Firstborn

  “He’s used this formation before,” Kern said. “Remember Gallosect IV? He focused on beamships first so that he could surround the flagship and take it from a distance.”

  “He had 2-to-1 advantage at Gallosect,” Dennison said. “He could afford to expend fighters keeping the flagship busy. He’s too thinly extended to try that here—by pressing to the east, he’s going to expose himself to your batteries. He’ll lose capital ships that way.”

  Silence.

  “You wearing your visor, Dennison?” Kern asked.

  “No.”

  “I thought not,” Kern said. “Put one on.”

  Dennison didn’t argue. The same aide walked back, proffering the equipment. Dennison slipped it on and saw a view from his fighter commander’s cockpit.

  “Here,” Kern said, through the earpiece, no longer using an open channel. “Look at this.”

  The right half of Dennison’s visor changed, showing a smaller version of the battle map. It was covered with arrows indicating attack vectors, and there were annotations around most of the vessels.

  “What is this?” Dennison asked.

  “Speak quietly,” Kern said in a whisper. “Not even my bridge officers know about this feed.”

  “But what is it?”

  “Intercepted klage communications,” Kern said softly. “This image is being sent from Varion to his commanders here. It’s how he commands—not verbally, but with battle maps outlining what he wants done.”

  “You can intercept klage communications!” Dennison said quietly, turning away to muffle his voice. “How?”

  “Varion wasn’t the only one who spent these last few decades working on technology,” Kern said. “We focused on communications and may have gotten the better end of the bargain, since it appears his shields are only effective on a personal scale. Our scientists developed a special bug that can work on a klage transmitter. The bug in Varion’s ready room, the one he thinks he’s so clever to have found, is just a red herring.”

  “Can you intercept the responses from Varion’s commanders?”

  “Yes,” Kern said. “But only if they come through the klage transceiver on the Voidhawk.”

  “And could we change the orders he sends?” Dennison asked.

  “The techs say they might be able to,” Kern said. “But if we do, we give away that we’ve been listening in. This gives us an edge. Read that map and tell me what you think.”

  Dennison zoomed his visor in on Varion’s orders. They were succinct and clear. And brilliant. As the fighters engaged, he saw patterns emerge and interact. His brother made brave moves—daring, almost ridiculous moves. Here, a squadron of fighters was lured too close to another group. There, a gunship used its opponents as screens, keeping their cannons silent lest they destroy their own forces.

  And he continued to push east. Varion didn’t explain himself in his transmissions, but after just a few minutes of watching, Dennison had confirmed his suspicions. “Kern,” he said quietly, drawing the admiral’s attention back from his command. “He’s coming for me.”

  “What?” Kern asked.

  “He’s coming for me,” Dennison replied. “He’s defeated every commander he’s ever gone up against—and now he has a chance for what he sees as the ultimate battle. He wants to fight himself. He wants to fight me.”

  “Nonsense,” Kern said. “How would he know where you are? He doesn’t have our klage interception capability—of that, we’re as certain as we can be.”

  “There are other ways to get information,” Dennison said.

  He stood quietly for a moment. And then he felt a chill.

  “Kern,” he snapped, “we need to retreat.”

  “What?” the admiral said with frustration. He obviously didn’t like being distracted.“This whole battle is wrong,” Dennison said. “He’s planning something.”

  “He’s always planning something.”

  “This time it’s different. Kern, he wouldn’t expose himself to the Stormwind like that. Not even to get to me. We need to—”

  A blast—sharp, shockingly loud—sounded in Dennison’s ear. He jumped, crying out.

  “Kern!” Dennison yelled.

  Chaos. Screaming. And then static. Dennison whipped off his visor, looking at his startled crew. “Raise the admiral!”

  “Nobody’s responding,” said the comm officer. “Wait—”

  “. . . Lord Canton from the Stormwind reserve bridge,” a voice feed crackled to life. “There has been an explosion on the main bridge. I am assuming command of the ship. Repeat. I am assuming command.”

  Kern! Dennison thought. He spun, looking at the holographic projection of the Stormwind. An explosion on the bridge—sabotage? An assassin?

  A shot sounded. Several of Dennison’s crew jumped—but this too had come over the comm.

  “Lord Canton!” Dennison shouted.

  Screams. Weapon fire.

  He scanned the battle map. Kern’s forces were in chaos. Even within the careful structure of the imperial fleet, the loss of an admiral was devastating. Varion’s forces pressed on, ships darting, beamships firing. Pressing toward Dennison.

  Kern might still be alive. . . . He thought.

  No. Varion’s assassin wouldn’t fail. Varion wouldn’t fail.

  “This is Lord Haltep of the Farmight,” a voice crackled over the comm. “I am assuming command of this battle. All commanders secure bridges! Squadrons six through seventeen, press toward the Stormwind. Don’t let the flagship fall!”

  That’s what Varion wants, Dennison thought. He presses east, creates a disaster on the flagship, then cuts us in two.

  This battle could not be won. It was hard to see, still—technically, they still outnumbered Varion’s forces. But Dennison could see the death of Kern’s fleet in the chaos of the battle space. Varion was control. Varion was order. Where there was chaos, he would prevail.

  But what could Dennison do about it? Nothing. He was useless.

  Except . . .

  I can’t let Kern’s fleet be destroyed. These men trusted him.

  “Open a channel to the commanders of every capital ship,” Dennison said quietly to his crew.

  They complied.

  “This is Duke Dennison Crestmar,” Dennison said, feeling a bit surreal as holographic ships burst and died around him. “I am invoking Article 117 and taking command of this fleet.”

  Silence.

  “What are your orders, my lord?” a stiff voice eventually asked. It was Lord Haltep, the one who had only just assumed command.

  These are good soldiers, Dennison thought. How did Kern, who seemed so relaxed about military protocol, command such respect from his men?

  Perhaps that was what Dennison should have been studying these last two years. Regardless, he had command. Now, what did he do with it? He stood for a moment, watching the battlefield in its chaos, and felt a twinge of excitement. This was no simulation. That was Varion, the real man, on the other side. This was what Dennison been created to do: To fight Varion, to defend the empire. Why else had he studied all those months?

  Why else did I study? So I could know that this battle was unwinnable. Our admiral dead, our forces divided. Varion would easily beat me in a fair battle.

  And this one is far from fair.

  “All fighter squadrons to the eastern flank,” Dennison said.

  “But the flagship!” Haltep said. “Our forces have regained control inside. They’re on the third bridge!”

  “You heard my orders, Lord Haltep,” Dennison said quietly. “I want the fighters back, arranged in a tight aegis pattern.”

  “Yes, my lord,” a dozen voices came through the com. Their fighters and beamships complied, pulling back into what was known as an aegis pattern—the fighters defending the larger ships at very close ranges.

  Dennison lost some fighters as they broke off from the enemy. Come on, he thought. I know what you want to do. Do it!

  Varion’s ships swarmed the Stormwi
nd. It began to fire back, displaying awesome power, but without its own fighters, it was at a distinct disadvantage. Explosions flashed on Dennison’s hologram.

  “All ships to dock,” Dennison said.

  “What?” Haltep’s voice demanded.

  “Varion’s fighters are busy,” Dennison said. “I want all fighters to dock in the closest command ship. The beamships can even take a few, if necessary. We only have a few minutes.”

  “Retreat,” Haltep spat over the comm.

  “Yes,” Dennison replied. I’ve certainly had a lot of practice.

  It worked. Varion realized too late what Dennison was doing—he’d already committed to taking down the Stormwind. It wasn’t a mistake, but it was as near to one as Dennison had ever seen from his brother. Obviously he hadn’t expected Dennison to concede and run so quickly.

  As the larger ships began to klage away, Dennison watched the Stormwind finally break, its massive hull blowing outward from a ruptured core. Debris sprayed through his hologram as the mighty ship died.

  And so, I fail again, Dennison thought as his own ship klaged away.

  ***

  Dennison strode down the walkway, clothed in a crisp white uniform. It bore no ornamentation—no awards, no badges of service, no indications of commissions fulfilled. His speeder sat cooling in the dock; he’d spent nearly a week in transit back to the Point, thinking about Kern’s death and the loss of the Stormwind. Why did the admiral’s death bother him even more than his father’s had?

  A squad of six armed MPs met him at the foot of the ramp. Six? Dennison thought. Did they really think I’d be that much trouble?

  “Lord Crestmar,” one of them said. “We’re here to escort you.”

  “Of course,” Dennison said. He walked, surrounded by soldiers, still lost in thought.

  What would have happened if he’d fought his brother? He couldn’t have won, but Kern likely hadn’t believed he’d beat Varion either. Kern had fought, rather than giving up. Rather than running. Now he was honorably dead, while Dennison still lived.

  Lived after invoking a near-forbidden article and forcing an embarrassing retreat. Men had been executed for less. Men had deserved execution for less.

  The guards led him through four separate checkpoints. Dennison’s trip home had been spent in near silence, with very little communication, so Dennison knew little of Varion’s conquests during the last week. However, considering the events aboard the Stormwind, the extra security made sense.

  His escort led him into a section of the imperial complex filled with bustling aides and officers. It was a testament to their worried state that not a single one paused to notice him, despite the color of his uniform and the crests that declared him to be an Imperial Duke. Crests that he probably wouldn’t hold for much longer. After a few turns down hallways, the guards led Dennison to the Emperor’s command center. They walked apart from him, so they didn’t tread on the crimson carpet reserved for High Officers.

  The soldiers at the door saluted, and Dennison’s escort halted. “The emperor is inside, my lord,” the lead MP said.

  Dennison paused. This was looking less and less like an execution. Ignoring his pounding heart, Dennison walked into the command center. None of the guards went with him.

  The first thing that struck him was the room’s busyness. Ten huge viewscreens had been erected all around the chamber, and high-ranking officers stood before these, calling out orders. Aides and junior officers scurried about, and armed soldiers, their weapons drawn, stood in every corner of the room, watching the occupants with suspicion. Nearly everyone—guards and commanders alike—seemed haggard, their faces drawn, their eyes red from stress and fatigue. The room was kept dim to make the glowing icons that represented ships more easily visible.

  The viewscreens depicted ten different battles in ten different systems. Dennison caught a young officer’s arm. “What is going on here?”

  “The Silvermane,” the woman said. “He’s attacking.”

  “Where?”

  “Everywhere!”

  Dennison paused, letting the woman go. Everywhere? he thought, stepping forward. He recognized a few of the men giving orders. High Admirals, like his father. Scanning the screens, Dennison was able to piece together their situation. New Seele. Highwall. Tightendow Prime. These were important core worlds, each home to an imperial fleet.

  The emperor had moved his other fleets out to protect his borders. Dennison knew the numbers; he knew how many ships the navy had. If Varion took these worlds, there would be nothing left to resist him. The empire would be his.

  “And he’s fighting them all at once,” Dennison said aloud, looking up at the screens. “He’s controlling all ten battles at the same time.”

  An aging admiral—one Dennison recognized from his Academy days—sat in an exhausted posture in one of the room’s many chairs. “Yes,” the man said. “It’s like we’re a game to him. Defeating us one at a time isn’t enough of a challenge. He planned it like this—he wants to destroy us all at once—to show us just how good he is. By the Seal, we never should have let him leave the Academy. We’ve doomed ourselves.”

  Dennison turned away from the screens. At the center of the room, on a platform elevated a few steps above the floor, the Emperor sat in a large command chair surrounded by ten smaller viewscreens showing the same ten battles. He was obviously making an effort to maintain an erect, confident posture—but somehow that only made him look wearier, like a warrior straining to bear armor that was too heavy for him.

  Dennison stepped up to the chair.

  “Dennison,” the emperor said, looking at him with tired eyes, but smiling slightly. “You arrived just in time to watch your empire fall.”

  “I suppose executing me now would be pointless.”

  “Executing?” the emperor asked, frowning.

  “For invoking Article 117 and losing a flagship.”

  The emperor sat for a moment, blinking. “Dennison, I was actually thinking of giving you a medal.”

  “For what, your majesty? Most flamboyant waste of half of a fleet?”

  “For saving half a fleet,” the emperor said. “Lad, you have always been too hard on yourself. Varion was an optimist all through the academy; he believed that he could do anything. Why do you always assume that you are a failure?”

  “I—”

  “Varion struck six separate fleets the same day he attacked Kern’s,” the emperor said. “In each battle, he managed to assassinate the fleet admiral—and in four of the six cases, he killed the next man who took command as well. We still don’t know how he got so many assassins onto our bridges—you can see that we’ve had to take a number of precautions here on the Point.

  “Regardless, of those six fleets, only yours escaped. Three of the fleets managed to disengage, but Varion chased them down and destroyed them. If you hadn’t abandoned the flagship as you did, you never would have been fast enough to get away.”

  Dennison paused, then looked down.

  “Even in victory, you doubt yourself,” the emperor said quietly.

  “It’s no victory with Kern dead, your majesty.”

  “Ah,” the emperor said, rubbing his forehead. He looked so exhausted. So worried. “Do you know what happens when a conqueror runs out of people to fight, Dennison?”

  Dennison paused, then shook his head.

  “It’s always the same,” the emperor mused. “Men like Varion cannot be content with peaceful rule. They make brilliant commanders, but terrible kings. His reign will be filled with unrest, rebellion, oppression, and slaughter.”

  “You speak as if his victory were inevitable,” Dennison said.

  “Do you honestly believe otherwise?” the emperor asked.

  Dennison glanced back at the big screens. He could easily see why the emperor had set up this room. The threat from Varion’s assassins had required a single, secure command post—likely with backups, should this one be destroyed—away from the ships themse
lves. The men here would be blood loyalists of the emperor’s household. From this room, the Imperial High Admirals could command the ten separate battles and work for victory right under the emperor’s eyes. Unfortunately, they were losing. All of them.

  Such brilliance, Dennison thought. Like a master of games, sitting before his boards, playing ten opponents simultaneously. Varion seemed to be most brilliant when he was stretched, and these ten battles must have stretched him greatly, because he was in rare form. He pressed his advantage on all ten fronts, and while the battles were by no means over, Dennison could see where they were headed.

  “I can’t let you take command,” the emperor said.

  Dennison looked back.

  “If that’s why you came back to the Point,” the emperor said, “then I must disappoint you. I read our almost inevitable doom in these battles, and the men who fight them are good tacticians. Our best. I realize you must want to fight your brother, but we both know you don’t have the skill for it. I’m sorry.”

  Dennison turned back toward the viewscreens. “I didn’t come to fight him, your majesty. I fled that opportunity.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps you will survive his attack, lad. In a way, you are his family. He might let you live.”

  “As he let his father live?” Dennison replied.

  The emperor did not respond. Dennison turned watch the screens, staring at Varion in his power, his perfection.“If he comes, I don’t want to live,” Dennison whispered. “He’s taken everything from me.”

  “Your father and Kern.”

  Dennison shook his head. “Not just that. He’s stolen my purpose. I was created to defeat him, and yet I am just as powerless as the rest of you. Nobody can face Varion. For the others, there is no shame in this—but my inability is a profound failure. I could have been him.”

  “You don’t want to be that creature, Dennison,” the emperor said, shaking a weary head, leaning back. “What has his life been? Nothing but success after success. That has bred an arrogance that will kill him someday. Better to be the failure who nobly strived than the success who never really had to.”