by Jay Allan
But it wasn’t in her to give up. Besides, she had a job to do, and that meant she had to survive.
“I’ll manage it, Stara. Just keep me synced with Dauntless’s evasive routines, and I’ll handle the rest.”
Cockiness, something else common in successful fighter jocks.
She brought her ship around again, readjusting her approach slightly. She was half a kilometer out now, and she could see the big ship directly through the canopy of her cockpit. She tapped up the amplification, and she tried to hold back a gasp.
Dauntless was battered. Badly.
There was a huge gash down the starboard side of the ship, at least a quarter of a kilometer long. She couldn’t imagine how many spacers had been killed by that hit, how many had been sucked out into the vacuum. There were at least a dozen clear hull breaches scattered all around, and she could see two that were still spewing out geysers of escaping atmosphere and rapidly freezing spouts of fluid.
The Confederation flagship showed the scars of the fight she was fleeing, the wounds of a desperate, losing battle from which escape alone would now seem almost a victory.
She nudged the controls again, making minor adjustments as the range dropped to less than one hundred meters. She could see the opening to the bay now…and it was a jumbled mass of twisted metal. She moved her hand again, and then once more, trying to angle her ship toward the opening that was at best, half its normal size.
Fifty meters.
She decelerated again, reducing her speed relative to Dauntless to less than three meters per second as she glided into the bay, missing a piece of twisted girder by what looked to her like maybe two meters.
She could see the floor of the bay ahead…and even Stara’s warning had been inadequate to prepare her for the chunks of burned debris covering her landing area.
No, not landing. You’re going to crash. The only question is, can you do it softly enough to survive…
She knocked down her velocity again, bringing her ship almost to a halt relative to the battleship and the bay surrounding her. She felt almost as though her fighter was floating just above the deck. If she took enough time, she could nudge it down gently. But she doubted she had much time. Now that she was in the bay, she didn’t have her full thrust available…and one wild evasive maneuver by Dauntless could slam her into one of the bay walls.
She had to land. Now.
She tapped her controls gently, bringing her angle down slightly toward the deck. There was an open spot. Well, perhaps open was an exaggeration, but it was big enough for most of her ship to fit. She was going to slam into some debris for sure, but none of it looked particularly deadly. At least no huge steel girders ready to rip into her cockpit and turn her into strawberry jam.
She took one last breath, and she dropped the ship down. It landed, harder than her Academy instructors would have liked. A ‘C’ at best, but that was a passing grade, if not a great one.
But she didn’t care about grades. She had brought her ship down. She’d torn off a section of the starboard stabilizer, and battered a few other sections of the fighter. She figured 50-50 the Lightning was a total loss. But she was there, back in Dauntless, and not broken into a hundred pieces or screaming as the flames enveloped her.
She took another breath, even deeper than the last, and she leaned back and closed her eyes for a few seconds. She was home, or what had passed for home for almost as long as she could remember.
She silently promised herself two things. First, she would not let Jake Stockton down. She would do whatever she had to do to lead the squadrons, to help them get through the terrible losses they had suffered. She would guide them past the loss of their leader, and keep them on the path Stockton had placed them on.
And, second, if she ever made it back from this accursed place to the Confederation…she would go home to visit her mother. Three times in ten years was not enough…and she was keenly aware that anytime could easily be the last.
* * *
“Hallinda, Oceania, and Vergitra all report main batteries down, Admiral.”
Clint Winters sat in the center of his flagship’s bridge, looking very much like a man who rated his nickname. The Sledgehammer had a reputation for having a single answer to most problems, and the current fight appeared to be no exception.
“The task force will move forward. I want every ship’s secondaries to be in point blank range.” The coldness of his voice almost disguised the gravity of what he was ordering. The main fleet was retreating—making a dead run for it—and his ships were still advancing on the enemy flanking force, moving farther from their own line of withdrawal.
There was no choice, not as far as Winters could see. If he didn’t hold the enemy, there would be no retreat at all. The hundreds of enemy ships heading toward his force would simply blast right through and cut off the withdrawing main fleet. The result would be catastrophic, more so even than the battle had been so far.
There was only one way to prevent that…to hurt the enemy badly enough that they were compelled to stop and engage his forces. That just might work, for the rest of the fleet at least.
But it guaranteed that his own vessels would face a nightmare when they finally turned to follow their comrades.
A nightmare at best. Utter and complete destruction at the worst. And the worst seemed a far likelier outcome.
“The enemy forward line is accelerating. It looks like they might try to make a run past us.”
“To hell with that!” Winter’s roar was one of his best, filled with fury and determination. “All fire on the lead ships. Nav station, calculate thrust plan to close with those ships, and then to follow them when they reach us and pass our line. Let’s see if these bastards can take that much fire and still ignore us!”
Winters knew what he had to do. He also knew focusing on the enemy forward line would leave his ships undefended against the rest of the approaching Highborn fleet. When his ships turned to follow the lead vessels moving on the main fleet, they would expose their own rear to the rest of the enemy formation. He couldn’t even guess at the losses he would suffer.
But none of that mattered. Every ship he had, every spacer onboard—himself included—was completely expendable if that was the cost of ensuring the main fleet’s escape.
Ensuring that the fight continued. That the battle to save the Rim didn’t end there and then.
If Clint Winters died at Calpharon, at least he would do it knowing one thing with unshakable certainty. Tyler Barron would fight the enemy to the last…until he was throwing rocks, if that’s where it all ended.
The Sledgehammer sat in his chair, and a grim smile morphed onto his face.
* * *
Vian Tulus stood next to his chair, his hands tightly gripping the armrest to steady himself. The blood dripping down his face created an annoying, almost ticklish, sensation, but he held his hands firmly in place, doing his best to ignore it. He was the Imperator, the role model for all Palatian warriors, and now was the time to set the example. His people had suffered terribly in the battle, and they were going to leave half their number behind them. At least half. They rated nothing less than watching their leader, standing firm, ignoring his wounds, covered in blood and still undaunted.
The cut on his head hurt, but he knew it wasn’t serious. It was bleeding more than he’d expected, but that had its value as well, at least for those watching him on the video commlink, looking up from their stations as their Imperator addressed them, calling on them to dig down and release the great Palatian warriors that lived within them all.
It was the leg that was the real problem, and the severity of the pain told him it was broken, probably in several places. It throbbed as he stood, almost more than he could hide, but in truth, it had hurt nearly as much when he was sitting.
And men and women dying in battle should see their leader on his feet.
Even if he is hanging on the edge of his chair so he doesn’t fall down…
He
sucked in a deep breath, and steeled himself once again to disguise the pain. “I am proud of you, my warriors, honored to be your Imperator. We are far from home, battling alongside allies against an enemy that threatens us all. The way is the way. It is our creed, and has been since the days we threw off the yoke of the invaders, and brought upon them the nightmares they had visited upon our ancestors. And it shall always be the principal that guides us. But we must also remember, ways change. The universe evolves. We are no longer alone, battling only those who challenge us out on the Far Rim. But we are still Palatians, and the blood of warriors flows in our veins. The way is the way. Remember that, my warriors, remember as we claw our way out of this system, bowed but never defeated, that we shall fight again…and as it was at the birth of our Alliance, so shall it be again. We will have our vengeance, and we will bathe in the blood of our enemies.”
Tulus turned toward the comm officer, and he nodded, the signal to cut the line. He wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep the pain from his face.
Or the doubts. His people needed a leader who was made of stone, implacable, resolute. It was the Palatian way. But Vian Tulus had seen the enemy ships up close, watched as their deadly beams sliced his vessels to scrap. He would be what he had to be, lead his people to the end. But in his mind, and deep in his warrior’s heart, hope was rapidly slipping away. He saw only the ignominy of defeat, both during the current retreat, and as far into the future as he could look. He was the Alliance’s Imperator, the latest in a line of great warriors and heroes who had led the Palatian people to victory and glory.
Now, he wondered if he would be the last, and if his legacy would be to lead his people to defeat, even back into slavery. It was the worst nightmare for any Palatian leader, the one rallying cry that all his people would shout, from grizzled soldiers to schoolchildren. Never again. Palatia will never yield. But he also knew words were just words, however much passion was behind their utterances.
His only solace was his certainty he would not survive to see that final pass. Vian Tulus would die in the last fight, there was no doubt in his mind about that. None.
Death before dishonor. Always.
* * *
Barron stood on Dauntless’s bridge, staring in abject horror at the spot that had been Atara Travis’s workstation. The place that was now charred and twisted beyond recognition.
The last hit. It had been the last hit before Dauntless managed to escape from the enemy’s firing range. The bridge was buried deep in the ship, the most protected part of Dauntless, save only for the reactors. But every part of a warship carried vital equipment, and it wasn’t the impact of the Highborn beams that had struck the control center. It was the series of internal explosions a particularly devastating hit had triggered.
Half the bridge was a nightmare of savaged metal and flesh. Four or five fires were still burning, and the air was thick with caustic fumes. And all around the stricken area were bodies. At least a dozen of his bridge crew had been killed or wounded, but as much as Tyler Barron cared for every spacer under his command, his pain was keenly focused at that moment.
Directed like a laser on the unmoving form lying on the bridge floor in front of him.
Atara had fallen the instant the explosion ripped into the bridge, and she’d lain a meter from her chair, surrounded by fire. Barron had run through the flames himself to pull her free, even before the damage control circuits showered the bridge with flame suppressant. His survival suit had mostly protected him, though both legs of his uniform, and he could feel pain from beneath the damaged protective layer below, burns from his time standing in the fire. He didn’t know how bad they would be, but his ability to stay on his feet suggested they were nothing he couldn’t endure.
Atara was in far worse shape. Her hands and face were burned, and along one arm, even her survival gear had been melted away. Her leg, at least, was clearly broken, a diagnosis made simple by the grotesque angle at which it bent almost exactly in the middle. There was blood everywhere, but at least a dozen lacerations. She was dead, Barron had been sure.
Then he saw her take a breath.
It was soft, barely noticeable. But he was sure. She was still alive.
“Medic!” Barron shouted, his voice almost a guttural growl. “Medic…over here!” A trio of medical technicians had just raced onto the bridge, and even as he bellowed his command, two of them raced over to him.
“Admiral…you’re wounded, sir. Let me…”
“Forget about me. I’m fine. Admiral Travis needs your help.” For a moment, he felt jealousy toward some of the enemies he’d faced, men like Gaston Villieneuve, who wouldn’t have hesitated to make clear to the medics that their own survival was tied to Atara’s. The thought of losing her, the comrade who’d been like a sister to him for almost two decades, his shadow in every battle he’d fought, was almost overpowering. He couldn’t lose her.
He couldn’t watch her die.
But it wasn’t in him to threaten to murder a medic who failed to save her.
“She’s badly injured, Admiral. Gravely. I don’t know if we can…”
“Save her.” There was no threat of consequences, no hints of punishment for failure. But the two words were spoken in a tone of utter command, one no spacer on Dauntless could ignore when it came from their beloved admiral.
“Yes, sir…we’ll do…all we can.” The medic turned and shouted toward the bank of lifts. “Get that medpod over here. Now!”
Barron looked down at Atara for a few more seconds, struggling to hold back the wetness in his eyes. But, as always, he felt the cold hand of duty reaching out, grabbing him, pulling him away…as it had dragged him from everything he cared about. He had thousands of spacers, and hundreds of ships, and they were all counting on him to get them out of the system. To save them from total defeat and destruction. And there was nothing more he could do for Atara.
Except get the ship carrying her out of danger.
He turned and moved back toward his chair, wincing at the pain in his legs. His eyes fixed on the main display, checking the positional data. There was no time the for grief, nor for anger nor cries for vengeance.
But there would be. Once his people were safe, he would cry for those he lost—and even more if Atara was counted among the dead.
And those cries for vengeance would come, too. They would come with a certainty he couldn’t deny.
And if he lost Atara, the price he would extract would be more terrible than anything his darkest thoughts could conceive. He would destroy the enemy, somehow, whatever it took. Whatever effort. Whatever sacrifice.
He swore a bloody oath to himself. The Highborn must die. All of them.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
CFS Dauntless
Omega Zed System
Year 323 AC (After the Cataclysm)
The Battle of Calpharon – To Fight Another Day
“Admiral, we’ve updated the loss reports. The first division had three battleships destroyed, four badly damaged, out of a total strength of ten. The second division suffered thee ships destroyed and one crippled and abandoned, with three more heavily damaged. Third…”
Barron held up his hand. “Lieutenant, please…not now.” He stood in front of the lift along the edge of Dauntless’s emergency bridge. The main control room was mostly non-functional, but it had been the heavy release of toxic fumes into the space that had finally compelled evacuation. The emergency bridge was smaller and less comfortable, but it was fully operational, with everything Barron needed to command the ship and the fleet.
Everything but clarity of mind.
His thoughts were a mad jumble, bouncing back and forth between the war, Andi, the losses his people had suffered…and at that moment, Atara, down in Dauntless’s battered sickbay. He’d checked on her half a dozen times, but all he’d gotten from the doctors were evasive answers with no real meaning. Now, he was going to go down there himself. He didn’t have the time, not even close to it, but he didn
’t care. She’d been at his side for two decades. He owed her that much.
Let the doctors lie to my face…
He stepped into one of the lift cars, and he tapped the controls. The primary sickbay wasn’t far from the main bridge, but unlike the battleship’s control center, it had escaped significant destruction. That, at least, was a small mercy. Barron couldn’t imagine how crammed full of casualties the place was, but at least that wasn’t exacerbated by battle damage.
He’d avoided reviewing the loss figures as well as the bulk of the damage reports streaming in. There was nothing he could do about any of it, and he knew there was only so much he could take. He had too much to do to risk turning into a quivering wreck. He hadn’t even managed to get his mind around the staggering scope of the losses the fleet had suffered. Jake Stockton’s death had hit him like a punch to the gut. And he’d had no word from Clint Winters or any ships from his task force. He hadn’t written off his second in command, not yet, but things weren’t looking very good.
If he lost Atara, too…
He stood silently as the car slowed to a halt and the doors opened. He stepped out into the main sickbay, and into a level of chaos beyond even what he’d imagined. He looked all around, trying to spot the ship’s chief surgeon. But his quarry found him first.
“Admiral…I thought I might see you down here.” The officer hesitated, looking uncomfortable. Then he extended his arm. “Perhaps we can talk in my office.”
“I want to see Atara.”
“Commander Travis is in a med pod in partial suspended animation. All you could do is put your hand on the glass, I’m afraid.” A pause. “Please, Admiral…you can see her in a minute. First, let’s talk.”
Barron nodded and followed the doctor, the pit in his stomach telling him he knew all he needed to know from the doctor’s demeanor. But a spark of hope refused to die. The two stepped into a small room, and an instant later, the doors closed, cutting off the cacophony outside.