“Yes, Admiral…” Her lead aide responded, trying—but mostly failing—to divert his attention from the new arrivals. “…everybody, keep your attention on the fight we’ve got now.”

  Atara leaned back in her chair, as the third enemy vessel slipped through the transit point. She tried to tell herself that it was just a few renegades, but she didn’t believe it. She didn’t believe it at all. She had seen Barron’s actions, and she knew he’d been concerned about more enemy forces. She had too, though she had to admit, the amount of time that had passed had relieved her somewhat.

  Now she realized that Barron had been right all along. And she wondered, assuming there were more enemy vessels coming, how much of the force could escape before the enemy reserves made it up to the front.

  She had no idea of the answer to that question, but as she was looking, the fourth enemy ship came through.

  * * *

  The room was fuzzy, hazy. He wasn’t sure who he was, or why he was there. No, that wasn’t entirely true. He knew his name. Jake Stockton. The more he thought, the more came back to him.

  He wriggled, trying to move…but he was mostly bolted down, held in place almost everywhere he could move. He could jerk his head forward, a bit, and he could wiggle his toes. Nothing more.

  He tried to speak. The words came out, in his head, but there was no real volume. He wasn’t sure whether there had been the slightest speech or none at all, but he was sure whatever had come out, no one could hear it.

  His mind was lost, various thoughts moving in and out. He’d had surgery…he remembered that suddenly. Of course…the implant!

  He remembered suddenly. He’d gone into surgery to have the implant removed. He tried to move his hand around, to feel the back of his neck, but he couldn’t even come close.

  “Admiral Stockton…”

  He heard the voice, the sound of his chief surgeon, he remembered. He looked up, seeing the man, and two female assistants, standing behind him.

  “You may not be able to respond…but we’re thrilled to have you back. We have removed the implant, Admiral. It is gone.”

  The words made sense, sort of. He remembered the implant, but it was still fuzzy to him. He tried to respond, but again, he made no sound.

  “Admiral…you are still hyper-critical. I urge you to remain calm.”

  He heard the words, simultaneously reassuring and difficult.

  “We are thrilled that you have come through the surgery…but…”

  Stockton knew there was something wrong, something beyond his own situation. But he couldn’t really understand.

  “There is a battle going on now, Jake…a large battle. And we are in the middle of it.” The doctor was checking him as he spoke, reading various components. “I’m sorry to have to discuss this with you now, Admiral, but I have no choice. Now that you’re awake, I’m going to see about moving you to a ship, getting you out of here.”

  Stockton was growing tired, starting to lose some of whatever awareness he had. But he could tell the doctor was upset, and he knew, at least in a way, that moving him was dangerous. But he still didn’t understand, not entirely.

  He tried to speak one more time, without success, and then he slipped back into unconsciousness.

  * * *

  “Admiral Barron…I’m sorry to bother you in the middle of the battle…”

  Barron turned, surprised by the voice of Dr. Jordan. He’d been deep into Jake Stockton’s surgery, but since the battle had begun, and especially since it had turned critical, Barron had only given the doctor a few passing thoughts. It was totally rational, but he felt bad, nevertheless. And his feeling was dark, that the doctor was going to tell him Jake Stockton was dead. That would still represent a major step forward in medicine, he knew, as no one had even previously survived the surgery, but it was still bad as far as he was concerned.

  Fortunately, it wasn’t true either.

  “Jake Stockton woke up, for a few minutes. I can’t say he is going to survive, but the signs are very good. He is still weak, and he isn’t able to speak, not audibly…but as much as I can tell from the instruments, he is in…as good a shape as we could have hoped.”

  Barron felt surprise, and a welcome relief from the coarseness of the battle. He was still focused on the six battleships that had thus far appeared at the transit point, praying with each transfer that it be the last, but the good news—and whatever happened, it was good news—pulled him from the edge.

  “That is wonderful, Doctor…but…” Barron was already thinking about withdrawing the fleet, and everyone who could be taken from Striker as well. He knew his own value to the cause…but he wasn’t sure what he would do. There was a good chance he would die here…but Stockton, at least would have a chance. For a while longer, at least. “…I want to withdraw him from the fight. I know it’s far too early, but put your whole crew on one of the transports and get the hell out of here as quickly as you can.” Barron was silent for just a few seconds, and then he added, “Thank you for all your work on Jake, Doctor. Stay with him, pull him through…and you will have my thanks for all time.”

  The doctor responded, but Barron only heard part of it. His attention had shifted back to the situation at hand. There were eight battleships in the area of the transit point, and his gut told him, there would be more. He’d anticipated the situation, almost expected it…but now he was tied up, unsure what to do. Did he order the fleet to withdraw, to scramble to escape…and almost certainly lose a cataclysmic number of ships? Or what? What else could he do? Sit and hope—without cause or likelihood of success—that the eight ships, no nine now, was all that was coming? Nine ships was a decent force, enough, at least, to start changing the odds. But was it nine? Or the beginning of ninety?

  Or nine hundred?

  He looked at the screen, trying to convince himself of anything but the worst scenario, but then the tenth ship appeared, and it destroyed Barron’s efforts.

  The enemy had a large force coming in, he was sure of it. And as much as he wanted to give up, to surrender, he just couldn’t. He had to fight to the finish…it was how he was made.

  “Get me the contingent commanders now…”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Forward Base Striker

  Vasa Denaris System

  Year 329 AC (After the Cataclysm)

  “Move him carefully…” Jordan followed just behind the corpsmen moving the mobile stretcher. The surgeon’s mind was in a hundred places, part of it focused on how he’d come so close to the enemy. He wondered if he’d been careless agreeing to conduct the operation on the front line…but he just decided he’d been unlucky, that if he’d done the surgery even a week earlier, that he’d have been fine.

  Perhaps more surprisingly, while he was certainly scared, he realized he would have done the surgery no matter what. He’d performed the first successful removal of an alien implant, and while there were a lot of specifics—Stockton’s amazing endurance, the partially deactivated status of his unit—it was still incredible progress. Stockton might not live, he knew that himself, at least deep inside, but he was completely dedicated to preventing that. He was one of the most celebrated specialists in the entire Confederation, but just then, he had only one patient, and he would continue to serve that one man…until it wasn’t necessary anymore.

  He looked up ahead, at the rear entry hatch of the transport. “Okay, take him inside, and get this hatch closed. We need to get the engines started.” And get the hell out of here.

  He hadn’t really had cause to judge his courage before, not in any real way. Sure, he was brave in a sense, but for all the confidence and effort his career sometimes required, it was his patients, and not himself, really in trouble. His own life, outside the stress brought on by his profession, had been extremely tolerable. He was rich, well-respected, considered one of the best in his field. But now, he understood true courage. He had conducted surgery just before an enemy attack, and he had sat with his patient, pretending he wasn’t feeling every hit on the facility. He had been terrified…but he wouldn’t have been anywhere else.

  His prior patients, the ones he’d tried to free from the implants, had died. He had been sorry, as he always was when he lost a patient, but somehow, Stockton was different. He hadn’t thought about the man’s life, about his years of almost mind-numbing sacrifice…until the surgery was complete. But sitting in the waiting area, focusing on his patient’s post-operative coma, he’d begun to consider just who he’d operated on. He’d performed surgery on a few people of note over the years, but he realized that Stockton was by far the greatest. He’d considered his own grandeur, and he’d compared it to his patient’s. For the first time, he felt outclassed, overwhelmed. Virtually every citizen of the Confederation knew who Stockton was…and many of those in neighboring cultures as well. And he was determined to save Stockton’s life…whatever it took.

  He watched as the corpsmen moved the stretcher onto the ship. Stockton was asleep, and he was tranquilized too, so he would stay out through whatever happened in the next few hours. But his readings, while still hyper-critical, were stable. He was in danger from a hundred causes, but he was strong, too. He would survive, Jordan was sure of that.

  As long as you get him out of here…

  “Okay…I want that stretcher tightly placed, and I want Stockton affixed to it every way possible.” He knew the ship was fast, that it would flee the fight as quickly as possible, and he was determined that Stockton would be as safe as he could be. He knew the patient was still in multiple forms of danger, but there was nothing he could do about that. He had realized the danger before, but now there were more enemy units streaming through the portal leading into the system. Jordan’s military knowledge was no more than any other citizen’s, but he was sure Barron would have to withdraw…and soon. That meant that Striker would be captured…or destroyed…if he remained. Either way, he had to be off…now. However much he didn’t like the idea of moving his patient—and he didn’t like it at all—the idea of staying was just out of the question.

  He watched as the crew placed the stretcher on the ship, and the numerous personnel he had assembled as Stockton’s staff loaded onboard. Then, he climbed aboard himself, sitting in one of the launch chairs…and he signaled to close the doors.

  The ship would launch in a minute…and he thought, at least, it was far too small to attract attention. It would make its run with a full effort to avoid any targeted shots, of course, but he didn’t imagine any of the forward enemy units would be targeting his ship, even if they could.

  He would make it, out of the system, at least. But what would happen if the fleet was destroyed? What could he do if the Confederation, if all the powers he knew of, where captured by the Highborn?

  He put those thoughts out of his mind, not because he didn’t believe them, but because he didn’t have any answers. He had to worry about Stockton, and he didn’t have time for anything else.

  * * *

  “We’ve got to get out of here.” Barron knew everyone considered him the senior commander, but he also realized that was informal, that if all his people disagreed with him, it could be a problem. There were fourteen enemy ships through now, and if that was all, it was a problem…but perhaps not an unbeatable one. But he didn’t believe the array would stop anytime soon, and his gut was that none of his people did either.

  “Agreed. The enemy has more ships…and if we wait to see exactly how many, it may be too late to escape.” Clint Winters spoke calmly, though Barron understood that the officer, his number two, at least over Confederation forces, was almost panic-stricken. He felt the urge to try to help his comrade, but he felt the same way.

  Worse, even.

  Barron considered Winters’ words, and he was still trying to put his next bit together when Chronos spoke. “I agree. You were right all along, Admiral Barron. Our effort to hold here was a fool’s errand. We should have known that the enemy wouldn’t attack again without a large enough force to overwhelm us.” Barron listened, and even as he did, he found himself wanting to argue that there were only fourteen—now, sixteen, actually—enemy ships, that maybe the enemy wouldn’t exactly overwhelm them. But he didn’t believe that, not at all. He’d expected the enemy to launch a great enough attack to drive his ships away, and when the actual assault had proven more of a matchup to his own force, he’d assumed there was more to come. He knew there was nothing he could have done, that he couldn’t have ordered the fleet withdrawn, Striker abandoned or destroyed, without at least making an effort to hold on. But he still felt self-hatred for not doing something.

  “We can’t all pull back at once. My forces will go last…we will hold back the enemy.” The voice was surprising. If anyone had been expected to put up a fight, to take the position that maybe there wasn’t a huge force, maybe the enemy had just kept—seventeen ships, now—a force in reserve, it was Vian Tulus. But Tulus instead was volunteering to stay back…and that meant he was likely to die.

  Barron paused a minute. Everyone on the comm did, until Chronos spoke.

  “I agree with Tulus…except that he can’t be the one. The Alliance forces are just not numerous enough.” That was also a nice way of saying that they weren’t strong enough either. “I will stay.”

  Barron listened, and he knew leaving Chronos was the best possible option. The Hegemony forces had been the most powerful in the force, but now they were number two, and by a distant—and growing—margin. They were also the ones least likely to agree to pulling back to Confederation space.

  But he knew he couldn’t allow Chronos to command the holding force. Not when there were two Confederation commands.

  “No,” he said, his words leaping ahead of his thoughts. “I appreciate your willingness, Chronos, but it has to be a Confederation command. With the death of Ilius…” He didn’t mention the lack of new reinforcements. “…you command the entire Hegemony force. And we have two commanders of the Confederation fleet.” He already knew who he had to order to remain…he just hadn’t accepted it yet. And he never had to…she did it for him.

  “I will stay, Admiral.” He heard the sound, the voice he’d listened to more times than he could remember. He wanted to say no, to tell her she had to leave…but he knew she was the right one to stay.

  The comm was silent for a moment, and then Clint Winters came on. “No, Atara…I will stay. You go with the others.”

  Barron sat stone still for a moment. Then he said, “No, Clint. Atara is correct. She is the right one to stay…and I will remain at Striker until the last moment.”

  There was nothing but silence on the line. Everyone felt an urge to be the one to stay, but they all knew Barron’s plan was the best…except him staying.

  “Tyler…I can do this. You have to withdraw at once.” Atara sounded as pert as usual, but Barron knew she understood the odds. Some of her ships might escape, but her own chances weren’t good.

  They weren’t good at all.

  “No.” His response came without thinking, without any view toward rationality or anything else. He was simply not going to leave, not until the last of his forces did. If that meant he died there, instead of somewhere else, so be it.

  The truth, the knowledge that Barron kept to himself, was that he didn’t think there was any chance anymore. His escapees would continue to fight, he knew that, but they wouldn’t win. And while he knew if he lived, he would support the other plan, unlike his wife, he didn’t really believe it would work.

  Tyler Barron was beaten, in many ways, and he almost craved a death in battle. It would be an escape really, a way out. He heard his people objecting, especially to his remaining to the end, and he just said, “That is the way it is going to be. Now, do what I say, please.” He stopped for a moment, and there was nothing but silence on the line. His eyes darted to the image of the transit point, now with twenty-two enemy ships assembled. Then he began to issue orders…to retreat.

  * * *

  “Please, Andi…go.” Barron had issued the withdrawal orders…and he had ordered all the non-essential personnel to abandon Striker as well. Atara’s force and the station would be the only units still present, and however well they did at holding back the enemy would make a huge difference in how many of the ships fleeing actually made it. But now, he was in his office, right off the bridge, talking to Andi. He’d already dealt with Akella. She’d given him a hard time, insisted she was going to stay on Striker along with him…but she’d been relatively easy to persuade. It wasn’t a lack of courage, Barron knew that well enough, but Akella was the head of the Hegemony, and she would have work to do. Whatever followed, whether he lived to see it or not, Akella would have her hands full.

  Andi was a different story…but he had one secret weapon to use there.

  “No, Tyler…I will leave when you do.” That was unacceptable, mostly because Tyler didn’t expect to leave. He wasn’t outright suicidal, but he didn’t see any way to escape either.

  “Cassie…” Barron said the word, the one he knew his wife had already had in her mind. Their daughter, loved by both of them, perhaps the one thing more important to the two of them than each other. “This is my job, Andi…not yours. One of us has to get out of here, at least.” Barron realized he wasn’t ready to give up himself either, though he knew there was a great chance he wouldn’t survive.

  Andi looked at Barron, a combination of anger and love in her expression. “Please, Tyler…come with me. You can’t do anything here…you know that.”

  Barron realized he had scored, that Andi was going to leave. But she was going to do everything she could to get him to go as well. He knew that, understood it perfectly…and part of him wanted to give in. But he couldn’t.

  “I can’t go, Andi…not while the battle is still raging. And you have to go.” He paused for just a second, and then he added, “And I’ve got to get back out on the bridge.” He felt himself tearing apart, and he believed there was an excellent chance this was the last time he would see Andi. He’d been standing about a meter from her, but now he reached out and grabbed her. “Please…just go. Take care of Cassie.” He knew his tactics were unfair, but he was sure that Andi’s escape was only good for a short while. He didn’t believe there was any way to defeat the enemy. Still, he hoped he would survive, escape to fight again.