Funeral games far star 3, p.21
Funeral Games (Far Star #3), page 21
“We need to slow them down,” DeMark continued, “force a lull while we get ourselves organized.”
“So how can we do that? If we pull back, they’ll be on our heels. They’re not going to just give us the time we need.”
“No, Marius. They will not. Which means we’ll have to take it.” He paused for a few seconds. “That is why we’re going to open the dikes.”
Trevannes stared back for a few seconds with shock on his face. “But, sir . . .”
“It’s been done before in time of war.”
“Centuries ago, Rafe. The floods will obliterate the farms, sweep away hundreds of villages. It will destroy Riverlands.”
“To save Celtiboria, Marius.” DeMark’s voice was grim, firm. “To save the Far Stars.”
“So that is the choice we have come to, as a last resort to stave off total defeat?”
“I wish I could offer a better option.”
“And I wish I could think of an alternative, but you’re right. Still, thousands will die, Rafe, no matter how much we try to aid them. Some will refuse to leave their farms. And we will destroy this year’s crop and wash away most of the farmland. There will be starvation. All at our hands.”
“You think I haven’t thought of that? That I would do this if we had options? Yes, they will die, as our soldiers do now. This is now the people’s war, Marius. Every Celtiborian is a frontline soldier. There is only victory . . . or death. For everyone.”
Trevannes said nothing, but DeMark could see the difference in the officer’s posture, in his bearing. Not hope, exactly, but not defeat, either.
“And we need to get Astra away from them,” DeMark said, his tone determination itself. “I have no idea how they are making her behave the way she has, but I refuse to believe it is voluntary. Failing to rescue her while we were still in the capital is proving to be disastrous to our efforts.”
“It’s not like we didn’t try, sir,” Trevannes replied. “We lost Hain Bolton and his entire battalion.”
“We’ve lost twenty times that many in the field, and now Carteria has the marshal’s daughter to add credibility to his claim. I should have ordered an all-out attack. Astra was worth any number of casualties.” DeMark hated thinking of his soldiers as some kind of macabre currency, with goals assigned a value in dead men. But whether he hated it or not, that was war. He was enough of a veteran to know that.
“The old grumblers, the veterans,” he continued, “they will never follow Carteria. But what do you think the average Celtiborian sees, watching the vid with Astra standing next to him, with hearing that they are pledged to be wed?”
“We are not alone, General. We have allies. Admiral Desaix is out there, the troops in the expeditionary forces. Time may not be our enemy. Perhaps help is even now on its way.”
DeMark stood and looked out into the hazy dusk sky. “Perhaps, Marius.” DeMark wasn’t one for optimism and blind faith. Reinforcements might come. Desaix and his fleet had probably remained loyal, though they could do little to influence the struggle on the ground—not unless things got so desperate they decided to bombard Celtiboria. There was another source of hope, though . . .
Blackhawk, he thought. Are you still alive, my friend?
If he was, Ark would come—DeMark was sure of that. The adventurer would never abandon Astra. Never. And as much as DeMark hated Carteria, he actually felt a moment of pity for the usurper when he thought of what Blackhawk would do to him if he hurt Astra.
If he was still alive.
There were rumors, stories that Blackhawk was dead, that he had been assassinated just like Lucerne. DeMark didn’t believe it. No, he would accept that Blackhawk was dead when he saw the body and not before.
But still, the doubts gathered in the dark places in his mind.
CHAPTER 19
“TRANSITIONING TO NORMAL SPACE IN TWO MINUTES. ALL VESSELS lock onto my nav data and stay tight on our signal.” Lucas’s voice was hoarse, fatigued. The voyage had been hard on them all. Saragossa to Celtiboria was an enormous trip for a single jump, but Blackhawk had insisted. He had no idea what was happening on Celtiboria, but he knew Astra was in Carteria’s clutches.
And that was all he needed to know.
The trip had been interminable. The Claw was capable of blasting through the alien dimension at an enormous velocity, but now she was leading over a hundred civilian freighters and liners, ships that couldn’t have hoped to complete such a long jump without being tied into the Claw’s data net. But even Lucas’s expert guidance couldn’t make the old rust buckets any faster. He’d pushed them as hard as he could, but they were still slow.
“Very well, Lucas. Bring us in as close as you can. We need to get on the ground as quickly as possible.” None of them had any idea what to expect around Celtiboria. They had an Antillean naval squadron with them, but if Admiral Desaix—or enough of his ships—had declared for Carteria, Commodore Hammerleigh’s dozen Antillean frigates weren’t going to have much of a chance.
“I’ll do my best, Ark, but these tubs are a bunch of pigs. I could get the Claw practically in orbit on transit, at least with a reasonable risk factor, but if I come in too tight, half these freighters will end up getting torn apart by the grav fields around the planet.”
“And if we don’t come in close, we risk getting blasted apart on the approach. It’s dangerous either way, Lucas. Bring us in tight . . . even if we lose a few freighters.”
Lucas stared back across the bridge. “Yes, sir,” he replied, holding his gaze for a few more seconds. Blackhawk could guess about Lucas’s concern, but that’s because the young pilot had never had to dismiss six hundred potentially preventable deaths as inconsequential.
That’s because you’ve never met General Umbra, Lucas.
You have now.
“Attention, all vessels. We will be executing a precision transit, entering normal space far closer to the planet than any of you are used to. It is essential that you follow on my mark, and utilize the exact nav data I am transmitting. There is no room for error.” Great, Lucas . . . scare the shit out of them. That will help. Maybe you should just ask if any of them can become better pilots in the next half minute or so.
But he had to admit Lucas had gotten their attention. A trip this long through hyperspace played havoc with attentiveness and efficiency. The alien space affected people in different ways, but all of it was counterproductive to executing precision maneuvers. And that was just what Lucas was demanding of them all.
Maybe he understands command better than I give him credit for.
“Transit in fifteen seconds . . .”
“I have ships emerging from hyperspace, sir.” The officer spun around and looked toward Captain Rhageth. “They’re very close to Celtiboria, sir. Less than 250,000 kilometers.”
Rhageth’s head snapped around. “That’s impossible, Ensign. Check your instrumentation.”
Rhageth had been Hillcat’s first officer when he’d accepted Carteria’s coin and led the mutiny that added the ship to the usurper’s fleet. He’d never been a loyal follower of the marshal, and he’d still harbored resentment for the destruction of his old master, the warlord Undarra. He’d never expected to have a chance to strike back at those who had destroyed his old commander, but events had taken an unexpected course. The fact that his new employers had also paid him enough coin to fund a fairly comfortable retirement was just a bonus.
The ship was understaffed, as were most of the others. Carteria’s people had managed to suborn many key officers in the fleet, but large portions of the crews remained loyal, even on the ships most heavily penetrated by Carteria’s agents. The mutineers had surprise on their side, and they’d been armed and ready when the signal to strike went out, but the fighting was still brutal. Rhageth had found it more difficult than he’d expected to open fire on his former comrades, but once the fighting had started, he broke through the doubts. In the end, he’d ordered the last few survivors executed. His losses had been heavy, and he didn’t have the personnel to spare guarding prisoners.
When the mutinies were over, about a third of the Celtiborian home squadron had defected to the Carterian cause. Rhageth was certain more ships would have switched sides, but Admiral Desaix was back in the system, home for the marshal’s funeral. Desaix didn’t have many ships with him, but he acted decisively when the mutinies began, limiting the spread of the damage.
It hadn’t helped that the Carterian agents had bypassed the captains of the ships, targeting instead officers who had served the more recently defeated warlords, men likely to harbor lingering resentments toward Marshal Lucerne and his top officers. While it was certainly effective in creating turncoats, it left the new Carterian fleet without any senior officers—and a former first officer like Rhageth in command of the entire force.
“All instrumentation checks out, sir. We have ships transiting 250,000 kilometers from Celtiboria. They are between us and the planet.”
Rhageth felt his stomach clench. There was no way this wasn’t bad news. “Strength of enemy fleet?”
“Unknown, sir. Forty-five so far. They are still transiting. All transports so far.”
Rhageth slapped his hand down hard on his command chair. The side of it was still stained with the former captain’s blood. “Prepare to come about and engage the . . .”
“More transits, Captain. On our outward flank, sir. Looks like ten to twelve vessels, all frigates.”
“Fuck,” Rhageth said, mostly to himself. “All vessels full alert. Prepare for battle.”
Twelve frigates was a tough match for his own force. Many of his ships were damaged during the fighting with Desaix’s loyalists. And the large imperial fleet that had chased the Celtiborian admiral and his forces from the system had since left, leaving only eight ships to support Rhageth’s tiny armada.
He thought about fleeing, but then he thought about the agents aboard his ship, watching his every move. He understood exactly why they were there, and he felt an involuntary twinge between his shoulder blades.
I betrayed Admiral Desaix, and now I find myself in the thrall of far harsher taskmasters.
But what was done was done. And his only hope of survival was winning this battle.
“The fleet will prepare to close.”
Blackhawk held on to the armrests of his chair. He tolerated hyperspace and the shock of transiting in and out of normal space well, but he wasn’t looking forward to emerging this close to Celtiboria’s gravity well.
The Claw shook hard, but only for a few seconds. Then everything was still, and half a minute later the ship’s systems began coming to life, and the forward display lit up. There was a small bluish circle almost dead center in the middle of the screen. Celtiboria.
“Well done, Lucas.” Blackhawk was amazed at the smoothness of the transit. He knew his pilot was one of the best in the Far Stars, but he was still surprised sometimes by the way Lucas controlled the Claw.
“Thanks, Skip,” the pilot said, but his attention was elsewhere. His eyes were fixed on his scope, watching the fleet of freighters turned troop transports. He’d sent them all meticulous plots, but it was still up to each pilot to execute the reentries.
“We’ve got ten ships transited and reporting satisfactory condition.” Lucas’s face was pressed down on the scope as he spoke. “Twenty.” Then, an instant later he yelled, “We lost a ship. The Fazaria. It looks like she transited into too much particulate matter.”
Ace sighed hard, but he didn’t say anything. Blackhawk saw his number two turn to stare across the bridge toward Lucas’s station, probably hoping it was the worst of the news.
It never is.
As if to confirm his thought, Lucas said, “We lost Hampton too. And Veragia.”
Almost two thousand dead. Lucas looked to Blackhawk, then to Ace, his eyes pleading. Ace could only shake his head.
Blackhawk did nothing at all.
“All ships are to accelerate toward the planet as soon as systems functionality returns.” Blackhawk’s voice was cold, his eyes peering intently at the display. He paid no heed to Lucas’s reports of ships lost. War was war, and he knew how to win. Soldiers died, ships were destroyed. What mattered was whether they were lost in victory or in defeat. And Blackhawk had no intention of having those lives wasted. His mind was filled with memories of battles, of thousands of troops landing on hostile planets, columns of perfectly drilled soldiers moving forward, driving the enemy before them.
I will honor them in victory. That is the only acceptable response to losing soldiers: destroying those who would have destroyed you.
It had been many years since Blackhawk had commanded an army, almost a lifetime, but it was flooding back to him. He felt adrenaline surging through his body, and his mind was crisp and alert. This is what I was created to do, he thought. He heard Lucas calling off ship names, more vessels lost to his tactic of inserting so close to Celtiboria. But they were numbers to him, statistics. Only a fool hesitates during a fight to mourn the dead, the voice from deep inside said.
“All ships transited,” Lucas said, his voice heavy with fatigue and sorrow. “We lost nine vessels, all heavy freighters.”
Ace took a deep breath. “That’s over five thousand men dead,” he said grimly. “And we don’t have soldier one on the ground yet.”
“Let’s focus,” Blackhawk snapped. He knew Ace and Lucas had seen their share of adventure, and they’d fought their way out of a good number of close scrapes, but this was their baptism of war. There is no room for weakness now, nor for sympathy. There is only victory or defeat, life or death.
Blackhawk knew he was letting go, allowing his discipline to slip away. But he needed the old thoughts, the old ways.
The old discipline.
He felt his mind adapting, part of it relaxing even as the rest remained tense and focused. He tapped into that hidden darkness, almost eagerly. Slowly, steadily, he could feel the parts of him he knew as Frigus Umbra slipping out of their cage. For twenty-five years he had struggled to forget what he had been.
It was a struggle, but I kept Umbra a distant memory. It was you, Vos, who pulled him from his place in the deep darkness. You and your puppet Carteria, who dared to put Astra at risk. Now you will reap what you have sown.
You want war? I will show you war that will give even you nightmares.
“Bring the fleet in, Lucas.” His voice was frozen like deep space. “It’s time to go see General Carteria.”
“Captain, our scanners are picking up massive activity around Celtiboria.” The officer was hunched over the scope, and his surprise was evident in his tone. “It looks like a whole fleet emerging from hyperspace, sir.” He turned and looked toward the captain. “But they are less than 250,000 kilometers from the planet.”
“Can you confirm that distance, Lieutenant?” Captain Korn replied, a touch of surprise in his tone.
“Confirmed, sir. We have almost one hundred ships on the scanner now . . . and some spiking energy readings too. If I had to guess, I’d say they lost a number of ships in transit.”
Korn leaned back in his chair. Why would a fleet come in that close to the planet? Nav error? But that didn’t seem right. Most fleets would transit at least ten million kilometers from a planetary body. Any navigational mistake could put them off target, but the chances of that placing them right next to a planet—the planet of interest in this system—were infinitesimal. It had to be intentional.
But to take such a risk . . . ?
It might make sense for an invasion fleet, but only if the commander was willing to accept heavy losses just entering the system, to trade the lives of thousands of soldiers to gain surprise. Yet it would be quite the surprise. It was quite a surprise, because that new fleet was between the planet and its defensive vessels, and the troops on the ground would have less than an hour to prepare their defenses before the invaders would be on them.
And if they would sacrifice thousands to get past Carteria’s ships, that would mean . . .
“Lieutenant, prepare the ship for transit, and set a course for Rykara.” Admiral Desaix had left Korn and his ship behind to keep an eye on things in the system. They’d been powered down hiding in the asteroid belt ever since the rest of the fleet withdrew. His orders were to stay in place unless he had something vital to report.
“Yes, sir. Engaging power up sequence now.”
That is an invasion fleet, I’d bet my last copper on it. I don’t know who would be hitting Celtiboria right now, but it’s not the imperials. Carteria’s got the spaceport all sewn up down there, so they could just land reinforcements normally. They’d have no reason to take such crazy chances as jumping in right next to the planet. No, it has to be someone here to attack Carteria and his forces. That makes them friends, at least after a sort. And that makes getting word to the admiral pretty fucking vital.
“Expedite the sequence, Lieutenant. We have to report this to Admiral Desaix as soon as possible.”
“Yes, sir!”
“But that’s insane!” Carteria roared. “It’s just not possible!” He was pacing across the massive room he’d taken as his bedchamber, an oversized goblet of gold and silver in his hand. He’d taken one look at the small, plain quarters Lucerne had chosen, and he’d rejected them out of hand, ultimately selecting the living space of the last Celtiborian king, from the presenatorial era. If he was going to be marshal and rule over the Far Stars, he was going to live the part. Augustin Lucerne’s Spartan tastes had been amusing affectations, but it was not an affliction his self-appointed successor shared.
“Nevertheless, Gen— . . . Marshal Carteria, there are ninety-seven vessels currently moving into suborbital landing positions.” Carteria hadn’t officially taken the marshal’s title, at least not for public consumption. He’d decided to make that announcement at the end of the week—after he wed Astra Lucerne in a ceremony broadcast across the planet. But that hadn’t stopped him from having his soldiers begin getting used to the new rank.
