Call to Arms: Blood on the Stars II

by Jay Allan

  She angled her ship toward two enemy fighters, and fired her first missile almost robotically. She’d been tempted to save the two heavy weapons until she really needed them, but then she decided it didn’t make sense. A fighter handled better without the attached ordnance, and though the difference wasn’t all that great, to a skilled pilot like Federov, it was significant.

  Her missile accelerated straight toward the target. The enemy made a clumsy attempt to escape, but the warhead slammed into his fighter and exploded, less than a minute after she’d launched it. She wasn’t looking by then—she was staring at the display, her eyes focused on the dead pilot’s wingman. She flipped a switch, deactivating her remaining missile. The pilot in her sights was a newb, that much was obvious…a waste of the heavy ordnance. She closed her fingers down on the firing stud, blasting the Union ship with her lasers.

  She brought her fighter around again, wincing slightly at the pain as she endured 10g thrust for a few seconds. Then she hit the missile switch again, reactivating the weapon. The wingman of her first target had been a rookie, but the bird in front of her was different. Not an ace, she decided, but a pilot with some skill. Well worth her last missile.

  She angled the throttle and pulled back, engaging her thrusters again to adjust her position. The enemy fighter responded. It was quick…but not quick enough. Federov pulled hard on her ship’s controller, pushing the thrust up toward maximum, bringing her straight at her target. Then she hit the firing stud, and the fighter shook as the weapon broke free and blasted toward the enemy. She’d closed to point blank range, and the missile launched with her own ship’s velocity and accelerated from there.

  The enemy pilot angled his fighter and fired his own engines at full, desperately trying to escape. But her missile was too close, too fast. It blasted its own engines, altering its vector, closing steadily on the target. Federov’s prey tried a few last ditch evasive maneuvers, but in the end her weapon found its mark, and her kill count for the battle hit three.

  She looked at her screen. Her Reds were earning their pay…there were at least a dozen enemy fighters destroyed, and as far as she could see, only one of her own.

  “Holden,” she muttered to herself as she scanned the roster list. One of the replacements.

  Then she saw the transponder signal. He managed to eject.

  She smiled. Her people were massacring the Union fighters. She knew there were rookies over there, just like hers, and from what she understood about the Union, they were helpless draftees who’d had no choice in joining the navy. But she didn’t care. Any pity she might have had for those on the other end of her guns was buried deep, frozen beneath her anger. These pilots were trying to kill her people, and that was all she needed to know to blast them to hell and then go back to Dauntless and sleep well. They were fighting in a Confederation system, after all, and the Union was the invader.

  “Let’s go, Greens,” she shouted suddenly into the comm unit. “You’ve got a hole opening up…so get in there and blast those bombers, while the way is clear.”

  “We’re on the way, Lynx. Thanks for the assist.”

  “The captain’s counting on us, Blaster. Now go clear out those bombers…and we’ll keep these interceptors off of your backs.”

  “Roger that, Lynx.” Larry “Blaster” Andrews was about the only veteran pilot in Green squadron, and Federov was counting on him to keep his rookies out of trouble and focused on the mission.

  Federov glanced down at her display, watching for an instant as the Greens began to accelerate forward. Then she darted her eyes to the side, picking out her next victim.

  “Hello, pretty,” she muttered softly, as she brought the throttle around.

  * * *

  “Status of launch preparations?” Barron had been sitting silently, watching the fighter battle unfold several hundred thousand kilometers from Dauntless. Federov and her two squadrons had slammed into the enemy strike force. Her veteran Reds had smashed right through the enemy interceptor screen, blasting a hole for the Greens to push through to hit the oncoming bombers.

  “Launch control reports that forty percent of fighter craft have been rearmed and refueled. Estimated time to complete refit twenty-two minutes.”

  “Very well.”

  Barron had been worried that the garrison transfers and rookies who had brought Dauntless’s savaged fighter contingent back up to full strength would fall far short of the standards of those they had replaced. But as he watched the Greens drive directly toward the enemy bombers, slicing into them and destroying one after another, his concerns slipped away. His veterans had taken the new pilots into their fold, and together they were forging themselves into a potent weapon, as the Union bomber pilots were discovering the hard way. The strike was shattered, more than half the ships blasted to bits or severely damaged. Yet, still the survivors came on.

  He remembered the battle with Invictus, the astonishing, almost suicidal courage of the Alliance pilots. They had been his enemies, but it had been impossible not to respect them. The Union forces had nothing like the Alliance’s code of honor and conduct, yet their own bombers came on, just as heedless of the losses they suffered as Katrine Rigellus’s pilots had been.

  Barron understood just how the Union compelled its pilots to such dedication. What the intelligence briefings hadn’t told him, his grandfather had. Union military personnel and their families lived a privileged existence, at least to an extent. The pilots’ families lived on massive reservations, with accommodations and rations the seething masses of the Union could only dream about. But he was also well aware what would happen if one of those pilots broke and ran for the mothership. The pilot would die almost immediately after landing, if his ship wasn’t blown away as it made its final approach. Worse, far away, on whatever world the unfortunate’s family resided, they would be visited by Sector Nine. Cowardice in the face of the enemy was a capital offense in the Union, not only for the guilty party but for his or her spouse, children, and parents. Entire families were exterminated, not just to punish individual cases, but to make fleeing from the enemy unthinkable, even when certain death in battle was the alternative.

  Which meant even though Federov’s people had inflicted over fifty percent casualties on the approaching force, there were still bombers heading toward Dauntless. He glanced down at the chronometer, and then back to the display. And they were going to reach launch range before his refitting squadrons were ready.

  “Commander, advise launch control that all fighters are to be sent out as soon as they are ready.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Barron didn’t like the idea of sending out his pilots in twos and threes, but there were still too many bombers coming in. Dauntless could take the enemy battleship, he was confident of that. Unless a few of those strike craft got lucky and scored critical hits. That was a chance he couldn’t take. Not one transit from the fleet assembly point, with no sign of the expected courier. Not when an enemy vessel had come through a transwarp link he’d expected to be safely behind Confederation lines.

  He felt the familiar vibration under his feet, the first fighters launching. He turned his head back toward the display, watching as the first dots appeared right next to the blue oval representing Dauntless. If his squadrons could keep those bombers off Dauntless, he could close with the enemy vessel and finish things.

  He’d expected to feel tense, and of course, he did to an extent. But there was a strange calm too, a confidence in his fighter wings. His doubts about the new pilots had faded away watching Federov and her people savage the Union strike. Just as importantly, they had done it while suffering light casualties themselves. His mind had been weighed down by memories of the apocalypse out at Santis, but the Union squadrons, for all their imposed suicidal courage, were proving to be no match for their Alliance equivalents.

  A small grin slipped onto his face.

  Let’s do it, Blues and Yellows…finish them off.

  * * *


  “How’s your fuel status, Talon?” Stockton was staring at his scanner, doing some calculations in his head, trying to get an actual feel for how much thrust capability his fighter still had in its almost-exhausted fuel tanks. The AI had done it all already, he realized, but he also knew there was a safety factor built into those figures. And he wanted the real number.

  “It sucks, Raptor. The same as yours.” Corinne Steele’s tone made it clear she knew what Stockton was thinking.

  “Yeah, but there’s a safety factor built into what’s on your screen…and we’re coming back almost right behind those enemy bombers.”

  “We’d have to accelerate to catch them before they launch, Raptor…and then we’d have to decelerate to land.” Steele paused for a few seconds. “You’re taking about cutting this real close…”

  Stockton knew she was right. But he’d gone through the numbers three times, and he was convinced they had enough fuel left for an attack run. Probably.

  “I won’t order you to do it, Talon…but I think we could manage it.”

  “People already think I’m as crazy as you, Raptor. This should just about clinch it. I’m with you.”

  “Let’s do this!” He gripped his throttle tightly, pausing for a few seconds. He had to be spot on here. He didn’t have a drop of fuel to waste.

  He moved his hand to the side, and back slightly, feeling the kick as his thrusters engaged. He slowly increased his acceleration to 3g. Then he backed off. He’d altered his vector slightly, and his ship was moving directly at the mass of bombers heading toward Dauntless. There were only nine left, and Federov’s people were also on their tails. But he didn’t think Red and Green squadrons were going to make it in time…and he and Steele were closer.

  His com unit crackled to life. “Blue leader, this is Dauntless control. We’re picking up a vector change. Please advise.”

  Well, that didn’t take long…you’d think they have better things to do right now than keep an eye on me…

  “Dauntless control, there is no malfunction. We have adjusted our course slightly. Umm…optimizing the flight pattern.”

  He shook his head as the signal moved to Dauntless and the reply made its way back. He knew what the control officer on duty was going to say. He could almost hear it. Waiting for the actual words was a formality.

  “Negative, Blue leader. Your fuel status is critical, and your adjusted course and velocity intersect with the vectors of enemy bombers now inbound. You are to return to your original heading using minimal possible thrust.”

  Really? We’re stumbling into enemy bombers? Oh no…

  “Ah, control, we’re not reading you…I’m afraid your message is breaking up.”

  “Blue leader, you are to revert to your original course, and return to base. Acknowledge.”

  “Sorry, control, there must be some kind of jamming out here…” He flipped off the comm.

  “You’re going to get us in trouble, you know that?” Steele’s voice had perhaps a hint of concern, but for the most part she sounded perfectly willing to follow her squadron leader on his unauthorized attack run.

  “Well, if we miscalculate and end up out of fuel and having to ditch, at least you can say you were just following orders. The captain will skin me alive, assuming he gets to me before Thunder.” Stockton knew Kyle “Thunder” Jamison well enough to realize he was in for it, no matter what happened out here, and he didn’t think the fact that the two of them were best friends would make the slightest difference. But for five months he’d been unable to push the images of the Battle of Santis from his mind. The Alliance bombers making run after run at Dauntless, their torpedoes pounding the ship, tearing apart the hull, killing its crew. Stockton was a pilot to his core, but he understood, perhaps more than anyone, his true role in the battleship’s ecosystem.

  His comm unit buzzed again, but he ignored it. If it was control again, he had nothing new to say and, if they’d kicked the problem upstairs, if that was Thunder or the captain…or God forbid, Stara, he wasn’t going to put himself in the position of directly refusing them.

  Stara Sinclair was a launch control officer—please let it not have been her on that line—but she was more than that. “Raptor” Stockton had a reputation that stretched from one end of the Confederation to the other, to every port he’d been to for shore leave. He was good-looking, just battle-worn enough, and he had sufficient self-confidence for five men. But the fighter corps’ legendary playboy had met his match with Dauntless’s launch control officer. Sinclair had ignored him for ten months, barely acknowledging his existence. Then he’d made an emergency landing during the Battle of Santis, one everyone watching had been sure would end badly. But he’d pulled it off, and he’d gone right from his damaged, burning cockpit and into her arms.

  They’d both tried to write it off as relief, as nothing more than friendship, but neither of them had managed that very well. Before long they were spending so much time together, it was challenging even Stockton’s ability to twist reality and continue to insist it was “nothing special.”

  He glanced at the screen. He was getting closer to the wave of bombers, coming in at an angle that would take him right across the entire formation. With any luck, he and Steele could take out a couple each.

  He was trying to push the thoughts of Stara from his head, not to mention images of an angry Jamison and a raging captain. None of them understood him, not really. They bought into the persona he wore for everyone to see, the cocky pilot, driven by bravado and an ego that knew no bounds. But that wasn’t why he was here, taking another crazy chance. He was here for them. For Captain Barron, whom he considered the finest officer he’d ever known, and a bit of a role model to replace his scoundrel of a father. Kyle, the brother he’d never had. And Stara, whom he was sure knew, despite his valiant efforts to downplay their relationship, that he loved her. Jake Stockton had always been a loner, a loner who had never had a real family. Until now. He would do anything to protect those few people who were the world to him.

  “All right, Talon, here we go.”

  “I’m with you, Raptor. Whew!”

  He jerked his throttle hard to the side and pressed his finger down on the firing control. His cockpit echoed with the whining sound of the quad lasers…and a few seconds later one of the bombers blinked off his display.

  “Nice shooting, Raptor!”

  A few seconds later, another bomber disappeared.

  “All right, Talon!”

  “I can’t let you get too far ahead of me, can I?”

  “We’ll see about that.” He pushed the throttle again, and he almost slammed it back.

  No, you don’t have that kind of fuel to burn…

  He tapped the control, blasting his engines for just a few seconds. He had a line on another target, but it was far away. Normally, he’d have blasted his thrusters and closed, but that would burn up most of his remaining fuel supply. He squeezed the trigger, firing. Wide.

  He felt the urge again to pull back on the controls, but he resisted. He was taking it to very edge, but he wasn’t jumping over.

  This will have to be marksmanship…

  He stared intently at the screen, his eyes focused on the small dot representing the enemy vessel. The bomber was the closest to Dauntless. He knew any second now it would launch its torpedo. He didn’t have the fuel to close faster, and he didn’t have time to sit there and take pot shots. He had to hit. Now.

  He squinted, his eyes locked on the target. His hand moved slightly, to the right and barely back, one tiny kick of thrust to line up the shot. Then his finger tightened, slowly, steadily. He knew in his gut, even as he heard the sounds of the lasers, that his aim had been true. A few seconds later, he got his confirmation when the dot on the scanner winked out.

  He’d gotten two, and Talon had two kills as well. That was four of the bombers, four plasma torpedoes that wouldn’t rip into Dauntless’s hull. Four deadly weapons that wouldn’t endanger the people he cared about.


  “Let’s get back, Talon. We’re out in front of the other bombers. No way we can come around and target them with the fuel we’ve got left.”

  “Roger that, Raptor. And good shooting.”

  “Right back at you, Talon. Damned good shooting. Now let’s just hope we can manage to land these things!”

  Chapter Thirteen

  CFS Dauntless

  Corpus System

  En Route to Arcturon

  308 AC

  “Damage control, report.” Barron was leaning over the comm unit. Dauntless had shaken hard when the plasma torpedo struck, but he’d been watching as it came in, tracking its trajectory, and he doubted anything critical had been hit.

  “We lost a couple cargo bays, sir. Mostly empty. Nothing vital. All things considered, we got off light.” The lack of concern in Fritz’s voice reinforced the superficial nature of the damage.

  “Very well, Fritzie. That’s good news.” For a change, he thought, but didn’t say.

  “Yes, sir.”

  He turned toward Travis’s station, but before he could say anything, she beat him to it.

  “Captain, the enemy vessel is decelerating. Hard.”

  “Thrust vector?”

  “Directly back toward the transwarp link, sir. If I had to guess, I’d say they’ve evaluated the failure of their bombing strike, and they’re heading back the way they came.”

  “But they’ve still got fighters still out there. They’re just going to abandon them?” Barron felt revulsion at the idea of the enemy leaving their surviving pilots behind, but it was followed up by a dose of hypocrisy. Confederation doctrine was not all that different in such matters, and a capital ship captain knew his primary duty was to safeguard his vessel, not to risk a battleship to recover a few fighters. The enemy ship faced a larger enemy, one with a nearly full strength fighter wing to face their own badly depleted squadrons.

  He shook his head, scolding himself for not expecting the enemy to flee. Dauntless outmatched its foe. Barron could launch his own bombing strike, and then close on a crippled enemy to finish the job. Running was the smart play. But it had still caught him by surprise.