by Jay Allan
Almost a thousand men and women. Though she doubted more than half of them had been alive by the end. She almost checked Viribus’s casualty reports, but she stopped herself. There was no point.
She felt the shaking all around her, as a series of hits slammed into her ship. Viribus was dying, there was no question of that. She felt herself giving in to despair. Her gambit wasn’t working. There was some iron inside whoever she was up against. Tempestas continued its reverse thrust, but the rest of the Red fleet continued its relentless attacks against her other ships…and Tulus’s. She’d taken her gambit, done all she could think of to buy time for some of her people to escape. Now, the bitter taste of failure closed in on her.
She struggled to maintain her focus, to do her duty to the end, but she couldn’t keep other thoughts away. Torba, her children. Had her childhood friend succeeded in his mission, had he done better than she had here? Were her children safe? Or were they prisoners, the captured offspring of a soon-to-be-dead traitor?
She thought of the last time she’d seen them—my God, was that more than a year ago? She loved her children, as thoroughly and deeply as any parent could, but she was a Palatian Patrician. A mother’s love, her touch, her attention…all of that was subordinate to passing them the family honor, intact. She’d fought for Palatia, of course, but also for Ila and Tia, to bequeath them a stronger Alliance. Now, that was all gone. Whatever happened in the war, things would never be the same. I am so sorry, Ila, Tia…for so many things. I strove to bequeath you a better future, yet all there is now is ruin.
“Commander!”
She heard the voice. Sasca’s. It was coming from far away…no, not far. She was on the bridge, the pressure still intense. Viribus’s engines were still blasting at full. The compartment was a shambles, half her people dead or wounded, entire sections of wall and ceiling caved in. But the engines were still firing. Somehow, though her flagship was little more than a ruin, it pushed relentlessly forward, directly toward the enemy.
“Commander…”
“Yes, Ilius?” She turned her head as far as she could manage under the pressure.
“The display. Look at the display.”
She swung her head around, almost out of strength to combat the crushing g force. But, as her eyes came around, she saw it…and a new burst of energy filled her aching limbs. Ships. Red ships. Firing at full thrust, changing their vectors. Heading for Viribus.
It was death, more certain and final than even that which stalked her ship already. But in that annihilation lay the seeds of hope. Hope that her death, and the death of her crew, would not be in vain. The ships coming for her were breaking off from her three farthest battleships. Those vessels still faced a fight to the transit point, there was no question about that. But they had a chance now…and that was all she could give them.
She had done what she had set out to do, given her people the diversion they needed. Go, my warriors, escape this trap. Live to fight again, and bring with you to Imperator Vennius what strength I could send him…and my fealty, even beyond death.
Viribus shook again. There were shouts from around her. Sasca fell hard out of his chair, and she could see burns across the side of his face and body. She pushed forward against the g forces, struggling to rise, to rush to her friend. But then she realized it was too late. He was dead.
She felt pain, but it was muted, hazy. They were all finished, and Sasca had gone quickly, without suffering. Fare thee well, Ilius Sasca, my friend. I will be with you in a moment…
Her eyes checked the display again, as a sudden doubt took her, a worry that all she had seen had been hallucination. But the Red ships were still pulling away from her people. Half the Red fleet was converging on Viribus. Her planned had worked.
She smiled, her eyes locking on the small circle that was Tempestas. You blinked, she thought, as a manic laugh escaped from her lips. You blinked.
Viribus shook again, almost throwing her from her chair. The force of the engine thrust lessened immediately, and a few seconds later it vanished entirely, replaced by the relief of free fall.
She looked around the bridge, her eyes moving from one station to another. Most of her people were down, the others sitting silently at their stations, waiting for the end. Her ship was dying. Viribus would never make it to Tempestas. She would never ram her enemy. But the noble vessel had done what she had to, endured long enough to give the rest of her people a chance.
A quick look at one of the few functioning screens told her all she needed to know. There was hardly an operational system on her ship, not a gun hot enough to heat a bowl of soup nor a power plant capable of energizing it. There was nothing to do now but wait for the end.
She glanced around the bridge one more time as the ship shuddered with yet another hit. She exchanged glances with her surviving officers, silent farewells. Then she leaned back and closed her eyes.
They were there, her children, sitting at the big table behind the family manor. They were happy, animated, enjoying one of her far too infrequent visits home.
She felt the shaking again, heard the sounds of distant explosions. She had moments left to live, perhaps only seconds.
She would spend them with the children…
Chapter Fifteen
CFS Dauntless
Tarantum System
Near the Porea Transit Point
Year 311 AC
“That last hit was bad, sir. I think we can get the fires under control, but we’ll have to cut oxygen to a dozen compartments to do it. That’s going to cost us the port batteries…for at least a few hours.”
“Just do what you need to do, Fritzie. How about the bays? Can we get any of Federov’s Reds launched?”
“Doubtful, sir. Honestly, I don’t even know if we’ve got fighters down there or slagged wreckage. Both bays were hit hard, and we’re not getting a response from Beta flight control. It’s probably just a cut comm line, but…” A pause. “I’ll do what I can, Commodore, but I’ve got to focus on the main structure first. If we don’t protect the reactors, we’ll be in a world of hurt.”
“Do it, Fritzie.” But we’re already in a world of hurt. Barron was watching the next wave of bombers coming in, toward Dauntless, but perhaps even more ominously, right at Illustrious.
He felt a wave of helplessness. Dauntless was damaged, and Fritz and her people had their hands full…but at least the ship had something close to full thrust, and some of its weapons were still operational. From what he could see, Reardon’s ship had no engine power at all, and a deeper review of the data coming in suggested Illustrious had only a couple guns still capable of firing…if they had the power to fire any at all.
“Activate the positioning jets, Commander. Spin us around. Bring the starboard batteries to bear.”
“Yes, sir.” The order took longer to execute than usual, likely the result of comm lags and damage to the realignment thrusters themselves, but finally, Barron felt the lateral force of the compressed air jets swinging his ship around. A few seconds later, the force reversed, and Dauntless’s facing had flipped. The need to keep the ship’s starboard to the enemy would restrict his evasive maneuvers, limiting options mostly to deceleration rather than acceleration. But the exchange was worthwhile to bring the fresh starboard defensive batteries into play.
Barron glanced back at the display. Illustrious’s course was unchanged, and there were no signs any of her guns were powered up.
Damn.
“Atara, plot us a course toward Illustrious.” Barron’s recent series of orders had been those of a captain, seeking to get his ship through the fight. But now, his commodore’s stars were weighing heavily on his shoulders. He couldn’t focus on Dauntless and ignore his other ship’s struggle for survival. Illustrious was in trouble, real trouble. Barron knew there wasn’t much he could do, but what there was, he intended to try.
“That will degrade our field of fire from the starboard guns, sir.”
“I know…” Bar
ron’s voice was raw as he responded. “But they’re not going to make it if we don’t do something.” He’d said it out loud, the fear that had been gnawing at him since the first bomber attack had slammed into Illustrious. Barron had been a commodore for more than six months now, and in that time, he’d become slightly more accustomed to the realities of flag rank. But he’d never lost a ship under his command, and now the thought was stark, real. It terrified him.
“Understood, sir.” Travis looked across the bridge for a few seconds, the expression on her face one Barron knew well, the one that told him she knew exactly what he was feeling. He didn’t know how he was going to manage when she got her own command. With any luck, she’d end up commanding Dauntless under him…but even then, he knew he’d have to transfer the flag. There was no way Travis could act as captain if he was still aboard Dauntless. If he was stationed on the ship as fleet commander, everyone would look to him. There was no way—no way—a ship’s captain could function effectively in that situation.
Barron felt the thrust kick in again, and one glance at the display told him Travis’s angle of approach kept half Dauntless’s starboard broadside facing the approaching bombers, while heading almost directly toward Illustrious.
“Nicely done,” he said, grinning. Then: “Get me Captain Reardon.”
“Yes, sir.” A moment later. “Sir, Captain Reardon has been wounded. Commander Hachet is in command.”
“Commander,” he said into his headset.
“Yes, Commodore?” There was shouting in the background, a cacophony of voices.
“We’re heading for your position. You’ve got bombers inbound. What is the status of your defensive batteries?”
“We’re trying to get one of the reactors restarted, Commodore. We’ve got two squadrons ready to launch, assuming we can get power.” A short pause. “What’s left of two squadrons.” The officer hesitated again…clearly there were people on the bridge shouting to him. “The defensive batteries are mostly operable, sir. The reactor and the transmission lines are the problem.”
“Whatever it takes, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.” Barron could hear the tension in Hachet’s voice. He tried to place Illustrious’s second in command…until he realized Hachet was third. Commander Jorvis must be wounded too. Or worse.
Hachet was a well-regarded officer, but he’d spent most of his career behind a desk. Barron didn’t like the proportion of previously non-combat officers among the crews of his new ships, but then he understood well enough the losses the navy had suffered. It was easier to build ships than the men and women to run them.
“I can hear the chaos on your bridge. She’s your ship, Commander. You need to take control.” Barron wished he could be on Illustrious’s bridge, even for a moment. “Whatever state that reactor is in, you’ve got to do the restart now.”
“But, sir…the engineer…”
“I don’t give a damn about the blasted engineer, Commander. You’re Illustrious’s captain. You’ve got bombers incoming, and if you can’t put up a defense, that ship is as good as lost. Do you understand?” Barron’s words were hard, firm. He knew it was a delicate balance, shocking the inexperienced commander into doing what the moment required…without driving him over the edge.
“Yes, sir.” Barron could hear Hachet barking out orders. The voices died down in a few seconds, as the officer took control. “Restarting reactor in thirty seconds, Commodore.”
Barron allowed himself a little smile at the strength he heard growing in Hachet’s voice. He was used to managing subordinates on the ship with him, not officers thousands of kilometers away, commanding their own vessels. It had been a difficult transition for him, but he felt good about how he’d handled Hachet. “See to it, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron cut the line. “All right, Atara…we’ve got our own flight of bombers coming in, and our fighter cover is all but stripped away. We need to be ready. Report from the bays?”
“Six Red squadron ships ready to launch, sir. Fully armed and refueled.”
Barron’s eyes turned toward the display. Dauntless had eighteen bombers inbound. His fighter cover might have been pulled away, but the attack force seemed to have lost whatever escorts it had originally had as well. “Launch,” he said, staring at the approaching phalanx of bombers. He smiled, knowing six of Federov’s Reds, fresh and armed with missiles, would take one hell of a bite out of the unescorted attackers.
Maybe even enough…
He looked back toward Illustrious. He was worried enough about Dauntless, but he could feel the fear for his other ship growing in his gut. It was alleviated, slightly, a moment later when Travis said, “Commodore, Illustrious reports a successful reactor restart. They’ve got thirty percent thrust and they’re powering up their defensive laser grid.”
Barron let out a breath. Illustrious was still in trouble, but at least she wasn’t completely helpless.
He watched on the screen as the six fighters, all his ship had left to throw at the incoming attack craft, shook down into formation and blasted off, accelerating directly toward the bombers.
“Power up our defense grid, Commander. I want all batteries to open fire the instant those bombers come into range…”
* * *
Stockton’s eyes were locked on his display, watching the Alliance pilot closing on Warrior. The last assault, the one that had damaged Timmons’s ship, had taken his attacker on a wider arc, buying a few extra seconds, time that would have been precious…if Warrior’s fighter weren’t shot up, capable of producing less than half its normal thrust. Now, it was just a matter of time. And not much of it, Stockton realized, as he watched the enemy ship blasting at full, modifying its vector right back toward the wounded Confederation fighter.
Stockton was coming on hard, his hand tight around the controls, as if force of grip would somehow coax more thrust from his straining engines. The g forces slamming against him were brutal, almost unbearable. His reactor somehow stayed online, operating on a wild overload, producing far more power than it had been designed to generate.
He fired twice, feeling a slight lessening of the force as energy from the reactor diverted to recharge the laser cannon. He was still too far out—a hit at this range would be akin to a lightning strike—but it was all he could do, so he did it. He knew from his own experience that being fired upon was a distraction, whatever the likelihood of being hit. It was all he could do, so he did it.
He stared at the screen as the Alliance ace came around, the fighter’s vector almost perfectly aligned with Timmons’s. Its guns were silent…but Stockton knew that would change any second. Timmons was trying to evade, but with one of his engines gone, he was at a massive disadvantage.
Stockton knew a pilot of Warrior’s skill and ability might very well defeat an enemy of normal skill, despite the handicap of a wounded fighter. But this was no normal pilot. Timmons was a cripple, hunted by a sleek, deadly predator.
And I’m going to be too late…
The frustration was almost unbearable. He fidgeted around in the cockpit, despite the great pressure pushing down on him. He swore under his breath…and he kept firing, angling his ship slightly, trying to nudge the laser blasts closer to his enemy.
He watched as the Alliance pilot closed on Timmons…and opened fire. Close! But Timmons managed an evasive maneuver, his ship jerking to the side, avoiding the series of blasts by perhaps three hundred meters.
Stockton felt a jolt of elation at the maneuver…a brilliant move, and one that reminded him why Timmons had long been his rival. But the enemy was still on Warrior’s tail, still firing. And the shots were getting closer.
He fired again, helplessly. He needed two minutes, maybe three. Then he’d be close enough to truly engage the enemy, to save Timmons.
But he wasn’t going to get two minutes…
* * *
Grachus’s eyes were cold, fixed, staring straight ahead. The fight had been a difficult
one, her adversary highly skilled. If she hadn’t put the tracer on her earlier opponent, she’d have wondered for a moment if this was him. But her instincts told her what the scanner lock confirmed. It was a different enemy.
This pilot was good, one of the very best she’d ever faced—perhaps the second best.
There had been something about that other enemy, a feeling she hadn’t been able to place. He was good, certainly, and dangerous, but there was more there, a sensation she’d never had in any of her battles. That pilot reminded her of…herself. It was a strange sensation, an odd thought to grasp, but on some level, she’d felt like she was fighting herself. Whatever made her the pilot she was, put her above so many of her comrades, that Confed pilot had it too. She’d thought about that encounter many times since it had happened, and the emotions she felt were strange, unsettling.
That pilot can defeat me.
It was hard for her to accept such a thought. She knew she could be overcome by multiple attackers, by a systems failure on her ship, by a dozen of other mishaps. The realization that death could find her on the battlefield was nothing new. But only now did she understand how deeply she’d believed she could best any foe in one-on-one combat. And how much her overall confidence drew strength from that sense of being the best.
The thought of a rival out there, a pilot who could match her head to head…it was deeply unsettling.
She gripped the firing control tightly, her stare fixed on the target. There was no time to think of other battles and future matchups. It wasn’t the way she conducted herself. But since that fateful battle, she’d been unable to keep the thoughts from intruding on her, even pushing in on her focus and concentration.
She fired, feeling satisfaction as the sound of the lasers reverberated around her cockpit…and then frustration as she saw that her opponent had…barely…managed to evade her shot again. She’d thought that was the shot, that she’d finally run her target down. But the Confed ship was still there, evading wildly, using its limited thrust to full effect.