by Jay Allan
His eyes snapped around, fixing on Captain Eaton’s ship on the display. The new battleship out-massed and outgunned Dauntless, and by extension anything either Alliance faction possessed, but she’d been bracketed by three enemy capital ships, and at least half a dozen escorts. She’d held her own, reducing one of the enemy battleships to a lifeless hulk, but the other two were pounding away, and even her immense armor plating could only hold back so much destructive force.
“Adjust course, Commander. Directly for Repulse. Full thrust.”
“Yes, sir.” Travis worked her controls, leaning forward and relaying commands down to engineering. “Course set for Repulse, Commodore.” Then, a few seconds later: “Sir, that course takes us almost directly toward the approaching enemy fighters.”
“I’m aware of that, Commander. But Captain Eaton and her people need some help…and all our squadrons are in a position to intercept the approaching attack force. I doubt many of those bombers will get through.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron glanced over at his first officer, but he didn’t say anything. There was concern in her voice. Barron understood. He understood because he had the same feeling. He felt as though he was letting his cockiness, his overconfidence, loose. But Repulse needed the help, and that was that.
He flipped the controls on his comm, pulling up the point defense gunnery channel. “This is Commodore Barron.” He still felt ridiculous every time he said that. “I need all of you at one hundred percent right now. No, one hundred ten percent. We’ve got bombers inbound, and if the fighters don’t get them all, I’m counting on you to finish the job.”
“We’re here, sir. You can depend on us.” It was Commander Christian, Dauntless’s top gunnery officer. Christian’s responsibilities went far beyond just the small anti-fighter turrets. He ran Dauntless’s primaries and her secondaries—every beam on the ship hot enough to light a candle. Barron let out a small sigh. The defensive weapons were in good hands.
“I know I can, Charles. I always have.”
He cut the connection, and he turned back toward Travis. “Let’s go help Repulse. Full thrust…now!”
* * *
The explosion was silent on the small display, just a flash of light, but it was enough to divert Jake Stockton’s attention from the enemy fighter he was pursuing. It was the second of his Blues he’d lost, it seemed in as many minutes. The first had hurt, but he’d written it off to bad luck. His veteran pilots were well able to handle anything they encountered, at least that was what he’d thought. But now, as he watched the battle unfolding all around, he could see more of his people were in trouble. Riggs had an enemy on his tail, and Beauvais was bracketed by three, coming at him along different vectors.
What the hell is going on here?
He pulled his arm hard to the side, angling his thrust and blasting away from his target. There was nothing Stockton hated more than letting his prey go. Except watching more of his people die.
He felt the g forces slam into him as his engines fired at full power, overwhelming his fighter’s compensators. His eyes were still fixed on the display, and with each passing second, he felt his concern ratchet up.
This lead squadron is…
He didn’t finish the thought. It wasn’t in him to admit, even to himself, that another squadron was as good as his Blues. Or better…
He reached to the side of his head, toggling the squadron-wide channel on the comm. “Heads up, everybody. This squadron running interference for the bombers is good. I mean good. Stay focused…and don’t underestimate them.” He felt strange scolding his people for not taking their enemies seriously enough. There were few pilots in the Confederation service with a reputation for cockiness and bravado to match Stockton’s, though since his accident he’d become more controlled, methodical. The recklessness of his youth had died in the fire on the landing bay and, once he’d learned to adapt to what had happened to him, it had been replaced by cold confidence. Still, he wasn’t able to wrap his head around his Blues having an adversary as good as they were, and he didn’t think any of his pilots were either.
But there they are…
He stared straight ahead, picking out the closest target. He eased his controls to the side, moving to match the enemy fighter’s vector. His hand was tense around the controls, his finger poised over the firing stud. His approach vector was wild, unpredictable, designed to fool his prey. But before he could get a shot, the Alliance ship blasted its own engines, an unexpected maneuver that came close to putting the intended target on Stockton’s blind spot. His hand shifted, almost by instinct, breaking free of his enemy’s move. Barely.
Watch these guys, Raptor…
The next words stalled in his mind, some internal resistance fighting to hold them back. But they were still there. They’re as good as your Blues.
He swung around yet again, moving in on another fighter. His first target had broken free cleanly, and their vectors were near opposites, sending them away from each other at 0.005c. He slammed his throttle back hard, pushing his engines again to one hundred percent output. His fingers squeezed tightly, his dual laser cannon firing at the extent of its range. Stockton liked to close with his opponents, attacking only when he’d seized the advantage of position. But that wasn’t going to happen, not here. These pilots were too good, their own instincts too sharp. There would be no finesse in this battle, only a brutal struggle to the finish.
He fired again, and again as he closed. The ship in front of him jerked around wildly, the pilot altering vector constantly. Stockton’s shots went wide, the target moving even as his fingers closed on the trigger.
C’mon, Raptor…no one flies a fighter like you. It’s part of you, like an arm or a leg…
He felt his body relax, his mind extending out, like the eyes of his craft. His hands loosened on the throttle, but his control remained sharp, tight. He imagined his enemy, considered the moves he’d make in the same situation. He ignored the targeting computer and breathed deeply, slowly.
His hand jerked to the side, then back. He fired with each burst of thrust, almost in rhythm, and his laser bolts closed in on the target, zipping by mere meters from the Alliance ship. He could see—feel—the desperation growing in his enemy, even as his own serenity endured. He was Raptor, death in a fighter, and he’d come to kill.
He fired again. Another miss. Then again. Miss.
His will was iron, and he fought off the frustration and fear. He fired again, and as he did, he saw another Alliance fighter breaking off from an engagement and altering vector to close with him.
Time was running out. He’d never be able to handle two of these enemies. He had to finish his target in time to come about and face the new attacker. Or he’d have to break off. Run. And that was a language “Raptor” Stockton didn’t speak.
“C’mon, you bastard,” he muttered under his breath, even as he struggled to maintain the sense of calm. He fired again. Almost! Then the enemy blasted hard to port, and unexpected move. But Stockton didn’t delay. He didn’t lose a second. Almost faster than his rational mind could follow, he angled his own thrusters, matching the enemy’s maneuver, hanging onto the target’s tail.
His eyes narrowed, and his hand tightened. He could feel his heartbeat, a steady pounding in his ears, even as he drew in regular, focused breaths. He felt his finger moving, almost without conscious thought. The button was smooth plastic, slick now with his own perspiration. It moved, slowly, steadily…until he heard the familiar click, and the sound of the lasers firing.
He was watching the display when the enemy ship vanished. A hit! He’d taken his enemy down. But there was no time to savor victory. The second Alliance ship was coming on hard, almost in firing range.
* * *
Jovi Grachus leaned forward, her shoulders hunched over her fighter’s dashboard.
That ship is Dauntless. I know it. Captain Barron is here.
Grachus’s squadron had landed and rearmed after the
ir first sortie, and now they were escorting a bomber strike force toward an enemy battleship.
Not just any battleship…
Her first instinct had been to go for the Confederation ship because she considered Vennius’s allies to be weak and easily defeated. If they suffered enough losses, they would turn tail, leaving their ally, the pretender Imperator, to his own resources…and near-certain defeat. But then she reviewed the scans in greater detail.
The mass, shape, primary components. All matches.
She had studied Dauntless, reviewed every scan and document the Alliance possessed on the Confederation’s most famous vessel. Now, she was sure. Her greatest enemy was here, and if she could get enough bombers through, she just might taste the vengeance she had craved for four years.
“Dragons, stay tight. We’ve got to get the bombers through.” She felt the danger in her gut. She’d expected her Dragons to obliterate the sole Confederation squadron engaging them, but the fight had been far from one-sided. Her people had the edge, perhaps. Slightly. But this was no normal squadron. She’d been holding back the other wings, keeping them ready to deal with the rest of the approaching Confed force. But now she wasn’t sure what to do. She didn’t command the Fire Hawks and the War Cats, but she didn’t doubt her fellow squadron leaders would do as she asked either. She might be the jumped-up offspring of a disgraced family, but she’d made her bones in the fighter corps, and there were few pilots who refused to heed her advice in battle.
As she approached her chosen target, one of her fighters vanished from her screen. Deserius. Grachus felt as though she had been punched in the gut. He was one of her newer replacements, but he’d been a veteran already when she’d gotten him, and he’d honed his abilities since then. She’d had great hopes for him, but now those were gone. There was no sign of an escape pod, just the empty space where his ship had been, and a small cloud of radiation with elevated, but dropping, energy readings.
She felt a surge of anger, and she focused intently on the ship that had killed him. The pilot was already changing vector, shifting course to pursue another of her people. She could see in the moves, the swiftness and determination…this was no normal pilot.
She watched for a few seconds, her eyes darting all across the enemy formation. No, that is no normal pilot…and I’d bet a fair bit he’s the squadron leader.
Grachus knew well how her death would affect and demoralize her own Dragons, and she suspected it would be the same for the Confed pilots. She was about to send two of her closest pilots after the enemy leader, but she hesitated, watching his wild and unpredictable maneuvers. No, she couldn’t send anyone. This Confed was too good, too capable. She would have to take him down herself.
She eased her controls back, feeding power to her engines. Grachus knew how good she was, but she’d never let pride or arrogance rule her actions, and she wasn’t about to start now. This was a worthy opponent, one who wouldn’t hesitate to vaporize her if she gave him the chance. And it won’t take much of a mistake to get killed by this one…
She reached out to her board, activating the AI. She wanted to know everything she could about this squadron, and particularly about the pilot she was about to engage. She tended to ignore enemy communications in battle, feeling it was a waste of time to obsess over mostly secure encryption. But she knew her ship’s computer was working constantly, trying to decode even the smallest bits of information. And right now, she wanted everything she could get.
Unfortunately, Confederation codes were sophisticated, and her AI had so far gleaned only a single piece of intelligence, one of dubious utility. Still it was something, even if only the name of this formation.
Blue squadron.
All right, Blue Leader…and I’m sure that’s who you are. Let’s do this.
She pulled back hard on the throttle, her body slammed back into her seat as her engines blasted at full.
I’m coming for you, Blue Leader…
Chapter Four
Bridge
CFS Dauntless
Athenae System
Year 311 AC
“Commodore, the dogfight…”
Tyler Barron was already staring at the display, even before Commander Travis’s warning. Dauntless’s fighters were engaged. And they were taking heavy losses.
Barron hadn’t seen his people struggle so badly against a force that didn’t outnumber them, not since…
Santis.
But at Santis his forces faced the elite of the Alliance, their flagship and the pick of their squadrons. This was just a raid against an enemy supply convoy.
Or is it? The whole thing had started to feel almost like a trap. Don’t underestimate this enemy…
Dauntless shook hard, a lucky long-ranged shot from the approaching enemy line. Barron had ordered his ship to join Repulse, and the enemy had responded by sending another two battleships forward. Dauntless’s primaries had riddled one of the ships, and it had fallen behind, now unable to match its companion’s acceleration. But the second vessel was entering its own firing range, and it was clear the ship’s gunners knew their craft.
He checked the damage report, though he was so attuned to his ship he could almost tell by the way she lurched from the hit. Some external damage, one secondary battery disabled. Nothing too bad. Nothing Fritzie can’t handle.
He looked up at the small chromometer next to the main display. The countdown clock read 64. Just over a minute until the ship’s fearsome primary batteries would be charged and ready to fire again. Barron had gotten used to his gunners blowing away targeting norms and raking enemy vessels with deadly effectiveness, even at the longest ranges. But the Alliance crews’ evasive maneuvers were far better than those of the Union, and he was still adapting his expectations to the realities of this enemy. His people were going to miss more, and he couldn’t count on one marksmanlike shot after another pulling him out of trouble.
He looked back toward the 3D display that dominated the center of the bridge. Kyle Jamison had brought up the rest of Dauntless’s squadrons, but the enemy had also thrown reserves into the fight. He watched, silently, his eyes moving back toward the cluster of enemy bombers coming up right behind the fighter battle. He’d been confident that none of the attackers would make it through his fighter screen…but now doubt began to creep in from the edges of his mind.
Maybe he could reinforce his squadrons. He looked all around the long-range display, searching for fighters he could redirect to join the fight. The Alliance wings were all too far away, most of them deeply engaged in their own dogfights or executing strafing runs on the Red battleline. Repulse had sent half of her own birds to the far flank of the line. That was almost an hour’s flying time to adjust their vectors and return…and by then they’d be almost out of fuel. The other half of Captain Eaton’s fighters had just landed, their tanks and power banks empty. She might get a dozen ships out in twenty minutes or so, but that would still be too few and too late. For better or worse, Dauntless’s pilots were on their own.
He pushed back against the growing doubts. His squadrons would do the job. And if they didn’t completely turn back the enemy bombers, Commander Christian and his gunners would be ready. But despite his efforts, he felt edgy. Fighting off a bomber attack while engaged with enemy battleships was difficult, one of the situations the “book” warned about. Fire control would become a nightmare and, in the end, he would face a choice: slack off against the enemy battleships or mount a hampered defense against the bombers. It was bad either way, and he hoped to avoid the need to make the decision.
But as his eyes moved back and forth, he could feel the truth in his stomach. At least some of those bombers were going to get through. And all he could do was inflict as much damage as possible on the enemy battleships before they did.
The countdown clock was in single digits. Five, four, three…
He watched intently, and even as the numeral ‘1’ was blinking out, his mouth was pressed against his comm unit,
and a single word was forming, his tone grim, determined.
“Fire.”
* * *
Watch your ass, Raptor, or you’re going to get it blown off…
Stockton could feel the sweat on his arms, his back. His heart was pounding, so hard he’d have sworn he could hear each thunderous beat.
He’d seen the enemy fighter approaching, and he knew the pilot had targeted him. He’d had more than enough time to prepare, and he’d been ready to teach the Alliance flyer what it meant to come after “Raptor” Stockton.
But he’d gotten the lesson instead…and almost a lot more. He could still feel the shiver between his shoulder blades. The laser bolt had been close, too close. He suspected when he got back to Dauntless, he’d see the scar on the side of his ship. And he’d know just how close he’d come to his last mission.
If I make it back…
He was still in a fight, and a damned nasty one. He’d been sure he had his target, but the Alliance bird had pulled off a series of maneuvers he’d never seen before. One second, the ship was in his sights, seconds from destruction. Then, suddenly, he was watching a wild sequence of turns and unpredictable bursts of thrust that ended with him as the prey.
His arm moved to the port, then starboard, then port again, in his own series of bizarre moves. He couldn’t take anything for granted, not with this enemy. Part of him respected an adversary of such ability, but mostly he felt apprehension, tension…fear.
He was coming around, moving away from his opponent. He was going to swing back from a distance, and close at full speed. His enemy was in pursuit, no doubt convinced he was running. That gnawed at him, not the least because part of him wanted to run. Stockton didn’t flee from battles, and he knew he’d fight this one to the end, but that didn’t stop the visions from creeping in, moments with Stara, good times with Kyle Jamison in the officers’ club. The reckless bravery of his youth was long gone, and now his courage carried baggage—a full recognition of all he had, all he would lose, the day his skills failed him for just an instant.