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  “Something like that.”

  “Seems a little cliché.” She studied his face. “Do you remember anything like these things? The super dreadnoughts? No fleeting memories?”

  Lately, Proctor had been questioning him more about his Vacation—his missing three days aboard the Constitution. The memories were still foggy, especially after Vishgane Kharsa, the Dolmasi admiral, had tampered with Granger’s mind, making him think he’d been peering down at the Swarm homeworld. Afterwards, he’d thought he was remembering the Swarm’s point of origin, but the memory was false. And by thinking, wrongly, that he’d seen Volari Three, the Dolmasi’s homeworld, he had inadvertently liberated them thinking he was striking down the Swarm.

  For all the good it had done them—ever since then, the Dolmasi had rarely shown up to any battles when called upon. Some allies they were.

  He shook his head. “Nothing. I remember nothing of them.”

  Ensign Prince caught his attention. “Sir?”

  Granger noticed the time had elapsed. “Initiate q-jump.”

  Prince engaged the drive, and Granger felt the tell-tale momentary sway as the change in the starfield on the viewscreen indicated the jump was successful. Quantum effects such as the q-jump were always a little more unpredictable close to large gravity wells like planets.

  “Continue deceleration,” he said. “Full scan of the ships as we approach. All bands. All fields. Neutrons, gamma, RF, meta-space, quantum signatures—everything.”

  “And tactical?” Proctor stood near her post in the rear of the bridge, the eyes of the tactical crew were on her and Granger.

  “Show them our belly again. That section of the ship is already dark. The crew is evacuated from decks one through five, correct?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Extend the evacuation to deck eight.”

  Proctor looked flustered. She never looked flustered. The battle was getting to her, or, more likely, he was getting to her. “Sir, Engineering starts on deck seven. Are you going to evacuate Engineering?”

  “No, Engineering crew stays.”

  “Tim, this is highly irregular—”

  “There’s nothing regular about this, Shelby, why would you expect it to start getting regular now?” Why was she calling him out in front of the crew? If she pushed any harder he’d have to relieve her—he couldn’t have this kind of public questioning of his orders, especially not in the middle of a battle.

  But deep inside, he knew why. Ever since Lieutenant Volz had come back through that singularity. Ever since a Swarm-controlled Fishtail had woken up, and started fingering Granger as a former Swarm agent, confirming what Volz was saying—that the pilot had talked to Granger on the other side, acting for the Swarm.

  It was getting to her, that much was obvious. It was making her doubt his orders, wondering if every action he took was still controlled by the Swarm. He needed to figure out a way to regain her complete trust. She was too valuable an asset to lose, and if she didn’t shape the hell up, he would lose her.

  That word lingered in his mind. Asset. Was she only an asset to him? Another human brick to hurl at the enemy? Another tool in his mission for complete and total victory?

  But it was true, wasn’t it? He himself was a tool. They were all tools. When it came to the survival of the species, none of them mattered, individually. Each of them, as a member of the pack, as a carrier of the precious genetic instructions that made the human race viciously fight for survival, was expendable. Including Proctor. Including Granger. She had to understand that.

  “We’re all bricks, Commander.”

  He looked her in the eye. The pain behind her gaze told him she understood.

  “Very well, sir,” she said with a curt nod.

  “And send word to the CAG. I need some more human bricks.”

  Chapter Ten

  Fighter Combat Operations Center, ISS Warrior

  Indira, Britannia Sector

  Commander Pierce stared at the roster. The list of one hundred and fifty men and women who’d committed their lives—and their deaths—to the safety of the Warrior, and by extension, the safety of all of humanity. They signed up for this, he thought to himself. All of them.

  Except, had they? Had any of them really signed up for this? Sure, fighter pilots weren’t drafted. But humanity had not signed up for this war. It was thrust upon them. It was a gift from the Russians, or the Dolmasi, or Avery and Isaacson, or whoever else the conspiracy theorists insisted were involved in starting the war.

  He’d signed up. Because of his father. All the Pierces go military, for three hundred years, ever since the First Colonial War. His father had insisted. The old man had hinted that any Pierce that did not graduate at the top of his or her class at the Royal Fleet Academy on Britannia was a waste of space. So, with a combination of guilt and familial duty, Tyler signed up and graduated at the top of his class. It was what Pierces do.

  But this Pierce wasn’t happy about it.

  And he wasn’t happy about the decision staring him in the face. Finally, after another ten seconds of indecision, the voice in his ear erupted again.

  “Commander, we need those fighters now. Pick thirty and be done with it.”

  “I—I can’t pick who lives and dies anymore,” he whispered into the comm.

  “Tyler,” began Commander Proctor, in a softer voice, “you can do this. I know it’s hard. Thirty will die, but they’ll save thousands. Maybe millions. And those pilots will be heroes.”

  He sighed. “Will they? Or will they just be victims?”

  “If you don’t act now, Commander, we’ll all be victims.”

  “Fine,” he said, his voice hoarse. He selected thirty, starting with the A’s and ending with the H’s. Alphabetical. “Sending orders now, sir.”

  “Thank you, Commander,” she said. “Proctor out.”

  He keyed in an instruction to the computer to open a commlink to the selected fighters and their pilots. He cleared his throat. “If you can hear this, you are receiving an order for an Omega run. Launch immediately. Accelerate to maximum toward the super dreadnought at fifteen mark two. Unload your torpedoes and all your guns on the target before final impact.”

  He flipped the comm off and slumped back in his seat. His assistants, Lieutenant Schwitzer and Ensign Spiriti, gave him grim, significant looks. They all knew that they would have lost at least thirty pilots anyway in a normal fighter battle. But this way felt far, far worse. It felt inhuman. It was like he lost his humanity with every Omega run order.

  He glanced at the picture of himself and his wife, their two children draped over their laps as they posed for the camera in some forest on York. It’s what he fought for. What kept him alive.

  With a miracle, they might win the war. But the greater miracle would be keeping their souls.

  Chapter Eleven

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  Indira, Britannia Sector

  Granger watched the sensor readout, waiting for just the right moment. The fighters raced out of the bay, all thirty of them targeting the heart of one of the super dreadnoughts. Once they had formed up into a regular pattern, the Warrior could commence firing, but for now they risked hitting one of their own birds.

  Not that it mattered: they’d be dead anyway in a matter of thirty seconds. He felt awful for thinking it, but it was true.

  They formed up into a ring and Granger gave the order. “Open fire!”

  All the functioning mag-rails on the Warrior surged to life, blasting the slugs out at another twelve kilometers per second in addition to the fifty kps speed of the ship itself.

  In response, the two super dreadnoughts unleashed their own hell on the Warrior, raking her underside with dozens of antimatter beams. The ship shuddered. A moment later a blast several decks below threw the entire bridge crew up against their restraints. One officer who’d removed his and forgot to refasten it was thrown up against the ceiling where his head hit a light fixture. Granger could tell the m
an was dead before he hit the floor.

  “Hull breaches up through deck seven!” yelled Proctor. “One of the Engineering compartments is compromised—if we lose main power there’s no way to restore it!”

  He could tell the targeted ship was already starting to move laterally, and as a result over two thirds of their mag-rail slugs missed, but it didn’t matter: the other ship couldn’t evade them—they were coming in too fast. A few moments later the dreadnought lit up with brilliant explosions as some of the slugs found capacitor banks or auxiliary power lines.

  In a few more seconds it too would be destroyed. Two super dreadnoughts down in only one battle. Not bad, he thought to himself. Another explosion ripped through the lower decks, this time manifesting as power overloads at several junctions and terminals, resulting in dangerous electrical flashes and fires across the bridge. And all it took was me destroying the Warrior, he thought grimly.

  But a moment later, the view on the screen made his stomach lurch. Thirty shimmering points of lights appeared suddenly right in front of the super dreadnought. They only lasted for a second, because almost immediately after they appeared, all thirty winked out as each fighter slammed into one, disappearing in a flash.

  Shit.

  Another explosion.

  “Tim,” Proctor began, “we’ve lost main power. We’re not getting it back. Rayna is not responding down in Engineering. It’s over.”

  He closed his eyes.

  “Ensign Prince, how much thrust can you give me?”

  The young man, his face white, looked at his console. “Mains are out, but I can give you half lateral thrust and one quarter aft.”

  “Steer us in. Clip them on their side—with any luck, whatever’s left of us will ricochet into the other one.”

  Five seconds left. The massive ship grew quickly on the screen as the Warrior’s incredible velocity propelled it toward a direct collision.

  So this was goodbye, he thought. For real, this time.

  Two seconds.

  One.

  The super dreadnought disappeared. Did they hit it? Were they all dead? He looked around at his dazed bridge crew. He imagined death would be a lot more painful. And fiery.

  “Where the hell did it go?”

  Ensign Diamond at tactical studied his sensor display. “Unknown, sir. We flew by the other one. But the target itself just ... disappeared.” He brow furrowed. “Oh. Sir, I’m reading a q-jump signature. The target q-jumped away. Location unknown.”

  Granger pounded on his armrest. Proctor’s voice cut through his disbelief with more bad news. “And sir, the one we passed is accelerating, catching up to us. It’ll match our speed in less than a minute. Weapons range in eighty seconds, if they maintain this acceleration.”

  Dammit. I can’t even get suicide right today.

  Chapter Twelve

  Bridge, ISS Warrior

  Indira, Britannia Sector

  “What’s our vector? What kind of orbit are we in?”

  Ensign Prince, a little dazed at being still alive, shook his head a few times before responding. “Uh, looks like we’re coming in toward the planet on a highly inclined orbital plane, though, uh, we’re far above escape velocity. Should take us just above the atmosphere before spitting us out into open space.”

  Commander Proctor added, “And we’ll fly right by a few of the Swarm carriers on the way past. By the time we pass them that other super dreadnought will have caught up to us.”

  “How long?” Granger watched the planet grow larger as they approached. The billowing mushroom clouds had almost completely shrouded the view of the surface. He wondered how the rest of his fleet had fared against the remaining Swarm carriers.

  “Fifty seconds,” said Proctor.

  “And the fleet?”

  She glanced at her task force tactical display which Lieutenant Diaz had been using for fleet coordination. “Holding their own, for the most part. Five Swarm carriers destroyed. We’ve paid for it with nine lost cruisers.”

  Doing the math in his head he came to the grim conclusion. The Swarm was going to win this one.

  “Thirty seconds until dreadnought intercept. Around the same time we’ll pass three carriers.” Proctor looked up. “If we angle ourselves just right, we might be able to take out all three....”

  He flashed a wry, gallows humor grin. “A chance to redeem our previous failed suicide attempt? Very well. Do it.”

  Another dread silence fell over the bridge as the crew at the navigation station made their calculations, and Ensign Prince reoriented the ship and adjusted the orbital vector slightly to plow them right into one of the carriers. With any luck they’d careen right through it and into a second one on the same path. Hopefully the blast front would take out the third hovering just out of the flight path.

  It was as good a death as any, taking out three whole carriers.

  “Uh, sir,” began Ensign Prucha. “Incoming transmission.”

  Please say Admiral Zingano finally showed up, thought Granger. “Source?”

  “I may be mistaken, but it looks like it’s coming from the dreadnought.”

  Granger spun around. “It’s coming from the Swarm?”

  “Looks like it, sir.” He blinked in surprise at his console. “And it’s visual.”

  Granger, his head half cocked toward the front viewscreen, nodded incredulously. “Put it through.”

  The image of the devastated planet disappeared, replaced by another image. That of an alien. Not Swarm. Not Dolmasi. A third alien race. Vaguely human, but with tighter skin. Almost a blueish tint.

  “Captain Granger. Will you make alliance with us?”

  Granger’s automatic reply sounded surreal in his mouth. “We will.” They were the only words to say, really. “And who do we make alliance with?”

  “The Fifth House of the Concordat of Seven. You’ve shown us we can throw off our masters, just as you did with the Dolmasi.”

  Granger cut his hand across his throat, eyeing Ensign Prucha, who muted the audio. He shot a glance at Commander Proctor. “It’s got to be a trick. They have us at their mercy.”

  “Maybe,” she said. “But what choice do we have?”

  He shrugged, and nodded toward Prucha, who restored the audio. “Very well. To prove your sincerity, would you mind neutralizing the Valarisi carriers that are just now coming in range?” he said, using the name the Swarm used for themselves.

  The alien, to Granger’s disbelief, nodded once. “By all means, Captain. Please maneuver your ship around ours to shield yourselves—we detect that you cannot take much more damage.”

  Granger signaled Ensign Prince, who maneuvered the Warrior as the alien had suggested, putting the dreadnought in between it and the three incoming Swarm carriers.

  “Captain, the dreadnought is opening fire on the carriers,” began Ensign Diamond. “Full spread of antimatter beams.”

  The viewscreen split, half still displaying the new alien, and the other half showing the carnage. The dreadnought had at least ten times the number of beam turrets as the carriers, and within fifteen seconds of the flyby, the targets were in ruins, breaking apart and blazing through the upper atmosphere.

  “Captain,” said Proctor, her voice betraying her disbelief, “receiving word from the fleet: the rest of the carriers are pulling back. One already made a q-jump out.” She looked up at him. “Shall I order pursuit?”

  He nodded quickly, still paralyzed by disbelief himself. The new twist of events had happened so suddenly, so ... illogically, that he was still trying to process it.

  “New contacts, sir,” said Ensign Diamond, who broke out into a grin. “It’s Admiral Zingano and his fleet.”

  The dreadnought broke off from their escort vector and accelerated toward another Swarm carrier that was blasting away from the planet, trying to make its escape. Over a hundred green beams lanced out from the dreadnought, overwhelming the carrier. The dreadnought eclipsed the fiery death throes of the much smaller ship.


  “Maybe they detected Zingano’s imminent arrival and decided to make their move?”

  “Maybe,” said Granger. “I suppose we’ll get their explanation shortly.” He watched as the dreadnought reoriented itself and rejoined Warrior’s flight vector. He couldn’t help but feel he’d cheated. Or that someone had cheated. It was too easy. They were about to die. Twice.

  That alien had better have a damn good story.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Senator Joseph P. Hill Memorial Shipyards

  Athens, Alabama, Earth

  Vice President Isaacson smiled as widely as his strained, exhausted cheeks would allow him to. As the hovering cameras nearby zoomed backward into the air and panned wide, he relaxed the rictus-grin a bit, knowing that the actual crowd assembled on the street below wouldn’t be able to see him as closely as the ever-present cameras. Wouldn’t be able to see him sigh ever so slightly.

  They would never see him like she saw him. She saw everything. She was always there. In his every waking moment. Governing his thoughts, his feelings. And of course, his actions, and to a lesser extent, his words. At least, his spoken words. But he had to tightly govern his running mental commentary.

  He couldn’t even call her bitch anymore. Not in his mind, at least. Not without suffering ungodly agony—an unfortunate side-effect of having thirty mind-and-emotion-reading implants capable of delivering fifty-four millijoules of brain-bending pain apiece. In certain moments, talking with certain senators or Russian agents with whom he was still trying to uphold the facade of agitator-in-chief, he allowed himself to unload on President Avery, calling her every filthy name his frenzied mind could grasp at. With those people, he had to maintain appearances of a murderous traitor and so she allowed him to play the part. But with everyone else, with the public, he was to be the cheerleader. Avery’s number one surrogate.