Firstborn - Brandon Sanderson [12]
Dennison bowed his farewell, and the wallscreen winked off.
* * *
Dennison paused in the doorway, the command bridge extending before him. This would be his first time commanding a real crew since he had begun studying under Kern’s direction.
The bridge of the Perpetual was compact, as one would expect from a ship of its class. Kern’s fleet had a dozen such minor command ships which traveled attached to the Stormwind. During a battle they were released and stationed across the battle space, allowing for a division of labor, as well as de-centralizing leadership.
The bridge was manned by five younger officers. Dennison realized with chagrin that he didn’t know their names—he had been too engrossed in his studies to mingle with the rest of Kern’s command staff. Dennison walked down the ramp toward the battle hologram. The officers stood at attention. There was something odd about their postures. With a start, Dennison realized what it was. None of them showed even a hint of disrespect. Dennison had come to expect a certain level of repressed scorn from those under him. From these men, there was nothing. No hint that they expected him to fail, no signs that they were frustrated at being forced to serve with him. It was an odd feeling. A good feeling.
These are Kern’s men, Dennison thought, nodding for them to return to their posts. They’re not just some random crew—they trust their ultimate commander, and therefore trust his decision to assign me to this post.
The battle hologram blossomed, and a crewman approached with a view-visor. Dennison waved her away. She bowed and withdrew, showing no surprise.
They trust me, Dennison thought uncomfortably. Kern trusts me. How can they? Can they really have forgotten my reputation?
He had no answers for himself, so instead he studied the battle space. Varion’s ships would soon arrive. His forces were pushing toward Inner Imperial Space, surrounding the High Emperor’s forces in an attempt to breach the Imperial line simultaneously in a dozen different places. Kern’s forces were arrayed defensively—a long, double-wave of ships positioned for maximum mutual support. Dennison and his twenty ships were at the far eastern end of the line—a reserve force, unless they were directly attacked.
As seen in the holo, Varion’s squadron suddenly appeared as a scattering of red monoliths disengaging from the klage-dynamic. Their klage wouldn’t have been very fast—only a small multiple of conventional speeds—because of the large command ships at the rear. When traveling together, a fleet could only move as quickly as its largest—and therefore slowest—ships.
Just a moment after the command ships disengaged from klage, fighters spurted from Varion’s fleet toward Dennison’s squadron. So much for staying in reserve. Dennison’s hologram automatically zoomed in so he could deploy his ships. He had twenty fighters and the Perpetual, a cruiser which could, in a pinch, act as a carrier as well. Directly to port was the Windless, a gunship with less speed and maneuverability but greater long-range firepower.
Kern would make the larger, battle-wide decisions, and sub-commanders like Dennison would execute them. Dennison’s own orders were simple: hold position and defend the Windless if his sector were pressed. Dennison’s crew waited upon his commands.
“Expand hologram,” Dennison said. “Revert to the main tactical map.”
Two of the officers shared a look at the unconventional order. It wasn’t Dennison’s job to consider the entire battle. Yet they did as he asked, and the hologram zoomed back out to give Dennison a view of the entire battle space. He stepped forward—bits of hologram shattering against his body and reforming behind him—studying the ships in red. Varion’s fleet. Though the Silvermane wasn’t present personally, he would be directing the battle from across space. Dennison was finally facing his brother. The man who had never known defeat.
The man who had killed his father.
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