Call to Arms: Blood on the Stars II

by Jay Allan

  Not that nervousness was particularly troublesome over the full-blown fear and the soul-crushing exhaustion that were also wearing on him. He’d known the mission would push him to the limits of his endurance, and it had done just that. If the fleet wasn’t in Mellas, he almost welcomed the frozen death that awaited him there. Anything except more hours in the confines of this fighter, waiting for the enemy, for another malfunction, for the last shreds of his sanity to desert him.

  He felt the urge to reach out and grab the controls, to alter his vector, to conduct the kind of evasive maneuvers that had kept him alive in all his battles. But his instincts were pointless. With no fuel, there would be no maneuvers. He was on a straight line, and that made him an easy target.

  He glanced at the display. His pursuer was still accelerating, and every passing second closed not only the distance but the rate at which he was being overtaken. He didn’t have a lot of respect for Union pilots, but something told him this one was different. And that meant he was in trouble.

  He waited—what else could he do? His eyes were fixed on his controls, waiting for his scanners to report the first shots from his enemy’s laser cannon. If he was indeed facing a skilled pilot, it wouldn’t take many shots before his adversary finished him off.

  He wondered if he’d spent his last fuel well, if perhaps he should have broken his vector. But that didn’t make any sense. He’d still have been trapped, and his pursuer would have run him down anyway. He’d taken a gamble, one he still knew had been the right choice, but his luck had failed him for once, and put a truly skilled Union pilot on his tail.

  So close…I made it so close…

  * * *

  Lefebrve’s eyes were tightly focused. Her target hadn’t changed velocity, hadn’t accelerated or decelerated. It hadn’t changed its vector at all. She understood…he was clearly heading for the transwarp link. But why not pour on more thrust? The Lightning could out-accelerate her for sure, but instead it was just moving forward with its velocity unchanged.

  Her mind raced, but she could only come up with two options. The fighter was out of fuel…or the whole thing was some kind of trap. She tried to think it through, even as she closed the distance.

  Why would they want to set up a trap for a single fighter?

  To capture me? To try to get intel? But how? They’d have to get me through the link…and I’m going to blast this fighter before it transits.

  Perhaps the pilot in front of her was a rookie, one who had no idea what he was doing.

  But what would a raw pilot be doing out here all by himself?

  She was edgy, but she wasn’t going to let it interfere with her kill. She’d gotten a fighter shot out from under her in the battle at Arcturon, and her bruised ego had been burning for revenge ever since.

  She opened her palm, moving her fingers, stretching her hand. Then she closed her grip on the throttle and brought her index finger to the firing stud. She was almost in range.

  The targeting was simple. Her enemy’s course was absolutely predictable. She had him.

  Her finger closed slowly…and then her target moved.

  She was shocked. She’d been just about convinced he was out of fuel. Now her mind raced. Is it a trap?

  She angled her controls, tracking the enemy’s move. It was slow, a minor shift. Almost imperceptible, but enough to make a laser blast miss.

  It wasn’t normal thrust. There was no energy reading on her scanner. If the fighter had engaged its engines, she would have picked up something. But the output was still reading zero.

  She lined up her shot and fired.

  Damn!

  The enemy fighter changed its vector again. And once more, the move was minimal, barely a shift at all. But enough to make her miss.

  This one is good…I can feel it…

  She was watching, looking for any sign her quarry was trying to spin around and take a shot at her. If he really was out of fuel, it was possible his guns were dead too. But she wasn’t about to get careless. She fired again…and missed one more time as her target shifted its vector slightly.

  She was frustrated, the relentless g forces wearing away her focus. But she didn’t let up. The closer she got, the harder it would be for her prey to escape. And she was going to get as close as she had to…

  * * *

  Stockton was dead. He knew it. He had no fuel, no weapons. He’d managed to use his positioning jets to buy a few extra seconds, but they were almost exhausted now too. He was close to the jump point, tantalizingly close. But not close enough. When the jets gave out, his enemy would finish him in seconds. The pilot on his tail was good…and relentless. Stockton felt like he recognized many of his own traits in his opponent.

  I’m sorry, Stara…I’m so sorry…

  He reached down, pawing through his kit, pulling out the small pendant. It had seen him through more than one close call, and now, if its power was exhausted, so be it. But he owed it something, and if he’d come to the end, he’d die with it in his hand.

  He punched at the controls, blasting the positioning jets again. He’d had to keep his moves complimentary, to offset thrust that would push him off his vector with others that restored his heading. It was a level of predictability in his movement, but he’d had to risk it. He didn’t expect to make it to the jump point, but he hadn’t given up yet, not entirely. It wasn’t that he had any real hope…but yielding just wasn’t in his DNA.

  He saw the energy spike on his scanners, another shot from his enemy going wide. Just wide.

  That was too close…

  He shifted one last time, expending the last of the compressed air that powered his positioning jets. The move put him exactly back on his initial heading, toward the transit point. It was only a few minutes ahead of him, but that might as well have been years. He was out of tricks, and his enemy was right behind him.

  Then he saw…something. Directly ahead, coming through the transwarp from Mellas. Then, suddenly, it was there, right in front of him. A Confederation cruiser, blasting out from the jump point.

  It was help, reinforcements, a vessel with more than enough power to destroy his pursuer. But it was too late. Even a moment earlier would have been on time, but there was no way the pilot on his tail would miss him now, not long enough for the cruiser to intervene.

  He slapped his hand down on the comm unit. “Confederation cruiser, this is Lieutenant Jake Stockton, callsign Raptor. I am carrying vital dispatches for Admiral Winston, and I am being pursued by a Union fighter. I am unarmed and out of fuel.”

  It was hopeless, he knew. They just didn’t have enough time. But he had to try.

  If only I had one last trick I could pull out of my sleeve…

  He sat for an instant, stone still. Maybe there was…but it would take flawless timing. And it would cost him most of his remaining life support.

  Another laser blast ripped by his ship, barely five meters away. There was no choice. He had no time left. It was beyond desperate…but it was all he had.

  * * *

  “Confirmed, Commander. That’s a Confederation Lightning, and his callsign and ID beacon check out.”

  “How the hell did a Confederation fighter get to Turas? It certainly didn’t come from Mellas…we’d know if it did.” Admiral Winston had ordered the Mellas side of the link bracketed with scanner buoys. If a meteor the size of a pebble came through either way, fleet command would have known about it.

  “I don’t know, sir. According to the fleet database, Lieutenant Stockton is assigned to Dauntless.”

  “Dauntless? Yes, she was supposed to link up with the fleet at Arcturon…but that was before the battle there. Could she have possibly survived?” Commander Lars Tarkus sat at his station in the center of Stanford’s bridge. He was shocked to find a Confederation ship in Turas, even a fighter. And what did that pilot mean, “vital dispatches?” Whoever he was, he was coming in from behind enemy lines.

  “I don’t know, sir…but I don’t think Lieut
enant Stockton is going to make it.”

  “We’ll see about that, Lieutenant. All laser batteries…open fire. Take out that Union fighter.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant’s voice was grim. It was clear he believed they were too late.

  “I want 4g thrust, Lieutenant…directly toward those fighters.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Stanford was a light cruiser, a vessel designed for scouting duties and for providing anti-fighter support for battleships of the line. She wasn’t much against an enemy capital ship, but she had a dozen anti-fighter batteries, and now every one of them opened fire.

  “Thrusters engaged, Commander. All gunnery stations active.”

  “Very well. Maintain fire at maximum…I want that fighter destroyed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarkus looked at the screen, at the two fighters displayed in the center. Stockton’s fighter was heading straight for the transwarp point, that much was clear…but he wasn’t conducting any evasive action at all. No velocity changes, no vector adjustments. He was a sitting duck that way. Stanford would get that enemy fighter, he was sure of that. But not in time. Not unless Stockton managed to throw off his pursuer for just a bit longer.

  “C’mon, Raptor,” Tarkus whispered under his breath. “Help us out, give that Union bastard a hard time of it…”

  * * *

  “I have you now…” Lefebrve spoke softly to herself, her eyes unmoving, locked on her prey. She’d guessed her target had been out of fuel, and that he’d used his positioning jets to evade her fire…but now that had stopped.

  He’s used all the compressed gas…now he’s mine…

  She was less than twenty thousand kilometers away, close enough, especially when the target was locked on a fixed course. The fire from the enemy cruiser was becoming bothersome, but they were too late. They were slowing her down some, forcing her to engage in her own evasive maneuvers. If she’d been able to focus on the fighter only, she knew she’d have gotten it by now. But she wasn’t about to give up. She could take out that pilot…before the cruiser got close enough to overwhelm her with its firepower.

  She banked hard, and then again in almost the opposite direction. The cruiser’s fire went wide, missing her by over a hundred kilometers. Lefebrve was adept at executing tight, fast maneuvers, the kind designed to make enemy gunners tear out their hair. After losing her bird in Arcturon, she damned sure wasn’t about to get another one shot out from under her here. No way.

  She lined up her shot—the last one, she expected. It had to be…the cruiser was bearing down on her. She had to break off.

  Her finger tightened, her eyes focused like lasers. But as she fired, the enemy fighter lurched hard, mostly forward, increasing his velocity. It was slight, but enough to throw her shot off. She angled her thrust, dodging a series of shots from the cruiser.

  Damn!

  It was hard for her to let a target go, especially one like this. But the cruiser’s gunners almost had her…and unlike a fighter, the escort ship had multiple turrets, all focused on her. She was stubborn, not suicidal. She might run the cruiser’s guns if she could focus on that alone, but her own course was more or less locked in by her pursuit of the enemy fighter. She could bag her prey…likely at the cost of be her own life.

  She swung her throttle to the side and pulled back hard, blasting at maximum thrust, pulling away from the cruiser’s grasp. She was angry, frustrated…but there would be other battles. It was time to live and fight another day.

  * * *

  Stockton could hear his heart pounding in his ears. His hands were on the throttle, but it was habit, nothing more. His tortured, depleted, half-wrecked fighter had nothing left to give. He’d compromised its final effective status as his lifeboat when he’d expelled the last of his atmosphere to push the craft forward, to throw one final bit of uncertainty toward his pursuer.

  He took a breath, a shallow one. The only thing standing between him and instant death was his survival suit, and the meager amount of oxygen it carried. If he was careful, if he didn’t exert himself, it might last half an hour, perhaps forty minutes. But that didn’t matter, not to the mission, at least. As long as he got through the transwarp link, his message would be safe. The appearance of the Confederation cruiser was pretty strong evidence there were friendly forces in Mellas, even if it wasn’t the whole fleet. The intelligence he’d carried so far would find its way to Admiral Winston. As long as he made it through the portal. With luck, he’d survive, but if he died, at least it wouldn’t be in vain.

  He glanced at his display, watching as the cruiser closed hard on the Union fighter. His would-be killer was clearly a skilled pilot, far beyond most of those in the Union wings…so much so he wondered how he would have fared in straight up fight, fully fueled and armed. For an instant, he thought his enemy was going to stay on his tail, despite the growing threat from the cruiser. But then he saw the icon shift slightly, pulling away, and he knew he’d made it.

  He felt a wave of relief, the expectation that the laser blast that killed him would come any second fading away. But it was tempered by the realization that his situation remained desperate, that he could still die in the cockpit of his battered fighter.

  He stared for a few seconds, watching his opponent blast her thrusters and flee from the cruiser. He couldn’t help but respect a pilot of such ability, especially in a service that didn’t produce many aces. He tried to imagine how someone of such ability could serve a monstrosity like the Union, though he knew his perspective as a Confederation citizen, even one who’d had a difficult childhood, made it impossible to imagine what life was like for that pilot. For all the helpless billions subject to the Union’s brutal rule.

  Whatever motivation drove his foe, he was grateful his comrades didn’t have to face many adversaries like this one who’d come so close to finishing him. He was still thinking about it when his fighter slipped into the transwarp link…and out of the Turas system.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Interplanetary Space

  Varus System

  308 AC

  Timmons brought his fighter around, lining up for another run across the confused enemy formation. His Red Eagles had smashed into the Union squadrons with unparalleled fury. The Blues were their rivals, or at least their respective commanders were, but they were allies too. They all had the same foe, and that enemy was before them. The savage attack had not only shaken the Union formation, it had renewed the energy of the Blues, who pounded away at every enemy fighter in their own paths, gunning them down one after another. Still, the enemy had heavily outnumbered the Confederation squadrons, and for all the desperate brutality of the onslaught, the battle continued.

  The Union forces were breaking, falling back, but that only increased the bloodthirsty rage of the Blues and the Red Eagles. Too many of their comrades had died this day, and too many in the battles of the past months. They were determined to have their vengeance, whatever the cost…and they swept through the disordered enemy ranks, shooting, killing.

  Timmons jerked his throttle hard—too hard, and he grunted as pain shot through his chest. He released the control and then pulled back, his motion slightly more controlled, increasing his thrust. He was going to cut through the densest part of the enemy formation, guns blazing the whole way. He knew his fuel status was becoming a problem, but he wasn’t even going to consider that, not until the enemy was in wholesale flight.

  He pressed down hard, firing his lasers again and again. One enemy ship erupted in flame, vanishing from his screen. The next fighter in his path took a hit far back in its fuselage, flaming out its engines, but giving the pilot enough time to eject.

  Two more…

  He angled the throttle, pushing his vector out to the side, lining up one last target before he had to decelerate and turn about. He fired, and missed. Then again. Another miss.

  Fuck…

  He pulled hard on the throttle, increasing his thrust, gaspin
g for air as the relentless g forces pounded against his sore chest. The pain increased with every second, so much so he thought he’d rebroken the rib, but he didn’t slack off, not for a second. He wasn’t going to let that enemy fighter escape. Any enemy he allowed to flee was just another one who could refit and return to kill one of his comrades.

  He shoved the stick as far to the right as he could, the thrust changing his vector slowly, steadily. Then the enemy moved back onto his targeting screen. He waited, watching, his finger poised over the firing stud. He pressed it tightly, discharging the five hundred megawatt fury of his quad lasers. The enemy fighter winked off his screen, another kill.

  “Yes!”

  He looked back at the display, searching for another target. But the enemy fighters had broken off, barely a third of their number fleeing for their mother ship. Timmons felt the urge to pursue, but he held back. He didn’t have the fuel, and he doubted any of his fellows did.

  His comm crackled to life “They’re running, Warrior. Let’s finish them off.”

  “Negative, Typhoon. I feel the same way, but fuel status says no way. We’ve still got to hit that mother ship, not to mention the station. Dauntless and Intrepid need us, and we can’t end up ditching because we ran out of fuel on the way back.” And Raptor and I don’t get along, but it’s still on me to bring his people home…

  “Damn…you’re right, Warrior. Hell of a shame.”

  “Yeah, Typhoon…hell of shame.” Timmons shook his head, unaccustomed to feeling like the cool, rational one. He flipped his comm to the universal channel. “Okay, boys and girls…let’s head back to base.”

  * * *