Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  “What are you talking about Fritzie? We’re almost surrounded.”

  “I didn’t say around the enemy. I said through them. If you’re willing to take some chances, insane, dangerous chances, I think I can get you 80g acceleration, at least for a short time.”

  The reality of her words hit him hard. The Hegemony forces were moving toward Megara. If his almost stationary fleet could accelerate at that kind of rate, they could close rapidly, and push beyond the enemy’s range on the other side. It would take time for the Hegemony forces to decelerate and reverse their vectors to pursue.

  Would it be enough time to get away, even if Fritzie’s wild claims proved to be accurate, as they always had before? And how much of those massive g forces could the dampeners absorb, even if he overloaded them alongside the reactors? Would his ships get through, only to fly through space full of dead and dying spacers, crushed by the pressure of their own wild escape?

  “It’s a gamble, Tyler,” Fritz said. He couldn’t remember that last time she’d used his first name, and the fact that she just had truly scared him. “Maybe a bad gamble, but as far as I see it, we’ve got no chance otherwise…of holding Megara or of escaping. Unless you have another plan.”

  Fritz’s words hit him hard. He didn’t have a plan, nothing at all, save fighting to the bitter end. But, he couldn’t save Megara no matter what he did, so his crew’s deaths would serve no purpose. If there was any chance to get even a portion of the fleet out…

  “Fritzie, do what you have to do. You’ve got maybe twenty minutes to get every ship ready for whatever you’ve got planned…after that, it’ll be too late anyway. Is that even possible?”

  “I’ll have to make it possible, Admiral.” She sounded unsure of herself, and more than anything else, that scared the hell out of Barron. But any chance was better than none at all.

  “Do what you have to, Fritzie, but have it ready in time, or there’s no point.”

  “Yes, sir.” She cut the line.

  Barron sat for a few seconds, still trying to process what he’d heard. Then, he realized there were two things he had to do.

  He had to get Stockton’s fighters back out there. The thought of sending them out yet again, without rest or food, horrified him…and, even now, before he’d worked out any specific plan, he suspected that, if Fritz’s plans worked, some of them would end up left behind, unable to catch up with the retreating fleet in time. He tried to tell himself they were going to die anyway, that anyone who survived would be an improvement. But, that was cold comfort.

  He had to talk to Stockton…but, first, he had to get the whole crazy idea approved. He wasn’t in command, and whatever else he might do, he wasn’t about to order the fleet into an insane flight across the system without Dustin Nguyen’s approval.

  “Get me Admiral Nguyen, Atara.” A pause. “Right away.”

  * * *

  “You’ve all done well, beyond what I or anyone else had the right to expect from you. You have fought like demons, and you have paid the price, in lost comrades, in wounds, in bone deep exhaustion, but our job isn’t done yet, not by a longshot, and I need every one of you to dig deep, to pull up everything you have left, every last scrap of strength and endurance. We need to break through, to punch a hole in the enemy line. We need to help the fleet break out, to escape this deadly trap and prepare to fight again another day.”

  Jake Stockton’s voice was raw, his dry throat feeling as though a blade sliced across it with each tortured word. His hands ached from gripping his throttle. His body was sore and covered in bruises from the endless g forces. His heart ached for those he’d lost, no small number of friends among the legions of dead pilots, and he still struggled to face the fact that the fleet was abandoning Megara, that all he could hope to achieve now in the capital’s system was to extricate some portion of the fleet.

  The center of the Confederation was gone. The Hegemony was on the verge of doing what no enemy had ever done before, and even the seemingly invulnerable Jake Stockton felt something that seemed like the end.

  “We’re going in hard, and we’re hitting every ship on our frontage. We’re going to launch torpedoes, and then we’re going to do strafing runs…until every ship we’ve got in this system is through. Then, we’re flying for ourselves, a race to catch our landing platforms…because any battleships that get through aren’t stopping and waiting, not even for a lifeboat full of Senators, and damned sure not for some pilot too slow to catch up before they jump.”

  He paused, trying not to think about how many of his people were likely to be left behind to the enemy. He’d always hated the reality of such things, but he’d never been able to argue against the maxim that a battleship, with a thousand crew that took three years to build, shouldn’t rate higher than a few battered Lightnings, and the pilots flying them. Still, the harder his people fought now to clear the way, the less chance they had of escaping themselves. It was the kind of profound unfairness that existed so often in war.

  “Jake…” He could hear Stara’s voice, and a quick check confirmed it was coming in on his private command line. He didn’t respond, not immediately. He wasn’t done with his pilots, not yet.

  “Leading these wings has been the greatest honor of my career, of my life. I thank you all for your tenacity, for your skill. You are the best the Confederation and Alliance have ever produced, and what you have done here will always be remembered Go forward now, all of you, and know I will be there, until the last of you have broken off and headed back to base.”

  Stockton closed the line, and he stared at the comm unit, and the blinking light that signified Stara was still waiting. He knew why she had commed him. She loved him, and he loved her, too, but the odds that both of them would make it out of Olyus were impossibly long. He wanted to say things to her, things he might never have another chance to utter…but he couldn’t, not now. Not when he was so deep in his combat mentality. The last thing he wanted to do was hurt her, to speak words to her that were unkind, and that might be the last she ever heard from him. But, the brutal reality was clear. He didn’t have time for her, not just then.

  “Stara, I’m sorry. I was sending the wings in.”

  “I know, Jake. I listened. You were perfect. It’s no surprise those men and women will follow you anywhere.” Her voice was shaky, but she was clearly trying to hold it together.

  “Stara…you know…”

  “I know, Jake. I didn’t call to distract you. That’s the last thing I want to do. Go and fight. No one knows how to do that better than you.” She paused, and when she continued, she just said, “I love you, Jake. I just wanted to say it once.”

  The words were simple, quick, intended to preserve his focus, but they hit him like a hammer to the gut. He felt his emotions twisting inside, and he barely managed to respond. “I love you, too, Stara.” He couldn’t close the line, couldn’t bring himself to do it. But, then she took mercy on him.

  “Take it to them, Raptor. You can do it. I know that. Your pilots all know that. Now, you go and show the enemy.” She cut the line, immediately, before he could respond. He knew that had been difficult for her, that she’d done it for him. And, he knew he had a job to do.

  He flipped back on the main line.

  “All wings…full thrust. Let’s go remind these bastards just who we are.”

  * * *

  Anya Fritz stood outside Dauntless’s reactor control room, staring at the thick metal door. She paused as she moved to enter the space, held back by something unseen, but definitely felt. She’d been in the chamber dozens of times before the fighting around Megara had begun, but the last time she’d entered the space in an emergency, she’d almost died there.

  Walt Billings had died.

  Fritz was a cold fish, a fact she’d always known about herself. But now, she felt fear and remorse, and she struggled to move forward, to step into the haunted space, cleared now of the radiation that had so poisoned it, but not free of the spirits of B
illings, and the others who had died there.

  Those who had died following her orders.

  Those who had died when she had lived.

  She walked across the large room, her boots clicking on the polished metal floors. To any observer, she appeared as resolute and unshakable as she ever had. But, inside, she was hurting.

  The room looked immaculate, almost untouched by the battle raging through the system, and by the usual desperate damage control efforts that tended to string cables and equipment across an already battered chamber. Fritz had seen many combats, and she’d come to realize the factor randomness and luck played in each. She’d served aboard two ships that carried the name Dauntless, and both had been desperately damaged in some of their fights. But, this time, so far at least, the enemy’s fire had found other targets, and Admiral Barron’s flagship had avoided all but light and superficial damage.

  So far.

  That couldn’t last, she knew. If her plan didn’t work, if she couldn’t get the ships of the fleet out of the trap springing all around them, Dauntless would be blasted to scrap, as would every other Confederation ship in the system. Megara was as good as lost. The only question that remained was if the fleet was also lost.

  She stopped in front of a massive control panel, and she paused, for just a second. She’d run her calculations a dozen times, and she was as sure as she could be it would work. But, the margin was slim, hitting the exact levels on the fuel feed and the reaction control almost like threading a needle. If she erred on the low side, nothing would happen, or the reactors would just shut down. The fleet would face the advancing Hegemony forces, and it would be destroyed.

  If she pushed just a bit too hard, the reactors would jump right through the redline, and systems would start to overload. Catastrophically. As in ships vanishing in the fury of unleashed nuclear fusion. She’d always been sure of herself, but she’d never done something as wildly desperate as this.

  She sat down at the lone workstation on the wall, turning toward the half dozen engineers standing behind her as she did. “I’m going to set up the coded sequence and transmit it to the other ships of the fleet. Klein, Verity, I want you to check out every circuit in these reactors, every conduit. If there’s so much as a crack or a slightly misaligned section, it has to be fixed. Now.”

  “Yes, sir.” The two engineers replied almost as one and turned, rushing out of the control room to muster their crews. Fritz knew her orders were impossible. There was no time, not to do anything properly. But, if the fleet didn’t break out in the next ten minutes, fifteen outside, there would be no point in any of it.

  “Pierce, I need you to transmit this sequence to every ship in the fleet. It has to be followed exactly. There is no room for error in this.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The officer turned and jogged across the room, sliding into a workstation along the far wall.

  Fritz turned back and stared at the code on her screen. Tyler Barron had relied on her in dozens of tense and dangerous situations, and she liked to think she had earned his trust. But, she’d never been more worried about an operation she’d proposed that the current one.

  Or more desperate than she was just then.

  I hope I don’t let you down, Admiral…

  * * *

  Barron watched as Stockton’s fighters sliced once more into the enemy formations. The Hegemony battleships were engaged with the Confederation line now, and, despite their massive power generation and sophisticated AIs, that meant some level of distraction for the enemy vessels. Either they could focus primarily on the Confederation line, or they could divert their attention to the incoming bombers. They couldn’t do both, not at maximum effectiveness.

  They pressed on, pounding at Barron’s battle line. That was a mistake, he thought, though one he understood. The enemy could smell victory, and they knew Stockton’s pilots would be as good as dead without any place to land. The orbital forts were just about gone, and none of the few scraps still functioning with one or two active guns were capable of landing fighters.

  Stockton’s wings were driving in closer even, than they had before, taking advantage of the reduced effectiveness of the enemy’s point defense. There were still escorts active, and where the small vessels remained in the fight, they extracted a gruesome toll. Even the battleships remained dangerous, despite most of their energy and targeting capability being tied up in the duel with Barron’s big ships.

  Barron had watched his fighter squadrons in action for years, back to the days when Jake Stockton commanded a single squadron of fifteen instead of thousands of Lightnings. Yet, each time, he felt the same. All his people risked their lives in battle, and in his career, and no small number had died at their posts, whether in the squadrons or manning some station on Dauntless or another battleship. But, there was something about being thousands of kilometers away, barely encased in a tiny chunk of metal, driving in on a behemoth fifty thousand times larger. He’s always respected his pilots, and they retained a special place in his heart.

  Now, he watched even more of them die, fighting desperately to open a corridor, to give the fleet a chance to escape.

  A chance for Anya Fritz’s crazy plan.

  How did we ever get so desperate?

  He looked ahead as the wings tore straight at their targets, engaging now to destroy Hegemony ships, and not just knock out railguns. The fleet needed a hole in the force moving in all around, a route it could take to the exit transit point, and a momentary respite. Barron understood the magnitude of the defeat the Confederation had suffered, the implications of the loss of the capital. He’d been besieged by desperate comms from the surface, repeated demands from terrified politicians that he do something.

  What the hell do they want me to do? We may yet all die here, but if some portion of the fleet can escape to join the others at Craydon, we’ve still got a chance.

  He looked at the comm unit. Stockton’s people, against all odds, seemed to be driving through, opening up the corridor the fleet needed. It was time. But, he’d heard nothing from Fritz.

  He’d almost commed her half a dozen times, but he’d held back. She knew what she was doing, and she knew there was no more time. Barron didn’t pretend to fully understand the technical aspects of what she was trying to do, but he knew he’d never heard her as tentative as she’d been suggesting the maneuver. It chilled his spine to think of Fritz being afraid of what she was doing, and he had no illusions of the dread danger the fleet would be in when she gave the signal that she was ready.

  Dustin Nguyen had given the okay for the operation, relieving Barron of some portion of responsibility if things went bad. For what that was worth. There really hadn’t been any choice. Staying in place meant the fleet would be obliterated. The only thing left to fight for would be taking a few more enemy ships down before the end came.

  Barron shifted in his seat, edgy, impatient. If Fritz wasn’t ready soon, there would be no point. Republic had just taken a railgun hit. The battleship was still there, but even a quick glance at the damage reports made it clear she was done for. Her engines were down, and there was no time for any repairs. The breakout, if it happened, would have one less battleship, a thousand fewer spacers. And, every moment that passed would add to that toll.

  The comm crackled in his ear. “We’re ready, Admiral.”

  Barron took one quick breath. Nguyen had given him authorization to commence the operation, to lead the fleet as it made one, last desperate attempt to break out of the trap even then closing all around it.

  “Do it, Fritzie. Get us out of here.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  UFS Illustre

  Hovan System

  Union-Confederation Border

  Union Year 222 (318 AC)

  Andrei Denisov stared at the bank of screens on Illustre’s bridge. Union vessels lacked the massively expensive 3D displays that dominated the center of Confederation battleships’ control rooms. The Union lacked many of the luxuries and cu
tting-edge technological goodies their longtime enemies enjoyed, but that was the reality of an economy like the Union’s matching up with one as dynamic as that of the Confederation. A Union battleship probably cost half what a Confed one did, and maybe less. Still, the Union could never have equaled, and for many years, surpassed, the power of its neighbor if it hadn’t been double the Confederation’s size.

  He still thought of the Confeds as the enemy. He despised the corruption and brutality of the Union government, but he was also a patriot, and dedicated to the navy, a force that struggled to retain its pride and élan, despite having seen its share of defeat and even humiliation at the hands of the Confederation and its latest corps of fighting admirals.

  You have to stop thinking that way. Whatever this Hegemony is, it’s a deadly threat, to the whole Rim. There is no place anymore for old grudges…

  His fleet had just crossed into Confederation space, officially an act of war. The Hovan system was nothing much to speak of, a few marginal mining stations, and one harsh, but lightly inhabited, planet. Total population, about a million and a quarter per the latest Sector Nine estimates, and, as with all the border systems on both sides, devoid of any fixed defenses.

  There was a small cluster of system patrol boats around the planet, six at last count, the largest no more than five thousand tons. They were putting on a good show of preparing to defend the world, but Denisov figured the Confeds in those tiny tin cans would be just as happy when his fleet passed them by, leaving them unmolested.

  He just hoped there were no suicidal fools in those ships, ready to open fire on a Union fleet five hundred times more powerful than they were. He really didn’t know what he’d do if that happened—shooting at Confed ships, even piss pot little patrol boats, wasn’t the best way to try to mend fences. Dead Confed spacers, even local ones, were likely to upset their naval peers, and pointless hostility between Union and Confed forces was the last thing the Rim needed just then.