Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  She knew the fighters were a bit sluggish for the pinpoint maneuvers needed for anti-missile ops. Normally, a fighter wing on point defense duty would have empty bomb bays, but her birds had two plasma torpedoes each, weapons she intended to use against the enemy ships as soon as the missiles were gone. Her ships would be low on fuel by then. Normally, they would return to their base ship to refuel and rearm with torpedoes, but there was no time. They could never get back, land, and rearm. Not before the Leviathans reached the flagship.

  Midway needed every edge it could get in this fight, and she was damned sure of one thing. The fighters would do their part. And more.

  Chapter Fifteen

  AS Saratoga

  System X108

  The Fleet: 88 ships (+2 Leviathans), 20988 crew

  “Launch all fighters.” West’s voice was grim, cold. She stared out at the main screen as she barked the command. It had been two months since her people had fought the First Imperium’s warships, but that respite had been all too brief. Admiral Compton and the rearguard had managed to buy the fleet time to reach Shangri la…but little more than that.

  Another few days, and maybe we’d have found something useful there. Maybe…

  The fleet coming through the warp gate was a large one, spearheaded by a line of Leviathans. She’d watched the scanners intently as the enemy vessels transited in, counting tonnage, guns…figuring tactics. And waiting to see if the enemy had any Colossuses. The massive enemy superbattleships were unimaginable engines of destruction that outgunned and outranged anything she had. But there were none, at least not yet. The enemy fleet was strong, but not invincible. Her people could take it. Maybe. Just. But it would cost. And that would start with the fighters.

  What is left of them…

  Admiral Hurley had gone with Compton, taking three squadrons of the fleet’s best, and Mariko Fujin was still in sickbay in a coma. That left Beverly Jones and 38 ships, more than a few of them damaged and hastily patched back together…all that remained of the fleet’s once mighty fighter corps. The pilots and crews of those birds had done so much—and paid such a price—even an officer as cold blooded as West wished she could spare them this fight. But she couldn’t. She needed everything she could get.

  She felt anger inside, at herself. At her recklessness. It was her aggressive approach, her failure to foresee that those who built Shangri la were the Regent’s enemies, that had cost the fleet much of its remaining firepower. Four Leviathans, half the strength she’d had, lost in a few seconds.

  I could use those ships now…

  She flipped her com unit to the direct line to Saratoga’s bridge. “Davis, I’m going to have to be aggressive with Saratoga. It’s too much of our remaining firepower to hold back and play flagship.” A pause. “I need your best, from you…and from every man and woman on Saratoga’s crew.” Davis Black was an experienced captain, and she’d learned to rely on him. But West left nothing for granted.

  “We’ll be ready, Admiral. For whatever you need.”

  “I know you will.” She moved her hand over the controls to cut the line, but she hesitated. “Good luck, Davis.”

  “Good luck, Admiral.”

  West closed the line. Then she turned toward Hank Krantz. “Once more, old friend. Once more into the breach.”

  “Yes, Admiral.” The tactical officer looked over at her command chair, even managing a fleeting smile. “We’ve been there before, haven’t we? More than once.”

  “Indeed we have, Hank.” Her eyes moved toward the display showing the planet they called Shangri la. And the dozens of orbital stations surrounding it, the attack platforms that had obliterated four Leviathans as if they were blowing out so many candles.

  Would they intervene? Would they attack the enemy ships, as they had her own Leviathans? She could certainly use the help…but she was hesitant to count on anything she didn’t control. The landing party had reported in a few minutes before. Hieronymus Cutter had found a way into an underground complex of some sort. West would have normally ignored the news, at least when battle called. But she’d learned not to underestimate the brilliant scientist. He was as responsible as Admiral Compton, she knew, for the fleet’s survival, and though he didn’t get the credit Compton did fleetwide, West wasn’t going to underestimate him. He had a practicality that was rare for an academic…and a toughness that had surprised virtually everyone who knew him. Indeed, the Marines loved him…they had made him one of their own. And West had known enough Marines to understand what that meant.

  She turned back toward Krantz. Whatever Cutter could do, she had no doubt he would. But now it was time for her to do what she did best. “Commander Krantz…the fleet is to move forward, 3g accelerating. Directly toward the enemy fleet.”

  * * *

  Max Harmon sat in Saratoga’s sickbay, as he had for much of the past two months. Mariko was still alive, a fact the doctors were calling a minor miracle. But they had also told him the longer she remained unconscious, the less chance there was of a recovery. Grant Wainwright had spent almost three weeks in the bed next to Fujin’s, in much the same condition, but he’d lost his fight over a month ago. The pilot had never regained consciousness, not for an instant…and now Mariko Fujin was the last survivor from the bay. Harmon loved her…he realized that more than ever now, the terrible pain he felt only confirming the emotions he’d had before. She lay in her bed, unmoving, the same as she had been for weeks and weeks now. And he sat next to her, waiting, watching every second for the slightest move.

  She still wore the pendant he’d given her. He’d felt foolish insisting the doctors leave it on her, a bit of shame for realizing some part of him believed the superstitions about the silly little thing. He’d argued with himself, but in the end he decided it didn’t hurt anything. The tiny lump of metal was allegedly responsible for a number of close escapes in his family…and his mother, cold, no-nonsense admiral that she was, had blamed herself for years for letting his father go off to the Tau Ceti 3 invasion so long ago without it.

  He felt strange, sitting idle when the fleet was at battlestations. He’d spent many of the fleet’s battles on Midway’s flag bridge, as Compton’s tactical officer. But the admiral had promoted him out of that role, and made him a troubleshooter of sorts. Compton had helped the admiral stop the mutiny a year before, and he’d completed a number of missions since then, most recently helping West keep an eye on some of the less trustworthy captains in the fleet. But nothing kept those fools in check like an enemy attack. So once again, he had nothing to do.

  He’d wanted to go with Compton, but the admiral had ordered him to stay behind. Now Midway and the rearguard were gone. No, not gone, Harmon thought, unable to accept that the admiral might be dead, along with everyone on the ships he’d taken with him. Just not here. And though Erika West respected him, he’d fallen out of the usual chain of command. There was no place for him now. Except where he was.

  It didn’t matter, really. The fleet wasn’t short of commanders right now…it was short of ships, trained spacers, ordnance. Eighteen months of running, and countless deadly battles had worn the fleet down to a nub. But it still felt strange not being in the action.

  Harmon closed his eyes, seeking a few minutes relief from the burning. He couldn’t remember how long he’d been up, but he knew he couldn’t sleep…and certainly not when Saratoga was going into battle. He’d be right here if West needed him.

  He took a breath and opened his eyes, staring down at Mariko again. And she was staring back.

  He felt a rush of excitement run through his body, an instant of disbelief followed by stunned silence.

  “Max…” Her voice was soft, weak…barely audible. He leaned down, put his ear to her lips. “Where?”

  “You’re in sickbay, Mariko. On Saratoga.” He was fighting back the shock, trying to stay calm for her. He’d refused to give up on her, but now he realized he had, at least to an extent. He was stunned to s
ee her look at him, to hear her voice.

  “Sa…ra…to…ga?”

  “Yes, Mariko. Midway went off on a…mission. Admiral Compton moved all the wounded over to Saratoga.”

  “You…here?”

  Harmon paused. Even right out of a coma, she went right to the heart of the matter. Compton would never have left Harmon behind…not if he expected to return. And Mariko knew it.

  “He asked me to help Admiral West.” He felt bad for lying, but he didn’t want to burden her with too much to worry about. Not now.

  “Grant…crew…”

  Harmon paused, taking a deep breath. He had a fleeting impulse to lie to her, to spare her the terrible news until she was stronger. But though they were lovers, they were both warriors as well. They owed each other better than that.

  “They’re all dead, Mariko. Grant survived for three weeks, but he never woke up.” His voice was soft, as sympathetic as he could make it.

  She just stared back at him. They had both lost friends before. It was part of the service. He knew she’d mourn later, that she’d find ways he couldn’t imagine to blame herself.

  She tried to speak, but nothing came out. She swallowed hard and croaked, “Water…”

  Of course! What the hell am I thinking?

  He spun around. “Doctor…doctor, it’s Mariko Fujin…she’s awake.” He turned back and looked down at her, feeling the waves of relief finally come over him. “She’s awake…and she’s thirsty…”

  * * *

  “I want those laser cannons recharged in twenty seconds, Commander. Not an instant longer or I will go down there myself and start chucking people out the airlock.” Davis Black was normally easygoing, one of the most popular captains in the fleet. But in battle he changed, morphed into a tyrant, one with no patience—none—for anything less than top performance. He’d brought the ship through so many battles, escaped so often from almost certain death, that his crew forgave him his ornery nature under fire. But they still scrambled to do whatever they could…anything to keep that terrible rage off of them.

  “Yes, sir,” the tactical officer replied. “Lieutenant Hoover acknowledges, sir.”

  “Acknowledges? What the fuck does that mean? The people on this ship should know better than to give me bullshit, mealy-mouthed answers by now.” He paused, glaring at the officer. “And why is Hoover answering. Where is Qwill?”

  “Commander Qwill is dead, sir. Lieutenant Hoover is in command down there.” Another pause, a short one. Then the sound of the lasers firing. Eighteen seconds, two ahead of schedule. The tactical officer let out a grateful sigh.

  Black just shook his head. Qwill had been with him for years, back when he had been Saratoga’s XO during the last battles of the Third Frontier War. Another good officer—and a friend—gone…

  “Give Hoover my compliments…and remind him that means every twenty seconds.” There was no time to let up, to grieve friends. Not now. The fleet’s acting flagship had drawn a lot of attention from the enemy. Those AIs are learning from us, he thought. They’re learning to pick their targets.

  “Navigation, bring us around, course 098.230.358, two gee thrust.” Admiral West had given Saratoga a specific area of space to cover, but she’d left a lot of maneuver room for Black. He had to admit…for all West’s reputation as a brutal taskmaster, she hadn’t stepped on his toes, not in the year since she’d come aboard to take over Saratoga’s task force. He’d served on flagships for most of his career, and he knew that a lot of admirals, even some good ones, tended to overmanage their flag captains. For as much as Black had admired Barret Dumont, he’d chafed more than once under the old admiral’s tight control. He’d been worried when he found out West was taking over after Dumont’s death, but he’d been surprised at her hands off approach.

  Too busy terrorizing the rest of the fleet, I guess.

  The ship shook. Hard. Then its vector shifted. Black knew his ship was venting gasses, exerting makeshift thrust that was throwing her off course.

  “Navigation, correct course and velocity.” He knew that was easier said than done. If the hit had just blown a compartment, all the air would be out already. But if a fluid or gas line had been ruptured, it would continue to spew until it was cut off. And it would affect the ship’s vector all the while.

  “Navigation reports corrections underway, Captain.”

  Black felt it immediately, a change in the thrust vector, and in increase to nearly 3g. He nodded to himself. He was proud of crew, of their crack performance in battle.

  He heard the lasers fire again, the sound a bit quieter than it had been, and he knew he’d lost a battery….maybe two. His eyes dropped to the screen to check, but before he could focus, Saratoga shook again, much harder this time. A whole section of workstations went dark along the port side, and a conduit fell from the ceiling, spewing steam across the flag bridge. One of his officers screamed as the super-heated steam hit her full on, sending her falling to the deck.

  “Medical to the bridge,” Davis shouted into his com. “Now!”

  He unhooked his harness and leapt from his chair, rushing over to the stricken officer. He knew immediately it was bad…very bad. She was lying on her back, howling in agony, burned from head to toe.

  Davis looked toward the lift. He knew it had only been a few seconds, but the thought still went through his head. Where the hell is that med team?

  He could see the bridge crew, frozen at their stations, staring in horror at their hideously injured comrade. “Back to work, all of you…we’re in battle!”

  He looked back down at his officer. Beckwith. Sandra Beckwith, a communications specialist. He didn’t know her very well…she’d come over from Midway when Admiral Compton had transferred all non-essential personnel before departing with the rearguard. She’d done her duties well enough, but he’d hardly exchanged a dozen words with her. She’d only been on bridge duty because Lieutenant Ringer had been injured in a maintenance accident.

  He heard the lift doors slide open, and he could see the shadows of the med team moving around him. The medic knelt next to her, his gaze moving over her injuries. Black could see it in his eyes. She wasn’t going to make it.

  He tried to force himself away, get back to running the ship, but he couldn’t, not for a few seconds at least. He was an experienced captain, the veteran of more battles than he could easily count, but staring at this woman, this officer he hardly knew, was too much for him. For a few seconds, at least. Her suffering was hard to watch, but he couldn’t break free. He just knelt there on the bridge floor, watching as the medic gave her a massive dose of painkillers…and then he and his assistant reached under her and began to lift her up.

  She screamed as they pulled her from the floor, in spite of the meds, and Black watched the torment in her face, tears streaming down her cheeks. He gritted his teeth, using all his self-control to stay where he was, not to move toward her. There was nothing he could do—probably nothing anyone could do. And he had a ship to run. He stood up slowly, turning his head away as he did, back toward the main display. Then he walked back to his chair…and he didn’t look back. He couldn’t. And a few seconds later the lift closed behind the medics, and Lieutenant Beckwith was gone.

  * * *

  “Saratoga’s in trouble…” Bill Ving was speaking to himself. He sat in his command chair, alone on the bridge, leaning backward, gritting his teeth against the pain in his chest, his gut. He was sick. No, not sick…dying. My whole crew is dying.

  He glanced over at the empty tactical station. Sara Iverson had been a tremendous officer, one of the best he’d ever seen, with a combat record that would have been the pride of an officer twice her age. And she’d been his friend. But she was gone now, dead of the mysterious disease that was even now killing him. The plague that would soon leave Snow Leopard a lifeless hulk, a ghost ship in the truest sense of the term.

  Ving mourned for his crew, and he felt his own fear as he f
aced approaching death. His every breath was a tortured effort to force air into congested lungs. His fever was raging, his neck and back dripping with sweat. His mind tried to drift off into delirium, revisiting images of the distant past, but he held on, barely, his force of will struggling to cling to the threads of clarity for just a little longer. Ving had no hope for his ship, his crew…no delusions he faced anything but impending death. But he wasn’t dead yet, and intended to strike one last blow before he slipped into darkness.

  He slammed his hand down on the com unit. “Engine room, this is the captain. Who is down there? Anyone?”

  There was nothing but silence, at least for ten or twenty seconds. Then, just as Ving was about to give up hope, a single voice, weak, struggling, replied. “Captain…this is Ensign Cleeves, sir.”

  Ving felt a wave of satisfaction at the response, a dim ray of light in the blackness looming around him. He’d been afraid no one would answer. He knew all his people were infected, and as the crew dwindled, ship’s operations had begun to come to a halt. Snow Leopard was fully-supplied and ready for battle, but her gunners were all dead or incapacitated, her fresh supplies of weapons laying around the hold, still crated.

  Dr. Flynn was dead too, along with all his staff, and Ving suspected sickbay had become a hellish nightmare of suffering, full of dying men and women with no one left to care for them, not even a friendly voice, offering a last sip of water to a parched and dying man or woman. He knew the AI-directed medpods would continue to care for patients, but he was well aware there were only a few of them, and that most of his people were lying on the floor or on whatever makeshift setups Flynn’s people had managed to cobble together. He hated the thought of his crew suffering, living their last hours abandoned, in pain and squalor. But he forced his thoughts away. All around his crippled ship, a battle was raging, one that might decide the fate of the fleet, as so many before it had. Snow Leopard had been the scourge of the enemy in past battles…and she would have one more victory. Her captain would see to it.