by Jay Allan
“Of course, Your Supremacy,” Egilius replied.
Vennius watched as the screens illuminated, a black and white static pattern appearing at first, and then a slow creep of color, in vibrating patterns. But first, the comm came to life, recovering from the disorientation of translight travel before the display showed clear readings.
“Bellator, this is Dauntless. Welcome to Palatia.”
Vennius closed his eyes, exhaling the breath he hadn’t even realized he was holding. The flight from Sentinel-2 had been a tense one, his forces barely ahead of the pursuing Reds. Reaching Palatia first, sticking to the desperate plan he and Barron had conceived, had forced him to make some painful choices. Leaving Sentinel-2 and its volunteer crew behind, almost certainly to their deaths. Abandoning three of his battleships during the chase, vessels with damage that made it impossible for them to stay ahead of the enemy. Each of those three ships had fought to the finish, hopeless battles against the entire Red fleet…and all three had done so still within scanner range of Bellator. Vennius had watched his people die, fighting for his cause to the last. He’d almost failed in his resolve, the order to turn about and fight it out with Calavius hanging in his throat for a moment. But he knew his duty. Thousands of his people had already died. The Imperatrix had died. If he failed, all that would have been for nothing. He drew strength from that realization, and he watched wordlessly, almost soundlessly, as those three ships died.
They’d served a last purpose, holding back portions of the enemy fleet, buying time for Vennius’s forces to escape. He wasn’t sure if that had been the difference, if those ships’ deaths had saved the rest of the fleet, but he chose to believe it. He had never been prone to such self-indulgent thoughts before, but right now he needed something.
“Dauntless, this is…” Egilius began to respond. It was a breach of protocol for an Imperator to answer an initial contact, but Vennius didn’t care. More than pointless etiquette and formality would be cast aside before this fight was done.
“This is Imperator Vennius. I must speak with Commodore Barron.”
“Barron here.” The response was almost immediate, at least after calculating for the distance involved.
“Commodore, we don’t have the time we’d hoped for. The Red fleet is as little as one hour behind my force.”
Vennius could hear Barron’s voice in the background, shouting out orders to bring the fleet to battlestations. “We’ll be ready, sir.”
“Tyler…was your mission a success?”
“Yes.” A short pause. “The enemy left only a token fleet behind, and we were able to destroy it, along with the orbital defenses.” Another hesitation, and then Barron continued, his voice more subdued. “We were also able to take all primary ground targets and hold them. But the cost…” His voice tailed off. The casualties didn’t matter, not now. Vennius knew it pained Barron to lose people, but he also knew, if the Confed leader been certain only one Marine would have survived to hold the vital installations, he’d have sent his people in anyway. As Vennius himself would have done.
“We’ve got to be ready. I’ll bring my ships in closer to the planet. There’s no way we’re going to set up a transit point defense. Not in the time we’ve got. Better to let them through…and then hope our plan succeeds.”
“I agree completely.” Barron’s voice was tentative. He’s not telling me something…
“I think the transmission will be best done closer to Palatia. If Calavius’s people try to block the signals, the closer we are, the better chance we have of powering through their jamming.”
Silence. Vennius felt a tightness growing in his gut. Something is wrong. He was just about to ask Barron when the commodore finally responded.
“We have a potential problem. The communication nexus was badly damaged during the initial attack. I’ve had my best engineers working on it for the last week, but I’m afraid it’s still non-functional.”
Vennius felt like the air had been sucked from his lungs. Barron had somehow managed to get past the system’s considerable defenses and utilize that surprise to seize control of Palatia’s core installations…only to have the one facility vital to the plan damaged in the battle. There was going to be a fight, here, a bloody one hard fought. But Vennius knew, unless he could communicate with the ships in the system, his forces would lose. They were simply too outnumbered.
He had a speech prepared. He had video of the Imperatrix and him together before she died, evidencing that she hadn’t been killed on Palatia, that the two had been friendly to the end. He had all the evidence he’d been able to put together to refute Calavius’s lies and propaganda…but the main comm nexus was the only broadcast facility powerful enough to burn through jamming efforts and reach every ship. The only one with overrides on all encryption programs and security measures.
* * *
“Fritzie, we need that communications facility back online…and I mean now.” Barron was talking into the small microphone on his headset. He’d only sent Fritz down the day before, and now he was cursing himself for not doing it sooner. She was his most gifted engineer, the most capable he’d ever known. But he hated the idea of her leaving Dauntless on the eve of a potential battle, so much so that it had prevented him from even thinking about sending her…until Atara Travis suggested it.
“Sir, this thing is infernally complicated. It’s a bunch of stolen high tech mixed with complicated lower tech workarounds. I’d wager the Palatians took what they could from conquered planets and made up the rest as they went along. It’s powerful, there’s no doubt about that, but I’ve never seen a more mixed up circuit architecture in my life.”
“Fritzie, I’ve seen you pull Dauntless back from the brink of total destruction. I know you can do this.” He knew that wasn’t a fair comparison. Fritz knew Dauntless like she knew her own body. Every crevice, every crawlspace, every ornery circuit or conduit. But now she was trying to decipher foreign tech and fix it in short order. He knew it was a lot to ask, but he’d asked much of her in the past, and she’d always delivered.
“I’m trying, sir.”
Barron paused a few seconds. “Fritzie…we’ve got the whole Red fleet inbound. We’ll be in battle in ninety minutes, maybe less. We’re outnumbered up here…badly. And I don’t know how much longer Bryan Rogan and his people can hold out down there, especially now that I need to pull their air support and redeploy it against the enemy fleet.” He hesitated again. “You’ve got two hours, Fritzie…maybe. After that it’s going to be too late. So, take whatever chances you need to…but give it your best shot.”
“Yes, Commodore.”
“Get it done, Fritzie. Barron out.”
Barron knew he was asking for something close to impossible…but somehow in his gut, he believed she would pull it off. He wasn’t sure if it was memories of so many times she and her band of engineers had pulled his butt out of the fire before…or just his decision that, with nothing else to do, he would just believe in his people.
C’mon, Fritzie…you can do this.
* * *
Dauntless’s Alpha bay was a madhouse, technicians running around, small utility vehicles carrying away the atmospheric flight attachments as quickly as the flight crews could pull them off. The fleet’s squadrons had been running ground assaults around the clock for a week, holding back the steady but disorganized wave of assaults at the planetary beachheads. But now, the final battle had come, and every fighter was needed to meet the enemy fleet. Back in space, where Dauntless’s pilots were at home.
Jake Stockton sat in his fighter, focusing thoughtfully on each breath he inhaled and exhaled. He was as nervous as he’d ever been—scared shitless, actually—but something stronger was in control of him now, and it would not be deterred, would not be denied.
He’d been a key part of managing the ground attack missions, and he’d been grateful for the distraction, the scant few minutes when his mind had been pulled from the obsession that had ruled him since h
e’d seen his best friend killed before his eyes. But now it was time. He had his duty to Dauntless’s strike force, and he would see to their dispositions, their move forward into battle. When they got there, though, he had one purpose and one alone. He had a date with a single enemy, and he had no doubt that Red pilot would be as focused on him. They had fought multiple times, pushed each other to the limit. But this battle would be different, Stockton swore to himself. Only one of them would leave the battlefield this time.
“Scarlet Eagle squadron, you are cleared to launch from Beta bay. Blue squadron, you are clear to launch from Alpha bay.”
Stockton listened to Stara Sinclair’s voice on the comm, the strength in it, but also the slight crack when she mentioned Blue squadron. It wasn’t much, and he doubted anyone else had picked up on it. But he knew her better than anyone.
He took a deep breath. He’d left her a letter, on the computer, one that would be delivered if he didn’t return. He was ready to face his greatest test, to die if need be…but he still held on to enough of himself to leave her kind words, and a confirmation that he loved her, that he had always loved her. He wasn’t sure if that would help her or hurt her, and he’d thought for a moment it would be more merciful to leave things as they were, to help her get over him. But in the end, he knew what he had to do.
He waited for the indicator light on his board to turn green. Then he said, “All right, Blues. Just one more battle…like a hundred others.” He was in command of Dauntless’s entire strike force now, but he hadn’t given up Blue squadron yet. He knew he’d have to…if he returned. If any of them survived. But that had been too much to contemplate in the days leading up to this final showdown. The Blues were his family, and leaving them, even just to move up a rung in the command ranks, was going to rip his guts out.
“Blue squadron…launch.”
He hit the launch controls, and his body slammed back as the magnetic catapult blasted his ship down the tube at almost 14g. An instant later, the gray metal of the landing bay was replaced by the cold black of space.
He looked down at the scanner, watching as the Blues, followed quickly by the rest of Dauntless’s wings, shook down into formation. There were holes in the OB, gaps in the formation where comrades had once been. Friends. But he knew those who remained would fight, to the death if necessary. The Grays were hopelessly outnumbered—the fight would be a desperate one, and very possibly it would end in defeat. But part of him almost pitied the Alliance pilots who came up against his Blues…and the rest of Dauntless’s strike force. The Reds would pay for any victory today, they would pay dearly.
He looked down at the long-range screen. The Red fleet was launching too, hundreds of fighters forming up, moving forward. He watched the clouds of tiny dots on the scanner, looking, waiting.
He had a date with one of those fighters.
Chapter Forty-Four
Victorum, Alliance Capital
Palatia, Astara II
Year 311 AC
“Get out there, Tommy. You too, Cass. We need every Marine we’ve got left.” Bryan Rogan looked over toward his two aides. They had served him well for the past week, running orders to his various commanders when enemy jamming interfered with the comm, helping him keep the whole, teetering position together for just a little longer. But that was almost over now. The arrival of the Red fleet had energized the forces surrounding his strongholds, and they were throwing themselves against the remains of his defenses with renewed energy, almost with abandon. No doubt some of the fence sitters committing themselves, now that they see Calavius about to return and retake the planet. His two assistants could serve him better now on the line with rifles in their hands than running messages to the few survivors of his force.
“Yes, Colonel,” the two responded almost as one. They snapped to attention and gave him a crisp salute. That wasn’t normal procedure for the battlefield, but he knew it for what it was. A goodbye. They would all be dead by nightfall…or if not, by dawn. His aides knew that as well as he did.
And it’s better for them to die like Marines, fighting…
He clutched his own rifle, fully committed that, when the moment came, he too would go down in combat. He looked over the makeshift barricade, the last defense of the command post, thinking it wouldn’t be long.
He turned toward the small group of engineers on the far side of the room. “Commander Fritz…my perimeter is being overwhelmed at multiple points. I cannot guarantee the safety of your people any longer. Perhaps you should pack up and get back to Dauntless while we can still get your shuttle launched.” Rogan was commanding a full-scale ground operation, but protecting Dauntless’s crew members still struck close to his heart. Fritz and her people were revered by the rest of the battleship’s complement, Marines included. They all knew just how many times her wizardry had saved their lives.
“No, Colonel. We’re here to the end.” Fritz didn’t look up from her work as she spoke. “This is where Commodore Barron needs us the most…where we might be able to make a difference.” A short pause. “If you have any spare side arms, perhaps you can issue them to my people. That way if the enemy gets in here…” She didn’t finish. She didn’t have to.
“Of course, Commander.” Rogan almost argued with her, tried to convince her to go. He’d been watching engineers work on the shattered comm system for a week, though Fritz’s people had only been there since the day before. He’d given up hope that they could repair it, and without it, the battle in the system was just about hopeless.
Rogan actually considered it completely hopeless, as he did his own fight on the ground, which was why he didn’t argue with Fritz. Her people could die here carrying out Barron’s last orders to them, or they could go back and die on the ship. It wasn’t his call to try to influence her decision on that.
Dauntless was a home to Rogan, as he knew it was to Fritz…to virtually every member of her crew. He had only intended to do a two-year rotation as a shipboard Marine, but then Captain Barron took command…and Rogan had been mesmerized, his dedication to his new commander growing almost instantly. He’d stayed on through five years of war, turning down every opportunity for a transfer, despite the fact that he’d almost certainly cost himself at least one step up in rank. Of course, Barron had made up for that too, moving him up to full bird colonel in one fell swoop. Even if he’d only carry the rank for a week.
He found himself wondering if Barron had sent a communique back to the Confederation with a report of the promotion…whether he would be noted on the Corps roles as a dead colonel or captain. He scolded himself for such pointless thoughts, but still, it was there. In the end, he liked to think of himself as someone who wouldn’t care about such things, certainly not here in the middle of the fight of his life…but he was human too…no matter how much a few of his drill instructors had tried to beat it out of him.
He could hear the fighting outside, explosions and gunfire from down the hallway. The enemy was inside the building.
I’m sorry, Commodore…I’m sorry I couldn’t hold things here for you. At least for a while longer…
* * *
“We’ve matched velocity and acceleration with Imperator Vennius’s forces, sir. Project movement into primary battery range in twenty-seven minutes.”
“Very well, Commander.” Barron glanced over at Travis. His steadfast second was at her post, stone-faced as always in battle. Whatever fears, whatever realizations that this was likely their last battle, she kept them well hidden.
He looked at the display, watching as the cluster of transports approached Palatia. Those ships contained every trooper on Vennius’s ships, bound to reinforce Bryan Rogan’s shattered Marines. But they were still at least an hour from the planet, and from the reports he’d been getting, Barron was far from sure his people could hold out that long.
“Fighter squadrons about to engage, sir.” Travis’s report pulled his thoughts from his almost-doomed ground force. The battle in space didn’t loo
k much better, and his fighters were facing a hard battle.
Barron looked at the display. The array of tiny dots was sparser than usual. His wings had suffered badly in the recent campaigns, and he had squadrons at sixty percent strength, seventy. Even a few below fifty. The approaching mass of Red fighters outnumbered the combined Gray force by more than two to one. His people had faced odds like that more than once, but these weren’t Union conscripts this time. They were Alliance warriors, and most of them were veterans.
His eyes were fixed on the five small formations Dauntless had launched. He knew his people would perform well, that they would face whatever came at them and give better than they got. You fool…they’re all your people now, not just Dauntless’s pilots. He knew the mostly green pilots on the other ships would have a hard time standing against their Alliance opponents. Sara Eaton had some of her people from Intrepid with her on Repulse, but the rest of his ships were loaded up with pilots fresh from flight school. They’d been blooded in the battles of the past six months, but they were far from ready to face the best of the Alliance.
“Put me on the main squadron channel, Atara.” His voice was grim. The thought that he’d led his people here, defeated the enemy forces present, gotten past the vaunted Palatian defense grid, and seized every important objective on the ground—only to fall short because the comm nexus they needed so desperately was damaged—it was almost too much to bear. He had no idea if Vennius’s appeal to the Red forces would have worked. Even if they’d succeeded in capturing the nexus intact, there was no assurance the Gray Imperator would have managed to sway enough of his countrymen. But Barron believed he would have, he believed the plan would have worked. Vennius was a hero of his people, a name every warrior knew. He’d been toppled by lies and propaganda, an assault that, for the most part, he’d been unable to counter.