by Jay Allan
But Barron the admiral needed his ally’s support, the iron assurance that the Confederation’s most important ally would remain at the its side, until the war was won…or until they were all destroyed, and the Rim was subjugated by the enemy.
He turned toward Atara, and he almost ordered her to set up a line to Invictus. But he held back. Telling Vian Tulus to pull back at the height of the battle, in the moment when victory or defeat would be decided, would be utterly pointless…and he wouldn’t shame his brother with even the suggestion that the Imperator might retreat. There was no point.
Take care of yourself, Vian. We need you. The fight needs you.
He leaned back and closed his eyes, just for a second, when Atara spoke again.
“Admiral…we’re picking up new transits.” A pause. “It’s Captain Eaton’s ships, sir…at least some of them.” Another delay, perhaps ten seconds. “And Hegemony battleships coming in right behind her, Admiral. Six so far…no, seven…”
Barron turned and looked at the display, watching as the eighth, and then the ninth enemy monster transited. It was enough force to turn the tide, to give the Hegemony victory, even if Federov’s bombers managed to knock out the orbital platforms.
But was it too late? Could his people finish the fight before the enemy reinforcements could close and turn the tide?
Had Eaton delayed them, miraculously, for just enough time?
Or not quite long enough?
* * *
“Admiral Barron, we’re breaking off. All torpedoes launched. Our scans indicate all platforms are disabled, all railguns destroyed.” Federov was energized. Her report to the admiral would take about four minutes to reach Dauntless, and any response just as long to return, but she didn’t need to hear Barron’s voice to know she and her people had done their duty. They had taken out the greatest threat to the Grand Alliance’s battle line, and preserved a real chance for victory in the desperate fight still raging.
Her people had paid a terrible cost for that accomplishment, however, and almost one third of their number was gone. But their victory had been total, and they’d obliterated the Hegemony fortresses. There hadn’t been a single point defense turret operational on one of the giant constructs, and her ships had pushed their attack to the limit, launching from fifty kilometers, and even closer.
The plasma torpedoes had torn the partially-armored stations apart. It was a victory for her small strike force, one beyond what she’d hoped for.
But now her people faced the trip back to their landing platforms…straight through the escorts that had failed to hit them before their attack. Her squadrons had suffered terribly already, but the realization that their torment wasn’t over quickly dampened the joy at their success.
“We’ve got to get past these escorts. Our torpedoes are gone, we’ve got no mission left, no duty save to get back home. We’re flying for ourselves now, so keep up on those evasive maneuvers, and follow me.”
She swung her own ship around, blasting hard, trying to make for the extreme flank of the enemy formation. There was no way to escape running the gauntlet back past the escorts, at least none the fuel status of her squadrons would allow, but she could at least minimize the number of enemy vessels that could maintain a fire arc.
She stared at her display as she pushed forward, watching as her pilots formed up behind her. The entire strike force would plow through the escort line, one long column, driving as hard as they could for their mother ships.
Her velocity wasn’t what she would have liked. The need to come to almost a stop for the orbital attack had left her people building up thrust from nothing. It was going to take several minutes to clear the line of escorts, more even, if the Hegemony ships responded and pursue her formation.
It was going to cost.
Her people were on their own now, every one of them. There was no tactic, no formation she could devise to further deflect the enemy attacks. Evasive maneuvers would help, the wilder the better, but beyond that there was a cold and simple fact.
The lucky ones would get through, and the unlucky ones…
She was startled as a shot ripped by, seeming like it was just outside her cockpit. A quick look at the display told her it had been nearly half a kilometer away, close, but not as close as it had seemed.
She’d become used to battles where she never got the slightest glance at an enemy, nor saw any signs of the fire coming her way. Distances in space combat were vast, and laser pulses were often invisible. Seeing a shot, a near miss, depended on a series of random factors…distance, sufficient particulate matter to make a laser burst visible, looking at just the right instant and at the precise, required angle. It was unnerving to actually see a laser pulse, but in the end, a miss was a miss.
She dodged another half dozen close shots, but then one of them got her.
Her first realization was that it hadn’t been a direct hit. She knew that mostly because she was still there. Her ship was in bad shape, though, and the cockpit reeked of burnt machinery. Her eyes teared from the caustic vapors in the air, though, at least, it seemed her life support was still operational.
Her thrusters were badly damaged, and she could feel almost constant variation as the battered ship’s engines ranged in output. The throttle shook, and she struggled to maintain control as she worked her dying ship into a course toward Dauntless.
She was sure her inability to effectively control evasive maneuvers would be the end of her, and she waited, expecting the killing shot to come at any moment. But she made it through, and a quick glance at her display told her just under a hundred of her people had as well. They were heading back, making their final approaches toward the fleet. The landings would be difficult, the battleships still heavily engaged with their Hegemony counterparts, but she was confident her people could manage it.
She gripped the throttle harder, trying to keep her ship on course. The variation in her engines was getting worse. She’d make it back to Dauntless, at least she had a good chance of getting that far, but she had no idea how she was going to get her shimmying, barely functioning bomber back into the landing bay.
One step at a time. First, you’ve got to hold this thing together and get there…
* * *
“Commander…we are receiving scanning reports from the edge of the system.” The officer’s voice was silent for a moment before continuing. “We’re picking up enemy craft, mostly the small, unarmed carriers…but there are also larger contacts.”
“Positive identification?” An instant later. “Now, Kiloron! I need to know what those ships are.” Illius had been sitting silently, trying to decide what to do. He’d sent three comm signals to the main orbital station, seeking orders from Chronos. But the commander had not responded.
No one had responded.
By all accounts, the fortresses were in ruins, torn to pieces by the enemy bomber attack. Illius didn’t dare imagine the worst…and yet, Chronos had been on the main platform, and he hadn’t responded to any of Illius’s comm attempts.
Illius couldn’t ignore the possibility—the probability even—that the decision of what to do, to hold and fight to the end, or to retreat from the system while there was still a chance to escape, would be his to make.
He’d wanted to stay, to invoke his warrior’s mantra, and dig in for the final fight. But the choice wasn’t so simple. If he risked the rest of the fleet, if he allowed his surviving ships to be trapped and defeated, the damage to the Hegemony would be disastrous. It would be years, even decades before such losses—not only in ships, but also in experienced personnel—could be replaced.
Perhaps most crucially, Akella was on Megara. If the fleet became trapped, so too would Number One. Illius lacked Chronos’s personal relationship with Akella, of course, but his loyalty to Number One was without limit. He couldn’t allow her to be captured, not matter what else happened.
He wouldn’t allow it.
He’d been about to issue orders for the retre
at, when the new contacts emerged.
“They’re ours, Commander. Energy profiles indicate Calphazon and Philoran class battleships. It looks like the scheduled relief column.”
Illius felt relief, and a short flash of excitement. There were sixteen of the contacts, enough strength to make the difference in the desperate fight between the two exhausted battle lines.
The feeling didn’t last, though. The new ships were powerful, but they were too far out in the system to intervene in time, and the concerns about Akella’s presence remained. He might gamble ships on victory, or even his own life.
He could not risk Number One.
The new battleships could help with the retreat, though. They could hold the route to the secondary transit point long enough to evacuate the fleet…and to get Akella off Megara. It would be a longer route back to the base at Dannith, but the shorter primary course would require fighting through the entire Confederation fleet.
“Commander, we’re receiving a report from Platform Aryantis. They are down to battery power. All weapons are offline.” A pause. “Megaron! Number Eight is there. He is gravely wounded, but still alive.”
Any thoughts of remaining that Illius had been nursing were gone. He had to extricate the fleet, and he had to do it now.
“Send a fast transport to Megara. They are to pick up Number One and bring her to Hegemony’s Glory at all possible speed. They are not to advise launch control or any ground personnel of their purpose or their plans. Maximum possible security is to be maintained.”
He was about to leave three million Kriegeri behind, as well as thousands of other officers and personnel. The Hegemony forces were disciplined and trained to obey without question. But he wasn’t going to take any chances. “And, send a medical shuttle to Aryantis Station to pick up Commander Chronos.”
Chronos was his superior, and his mentor. He didn’t know if there was any chance Number Eight would survive, but he knew he couldn’t leave him behind. Not if there was any chance of getting him out.
“All fleet units, prepare to receive nav orders and to execute on my command.”
Illius sat silently for a moment. He was stunned, as he knew Chronos had been. He couldn’t understand how the Rim dwellers had resisted the invasion so stubbornly, and he found it difficult to believe he was ordering the second major retreat in as many battles. Craydon had been a setback, a delay…but he knew, now, the enemy’s councils of war would be heavy with talk of turning points and victory.
If those battleships had gotten here, even a few hours sooner…
But ifs were of no value, and neither was self-recrimination or doubt. Not then. He had a fleet to extricate, and two leaders to save.
And, notwithstanding enemy self-congratulation, there would be another fight, another day…and the chances of success in that conflict would rest largely on how much force he managed to extricate from the Olyus system in the next hours.
* * *
“The time is now, Palatians. The time for victory is here! Forward, with whatever power remains to your battered ships. Forward, with whatever endurance you have in your exhausted bones. Show your ancestors, those who sired you, who raised you, who prepared you with stories of battle and glory, of just what you are made. Forward now, all of you, with me, to our destiny.”
Tulus stood in the center of Invictus’s bridge. The battleship was battered, and there was debris scattered everywhere. Half the workstations, at least, were dark, knocked out by power failures or fried by internal fires. There were casualties, too, three dead on the bridge, still lying there where they’d fallen—and at least two hundred on the ship as a whole. The weapons arrays were shattered messes, the broadside down to three functional turrets. The Palatian Imperator knew his flagship was on its last legs, that any hit from the enemy battle line could be the one to cut through its crumbling armor, and blast its reactors to scrap. A nanosecond’s failure in any of the power units would be enough for the fusion reactions to turn the vessel into a miniature sun.
But Tulus didn’t even consider withdrawal. Not then. Not when the battle was being decided.
Every gun was needed, every shot could be the one that pushed one side or the other to victory. It was that close. Tulus’s heart was that of the warrior. Even if his honor had allowed him to consider falling back—and it didn’t—he could never have left his brother’s side. Tyler Barron and Dauntless were still in the fight, and Invictus would remain there, too. Allies, fighting together, to the end, to victory…or to death.
Tulus only had one regret. His eyes moved briefly to Warder Rigellus. The young officer had moved across the bridge, sitting at one of the tactical stations next to the body of the officer who had previously occupied it. Katrine Rigellus’s son had conducted himself with courage, and he had behaved in exemplary fashion. Palatian custom was to celebrate a warrior’s death, not to mourn it, to think well of one who had fallen in noble combat.
But the thought of Katrine’s son dying during his first battle, on the namesake of her last ship, the one she had died on, found a weak spot in his Palatian armor. He’d have sent the young officer away, if that had been remotely feasible.
Or if he’d been able to do it without disgracing the youthful sub-commander.
Invictus shook again, and he could hear the creaking deep in the vessel as her main structural supports began to give out. He turned, looked again at the display, even as he began to believe he would not survive the battle. He could accept that. Surely, death in such a climactic fight would be honorable. He could die without shame, even under the eyes of his heroic ancestors.
Then he saw it.
The display was damaged, like almost everything else on Invictus, but even through the wavy image and dim symbols, it was clear.
They were pulling back.
The Hegemony fleet was retreating!
Renewed strength flooded into his arms, his legs, and he raised his hand into the air. “The enemy is retreating! Forward, with whatever thrust we can generate. All weapons, maintain fire. It is time. Time for the final measure. Onward to victory!
Chapter Forty-Two
Free Trader Pegasus
Olyus System
Year 320 AC
The Second Battle of Megara – “It’s over, my God, it’s over.”
Andi Lafarge sat and watched the small screen on Pegasus’s bridge. The tiny room was crowded, especially since she’d let half a dozen of the Hermes crew come forward. She’d done all she could to make her rescued spacers as comfortable as possible, but she had six or seven times Pegasus’s maximum complement onboard, and everything was on critical overload. Life support, sanitary facilities, even food and water. But Pegasus wasn’t a warship, not one that could survive even minutes in a battle like the one raging across the system. Her only chance had been to stay hidden, to rely on the stealth device holding out for just a bit longer.
She was still stunned at the nearly miraculous escape from Hermes. Whatever Hegemony commander had been hunting the doomed cruiser, he had been relentless, and highly skilled. She’d been hesitant to believe her trick of sliding Pegasus out of the cruiser’s hull, just before the larger ship was destroyed, could actually work, that it might fool the seemingly unstoppable Hegemony commander.
But it had. She’d never know, she suspected, how much of that she owed to the fleet’s arrival, and to the diversion the resulting systemwide alert had to have had on the ships that had chased down and destroyed Hermes. Would her hunter have continued searching, would he have detected some emission or anomaly that might have given him a scent of Pegasus? She would never know.
She wondered if that Hegemony officer was still alive. The losses on both sides had been beyond horrifying, and the dead numbered in the tens of thousands, if not hundreds of thousands. She’d managed to keep an eye on a single Confederation ship she was almost sure was Dauntless. It was badly damaged, but still there, and that gave her hope that Tyler had survived.
She was still lookin
g at the screen when she saw the Hegemony battle line shudder, almost as one. It took a few seconds to realize what was happening…and a few more to convince herself it really was true.
They are withdrawing. The Hegemony forces are withdrawing.
She felt her eyes becoming watery, her hands almost shaking at her sides. She’d known intellectually that the fleet had a chance in the fight, but she realized in that moment, she had never truly believed it.
Now, she looked out at the symbols on the display, and she watched as the Hegemony ships blasted away their thrusters. Yes, her first thought was correct. They were clearly breaking off from the fight.
She leaned back in her chair, even as she heard the chatter spreading around her, as everyone present began to realize just what they were watching. She stared at the display again, confirming that Pegasus was alone, that there were no enemy ships in range or heading her way.
She’d managed to make it better than halfway back toward the fleet. That was close enough. It was time.
“Lex…” She leaned over the comm unit, taking another breath before she continued. “…you’ve done a magnificent job keeping that stealth unit operational. But I think it’s done its job for us, my friend. Cut it off…now.”
She leaned back again, holding the small microphone in her hand as her fingers moved over the controls, switching to the fleetcom channel. It was time to let the fleet know they were there.
Time to let Tyler know. God only knew what had been going through his mind.
She wasn’t sure what to say, what kind of message to send. As she sat there, a single thought was moving through her mind, again and again, the same thing.