Barron’s edginess was on display. He couldn’t help it. He loved Andi, and he wanted her safe, but it was more than that. The Hegemony had controlled Dannith for six years, and he could only imagine what they had done with the civilian population, what efforts they had begun to indoctrinate them into their genetically-driven system. Andi knew Dannith—at least what it had been—and she was as capable a fighter and a spy as anyone he’d ever known. But he believed, in his heart, and deep in his aching gut, that if she went to Dannith, she would die there.

  “I agree.” Winters’ voice was deep, his tone bordering on grave. Barron understood. No skilled commander liked going into action not knowing what he would face. But there was no choice, and both of them knew that.

  “We should do everything we can to ensure the fighter wings are at maximum strength.” Atara Travis spoke up. She’d been silent for most of the meeting. Barron had seen that she had gotten her long-overdue stars, but she was still by far the most junior of the three officers assembled, and the only one who had never held an independent fleet command. “They’ve been our greatest asset in the war so far, and if the enemy has brought something new into the battle, it’s a good bet they made it’s resistant to bomber attacks as possible. Jake’s going to need every ship he can get.”

  Barron and Winters both nodded their agreement. None of the three of them mentioned that any improvements in anti-fighter defenses the enemy put into play would only increase the already devastating losses the wings had borne in shouldering so much of the fighting. There was no point, just as there was no choice but to send the bombers against whatever the enemy put forth.

  “I’ve basically given Jake a blank check. He can pull ships from anywhere, assembly lines, storage facilities, planetary defense garrisons. Even museums if he wants. Though pilots are more of a problem right now than hardware.” He paused for a moment, and then he continued, his voice more subdued. “Andi…did a very good job whipping the industrialists in shape, on Craydon and some of the other Belt worlds, too. We’ve got more ships coming off the lines now than we do trained pilots. Though Jake’s got carte blanche there, too. If he wants to pull upper classmen from the academies before they complete their last year…or if he wants to take raw inductees and give them a two-hour class himself before sending them out, that’s his call.”

  Barron knew just what the result would be if Stockton was forced to draw even less experienced pilots than they’d all already thrown into the maelstrom. But he filed that along with the rest of the things he didn’t want to think about.

  “We should get him in on the next planning session.” Atara looked over at Barron, and then at Winters. Barron thought he caught something in the look she gave the his second in command. He’d seen it before, at least two or three times over the past month. He wasn’t sure if there was something going on between the two of them or not, but his gut told him there was. That was fine with him. He’d served alongside Atara for more than a decade, and they’d been inseparably close that entire time. But there had never been the slightest romantic spark between them. He loved Atara deeply, but in a brotherly fashion. From almost the day he’d met her, Tyler Barron had thought of Atara as a sister, and if she could find happiness, or even a pleasant diversion, amid the chaos and horror of war, he wished her well, as he did Clint Winters.

  Still, he was surprised she hadn’t told him. Then, he understood. Andi.

  Andi and Atara had become close friends. Atara knew what Andi’s determination to go to Dannith was doing to Barron. She’d been cautious around him, trying—and mostly failing—to hide her concern. He’d been under enormous pressure, and it was wearing him down. Seeing the reflection of his weariness in Atara’s eyes only made him feel the weight even more. Her efforts to protect him had only made things worse. He’d tried to tell her a couple times, but some things were just difficult, damned near impossible, to put into words. So, he’d done his best to take her efforts in the spirit he knew they were intended.

  “Okay, if we all agree, we will issue the fleet alert status at once, and order all ships still at Craydon to join the rest of the fleet here in Olyus. I’ll also send a message to Craydon, ordering Admiral Stockton to join us here. Then we can finish putting together our final plan. Whatever that will be.” Winters paused and looked at his two comrades. “Maybe we’ll know more by the time Jake arrives.” He added the last part, but it lacked any real conviction. It was pretty clear he didn’t believe that any more than Tyler Barron did.

  * * *

  “Vig, are you sure about this? You don’t have to come, really.” Andi looked at her old friend, her face a mask of worry and guilt. She appreciated the irony, and she knew Tyler felt the same way about her going to Dannith as she did about bringing her crew with her. She’d almost lied to Vig, told him the idea had been scrubbed, but something had held her back. She understood just how important it might be to get information on the Hegemony’s plans, and she wasn’t sure she could do it alone.

  She wasn’t sure she could do it at all. But she knew she had to try.

  “I know you know me better than that, Andi.” Vig Merrick had been part of her crew from the first Badlands expedition she’d made as a ship’s captain, and he’d come to her as the younger brother of a trusted comrade. He’d been with her for years, risked his life alongside hers, saved her from certain death more than once, as she had done for him.

  She knew he was going to go no matter what she said. Trying to convince him to stay was for her more than it was for him. Anything that lessened the guilt she felt about leading people she cared about into almost absurd levels of danger. She would do it with the others, too, and with no more success, she suspected. She doubted she’d even make herself feel much better about it, but she was going to try anyway.

  “If you’re sure…I want to move up our launch date.” She’d been planning to go in three days, but she could tell Barron and the other senior officers were worried…really worried. Something was going on, some kind of Hegemony action looming, and if anyone was going to find out what, and in time to do some good, it would be her. There was no time to lose, in fact, she was probably late already.

  “When do you want to push off?” Vig asked the question, but his tone suggested he already knew the answer. He’d spent far too long at Andi’s side not to know how she thought.

  “Tomorrow…0600 sharp.” She was worried about getting intelligence as quickly as possible, but she had another reason for wanting to leave sooner. Tyler had told her to go, given his consent to her plan, but she knew what those words had cost him. If she stayed longer, she would only sap his strength and increase his sadness. And, she was far from certain he could hold his resolve, that he wouldn’t change his mind and try to stop her from leaving despite his promises to let her go. She would go anyway, if that happened—because he needed her there, because it was how she could help all those she cared about—but the thought of looking into his eyes as she refused his pleas was more than she could bear. Better to leave early…and without warning. If she made it back, they would have time together then. If not, well, he would have to get over her anyway, and if blaming her for slipping away helped him, if some resentment and anger toward her powered his way through the feelings of loss, so much for the better.

  “Can we be ready that quickly? We need to have the stealth unit checked out, at least. And supplies loaded.”

  “Already done.” She’d been thinking about leaving early for the last two days. Loading food, fuel, and supplies quietly had been relatively easy, but making sure the stealth unit was operating at full effectiveness had been quite another. Without the incredible device, she didn’t have a chance of even reaching Dannith, and she figured even if the thing was in perfect working order, the enemy still had a damned good chance of picking up Pegasus’s approach. Andi had become perhaps the most experienced ship commander at handling a stealth system, and she knew very well how to allocate power output and minimize the chance of detection. Still, she knew the Hegemony had made significant advances in penetrating the cloaking shields of the units, and no amount of care or expertise could guarantee Pegasus wouldn’t be detected.

  So, she’d done all she could. She’d gone to the one person who understood how the devices worked better than anyone else. Anya Fritz.

  Convincing Tyler Barron’s devoted engineer to keep her secret had been difficult, but she’d finally convinced Fritz that there was no choice. She had to go, the Confederation had to know what the enemy was up to…and once she was gone, it would be done. Barron might be sad, he might be worried, but there would be nothing he could do about it. He would be free to do what he had to do, to lead the fleet into its next great battle.

  And, if she didn’t come back, perhaps her abrupt departure would lessen the guilt he felt, even if only a bit.

  Fritz had cleared the unit after changing out a few parts, and then she’d hugged Andi. “Be careful, Andi, and come back,” was all she had said. Then she’d turned and walked silently out of the docking bay.

  Andi had a moment of doubt as she stood there recalling that moment. There was fear in her hesitation, perhaps, some fraying of her confidence that she had a real chance to do what she intended to do. Mostly, though, it was sadness and uncertainty, a question about whether she could truly bring herself to leave Barron without a goodbye, without a last embrace.

  But she’d had made up her mind to sneak off, and she pushed back against the doubts, redoubled her resolve. If she succeeded, if she came back, all would be well. They would be together again, and the relief and joy of their reunion would drive away any lingering guilt or resentment.

  If things went wrong, however, if she met her end on Dannith, she knew her final minutes would be the worst of her life, agonizing and unbearably heavy with regret and sorrow for the way she’d left the one man she’d ever loved.

  How she’d left without even saying goodbye.

  Chapter Seven

  Toscana Ridge

  600 Kilometers South of Troyus City

  Megara, Olyus III

  Year 321 AC

  The Battle of Toscana-Capella

  Ward felt the impact as the Kriegeri’s rifle slammed into his own. The sensation raced all the way up his arms, a jarring pain that almost made his hands go weak. But he managed to hold on to his rifle, somehow, and he brought it around as the enemy soldier pulled his own back to strike again. It was a race, a short one, less than a second in duration, but it was a deadly one.

  And Ward won it. His rifle butt smashed into the enemy soldier, just below the breastplate of his armor, hitting a weak spot, and smashing hard into muscle and bone.

  Ward could feel the impact, and he knew almost immediately, he’d hit his target, fractured his enemy’s hip. The soldier dropped almost immediately, his stoic silence impressive considering the agony Ward knew he had to be feeling. The Kriegeri landed on his knees and stayed there, wobbling, struggling to bring his weapon around. Ward stared at him, and for a half second that seemingly lasted forever, he saw another human being, a soldier like himself, wounded and in pain.

  Then he spun his rifle around and shot the Kriegeri, putting two rounds just under the man’s helmet, shattering his jaw and the front of his neck. It was a level of brutality he once couldn’t have imagined, but now all that mattered was the Kriegeri where there, in the center of the Confederation. They had killed thousands—no, millions—of his comrades. In another time, another place, he might be felt mercy, pity, even some form of comradeship.

  But then and there none of that existed. He was death itself, plying his grim trade.

  The fighting went on, seemingly without end, his people somehow hanging on, even as more and more Kriegeri stormed up the hill, climbing over the bodies of their comrades to throw themselves into the hideous carnage. Ward could feel the fatigue, the exhaustion, his arms and legs feeling heavier with each passing moment. He knew his people were tired, and a quick look around told him they’d suffered heavy losses, too. He didn’t know how long he could keep them in the fight, just how far beyond imagination lay the limits of human endurance. But he was going to answer that riddle…because he damned well wasn’t going to order a retreat. Not then.

  Not ever.

  He turned his head, looking up the line, and he saw a group of Kriegeri breaking through a small gap. He turned and began moving toward them, driven almost by pure instinct. He couldn’t see how much enemy strength was behind that breakthrough, but if they had enough force to turn both ways and hit his Marines, they could roll up the whole line. Or at least a good section of it. His battalion, certainly, and probably the ones on either side, would be driven from the hill, the few scattered survivors running for their lives.

  Unless his people stopped the enemy cold.

  “Colfax, Kendall…pull your people from the line and follow me…the rest of you, spread out and plug the gaps.” He was already running, his hypersonic rifle once again extended forward, ready once more for use as a cutting-edge weapon, and not as a stone age killing implement. He was firing as he ran, careful to target the enemy and not the small group that still remained in front of them, maybe a dozen Marines in a thin line, struggling against hope, against reality, to contain fifty times their number of enemy soldiers.

  Ward saw one of the defenders fall, and then another. He was shooting as he ran, and as he closed, he could see two or three of the Kriegeri take notice and turn to face him. His mind raced, calculations flying back and forth. Could they fire in time? Should he stop and aim his rifle, try to take them out…or keep moving, push forward?

  He never reached a conscious conclusion, but he lunged toward the enemy, slamming into all three Kriegeri before they could fire. He was just under two meters tall, and he weighed almost one hundred thirty kilograms—and he was moving at a dead run. He hit the enemy soldiers like a cannonball, and all three of them, and Ward himself, tumbled back, landing hard on the ground and taking down another half dozen of the Hegemony troops who stood in their paths.

  Ward felt pain as he hit the ground. There hadn’t been nearly enough time to alter his trajectory, to control the fall. He felt the breath expelled from his body as he hit, but somehow, he pushed back against the agony, the distraction. He was in the fight of his life, surrounded by enemy soldiers. He had a vague sense of the two squads that had followed him, some friendlies around, but far more hostiles in his immediate vicinity. He was well aware his life expectancy was likely measured in seconds, probably far too short a time for enough help to arrive to back up the twenty or so Marines he’d led against close to five hundred Kriegeri.

  Still, the fear subsided, the sense of doom abated, and suddenly everything was simple. He had no thoughts of the overall battle, of the implications of anything that happened in the next moments. He was a warrior, and nothing but, a stone-cold killer in a blood-soaked orgy of killing. He would fight, for as long as he had strength, as long as he drew breath.

  He’d dropped his rifle when he hit the ground, and his eyes darted around, looking for it. It was two meters behind him—too far. He pulled out his pistol instead, and he fired, almost robotically, three shots, right into the thigh of a Kriegeri soldier aiming a rifle at him. The Hegemony fighter fell to the ground, and before Ward could fire again and finish the job, two of his oncoming Marines did it for him.

  He turned again, pulling his combat knife out as he searched for more targets. He was surrounded by enemy soldiers, but even as he felt the cold hand of desperation tightening on him, he could see the Hegemony attack slowing, the enemy’s impetus slowly fading.

  The fight all around him raged hot, grenades, gunfire, even desperate combat with knives and rocks, adding to the steadily rising toll. They had been a dozen Marines right with him, but as Ward looked around his position, he could see they were down to six. There was something about them, something he couldn’t quite explain, a grim resolution, a refusal to yield. They were all going to die, that much was almost certain. The only question was, would they hold long enough for the surrounding Marine units to reposition, would they buy enough time to blunt the enemy advance.

  Ward felt something inside, an overpowering need to try to save as many of those half dozen Marines as he could. He glanced around quickly, looking for his rifle, but he couldn’t find it. He didn’t have time to look, so he tightened his grip on his pistol, and on the nasty thirty-centimeter blade in his other hand, and he pushed forward.

  There were two Kriegeri in his way. One of them was distracted, fending off an attack from one of Colfax’s people coming in from the flank, but the other was planted in place, staring right at him.

  Ward didn’t stop, didn’t even slow his advance. He brought his pistol to bear, firing three shots, all of which ricocheted off the Kriegeri’s armor.

  No, he realized, as he saw a trickle of red moving down the Hegemony soldier’s leg. One of the shots had gotten through, hit the enemy fighter. A flesh wound, he figured from the limited amount of blood, and nowhere near enough to stop a veteran Kriegeri. But Ward was ready to take every edge he could get. His opponent was wounded, and he wasn’t. A huge edge in hand to hand combat.

  Unless the enemy got off a shot. Which, Ward thought, he just might.

  He pushed himself as hard as he could, the ache racing up his legs as he tried to cover the distance in time. For an instant, he thought he was going to get there before his enemy could fire.

  Then he heard the high-pitched sound of the Kriegeri assault rifle. Just one shot, and then he slammed into his foe.

  At first, he thought his enemy had missed, or the shot had been deflected by his armor. But then he felt it, more of a sensation than pain, at least at first. He fired his pistol three more times, the muzzle jammed right up against the Kriegeri. He tried to shove it under the soldier’s armor, but he wasn’t sure if he’d managed it. As far as he’d been able to tell in ten months of combat, Kriegeri rarely cried out in pain. His enemy was still struggling with him, and he wasn’t sure if he actually felt the trooper’s strength weakening or if he just wanted to believe it. His own wound had escalated profoundly from sensation to pain, and he winced as he rolled over on his back, the Kriegeri on top of him, the two of them in the middle of a deadly struggle only one could survive.