by Jay Allan
She paused for a moment, and then she tapped the controls, and the outer door slid shut. The umbilical was fully pressurized, but procedure still called for full safety protocols, and that meant sealing off the ship before opening the inner door. There was no need to wait for pressurization, though, and perhaps a second after the outer door clicked firmly shut, the inner one opened.
Andi stepped out and into one of Hermes lower corridors. She’d intended to take one of the ship’s small shuttles to dock after Hermes had pulled away from the station, but there was some kind of problem with the bay or the launch control…or something. The report she’d gotten had been unacceptably vague, and she was damned sure going to have a talk with her bridge crew about that. She was on edge about the mission to begin with, and she’d had to race down and get through the umbilical before Hermes detached from the station. She’d been late because of her protracted goodbyes with Tyler, and while she knew that being late because of last moments with a loved one was a privilege her officer and spacers lacked, leaving him hadn’t put her in a very good mood to begin with. Having to rush down, with barely enough time to see that her baggage was loaded, had her in a frame of mind that could only be described as caustic.
She’d insisted on going on the mission, of course, above Tyler’s protests, and she still believed it was the right choice, that she was the one with the best chance of pulling the mission off. But she was far from sure she could do it and, if she was being honest with herself, she was just flat out scared. Since she’d killed Ricard Lille, she’d developed some kind of reputation for supernatural courage or invincibility...or something of the sort.
If they only knew how scared I was fighting Lille…
She walked down the corridor, heading for the flight deck. Her boots cracked loudly on the polished floor as her purposeful stride took her quickly to her destination. She didn’t know how some still-unclear malfunction on the landing bay had escaped the final pre-mission inspections, but she was damned sure going to find out, and when she did…
She stopped dead in the corridor, just short of the entrance to the bay. There was a man standing in front of the door…and there was a big smile on his face.
“Vig,” she almost shouted, rushing forward and throwing her arms around her old number two. She was thrilled at first—she hadn’t seen any of her old crew in almost six months—but then confusion set in.
“What are you doing here, Vig? We’ve got to leave now. You have to get back to the stations.” She turned and looked behind her, back in the direction of the umbilical. “I have to stop the…”
“I’m staying, Andi. There’s no need to stop the debarkation.”
She turned around, surprised again, and now a bit angry. “No, you’re not, Vig. This is dangerous. I don’t want you to…”
The door behind Merrick slid open and three more familiar figures stepped out into the corridor. “We’re all going with you, Andi.” It was a woman’s voice, a familiar one.
Andi was stunned, and her eyes watered as she saw Rina Strand, Lex Righter, and a towering giant who was partially obstructed by the bulkhead and his position behind the others, but who could only be Dolph Messer.
She didn’t understand what her old crew was doing on Hermes, but she knew one thing. They couldn’t go with her, not into the hell that awaited her ship and its desperate mission. Vig Merrick had sat at her side on Pegasus for years, they all had. She wasn’t about to put them in danger again.
“I’m thrilled to see you all, and touched that you came…but, you’ve got to go, all of you, right now. I’ll see if the umbilical is still…”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible, Captain Lafarge.” Merrick was still smiling. “We’ve got orders, admiral’s orders that supersede your own, I’m afraid. We’re official Confederation officers now, you see.” Merrick held up a small box, opening it in front of her. It contained the bars of a Confederation commander, and as she looked behind Merrick, she saw that the others had similar boxes.
“I don’t understand…”
“Admiral Barron didn’t want you going on this mission alone…well, not exactly alone, but you know what I mean. I think he’d have come with you himself if that had been even remotely possible…but he must have figured we’re the next best thing.”
“Look, all of you…if Tyler convinced you to come on this mission, you can forget about that…”
“He didn’t convince us of anything, Andi. He just told us what you’re doing…and we practically held him hostage until he signed the commissions and transfer orders. We faced enough shit together, Andi, that I wouldn’t expect you to think we’d let you do this without us.”
“But, you…” She wanted to argue, to convince them to stay behind. But even as she resisted, she felt a sort of relief. She was nervous, and scared…and there was no question the sight of her people standing there bolstered her spirits. Finally, she gave in to the inevitable.
“You guys are too much…I just don’t know what to say…”
“And that says it all, Andi…not that any of us need words after all we’ve faced together.”
She moved forward and hugged each of them in turn. She was still reaching up, trying to properly embrace Dolph, when she stepped back and paused. “Wait, what are you guys all doing down here by the shuttle bay? I thought flight ops was down.” She looked through the still open door, but she couldn’t see more than a meter or two in.
“That was a little bit of a deception, Andi, but don’t hold the crew too responsible. We brought something with us. Not sure if we’ll need her or not, but she’s certainly carried her weight in the past.” A pause. “We had to ditch both of Hermes’s normal shuttles though, to make room.
Andi couldn’t believe what she was imagining, and she pushed past them all and stepped into the bay itself.
There she was, in the place of the two gleaming new shuttles, a gray, battle-scarred hull as recognizable to her as her own reflection.
Pegasus.
* * *
“She’s gone.”
Tyler Barron was standing on Dauntless’s observation deck, staring out into he dark void. It was the height of pointlessness, of course. Even when the scanners had shown Hermes was still in the system, still even a close—by space travel standards, at least—fifty thousand meters from Dauntless, he hadn’t had the slightest prayer of seeing even a glint of sunlight off her hull. Still, he’d come to Dauntless just to ‘watch,’ and he’d made up half a dozen excuses that looked good in the file, but that no one who really knew him believed for a second.
Certainly not the woman standing next to him.
“She’ll make it, Tyler. She’s the toughest woman I’ve ever known…and I mean that.”
Barron could hear in her tone that the statement was an honest one…and when Atara Travis called somebody tough, it meant something.
“I know, Atara, but this mission. If that stealth unit fails, or if they’ve figured out a way to penetrate the field, she won’t get a light second into the system before they’re on her.”
“Anya Fritz inspected that system like nothing I’ve ever seen before, Tyler. I think it’s the only thing she’s done except work on the primary battery installations in over a week now…and that includes sleeping and eating. I don’t know what’s keeping her up. But the stealth unit will work.”
Barron nodded, and even managed a smile. Atara was trying to help, and he pretended not to notice how she’d completely ignored the greater danger, that the Hegemony had developed a way to thwart the stealth unit. There was no answer to that, no words to offer clarity. It was a massive danger, without question, likely the greatest one Andi would face on her mission, and there was nothing to do about it, and no way to know, not until Hermes jumped into the Olyus system…and was discovered or not.
“You’ve just got to trust her, Tyler, in her abilities. She’s incredibly capable. Even if she runs into trouble, I’d never bet against her.”
Barron knew Ata
ra was doing her best to take his mind off of Andi, but watching her leave, the first vanguard of the fleet’s coming attack, had been the hardest thing he’d ever had to do. He’d spent as much time with her as possible, and they’d parted well, if such a thing was possible. But his fear for her hurt like an open wound, and he knew he had to find the strength to push it aside, to stop thinking about her.
The fleet was relying on him, tens of thousands of spacers looking to him as their leader…and they deserved all he could give them. They deserved the efforts of an admiral forged from steel, not a wounded man, riddled with fear and worry.
“Well, Atara, whatever I believe, it doesn’t matter now. She’s gone, and we’ve got work to do.” Barron did feel better for sending Vig Merrick and Andi’s other crew members—at least the ones he’d been able to find in time—with her. They were devoted, and they would do anything they could to help her, to see that she came back. That would have to be enough.
He had his own work to do.
His own desperate, dangerous mission, and he suspected she was as worried about him as he was about her.
Maybe someday we’ll get past our battles, all the desperate fights. Maybe we’ll both survive, and endure until we can share peace.
It was a pleasant thought, and it gave him a moment’s joy…but he didn’t believe it, not really.
* * *
“So, now you all know just what all the preparation is for.” Jake Stockton looked out at the other four officers in the room with him, watching and waiting for the shock to slip from their faces.
So far it hadn’t.
“If we lose…” Dirk Timmons was the first to speak, though he still looked stunned as any of the others. That didn’t stop him from coming right to the heart of the matter. “…even if we retreat, we’ll never get enough out to hold Craydon. The casualties will be staggering, win or lose.”
“That means we can’t lose.” Stockton’s words were strangely matter-of-fact, even to his own perception. He’d always been bold, and often cocky, but his words in that room were nothing but the absolute truth.
They couldn’t lose. Not unless they wanted to end up dead…or Hegemony slaves.
“The wings are all at full strength, at least…though I’d be happier if we had more veterans in the ranks.” Olya Federov was sitting next to Stockton, and she turned and looked at him as she spoke. Dirk Timmons had known Stockton the longest—the two had been Academy rivals—but Federov had served the most time with fleet’s strike commander, ever since she’d reported for duty on the old Dauntless, six days before the battleship had welcomed its new commander, Captain Tyler Barron. She was his closest friend in the wings, and she had been for years, ever since Kyle Jamison had been killed. She was one of his tenuous links to the past, one of the few that remained in the cockpit, and he’d come to rely on her more and more.
“More than full strength, Olya.” Stockton could see the confused looks slipping onto the faces of the four officers staring at him. “I spoke with Admiral Barron, and we decided…we’re going to assign as many of the Craydon squadrons to the fleet as we can cram into the bays.”
“But, with a strike force the size of the fleet’s, is it even possible to overload the bays and keep things functioning?” Alicia Covington was one of the two new members of Stockton’s inner circle. She’d come from Clint Winter’s fleet that had fought to defend Dannith from the initial invasion. That gave her claim to considerable experience fighting the enemy, but Stockton and Federov had fought the Hegemony in that power’s own space, as part of the White Fleet that had made first contact. If there were real veterans in the war, it was the pilots and spacers from that ill-fated expedition, however many were still alive.
Stockton guessed that number would be lower than he wanted to hear. Which was probably why he’d never looked it up.
“We had Dauntless’s bays double loaded when we first got to the Union front in the last war, and Intrepid was even more packed full of strays from damaged and destroyed battleships. We managed.”
“Yes, Admiral…for a short while, with two ships. This fleet is the biggest concentration of force ever assembled on the Rim, and, I don’t think any of us need to be reminded, we’ve got a dozen kinds of fighters, from different nations, all with varying tech, capabilities, and doctrine. Can we really handle more disorder and confusion?” Covington paused, and then she added the other thing they were all thinking. “All to get another thousand rookies, ninety percent of whom haven’t faced a Hegemony ship?”
Stockton took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. “Alicia…all of you, there’s no easy way to put this, so I’m just going to say it. This battle is vital. We can’t lose it. If we were facing interceptors, if our wings had to get through dogfights to close, maybe those green pilots would be more hindrance than help. But we need to deliver ordnance, as much as possible. We need as many torpedoes and cluster bombs hitting those Hegemony battleships as possible, and the more squadrons we have, the better chance that more weapons will get through.”
“Regardless of loss rates?” Johannes Trent had been silent, but now he spoke up. Despite his choice of words, there was no condemnation in his tone, not even disagreement.
“Yes, Johannes. To be brutally blunt, casualty rates are not our primary concern. Not in this fight. We need to hit those enemy ships, take out enough so they can’t stand the pain. So they retreat, and leave Megara to us. Before the entire fleet is destroyed. Because if we don’t even more will be killed, and they will die for nothing.”
The room was silent. Stockton was sure none of them liked the idea, that they were all concerned for taking rookie pilots into a maelstrom the rookies weren’t ready to endure. But he was equally certain they all agreed with him.
There was no choice.
Stockton thought about all the pilots in the freshly-built hangers on the orbital stations, many of them full of piss and vinegar, as he and so many of his colleagues had been, more years ago than he cared to count. Part of him knew it was wrong to throw them into the fight that was coming.
No…lead, not ‘throw.’ You’ll be with them…
And what the hell are you going to do with so many? You may keep a few out of trouble, but in the end, that’s a rounding error. You’re going to take them to Olyus, throw them at the enemy forces defending Megara…and hundreds of them are going to die.
He knew what all the new pilots were. There was a term, an ancient one he barely understood. But it seemed dead on in this case.
Cannon fodder.
Chapter Eighteen
Orbital Platform Killian
Planet Craydon, Calvus System
Year 320 AC
Tyler Barron stood in the bay, his eyes fixed on the shuttle. He’d always admired the sleekness of the Palatian designs. Their warships couldn’t match those of the Confederation in power, but their small craft were a treat for the eyes.
The ship had just landed, and steam floated in the air behind its still-hot engines. Under normal circumstances, Barron would have been waiting in the reception area instead of out in the main bay…or, more likely, given the rank he was still getting used to, whoever wanted to see him would come to his office.
But the occupant of that shuttle wasn’t just anyone, it was the Imperator of the Palatian Alliance, a head of state, and a personage of sufficient importance to rate every show of respect Barron could muster.
Even though the two were the closest of friends.
Getting clearance to commence work on the Palatian battleships had been as simple as a two-minute talk over the comm and, while Barron intended to make some time to see his blood brother face to face before the fleet set out, he hadn’t expected it so soon.
Barron had been reviewing the work in progress on the orbital shipyards, something he—and probably Anya Fritz—knew was a cover for checking up on his engineer’s efforts to install enhanced primaries on the four largest Palatian battleships. If she didn’t finis
h on time, he was not only going to lose four very powerful vessels, but he was going to have a very unhappy Imperator on his hands, blood brother or no.
The work was still on schedule, though, which made him wonder why Tulus had asked to see him immediately. Vian Tulus was his friend and comrade in arms, but he was also the Palatian ruler, and the commander-in-chief of the fleet’s second strongest contingent. Barron would have gone to Tulus, though, of course, but the Palatian flagship was in a state of partial disassembly, and the Imperator had been staying on the surface of Craydon. Vian Tulus had been spending much of his time being wined and dined by dignitaries and ambassadors and, Barron was sure, hating every minute of it.
Better him than me…
But it explained Tulus’s decision to come to Barron. A chance to get away from the endless chatter and insufferable fools that had likely been plaguing him for weeks.
Barron would have stood with Tulus facing any danger or enemy in the galaxy…but he wasn’t above pushing his friend into the line of fire of the politicians and the chattering hangers on. He wasn’t proud of it, but dealing with pompous, self-aggrandizing fools was his weakness, and it was a miracle he’d managed to control himself, more or less, in his many encounters with such creatures.
Barron watched as the hatch on the shuttle opened, and a guard climbed out. The Palatian dress uniforms had always made Barron a little jealous, crisp and elegant, but also sleek and fairly simple in overall design, unlike the over the top foppery so common in those of the other powers, the Confederation included. Barron was grateful for the excuse of short notice that, combined with his close friendship with Tulus, had given him an excuse to forgo his own fancy garb, and most of all, the ludicrous hat that, in one mildly different form or another, had plagued the Confederation’s officers for almost fifty years.