Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  “Alright people, let’s go. There’s one ship left…let’s make that zero. All ships, converge and begin attack runs. Let’s take that fucker out.” Greta Hurley still felt the tingle, the residual excitement from a moment earlier, when she’d seen one of Compton’s sprint missiles slam right into the other enemy Leviathan…and vaporize the massive battleship with 550 megatons of pure destruction. She’d heard the shouts on all her ships over the main com channel. A doomed struggle had just become a bit less hopeless, and the energy surged through her veins. She’d been planning to send five of her fighters against each of the enemy vessels, but now she had them concentrated on the sole survivor. And ten attacks could do some serious damage. A Leviathan was hard to destroy, especially an undamaged one, but her people would do their part.

  “Are you ready, John?” She stared across the cockpit at her pilot.

  “Ready, Admiral.”

  “Then lead us in.” She turned back to the com, changing to the wing circuit. “Alright people, it’s time. Form up on my ship. I don’t want to see anybody popping off shots at long range. Everybody closes to point blank. Anybody launches a torpedo more than 10,000 klicks out has to deal with me.” She flipped off the com.

  “Okay, John…let’s go.”

  Wilder pushed the throttle forward, and the fighter accelerated hard. Hurley felt the pressure slam into her…6g she guessed, though she didn’t bother to check. She just stared straight ahead, focused on the enemy ship.

  The First Imperium did not have fighters, and they employed their missile defense systems against the small ships in lieu of a purpose-designed array. Their light lasers and anti-missile rockets were dangerous, but they were repurposed weapons, inherently less effective than something built solely to kill fighters. And Hurley’s pilots were all veterans, experienced at evading the First Imperium fire as they attacked. Hurley knew for all the losses she’d suffered, it could have been worse. That seemed a perverse thought about a force that had lost 90% of its strength over the past eighteen months, but she knew her people had been lucky too, that the odds had been far worse even than the terrible result. She knew they might all be dead now, indeed they should all be dead…months ago. And then the fleet would have been lost too. More than once, her fighters had been the difference between victory and defeat. Yes, luck had been with them.

  But as she gazed at the display, she felt a knot in her stomach. She knew, almost immediately, with a cold certainty. Luck had deserted them.

  She watched as three of her ten ships vanished within seconds of each other. The enemy fire was heavy, but no different than usual. But at this moment in time, the blasts were finding their targets. She thought about it in clinical terms, ships lost, reduction in firepower. There would be time later to remember the actual people lost, the faces of the dead.

  No one in the force said anything, but she could hear their thoughts, their self-preservation instincts urging them to fire their torpedoes and break off as quickly as possible. But they wouldn’t. She knew they would follow her orders, even if they were hating her as they did.

  She felt her own urge to order them all to shoot and then make a run for it. She didn’t want to die any more than any of her people. But the losses only made it more essential for her force to finish its mission. They were down to seven…and they had a Leviathan to destroy. She could see on the scanner. Midway was hurting the enemy ship, but she was taking more than she was giving. Hurley knew her fighters had to even the score. Or they would all die here…her people, Midway, Admiral Compton.

  She felt the fighter lurch hard, Wilder’s evasive maneuvers. Then it shook again, but it was different this time. A hit. Her eyes darted around the cockpit. None of her people were injured. Then she looked down to the display, but Wilder’s voice distracted her before she could focus.

  “A laser grazed us on the belly, Captain. Looks like some minor damage, loss of pressurization in the lower compartment.” He paused. “Could have been worse.”

  She took a deep breath and nodded. “Yes, it could have been worse.” Her eyes were still on the display, watching as a fourth of her ships winked out. Another plasma torpedo gone…five more brave crew dead.

  She flipped on the forcewide com. She felt the same fear they all did, the grief at the loss of comrades. But Midway was counting on them…and if they didn’t at least hurt this thing, the flagship was going to be destroyed. And the surviving fighters would be trapped with no place to land.

  “I know you’ve all seen our losses, you know that twenty of our comrades have died in the last two minutes. But that only makes our duty all the more crucial. Midway is fighting a deadly battle…and she is losing. If our attack is not a success, the flagship will die…Admiral Compton will die. And we will die too, hunted down by that thing…or suffocated as our life support systems fail. I have fought by your sides, all of you. For eighteen months you have been the symbol of courage, of stubborn defiance, an inspiration to the entire fleet. Now, I ask you to do it again, to follow me right down that thing’s throat. For the fleet. For Admiral Compton.”

  She closed the line and looked down at the floor in front of her. She had the usual conflicted feelings. Everything she had said was the truth, yet she felt a rush of guilt for working her people up into a frenzy, doing all she could to override their rational instincts to survive. She wondered how many martyrs she had created with her rousing battle cries over the years, how many of her people would have returned to base had she not extracted from them the last full measure of duty, the final sacrifice.

  “Entering close attack range, Admiral. Fifteen thousand kilometers.”

  Hurley looked over at Wilder. She was grateful for his words, pulling her from her self-flagellation to the present. There was a battle to fight, and that was all that mattered now.

  “Fight your ship, John. The rest of the birds are forming upon you.”

  She felt a bit of absurdity in her words. She was an admiral, the only officer in the fighter corps to ever carry such an exalted rank. She’d led a thousand fighters into battle in the great struggles around X2, before the fleet was trapped. Now she sat in her command chair, watching as John Wilder piloted her ship, and her command was a total of six fighters, tattered remnants that equaled a single squadron in strength.

  “Twelve thousand.” Wilder’s voice was distant, distracted. Hurley knew the pilot was focused, his every thought on the target ahead, and on evading the enemy fire as he dove toward it.

  Hurley sat, feeling she should be doing something, making some kind of plan, issuing orders. But there was nothing to do. Except sit quietly and wait.

  She had a passing thought, darkly amusing. The great Admiral Hurley, the woman who revolutionized fighter tactics. What a fitting end to that story…to die leading six ships in a desperate assault. All the massive battles she’d fought…to bring her here, to something that would barely qualify as a skirmish. If her people hadn’t been defending the fleet’s flagship, and its legendary commander.

  But we are…

  “Ten thousand kilometers.”

  She thought of old friends, of those who’d commanded her when she had first reached the fleet, twenty-three years old and cocky as hell. The traits that made a good fighter jock were different than those that portended success in the fleet proper, and her early mentors didn’t try to beat the arrogance out of her…they just try to give her judgment to offset it. And they understood what made a pilot tick, that there was little they could do but stand aside and let experience teach her…if it didn’t kill her.

  She had won that particular cosmic coin toss, but she remembered peers, men and women who had served alongside her, who had lost. Joe Deedle, Carina Smithers, Ethan Joplin…names, faces, people she hadn’t thought of in years. All gifted pilots, every bit as good as she was. And all dead, killed before they’d had a chance to see where their skills took them.

  “Eight thousand kilometers.”

  Hurley knew
how successful she had been, how much glory she had won in battle. But she was cut from the same cloth as most great leaders, men and women like Terrance Compton and Erika West. And others left back home. Augustus Garret, certainly. And Elias Holm, Erik Cain…officers she’d been proud to serve alongside. They all shared certain traits. They weren’t humble, not exactly. She knew she was gifted, that she had achieved massive success and left her mark on the tactics of fighter combat. But the inner arrogance that drove her was controlled. It gave her confidence, the ability to follow through, to believe even her most desperate plans had a chance. But she never lost sight of the fact that luck had been her ally as well, that any of those old comrades might have done as she did, had fate not plucked them so young from the battle. And she’d never stopped appreciating the devotion of her people, never took it for granted.

  “Six thousand kilometers. Preparing to fire.”

  Her mind snapped back to the present, her eyes on Wilder as he angled the throttle…and brought his finger down on the firing button.

  Nothing happened.

  She watched as he hit the control again. And again. Still nothing.

  Her eyes dropped to the display. Four thousand five hundred kilometers. If he doesn’t pull away now…

  Wilder’s hands raced over his controls, resetting the firing system.

  Four thousand…

  He punched down on the firing control again. Still nothing.

  John…

  He hesitated, just for a second. Then Hurley felt the defeat in him as he slammed the throttle hard to the side, and the fighter’s engines blasted hard.

  For an instant, she thought he’d been too late, that they were going to crash into the enemy ship. But a wave of relief came over her as she realized they were going to make it. But it only lasted a second, replaced by crushing disappointment. They had run the gauntlet, risked all…only to come away empty.

  The bomb bay, she thought. That has to be it. That hit we took…it must have fused the doors shut.

  Her eyes dropped to her display. There were four ships there, not five. Another friend lost. But hope too…four more chances to hurt the enemy, to tip the scales just enough for Midway to win the fight.

  She stared and watched as the fighters blasted in, as aggressive, as heedless of danger as John Wilder had been. And she knew her earlier words rode with them…to victory or death.

  * * *

  “Art, I need more power. I don’t care what you have to do…I don’t care about the risks.” Compton’s voice was deep, his throat dry. The battle with the last Leviathan had been raging unabated. Midway was less than twenty thousand kilometers from its adversary. The ships were trading blows, two wounded giants in the final stages of a fight to the death. Midway’s lasers were falling silent one at a time, as enemy hits blasted the guns to scrap or severed the conduits feeding them the massive power they required.

  Compton’s ship was landing its own hits, blasting apart the Leviathan’s hull, blowing its x-ray laser batteries to molten slag. Hurley’s fighters had savaged the enemy battleship, despite the grievous losses they had suffered. But a Leviathan could take a lot of punishment, and the battered vessel stood its ground, firing with its remaining weapons.

  “Admiral, I’m not even sure what’s keeping this thing from blowing. I can’t…”

  “Up the power, Art…twenty percent…right now!” Compton’s voice was loud, harsh. It wasn’t anger at his chief engineer, but he didn’t have time to argue. The next shot Midway failed to take for want of power could be the one that decided the battle. The Leviathan was ready to go, Compton was sure of it. But Midway was as well. Seconds counted, and watts of power to the lasers did too. “Whatever the danger.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Compton could tell the engineer didn’t agree, though his own life rode on the outcome of the battle as much as anyone else’s. The admiral had seen many times how some of his most gifted people focused single-mindedly on their own duties, virtually ignoring other considerations. Mendel was right…it was foolish, dangerous to treat a fusion reactor with such contempt. Unless certain death in battle was the alternative. Compton sometimes envied the ability to obsess on a single consideration, instead of being endlessly besieged by a barrage of worries. The admiral’s chair was something many officers sought, a dream they aspired to one day attain.

  If only they knew what it truly felt like…

  Compton cut the line. He didn’t have time to argue with Mendel…and the engineer didn’t need any distractions. He had his hands full.

  Midway shook again, another hit. Compton’s veteran senses could tell it came from the starboard side. That was good. Because there was a huge rent in the hull on Midway’s port, and if the enemy managed to place a shot in the open, unarmored area…

  “Navigation…” Compton leaned over the com unit. “…fire the positioning jets. Keep our starboard side facing the enemy.” Midway only had one battery left on her wounded port side…and three on the starboard. And Compton was protecting his ship’s weak spot.

  “Acknowledged, sir.”

  It still felt strange, commanding a single ship. He’d been running Midway for months now, ever since Captain Horace had been grievously wounded when the flagship’s bridge took a hit. Compton had shuttled Horace over to Saratoga before Midway and the rearguard departed. At the time, the captain’s survival was still a question mark, though perhaps things were not as grim as they had been at first. Compton wondered how his friend was now. He’d either be out of the woods or…he shifted his thoughts away. There was no point in idle speculation. James Horace was a tough fighter. He’d pull through.

  Compton had worn two hats after Horace was wounded, but now he had only one. Midway was alone, the rearguard for the rearguard, standing in the breech like the Spartans at Thermopylae. His uniform bore five stars on each shoulder, an insignia only ever worn by one other Alliance officer, but right now he was Midway’s captain, no other ships to command, no formations to draw his attention.

  “Art,” he snapped into the com. “I need that power. Right now.”

  “Coming, sir.” The engineer sounded exhausted, worn down to the last of his strength. He’d been performing miracles with the repair teams, keeping the savaged ship in the fight. And now he was about to roll the dice, and see if his skills could keep Midway’s reactor from failing critically…and vaporizing everyone on board. “Increasing power flow now…”

  Compton sat in his chair, his eyes on the display. He could see the indicators begin to move as the flow of power from the ship’s reactors rose. So far so good. Of course, if it failed, he’d never know. If the reactor lost containment, even for an instant, Midway would be gone in a nanosecond.

  “Starboard guns, increase to 120% yield.”

  “Captain, the guns are already hot, damned near overloaded. If we increase the power, they could burn out entirely.” Cortez stared over at the admiral, his eyes wide, his normal poise beginning to fail.

  “And if we don’t, that thing’s going to blow us to plasma.” Compton turned and stared at his tactical officer. “Do it. Now.”

  Midway shook again, another hit. We can’t take many more of those…

  “And I want all safeties off. I want those guns recharged and firing again as quickly as we can feed power into them.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  The ship shook again, harder this time, and along the wall a series of conduits blew, showering the flag bridge with sparks. Compton’s display blinked along with all the bridge screens and lights…but it all came right back.

  Come on, old girl…hold it together a little longer.

  Compton heard the familiar whine, the sounds of the three starboard laser cannons firing. It was louder now, the overloaded guns blasting with output they were never designed to sustain. Then again, another shot…but this time Midway shook again, not from an external shot, but from an internal explosion. One of the overloaded guns ha
d blown…and that meant Midway had lost more of her crew. There were six men and women manning each laser, and Compton doubted any of them had survived. But now there was just one thought in his head.

  Down to two guns…

  “Maintain fire,” he snapped out.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Compton could hear the discomfort in Cortez’ voice, the rapprochement at the callousness of his commands, but he just ignored it. His officers were loyal, he knew that. But they were also human.

  Maybe one day you will sit in this chair, Jack…and you will know what it is to be in command…

  The lasers fired again. And again. Compton stared at his screen, watching the damage assessments coming in. The enemy ship was almost gone…one more good hit would take it out. But it still had power, and two guns firing.

  Crash! The sound was loud, and it reverberated throughout the ship. A hit, a bad one. Compton could see his screen light up, dozens of flashing indicators showing the locations of damaged systems, internal explosions, hull compromises. He didn’t have to look to know it was bad. The silence that followed told him that.

  “Commander the lasers…”

  “Blown conduit, sir. Both starboard lasers are offline.”

  Compton felt like he’d been punched in the gut. Midway and its adversary were in the final stages of their fight to the death, and victory would go to whoever landed the last hit.

  “Navigation…bring us back around…port gun to bear.” He was ordering Midway to expose its weakest spot…but also the only remaining gun she had still functioning. Whichever ship lost the last of its offensive capability would lose the fight. And Compton was down to one laser.

  * * *

  “Midway’s in bad shape, but Chief McGraw has bay A open, at least somewhat. I want everybody to land as quickly as possible…we’ve got to get out of this system now.”

  Everybody…the word itself mocked her. Hurley’s force, eighteen fighters when the rearguard first left the fleet, was four ships. Their attack against the enemy Leviathan had been crucial, and she knew Midway would never have survived the battle without it. But she’d lost six of her ten birds attacking. It was a fair trade, at least in the brutal math that governed war, but she still felt as though she’d failed those dead crews.