asked plaintively. “The CDF has far more ships of a higher quality than anything we have except the Andrusenko.”

“There are many more in the League Navy who support us than do not. You must keep the faith in our actions until I can motivate them. But don’t fear. Because they are coming. Tell me this—if you had access to ten more Rand-class heavy cruisers, would that not be enough?”

Kovalev narrowed his eyes. “I could sweep the individualists from our territory without trying.”

“Then this isn’t over.”

“Are you saying—”

“I am saying to wait patiently and conduct strikes where you can with minimal risk. Keeping what force you have intact is the most important objective you have for now. Meanwhile, I will find you something to make an example out of.”

“Yes, comrade. Can you share any of what’s coming with me?”

“Not right now. For operational security’s sake, I cannot take any risks that this communication method has been compromised.”

“Of course.” Kovalev blew out a breath. “We will keep up the struggle.”

“Good. That is all we can ask out of ourselves and one another. And it is all that Lenin would ask as well. You are his spear, bringing justice for the masses.”

The words gave strength, Kovalev realized. He slammed his fist into his chest. “For the League and Society.”

“I will be in touch soon, comrade.” The light on the top of the tablet, indicating that the camera was recording, blinked off.

Kovalev was left again to the stillness of the room, where his breathing and the gentle flow of air coming out of the life-support system were the only sounds. He leaned back in his chair and considered what was to come. I’ll have to pick undefended targets of opportunity. We’ll have to resort to being actual terrorists—hit-and-run operations only.

It would be done. And the deaths of Terran citizens would continue until they got the message and left. Or the CDF catches up to me. Regardless of the outcome, Kovalev was determined to fight to the bitter end.

25

Situation Room—The White House

Lawrence City—Canaan

30 April 2474

Visiting the White House for any reason used to be the highlight of David’s day. He felt it was an incredible privilege to walk through the same hallways where dozens of the Coalition’s leaders had walked for hundreds of years and also that it and the other buildings housing their government were sacred ground. It always humbled him to think of the great men and women who’d been there before. He harbored a persistent hope, though he thought it unattainable, to somehow match their morality and drive, even if he couldn’t equal their achievements.

Since March 28, that had changed. Each trip was an exercise in an impressive amount of self-restraint. How did this building get populated by disastrously stupid and grotesquely amoral idiots? David couldn’t get his mind around it. But it’s not my job to. I am a military officer in the Coalition Defense Force. I follow lawful orders and implement what I’m instructed to do.

Repeating that sentiment to himself did little to alleviate the anger that welled up constantly. David took a deep breath as Hamza Saad finished speaking.

“And with this defeat, CIS estimates seventy to eighty percent of the terrorists’ forces have been destroyed. Do you concur with that assessment, General?”

“To an extent, but context matters,” David replied.

The Situation Room overflowed with civilian advisors, and one of them was Jessica Rhodes. For reasons that escaped David, she’d made a point of sitting directly across from him.

“And what context would that be, General Cohen?” Rhodes asked in a nasally whine.

David acted as if she didn’t exist and instead focused his attention on President Robbins and Saad. “From what we’ve seen of PFLOS capabilities, yes, our forces in the Orion Spur have eliminated most of their ability to project power. With a major exception—the Rand-class heavy cruiser that magically found its way into the terrorist’s hands is still active. It outclasses, one on one, anything we have in the Spur.”

“But our combined force—”

“There’s so much ground to cover that we can’t bunch up our entire fleet, Mr. Saad. I know you understand that.”

“And what solution do you have to this problem, General Cohen?” Robbins asked after a long pause. Her voice held ice.

“Flood the Orion Spur with the balance of our fleet and request support from our SATO allies. The war will be over within seventy-two hours.”

“That’s not an option,” Robbins snapped.

“Unless and until we take drastic action, far more of our soldiers and Marines will die than need be. I can’t make it clearer.”

Robbins pursed her lips. “It’s still not an option unless there is hard evidence of direct League of Sol involvement.”

Under the table and out of eyesight, David made a fist with his left hand. He barely avoided clenching his jaw. “Then we will continue fighting until the next domino falls.”

“There’s no information out of CIS suggesting—”

“I know I’m not the only one who sees what’s happening here,” David snapped as his eyes bored into the interstellar security advisor’s. “Rand-class heavy cruisers don’t just magically disappear from the League’s arsenal.”

“The statement we got from them suggests that vessel was sent for scrapping and diverted somehow by pro-PFLOS elements.”

David pictured jumping from his seat, dragging Saad to his feet, and lifting him into the air while shaking the stupidity out of him. But aside from that being behavior he’d never engage in and childish in the extreme, the thought didn’t get past the first mental barrier because of the stakes. They want me to explode. Robbins wants a reason to fire me, so it’s imperative I don’t give it to her or any of these toadies.

“We all doubt the veracity of the League’s statements,” Robbins finally interjected into the silence. “But until CIS or CDF Intelligence can provide facts to the contrary, I’m not starting another war with the League of Sol.”

You fool. They already started it. We’re just not willing to fight. David flexed his fist under the table once more before forcing his mouth into a neutral expression. “Then the CDF will keep up our activities. Until such time as more information becomes available.”

Rhodes cleared her throat. “I have a suggestion, Madame President. This is an ideal time to approach the Popular Front’s political office and open peace discussions. With most of their fleet destroyed, at least according to the CDF… we could offer them a pathway to having their demands heard.”

That time, David couldn’t control himself. “Their demands are that we leave the Orion Spur and abandon billions of our citizens to these butchers, Assemblywoman. Are you kidding me? The only peace deal PFLOS should find open to them is unconditional surrender and swift justice at the hands of a military tribunal.”

“Where they can get a fair trial and be shot five minutes after it’s concluded?” Rhodes replied.

The nasally whine of her voice is like a child dragging his fingers across an old marking board. David gritted his teeth. “That’s better than they deserve, Assemblywoman.”

“The general is right,” Robbins interjected. “In his obtuse and reductive way, as usual. But he is right. There can be no negotiations with this group. They must be defeated on the battlefield.”

Can’t help but get the insult in, eh? David seethed but said nothing. He supposed he should be glad she didn’t embrace Rhodes’s insane rhetoric. Come to think of it, does Rhodes even believe this crap? How could she?

“Well, I disagree—”

“That doesn’t matter to me,” Robbins interjected. “I set the policy for our government, and until I see otherwise, we keep the military pressure on.”

Just not enough to win decisively.

“Yes, Madame President,” Rhodes finally ground out.

“I see the state of things now as an unqualified victory for the CDF,” Robbins said with a glance at David. “Thankfully, our soldiers are up to the challenge, and while the cost is high, we will emerge victorious. Most importantly, our treaty with the League will remain intact. This is a positive way to conclude the crisis.”

“Madame President, you’ve got a meeting with the Saurian ambassador in ten minutes in the oval,” one of the staffers sitting in a row of chairs along the wall interjected.

Robbins looked around the room. “Then unless anyone has something else…?”

Only silence followed.

“Good. I’ll see you all tomorrow, unless something drastically changes for the worse or better.”

David was one of the first out the door after Robbins and her security detail, as he wasn’t interested in spending a minute more than necessary in the White House. A den of vipers. He was halfway down the corridor when someone called from close behind him.

“Why are you so eager to leave, General?”

David glanced back to see Rhodes nearly running, which was made even more impressive by her tall heels. “What gave you that impression, Assemblywoman?”

“I figured you didn’t like being held to account.”

He rarely exchanged words with the outspoken lawmaker, as among the people in the Terran Coalition, Jessica Rhodes was one of the few he’d say warranted the label of “hated.” “Your concept of holding the military to account is laughable, Assemblywoman. Instead, I see you committing treason by providing aid and comfort to the enemy.”

“The leader of the military-industrial complex would say that.”

David stopped and whirled around. “If you’ve got something to say, say it. Otherwise, I’ve got work to do.”

“We’re not so different, you and I,” Rhodes said as she caught up to him. “Outsiders looking in.”

“There couldn’t be more difference between two humans in this universe, Assemblywoman. I fight for my country, and you represent a direct threat to it.”

“Because I want peace and a stop to the endless cycle of war?”

David stared into her eyes, looking for clues as to what she was up to. “There’s only one way to end the cycle, and that’s regime change in the League of Sol. You cannot live in harmony with people who want to destroy you and won’t stop until they do.”

“Why not try staying on our side of the Sagittarius Arm?”

David’s jaw dropped. “How is it exactly that you get elected? Because unless the entire last thirty-five years are a deepfake imprinted on the mind of every Coalition citizen, you’ll remember we were doing that until the League invaded us out of the blue.”

“They aren’t now. Even if you’re right and the government is behind these attacks, all they want is their territory back.”

“How about the people living there that have finally tasted freedom? How about them, Assemblywoman?” David’s voice rose as he fought to keep his temper in check.

“They’re not our core concern. The people living in the Sagittarius Arm, who’ve been devastated by endless war, are. That’s who you ought to care about, and it’s who I care about. Bethel has seen her sons and daughters die for almost two generations. Enough is enough.”

“Now you sound like Senator Kaufman and his ‘Coalition First’ line.”

“Don’t dare to compare me with him.”

David smirked. “As my mother used to say, if the shoe fits, wear it. You know what, Assemblywoman… I’m done with this. You’re an imbecile who’s never fired a shot in anger or taken fire from the enemy. You dodged the draft and skated by your entire life. Want to keep criticizing the men and women who keep you safe, whose sacrifice enables you to spew your garbage? Pick up a weapon and join me on the front line. Otherwise, stow it.”

“Stop centering your misogyny!”

“What?”

“I will not tolerate a man centering his misogyny on me.”

David’s brain tried to compute how she’d gotten to calling him a hater of women. “I’m not sure what you just said, but it doesn’t appear to be English or Hebrew, which are the two primary languages I speak. I’ve never held hate for women in my heart, nor is calling you out for your behavior in any way hatred toward women. You’re a member of the Coalition Assembly. This is the big leagues, Ms. Rhodes.”

“If I were you, I’d be careful, General. You have few friends left anymore, with that military lapdog Spencer shunted off to head SATO. It’d be a shame for you to lose your pension after a scandal.”

David’s mouth went to a tight line. “If you think you can threaten me, Ms. Rhodes, I suggest you move on. You and your ilk might someday defeat me, but I faced down a few thousand Leaguer ships in orbit of Canaan. Frankly, compared to that, you are nothing.”

“We’ll see about that.” Rhodes turned on her heel and stalked off, shoving people who’d stopped to gawk at them out of her way.

What has happened to my country? David stared, wondering how it was possible that that creature had been elected by the people of her planet. Part of him wanted to go there and ask a few of them. I’ve got to get back to work. He resumed his quick walk toward the exit.

* * *

CSV Hermes

Deep Space—Orion Spur

1 May 2474

Arthur Hanson moved through the gleaming passageways of the Wade McClusky-class light carrier as its thousands of crewmen scurried by. While a ship like the Margaret Thatcher needed enough personnel for three duty shifts of all systems and damage-control teams to match, the space-aviation wing complicated a carrier’s needs. Robots and automated systems were useful, but hundreds of years of experience taught that nothing replaced human manpower, especially when power conduits failed and battle damage piled up.

Finally coming to the CO’s office, which, on the Hermes, was deep in the bowels of the vessel, near the senior officers’ quarters, he thought it odd that Colonel Kattan wanted to see him down there rather than in her day cabin directly off the bridge, where most ship drivers ran their lives out of.

Trepidation filled every pore of Arthur’s being as he pressed the button and the buzzer echoed.

“Come!”

The hatch opened automatically, and he walked in before coming to attention in front of Kattan’s desk. “Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson reports as ordered, ma’am.”

“Sit.”

Arthur took a few steps forward and slid into the nearest chair in front of the large desk.

Kattan’s face appeared as if it would melt neutronium as she stared him down. She wore her khaki duty uniform, which had an impressive set of ribbons, far more than Arthur had earned. “Do you know what I wasted my morning on because of you, Colonel Hanson?”

“No, ma’am.”

“I had to have my G2 officer and some of her technical team erase my tablet, my terminal, and the last few days of my communication logs then purge any trace that they’d done that from the system.”

“I don’t understand.”

“What the hell don’t you understand, Hanson? You sent a report to me, and if I hadn’t removed all evidence it ever existed, it would’ve required me to relieve you of command and remand you to the Sagittarius Arm for trial under the UCMJ,” Kattan replied. Her eyes blazed.

“Ma’am, I broke the law. I committed—”

“Spare me,” Kattan snapped. “We are in the middle of a shooting war. Do you understand that?”

“Of course I do.”

“Then what the hell is this?” She waved her tablet in the air. “Are you trying to give the enemy ammunition to use against us?”

He ran his tongue over his lips. “Colonel, I tortured a man. I did unspeakable things that I feel shame for. My own crew was ready to remove me. I sinned before God, and I’ve dishonored my uniform and, by extension, every man and woman who wears it.”

“Yes, you have.” Kattan’s voice softened slightly. “Are you a coward, Colonel Hanson?”

Arthur sat back. Anger rose as he gripped the arms of the chair. “Of course not. I’ve exposed myself to enemy fire repeatedly. I volunteer for dangerous assignments. How the hell could you ask that, ma’am?”

Kattan set down the tablet. “That message was the coward’s way out.”

Arthur blinked. “What?”

“Whether or not you like it, you’re a decent tactician, Hanson. You’re creative because you understand how our ships are made a lot more than I do. And I suspect more than most nonengineering officers. There’re few who sit in front of me that have a ribbon for space warfare officer and one for engineering duty officer.”

She leaned forward and pointed at him. “You don’t get to sit out the rest of this war from a cell or, more likely, an administrative billet back on Canaan until you can be quietly retired.”

Arthur swallowed. “Then what do you want me to do?”

“Your job. You feel guilt over your actions? Good. You ought to. Do better. Defeat these people the right way. The rest is between you and Allah, because right now, I need every able-bodied soldier on the front lines. What I will not tolerate is a combat-ineffective vessel.”

Of the possible reactions from Kattan, that wasn’t one Arthur had planned for. He had thought he would be arrested by masters-at-arms the moment his shuttle landed. “I don’t understand, Colonel. Why give me a second chance?”

Kattan’s eyes narrowed, and she put her hands on the desk. “Did you hear anything I said? It’s not about you, Hanson. It’s about the war effort. If you want to construe this screwed-up circumstance as some opportunity for you to atone, that’s on you.”

Arthur blew out a breath. “So carry on as if nothing happened?”

“That’s the job you signed up for. When you sit in the big chair, you don’t get the option to have feelings, especially not during a damn war. The rest is between you and Allah. It’s a Christian maxim to judge not lest you be judged, yes? Then I will not judge you. Survive the war or at least your part of it here, and you can submit that report to someone who cares.”

“Are you telling me what I did doesn’t bother you, ma’am?”

Kattan shrugged. “Virtually every one of these people will get a fair trial, followed by an execution or life imprisonment on a super-max prison asteroid, where they will earn their keep by mining lithium for our factories. Frankly, I don’t care what happens to them. My biggest issue with your conduct is how you lost the confidence of your crew.”

Arthur worked his jaw up and down a few times. “But the Canaan Convention—”

“My sister, nephews, and nieces were tortured to death in a League reeducation camp,” Kattan interjected. “Spare me your concern for a murdering rapist.”

Uneasy silence descended on the office.

Arthur at once found himself pulled between two poles. One asserted his actions were abominably wrong, while the other proposed there could be some justification. He dismissed that suggestion as soon as it reared its head. “It’s not my concern for him. It’s for us… General Cohen once told me that the best victory is to be unlike those who you fight.”

“Do you believe that, Colonel Hanson?”

Arthur nodded. “I do.”

“Then go out and act like it. After all this, if guilt persists, send Cohen the same thing you sent me… once you’re no longer on the front line. Until then, I expect you to fight like hell, the way you did during our victory yesterday. Do I make myself clear?”

“Crystal, ma’am.”

“Good. Now, get out of my office and off my ship. Dismissed.”

Arthur rose, came to attention, and marched out of the office. Once the hatch had closed behind him, his shoulders hunched forward, and he felt the weight of the universe on them once more. It’s like I’m in no-man’s-land. As Arthur entered the gravlift and punched in the deck for the shuttle bay, he resolved to move forward as best he could. And do my duty… and hope to avoid the same act again.

* * *

CSV Margaret Thatcher

Deep Space—Orion Spur

2 May 2474

The gym was Avery Faulkner’s sanctuary when he faced trouble. Pumping iron never got old for a Marine, and it didn’t hurt for the grunts to see their leader working just as hard if not harder than they did. But that morning at oh-dark-thirty, he was the only person present and accounted for. Since that limited some of the safe exercises, Faulkner made a beeline for the free weights and went through a progression of moves for his upper body and arms.

As he lifted the dumbbell, the sound of the hatch opening barely registered.

“Lieutenant.”

Faulkner turned, recognizing Arthur’s voice as he lowered the weight. “Sir.”

“Putting in some work?”

“Got to, sir. Like any machine… keep it well oiled.” He pointed at his biceps. “Wouldn’t mind building out some additional muscle.”

Arthur grinned. “Planning to put in for Basic Space Demolition?” BSD was the entry point for joining the Space Special Warfare units and, in time, joining the ranks of the elite tier-one commando teams in the CDF.

“No, sir. If anything, I’d go for Force Recon.”

“Best of the best there too.”

“Yes, sir.”

“How’s your platoon?”

“Good, sir. We got a few replacements from the reinforcements, and I’m at ninety percent strength. Enough for ship security and VBSS operations.”

Arthur pursed his lips. “Glad to hear you’re keeping it together.”

“I get the feeling something more is on your mind.”

Hanson’s body language was obvious.

“Yeah. I spoke with Colonel Kattan. She rejected my report.”

At first, Faulkner didn’t quite buy the words that came out of the skipper’s mouth. But their delivery was firm, and more than that, they carried a level of conviction that instantly dispelled any notion of deceit. Unless the Colonel is a pathological liar, that is. But he’d not seen any evidence to support that theory. “I see.”

“I’d like you to record an official entry in your after-action report. And hold it until the Thatcher is rotated off the front line.”

Faulkner nodded. “Already done, sir.”

“Good. I’ve saved a copy in mine as well.”

“If I may, sir—”

Arthur tilted his head. “Why didn’t Colonel Kattan do more?”

Faulkner ran his tongue over his lips. “Yeah, in a nutshell.”

He shrugged. “I don’t know. She said she needed competent people, but perhaps it’s more than that. All I can promise you is that we’re out of the torture business.”

“It’s easy to say that, sir, but once there’s a pattern…”

“Which, for now, I’ve addressed by removing Vannier from the Margaret Thatcher’s brig, and from here on out, we’ll transfer all detainees to a central holding facility as quickly as possible.”

Faulkner inhaled slowly. “Would you like me to put in for reassignment, sir? I won’t force you to initiate it.”

“No. Absolutely not.”

Faulkner peered at him. “But why? I mean, really, you should want me gone if only to tamp down on the RUMINT.”

“Because you’ll keep me honest, Lieutenant. I think I need that.”

“Okay. I can do that, sir.”

Arthur extended his hand, and Faulkner shook it. “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

Two Marines strode in as the hatch opened. They nodded respectfully at the two officers before starting warmups on cardio machines.

“I’d best be heading back to my own morning routine, Lieutenant.”

Faulkner grinned. “Got a better idea, sir. I’ll put you through a Marine workout. Best in the fleet.” He lowered his voice to a whisper. “And it’ll put some of that RUMINT to bed.”

Arthur paused as if contemplating his words. “Okay, LT. I’m down. Give me your best shot.”

Faulkner gestured to a weight rack. “I’ll spot you for a bench press.”

“Let’s do it.”

Despite that Faulkner felt he should have more trepidation about the future, he didn’t. Peace reigned within. The war would continue to be hell, but he could face PFLOS with the knowledge that his training and the Marines around him were equal to the task. It appeared Hanson was also equal to what his position demanded. Faulkner had to accept that and pray everything worked out. And if it doesn’t, I’ll do what my conscience demands. But one thing was certain: The skipper said the right things, and it took a big man to admit fault. It was a trait he greatly appreciated. I should remind Chief Duprey of how impressed I remain with his battlefield performance. If nothing else, that situation reminded Faulkner that others had no monopoly on screwing up.

26

External Security Service HQ

Earth—Geneva

3 May 2474

The thing about top-down hierarchies, especially in an authoritarian government, was that because of the lack of tolerance for any dissent, most people learned early on to keep their mouths shut and go along with whatever happened above them. Dmitry Borisov had used that learned behavior to effect for most of his career. Oh, every once in a while, someone with a spine of hardened alloy popped up. But until you got into the higher echelons of power, those people didn’t really exist.

It made the activities he’d engaged in the past few years all the easier. It was well known throughout the League that certain amounts of maintenance funds went missing. Within ten or twenty percent, few cared. Of course, the paperwork was all in order, and if an auditor came looking, all it took were some additional ration cards and perhaps a word whispered to the right ear to get him a better apartment. Everything was transactional, and everyone had a price, especially since the end of the war with the Terran Coalition.

That suited Borisov just fine. Someday, he would make an example out of anyone who abused League funds by having them reeducated or executed, but for the moment, they served a purpose.

As he crafted a final set of orders to various ship commanders, Borisov didn’t even bother to go to a secured terminal off the grid. The final pieces were sliding into place, and before too long, the Social and Public Safety Committee would have no choice but to get in line, or he’d remove them all too.

The compressed timeline wasn’t what Borisov had wanted. His plan had called for PFLOS to beat the CDF without the infusion of actual League military power then allow them to reoccupy the area for supposed humanitarian reasons. Even the introduction of a Rand-class heavy cruiser, which should’ve outclassed almost anything the CDF brought to the fight, wasn’t quite enough.

But in coming as far as he had, Borisov faced a quandary: All the years of planning were down the drain if he didn’t continue. But he wasn’t ready. The League, for that matter, wasn’t ready. At times, men must act before all the pieces are in place. This is the nature of the great game. Today, he would knock over the first domino.

Borisov put his finger to the biometric reader on his terminal and launched an application on a highly encrypted quantum drive that shouldn’t have even been in the building.

Moments later, the grainy image of an older man who wore the black utilitarian uniform of the League Navy came into focus. “Comrade.”

“Comrade,” Borisov replied. “The time is at hand. How come our preparations?”

“All is ready,” Admiral Luis Dumouchel replied. He’d been working at Borisov’s behest for years. “We have enough crews for all the vessels, and the scrapyard inventory says none of these ships exist.”

“Excellent.” Borisov’s lips curled into a thin smile. “The sailors, do they know the objective?”

“Only that it is a mission of great importance for the Society. Once we’re underway, I will inform them of the true nature of our objective.” Dumouchel paused. “It would be a lie to say I am not concerned we’re pushing this too far too fast.”

“I have similar concerns, Luis. But what else can we do? I doubt there will ever be a more perfect moment with feckless Coalition politicians in charge or our own leaders divided and clueless, especially after I removed the ones with the will to resist us.”

“And the ones who bray for peace?”

“The ultimate objective of peace is communist control of the galaxy. Anyone who doesn’t understand that will get in line… or be reeducated.”

Dumouchel nodded. “It is all the manner of phrasing, of course.”

Borisov made a dismissive motion with his hand. “Leave that to me. The Coalition’s press is easily manipulated, and ours… Well, we both know it’s collective propaganda used to agitate and organize the masses. I’m working on flipping key people now.”

“Yes, comrade. Oh… I received a requisition for, well, odd items. Specifically Hamash and Zras. Those are… Jalm’kis.”

“Those are legitimate requests. Ensure they’re placed aboard the flagship.”

Dumouchel raised an eyebrow. “May I inquire as to why, comrade?”

“In due time, it will be made clear.”

“Very well.” Dumouchel touched his fist to his chest.

“Do the League proud, Admiral. Run the capitalist filth out of the Orion Spur.”

Dumouchel’s face hardened. “It will be the honor of my life to do so, comrade.”

“Then may we walk with Lenin. Contact me once it has begun.”

Borisov killed the transmission and leaned back in the plush, oversize office chair, which contained the latest zero-gravity technology. He had little left to do except wait—well, save a task that he gleefully looked forward to.

Borisov used his palm to open a hidden biometric safe under his desk and removed a second tablet. After authenticating, he opened a message string that had the date, location, and time where Admiral Xiaobo Shao would be visiting the next day. That will be the last thing he ever does. He hit Send on a message that contained a cryptocurrency link to the Galt exchange, smirking. Insofar as anything I do brings joy, removing this particular obstacle is quite gratifying.

Once he’d confirmed its delivery, Borisov closed the device and returned it to its hiding place. And now, a good dinner awaits, followed by what I hope is a decent night’s sleep, because tomorrow, everything changes.

* * *

Arthur stood outside the Thatcher’s multifaith chapel as trepidation filled him. It manifested as sweaty palms and a desire to be somewhere else. Why is this so hard? He wasn’t entirely sure beyond a sense of shame. Arthur closed his eyes and willed himself to walk through the hatch opening into the room beyond.

The chapel was deserted, the pews neatly set out with digital hymnals for the next scheduled service. As Arthur strode toward the office behind the raised platform where the chaplain gave his sermons, he realized that the devices were all labeled in Hebrew. Must be a Jewish service scheduled. I wonder how he keeps track of so many different beliefs. I have a hard time knowing mine.

Outside the little cubbyhole of an office, Arthur paused yet again before knocking on the metal alloy.

“It’s unlocked!” came the voice of Stephen Pelicot.

Arthur exhaled heavily before opening the hatch and striding in.

Pelicot sprang from behind his desk. “Hello, sir. Good to see you down here.”

“Thanks, Chaplain.” Arthur ran his teeth over his lip. “Do you have a moment?”

“Something tells me this conversation is more than a few seconds long.”

Arthur chuckled as he shut the hatch behind him and took a seat at one of the small chairs in front of the desk. They were the same as virtually every other desk-and-chair combo on the ship. “Yeah. Probably.”

“It’s been an eventful week,” Pelicot said after a short silence. “One that I suspect was taxing on your mind, body, and spirit.”

“How much do you know?” Arthur asked as he steepled his fingers.

“The Margaret Thatcher is a very small ship, sir.”

Arthur waved a hand. “Let’s dispense with the sir stuff, okay? Because I don’t feel worthy of any respect right now.”

Pelicot leaned back. “Arthur… people react in different ways to doing things wrong. Either it causes revulsion, or they paper over the cost and claim the ends justify the means. Some enjoy causing pain and inflicting harm, but most of us try to justify our sins as for the greater good.”

Just like I did. Arthur’s eyes went down to the deck plates. “I know. I am… ashamed of myself. Frankly, I have this fountain of disgust within for how I shamed this ship, her crew, and the entire CDF.”

“And I think you’re being a touch hard on yourself.”

“Chaplain, I killed a man and brought him back to life half a dozen times. Pretty sure that fits the definition of things one shouldn’t be doing.” Arthur gestured to himself. “At least not in this uniform.”

Pelicot pursed his lips. “You transferred Vannier off the ship too.”

“Yes, I did.”

“Look, it’s everywhere that you did a complete about-face on the subject of torture.”

Arthur let his head hang. “I almost caused a mutiny. Half my crew wanted to remove me for violating the UCMJ. The other half thinks I’m a coward for not spacing Vannier.”

“I’m not here to judge you. But I’m glad you turned that man over.”

Arthur raised his eyes. “I don’t know what to do.”

Pelicot tilted his head. “Blowing PFLOS out of the void and decimating their forces was a good start. Keep doing that.”

“Yeah, I think you know what I mean.” Arthur chuckled. “Deciding when to shoot our beams, mag-cannons, and missiles is easy. Making the proper moral choices in war… That’s hard.”

“No, it’s not.” Pelicot’s eyes met his. “You seem to be the kind of guy who wants it straight, so here it is: We have a set of rules. Some of those stem from God. Some of them come from the Terran Coalition. Follow them, and this sort of thing doesn’t happen.”

Arthur sat still for a few moments, processing the rebuke. That Pelicot was right didn’t make it any easier. Worse, he’d known what the man had said before what he’d done. The guardrails existed for a reason. “You’re right, of course.”

“About which thing?”

“Both.” Arthur managed a sheepish grin. “I thought that because I was doing something for the greater good, it was okay to break a rule or two along the way. Once I started bending regs, breaking one became easier, and before too long, I tossed out half the book.”

“Yeah. That’s the rub. Once the line is crossed, it gets a lot easier for us to do awful things.”

“I’m sorry to walk in here and dump all this in your office.” Arthur sighed and shook his head. “There’s no one else to talk to. Anywhere.”

Pelicot put his hands on the desk. “Listen, my door is always open. This one or, if it’s late, in my stateroom. My only job here is to minister to the emotional and spiritual needs of this crew. That most certainly includes you.”

Arthur nodded. “I’ll take you up on that, Chaplain.”

“Stephen.” He smiled. “Come on. We’ve got to get past the titles-and-last-names thing.”

“I’ve been in the CDF long enough that my last name is about all I answer to at times.”

“Yes, well, even old dogs can learn new tricks, supposedly.”

Arthur snickered, but he quickly turned series once more. “I don’t know how to move past this. I thought I did. I found some peace, but the more I think on it, the more I ruminate, the more shame and disgust well up.”

“How did you find peace?”

The answer to that question wasn’t one Arthur wished to share. I’m still not sure what my experience was. Could it have been a dream? Sure. Was it some kind of religious experience in my mind? Possible. Did it actually happen in the flesh? I can’t tell. I want to believe it was real. Even if it was, it was the sort of thing he could never tell another soul without fear of being checked into a mental health facility.

“I, uh, kinda hit rock bottom after realizing what I was doing was horrifically wrong. Read my bible and found peace in Jesus’s words.”

Pelicot nodded. “That seems simple enough. I’ve done the same myself. But you can’t let that lie?”

Arthur shook his head. “I can’t seem to turn my mind off, Stephen.”

“Did you inform your superiors?”

“Uh, yeah.” Arthur bit his lip. “Let’s just say that my reckoning doesn’t arrive until the war is over or we’re off the front.”

“Then you’re going to have to find a way to stay on the straight and narrow.”

“Or something worse will happen to me, right?”

Pelicot tilted his head. “How so?”

“That’s what Jesus said, right? Go and sin no more, or a worse thing may happen.”

After a moment of quiet, Pelicot nodded. “Yes. That’s true. Since you’re clearly treating this as a religious meeting in addition to some counseling… would you let me pray with you?”

Arthur put his hands on the desk, palms up. “I’d like that a lot.”

Pelicot took Arthur’s hands and bowed his head. “Heavenly Father, strong to save, give guidance, grace, and wisdom to your servant Arthur Hanson.”

As the chaplain continued, Arthur kept his eyes shut and his mind cleared as much as he could. Go and sin no more. Somehow, I have to try to live up to that. He recognized it was a virtual impossibility, but perhaps he could avoid the same set of mistakes. That would be his focus in the coming days as, he hoped, the war died down to a series of mop-up actions. Arthur lived in hope.

27

Strathclyde Shipboard Integrators—Headquarters Complex

Churchill

3 May 2474

Frustration wasn’t something that Kenneth Lowe normally felt. Lately, though, he felt it constantly, from dealing with the changing tastes of the Robbins administration, which trickled down through the government-procurement apparatus, and the utter helplessness at being unable to aid the situation out in the Orion Spur. More than anything, Kenneth wanted to make a difference and an impact somehow.

After getting a transmission from whom he suspected was General Sinclair during the opening days of the conflict, there had been no further communication. Even after sending coded messages via the JWICs Top Secret Special Compartmentalized Information network with the shipping information and lot numbers of the requested weapons and war materiel, nothing came back.

Kenneth had even tried his hand at contacting privateers operating within ISF space to no avail. Nor would the megacorp security forces take his vidlinks. At his wits’ end, he’d combed through his contacts and realized he’d not tried the one man who might be able to help.

What is it Joshua likes to say? If you don’t ask, the answer is always no. He toggled over to the vidlink app and sent a request.

To Kenneth’s great surprise, the screen engaged less than five minutes later, drawing him away from the spreadsheet he’d pulled up.

Admiral James Henry filled the display with a big grin plastered on his face. “Well, well, well. If it isn’t Kenneth Lowe. Come to ask for some contracts?”

Kenneth chuckled. “No, actually. Can’t I wonder how an old friend is doing?” He found it difficult to believe sometimes that Henry had once been a freighter captain, shuttling cargo around the Sagittarius Arm.

“Yeah, and I’ve got a stable wormhole to sell you. Though it’s always nice to catch up. You’ve done well for yourself, at least according to some piece I read last month.”

“No complaints on my end. You, too, Admiral. Running the entire ISF fleet now.”

“God puts us where we need to be.”

Kenneth pursed his lips. “Truth.”

“So, what’s up?”

“If I was, say, interested in hiring some muscle—”

Henry held up a hand. “Good luck hiring privateers out of Sagittarius right now. You don’t have enough credits to get them to risk their lives over in the Orion Spur.”

“Am I that transparent?”

“Uh, yeah. You’ve always been easy to read.”

Kenneth shook his head in mock exasperation. “Okay, okay.”

“What are you trying to do?” Henry cocked his head to one side and narrowed his eyes. “Quit beating around the bush.”

“We’re on an unsecured—”

“I don’t have all day.”

Kenneth blew out a breath. Is it even legal to recruit foreign military services to go fight another country as a Coalition citizen? Regardless of that, it was probably a one-way corporate death sentence because of the proclivities of the Robbins administration and her Peace Union backers.

“All right. I’m trying to get the CDF some heavier-hitting backup. Unofficially and off the books.”

“See? That wasn’t so hard, now, was it?” Henry ran his tongue over his lips. “That’s a big ask, Kenneth. Ascaro would have my head for even having this conversation with you. I think the problem here is you’re not talking to the right people.”

“Oh?

“You need to go talk to some Galters.”

Kenneth’s eyes widened. “Why? They hate the Coalition. Most of them think we’re crazy socialists and that the League and the Terran Coalition exist on a spectrum of socialism.”

“Some do. Some don’t. Most of the big-time financers, though, are pragmatists. You need a sit-down with people who have more than a trillion credits in holdings.”

“But… why?” Kenneth couldn’t get his mind around Henry’s words.

“Okay, I’m going to spell this out in small words. If you can get some heavy hitters on Galt to buy into whatever it is you want to do, they’ve got the credits and, more importantly, the political pull to free up resources… the same resources that won’t give you the time of day right now.”

“Well, it’s a shame I don’t know any such people. Even though I own a rather large defense-contracting firm, compared to those guys, I am exceedingly small potatoes.”

Henry’s lips curled up. “Okay, I’m not going to bust your balls too much here. I know a guy. Raoul Lou. Son of Frank Lou. The Lou’s are serious players on Galt, Hestia, and ISF space in general.”

Kenneth’s mind went into overdrive. I remember Lou. He helped liberate Hestia and by all accounts was a decent man as well as an outstanding businessman. Something told him that convincing trillionaires to part with wealth to help a war wasn’t exactly going to be easy.

“Encrypted vidlink?”

“Oh no. You want to do business with these people, Kenneth? You’re going in person, to Galt. I’ll make the arrangements.”

“Figured you would say that.”

“Consider it a way to get out and see the galaxy.”

Kenneth rolled his eyes. “I already did that with the CDF.”

“Encore presentation.”

Both of them snickered, then Kenneth sighed. “All right. I’ll put it together on my end.”

“One thing. Take somebody with you.”

“For what—”

“Someone who knows their way around combat, if you get my drift.”

Kenneth narrowed his eyes. “It’s Galt. Rand’s pretty safe as long as you stay out of the slums.”

“Trust me on this. Maybe take a couple of somebodies. You want to project strength. This one will be on you to pull off. I can’t get involved outside of the intro.”

Kenneth nodded. “Thanks, James. I mean it.”

“I guess I owe you something for all those times I charged you more just because it was the CDF,” Henry replied with a grin. Then he grew circumspect. “That feels like a lifetime ago.”

“You’re telling me. Sometimes… I want to be back crawling through maintenance tubes, fixing stuff. Life was simpler then.”

“No, you don’t. And I don’t want to be back on the Shadow Wolf, though Lord, I do miss her and my crew. Especially the friends we’ve lost.”

Emotion hung in the air, even through the vidlink. Henry had lost several close friends and crewmates over the years against the League and the megacorps on Hestia, which were, ironically, backed by the League. “I’m sorry, James.”

Henry pursed his lips. “Sometimes, I really don’t understand the plan, but I have to trust He has one. That trust… It’s the hardest thing of our existence. But to what I was saying… you are where you are supposed to be, as am I. It’s on us to rise to the task assigned to us.”

Those words resonated with Kenneth, as he, too, believed God put you where you needed to be. But I really don’t get the plan either. Sometimes, he wondered if that was the point. “Well, I’ll do my best with Lou and his pals.”

“You do that, Kenneth.” Henry’s eyes went to something outside the camera’s field of view. “Okay, some other crisis is going down, so I have to cut this short. You’ll get a message from me no later than tomorrow confirming the details.”

“Thanks.”

“Godspeed.”

Kenneth nodded. “Godspeed to you, too, James.”

The screen went black, and Kenneth was left alone in the quiet of his office, with nothing but the soft hum of electronics. He’d never been to Galt, having only read about the world and seen videos. I’ve also never been in the same room as a trillionaire. But they put their pants on the same way I do… one leg at a time.

As Kenneth pondered who to take with him, he first thought of Harold Billings, whom he affectionately called the master chief. That guy is tough. But not a hand-to-hand combat specialist.

Then it dawned on him. He had the perfect option sitting only a few dozen meters away. His hand went to the intercom on his desk.

“Have Mr. Demood report to my office at once. I need to speak with him.”

* * *

LX Sergey Satronov

Reserve Flotilla Yard Seven

5 May 2474

Mercer Gaudin adjusted his uniform. It had no rank insignia, ribbons, or markings of any type. His utilitarian black League of Sol Navy sailor’s garb was unmistakable, however. Technically, the Satronov was a reserve ship, one of hundreds of inactive vessels one generation or two behind the best in the League’s military. It was a Marauder-class destroyer. She’d seen significant damage in the Third Battle of Canaan and had been retired to be used as a parts ship rather than be sent to the scrappers.

The yard housed many such vessels. Gaudin couldn’t have known that Director Borisov had secretly greased the palms of the installation’s command structure over the years, ensuring the repair and return to service of any salvageable ship, even if it meant extensive rebuilding.

Someone had contacted him through a secure vidlink the previous night, requesting his return to service for the glory of the League. The person, whoever they were, disguised their appearance and voice, but he was certain it was a high-ranking official. After a couple of decades in the navy and the bitter taste of the League’s defeat, Gaudin had been unable to say no to a chance at revenge.

Within five minutes of saying yes, detailed instructions had come to his terminal, which he’d quickly copied down before the device erased itself. So, too, had thousands of other former League officers and enlisted personnel.

“Comrade?”

Gaudin turned his head. A woman no more than thirty years of age stood a meter away. “Yes?”

“I was instructed to report to this ship for duty. Lieutenant Li Zhong at your service, sir.”

“What is your occupation?”

“Communications, sir. Four years before discharging after my draft period.”

Gaudin raised an eyebrow. “Officers must serve a minimum of six.”

“My father was a party official,” Zhong said as her eyes averted his stare.

“I see. Then how did you get on this list?”

Zhong shrugged. “I have been vocal in my dislike of the peace treaty. Enough so that a political commissar paid me a visit to threaten reeducation for individualism.”

“Disgusting.” Gaudin made a face. “To threaten us for individualism… when they surrendered in the face of the worst threat our Society has ever faced. Take the communications station, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, Fleet Captain.”

Zhong slid into a seat at the expansive console, which allowed for communication with the rest of the universe. She used biometrics—a palm scan—to log in before glancing up from the station. “Sir, there are a bunch of messages here. One of them is regarding supplies. The station is sending over shuttles with perishable food.”

“What about munitions?”

“Nothing I can see, sir,” she replied a moment later.

Gaudin blew out a breath. They still needed a full load of Moskit missiles, and he would’ve really liked some spare parts. Marauders had a real problem with breakdowns, especially in the engineering spaces. It was a known issue with the class’s power interface and distribution system.

More sailors entered the bridge. The mysterious person or persons behind the impromptu fleet had apparently cleared and assigned each. Gaudin had no idea how someone had organized all the personnel required to man the destroyers.

But he would not question it.

All of them wore the same black uniform, and no one had a name tag or any insignia, for that matter.

“Sir, do you know why we’re here? No one seems to know beyond an urgent mission to defend the motherland from capitalist aggression.”

Gaudin tilted his head. “I received more information than you did, I suppose.”

“Are you not permitted to say?”

“Not yet, Lieutenant.”

As if on cue, Zhang’s eyebrows shot up. “Incoming transmission, sir. I recognize the sequence—”

“Our mysterious benefactor,” Gaudin interjected with a wry smirk. “Put it on, and using my name, instruct every ship in the local area to observe as well.”

“Yes, sir.”

She sounds unsure. He couldn’t blame her or any of them. Getting a summons to go save the League in the middle of the night wasn’t exactly something that happened daily. Gaudin suspected most everyone believed it was an official, sanctioned government action. Only I know differently.

An image of the League of Sol Navy logo appeared on the viewscreen to the front of the bridge. The League’s stylized fist encircled by a chain defined its classic style. In the harshness of the void, all must be one. That had been the motto under which they’d fought for decades.

Several seconds later, an image of a man appeared, though only his outline was visible. The rest of him was blacked out. “Comrades, fellow sailors, patriots. I come to you today because you have answered the call.”

Gaudin glanced around the bridge out of the corners of his eyes and noted with satisfaction that everyone had their full attention on the screen.

“For too long, our glorious League has been held hostage by men and women whose sole goal is to increase their own power, gather wealth, and behave in individualist manners… while we, the loyal sailors, soldiers, civil servants, factory workers, tradesmen… we keep this League running. The Social and Public Safety Committee has tramped on what was once a glorious republic for humanity. At the brink of victory, we gave up and let the damned capitalists in the Sagittarius Arm dictate terms. But you… You did not want to surrender.”

He’s good, whoever he is. Even Gaudin felt his bloodlust stirring.

“Today, we have a unique opportunity. Patriots fighting under the banner of socialism for all are attempting to free our oppressed brothers and sisters on planets now held by the Terran Coalition. But the capitalists won’t go easily. They continue to send ships and their accursed Marines to fight the freedom-loving people of the Popular Front for the Liberation of the Orion Spur. Our leaders will not do their duty, so it falls on us. It falls on you.

“Lenin himself said that there are decades where nothing happens, and there are weeks where decades happen. These are some of those weeks. We must stand united and join our brothers- and sisters-in-arms. Along with my associates, all of you have expressed a burning desire to retake what is ours and save the League of Sol from being relegated to the dump of history. Anyone who is reluctant to make the ultimate commitment should leave now. You will be allowed to go home, unmolested, to your families.”

Gaudin counted off a few seconds and was exceedingly glad none of the bridge crew headed for the exit. They all continued to watch the screen with rapt attention. It was a good thing, because his orders from the previous day were to execute anyone who attempted to back out. Leaking the fleet’s existence before it was ready to deploy couldn’t be allowed. Lenin also said there was no such thing as a revolution without executions.

“I salute those who remain. You face a task so important that it warrants every possible effort. We must expel the Terran Coalition from the Orion Spur before we can plan its ultimate destruction. You will link up with your patriotic brothers and sisters in the Popular Front… and together, you will liberate our worlds. In the coming days, tens of thousands of League Army troops will arrive, and between these ships and the transports, there will be enough force to ensure our victory. Walk tall, as our heroes have done throughout history. Lenin… Mao… Stalin… Marx. Communism will triumph, and we will finally have our people’s paradise! To the glory of the League!”

As one, the entire bridge crew stood and slammed their right fists into their chests in the League’s salute. The screen went dark a few moments later.

Gaudin stood. “Now, comrades, you understand what lies before us. I, as fleet captain of this flotilla, eagerly await carrying out our mission. Man your posts, and bring this ship to life!” Pride flowed through his veins at how the men and women, to his knowledge, had never served together before, seamlessly came together to operate the ship. I can’t wait to get underway. The day the capitalists are driven from our lands has been long coming. A thrill laced with disbelief and a touch of fear shot through Gaudin as the reality of leading the invasion force settled upon him.

Death to the Terran Coalition.

Epilogue

Ivanov Home

New Rostov

5 May 2474

Natalie Ivanov flipped through the holonet channels, searching for any source of news coverage that wasn’t over the top. Half the channels featured talking heads from the Peace Union, extolling the dangers of escalating the war against PFLOS, while the other half promoted invading the League of Sol and taking Earth. If there was something the Coalition lacked, it was media outlets that simply gave one the facts. I can decide my opinion from there without being told what to think.

“You’re still listening to that dreck, my dear?” Gregory, her husband, asked.

“It’s better than watching reruns because our GalNet links are restricted to priority traffic only.” It was like that everywhere on New Rostov and, she figured, probably everywhere in the Orion Spur. Thanks to PFLOS taking out a bunch of transmission nodes in the first day of the conflict, information sharing was limited. And the latest holoshows or interactive immersion holos from the Sagittarius Arm weren’t on the list.

“Have there been any updates on how many terrorists survived the ambush?”

“All I’ve heard for sure is that their flagship got away.”

Gregory grimaced. “That is a true shame.”

“What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

He shrugged. “I’m supposed to meet with the orbital permit office to discuss our orbital shipyard plans. Somewhat surprised they’re willing to discuss it now, but I figure there’s never a better time to move forward.”

“Except for PFLOS blowing it up.”

Gregory chuckled. “That’s what insurance is for, dear wife. I made sure our agent quoted a policy that included war and terrorism coverage.”

“How much more will that cost?”

“A lot.” He snorted. “But given the current climate, I’d say it’s worth it.”

“We could delay…”

“No.” Gregory sounded like a man who’d made up his mind for now and all eternity. “I refuse to give any victories to these butchers, and altering our lives in any way is a small win for them.”

Natalie closed her eyes for a moment before shaking her head. “I want the life we had four weeks ago back and to not have this baseline level of anxiety at all times when I can’t put my eyes on both of our kids.”

“I could send the three of you to the Terran Coalition proper for a vacation—”

“No.” Her eyes flashed as she gave him a sharp look. “That would be even worse because then all I’d do is worry about you. What happened to not altering our lives for the terrorists?”

Gregory took a few steps toward the couch and slid down next to her. “Well, I wouldn’t be worrying about you and our kids.”

“We stay together.” She interlaced her fingers with his.

Gregory put his arm around her and drew her into an embrace. “Always.”

“I still don’t understand why the Coalition’s response has been so tepid. They constantly play up SATO as the shield of freedom.” She’d seen the digital posters all over New Rostov for years. “Where is it when we need it?”

“I think you’d have to ask President Robbins,” Gregory replied with a snort. “My reading is that she’s refused to invoke the part of the treaty that would trigger the other members coming to our aid.”

“Yes, husband, I can read too.”

Both of them chuckled.

“Then what is your observation?” he asked after the laughter had died down.

“Only that I do not understand this.”

Gregory narrowed his eyes. “I do.”

“Oh? Then explain it to me.”

“It’s simple. I saw the same behavior all the time when I was a foreman. In the mines, certain men and a few women bullied the others. Better slots, equipment, or even food. There were two types of responses. Either give in or stand up. The ones who gave in hoped they could make the bullies leave them alone.”

“I doubt that worked.”

“No, it never did. In fact, it did the opposite. The bullies went back to the weaker ones over and over.”

“You’re describing common sense, husband.”

Gregory snorted. “Apparently not so common, with how the government is reacting.”

Natalie rested her head on his shoulder. “All we can do is our best and, when the opportunity comes up to vote, exercise our rights to change the government.”

“Crazy, isn’t it? The idea that the common people get to decide who rules us?” Gregory shook his head. “It’s difficult to get my mind around it after so many years of being dictated to by the political commissars.”

“Is it really, though?” she asked. “How often did we meet people with common sense in the League?”

“The League beat it out of us,” Gregory replied.

“Or it’s a rarity in humans.”

They both laughed once more before he turned and kissed her softly. “Well, what can we do except press on?”

“One day at a time, yes?”

“That’s the trite Coalitionism I was looking for.”

Natalie stood. “I’ll put on dinner. You round up our children, yes?”

“On it,” Gregory replied with a mock salute.

She swatted at him before standing and striding toward the kitchen. It certainly hadn’t been the year they’d expected. Or perhaps anyone out here has. Natalie recalled a verse from scripture that stated one should not be anxious about life or what there is to eat or drink or the events around you. Because God watches over all of us and will protect us. She held on to that because it, along with Gregory’s strength of character and caring for her children, were the only things keeping her sane.

Please, Lord, have mercy on us all.

The Iron Fleet: Book 4 - Danger Close:

New Rostov is in flames. Cities have fallen, civilians are scattered, and the CDF is in shambles. Lieutenant Colonel Arthur Hanson—cut off from the fleet, and low on supplies—now stands as the only officer left capable of mounting a resistance. The enemy is ruthless, the odds are impossible, and the clock is running out.

But Arthur isn’t done fighting. As covert operations scramble to bring SATO allies into the war, he must lead a desperate, guerrilla campaign behind enemy lines—hitting fast, striking hard, and holding the line long enough for reinforcements that may never come. Because when everything falls apart, real soldiers don’t run—they stand tall.

And Arthur Hanson must stand. Or everything will be lost.

CLICK HERE to read it now on Amazon!

THE END

Acknowledgments

Dear readers, thank you for sticking with The Iron Fleet, and the entire Terran Diaspora universe this far. Counterstrike was a tough book to write for me, but one that I ultimately am glad I penned. The journey continues.

As I work on wrapping up the Galaxy Bridge series, and book four of The Iron Fleet (Danger Close, coming soon), I remain amazed at how far all of this has gone.

It is an honor to give all of you this books, with some hope that you are entertained, and perhaps find your souls nourished in the process.

As always, I’d like to thank my editor, Susie, who continues to assist me in becoming a better practitioner of the English language. To all the others who’ve helped along the way – thank you – you know who you are.

Until next time,

Godspeed

Daniel Gibbs