by Jay Allan
Winters sighed quietly, and rubbed his hand across his mouth. He tried not to think of the inhabitants of Dannith…nor of the thousands of Marines he was leaving behind to wage a hopeless battle to hold the planet. He tried not to think of the enormity of the defeat, of the vastness of the enemy forces. With all he had in him, the resolve and stubbornness that had always made him who he was, he tried to focus on one thing and one thing only.
The battle was lost, yes. But the war wasn’t over.
Not yet. Not by a long shot…
* * *
“Captain, we’re receiving orders…” There was a short pause as the officer listened to something on his headset. Then he turned abruptly. “The fleet is breaking off, Captain. We’re to proceed to the Carthago transit point at full thrust, at once.”
Sonya Eaton had known the order was coming, and she was relieved to get it. Repulse was badly battered, and she knew her vessel couldn’t hold its place in the line much longer, and certainly not when the enemy’s second line entered into range and opened up with its railguns. But she was upset as well. Running didn’t sit well with her.
You can be sure it doesn’t sit any better with Admiral Winters. They don’t call him “The Sledgehammer” because he likes to run away…
“Very well, Commander.” John Fuller had proven to be an extremely capable tactical officer. Sonya had spent so much time in that position—first under Tyler Barron, and later, her sister the Commodore, she felt like a strong judge of what it took.
“Navigation is to lay in a course to the Carthago point, Commander. Engines, prepare for full thrust.” There was no need to plot the course. Her people had done that an hour before. There had been no orders then, but both the inevitability of the fleet’s withdrawal, and the course that flight would take, had been obvious.
“Yes, Captain.” She listened as Fuller relayed the orders. Then: “Captain, course is logged into the nav computer. Commencing engine thrust now.”
But nothing happened.
Fuller turned toward his station, and Sonya could see his hands flying across the controls. He was snapping out commands into the internal comm unit, and she could see from his expression, he didn’t like what he was getting back on his headset.
“Engines not responding, Captain,” he said an instant later. “There is some kind of systemic power failure.” A pause. “Engineering is working on it.” His tone sounded less than confident.
Working on it? What the hell does that mean?
“Get me Captain Fritz.” It was strange having another officer aboard with the same rank as the ship’s commander, but Anya Fritz wasn’t officially Repulse’s chief engineer. The incredibly gifted officer—Sonya had heard the nickname, “The Sorcerer” more than once—had been the White Fleet’s overall engineering commander, a strange designation that had little utility in the middle of a battle, save for taking over repair operations on whatever ship she was on.
“Captain Fritz is…unreachable.”
“Unreachable? What the hell does that mean?” Sonya wasn’t angry, not really, but the tension was building. She could see the rest of the fleet already pulling back…and the vast line of enemy forces coming on. If those engines didn’t fire up soon—very soon—Repulse was as good as dead.
“She’s working on the problem, Captain.” Fuller turned, and Sonya could see at once something was terribly wrong. The officer’s face had lost all color, and he stared back at her with a cold look in his eyes. “She and Commander Billings are in reactor three, Captain, trying to repair the issue. They’re alone there, and the radiation barriers have activated. The blast doors have moved into place.” A pause. “They’re stuck there, Captain…and the rad levels are way past safe limits.”
Sonya turned to her workstation and pulled up the report herself. “Past safe limits” was a nice way of saying “deep in lethal levels.” The Confederation’s best engineer, and Repulse’s department head, were trapped in the reactor, alone, bathed in deadly radiation…trying to find a miracle, a way to save the ship from the certain destruction that was rapidly approaching.
Oh my God…
* * *
Stockton looked straight ahead as his fighter ripped through space, back toward Repulse. He’d gotten the fleet withdrawal order, and he’d commanded his squadrons to break off and blast back to their motherships immediately. The attack had been a successful one, if incomplete. About thirty of his hundred or so bombers still had their torpedoes…but if he hadn’t ordered them to head back at once, they wouldn’t have had a chance of getting back before their motherships were out of range. He hated ditching the warheads, but there hadn’t been any choice.
He might have condoned suicidal attacks by those pilots to save the fleet, or even to win the battle…but there was little to be gained now by such sacrificial bravery. Thirty more direct hits wouldn’t have changed a thing…and he wasn’t going to send pilots to almost certain death for nothing.
Repulse wasn’t far now…less than sixty thousand kilometers. He couldn’t see the ship, but somehow, his eyes placed the image in his view anyway. He’d flown so many missions, much of it had become reflexive to him.
He glanced at his screen, and his face morphed into a frown. Something was wrong.
Repulse was there, right where she should be. Or, rather, right where she had been. The ship should have been at least ten thousand kilometers toward the Carthago point…but she hadn’t moved at all, beyond the effect of the marginal velocity she’d carried during the fight.
He checked his other screens and indicators. Most of the squadrons were closing on their landing platforms. He could call back the thirty birds with torpedoes, form up a line in front of Repulse. He almost activated the comm…but then he leaned back and laughed bitterly at himself.
You may be the legendary Jake Stockton, but what, exactly, are you going to do with thirty bombers to hold back that? He stared at the vast formations moving unstoppably forward, four distinct lines of ships already, and incredibly, more still transiting into the system. Nothing could save Repulse. Not unless the ship could get its engines online. Now.
But from what he could see, it looked like she was dead in space.
Calling in the other squadrons wouldn’t achieve anything except racking up the count of dead pilots. But Repulse was home for the Blues and the Eagles, and that gave them a special stake in saving the big ship. He checked his display, doing some quick calculations. Could he send the two squadrons to one of the other battleships, get them landed somewhere before the fleet began transiting?
Maybe. His quick run of the numbers suggested they might just make it to the closest of the fleeing vessels. It looked a lot like a fifty-fifty proposition to him, and even if the fighters did get there in time, they’d been running on their last drops of fuel, and trying to land on battleships that were blasting at full thrust was a delicate operation. It wasn’t impossible for his people to pull it off…but it didn’t seem very likely either.
Not likely enough to give up mounting even a hopeless defense of their mothership…and relying on Anya Fritz and get engineers to work another miracle.
“Blues and Eagles…Repulse is in trouble. We’ve got to do what we can to buy her some time.”
What the hell are you going to do? Not one of these birds has a torpedo, and your piddling little lasers aren’t going to scratch the paint off those monsters…
He had an idea, one that seemed crazy even for him. The Hegemony didn’t use fighters, and, despite their increasing effectiveness at point defense operations, they had to be still learning the doctrine and the realities of facing clouds of small attack ships. Confederation fleet AIs tracked fighters individually and maintained a database on how long they’d been out, what weapons they’d fired, and how much power they’d expended. A Confederation AI would know what enemy fighters had launched torpedoes, and which had taken damage or expended most of their fuel. Stockton was going to bet the enemy didn’t have that kind of system in ope
ration.
“Blues and Eagles, with me. Reverse course, and move into attack formation beta. We’re going back in at those two monsters closest to Repulse.” It made no sense, none at all, as his confused pilots told him almost immediately. Not one of his ships had a torpedo. What was the point of mounting an attack run that ended in no attack?
“Listen up…Repulse needs time.” That was a guess. For all he knew, there wasn’t a chance that the ship would get its engines back online before the enemy blasted her to scrap. But he couldn’t change that…and if there were repair operations underway with some hope of success, he just might buy them a little extra time. “If those ships haven’t tracked individual fighters, they might think we’ve got torpedoes…and if they have to evade us, it will slow their approach to Repulse. It won’t buy much time…but maybe it will give the captain the time she needs to get the ship the hell out of there.” Stockton was amazed at how confident he managed to sound. The plan was pure desperation, a wild, dangerous attempt to gain nothing more than a few, probably pointless, minutes.
And we’re going to burn a lot of fuel doing this…
He didn’t know if his fighters would be able to get back, if their exhausted fuel supplies would hold out long enough to catch a fleeing Repulse, even if they were able to help save the battleship.
And he didn’t want to know. Not now.
It wouldn’t change what he did anyway.
“Full thrust, all of you. With me!” He pulled back the throttle and blasted hard toward the rapidly approaching enemy.
Chapter Fourteen
Orbit to Ground Shuttle
Troyus City, Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 317 AC
“Should we be taking the public shuttle?” Andi stared at the Omicron Transit logo on the far wall of the small, sleek craft. She was leaning toward Gary Holsten, whispering into her companion’s ear. She was edgy about going down to the surface on a regularly scheduled flight. It seemed so…obvious, so defenseless.
“We’re far safer hiding out in the open, Andi. We’d draw more attention chartering a private shuttle.”
Holsten was right…going down any other way would have been about the same as screaming, “Look at me, look at me,” into the comm.
“That may be, but I don’t like it.” She shut up after that last comment. Talking too much, even whispering while they were in public, could only increase the danger. Working so closely with Holsten had given her a clearer view of just how much the Confederation spied on its own citizens. She didn’t think there would be listening devices hidden on the shuttle…but she wasn’t sure there weren’t either. She’d always considered herself a relentless cynic, but she realized she’d been naïve about many things, too. She’d never expected to include so many government operatives among her circle of close friends…and yet, she realized they were swimmers struggling against an invincible tide. However hard they tried, the almost unstoppable trend was always toward liberty’s death.
She leaned back, shaking her head and moving away from thoughts about things she couldn’t change. She had more pressing matters at hand. She wasn’t even sure she was tense because she was concerned about taking the shuttle down, or if it was because that option had forced her to leave her weapons behind. All of them.
Megara wasn’t Dannith, where a visitor could dock and saunter out into the street with a pistol holstered at one’s side. Arrivals were tightly controlled, and even if she’d been able to secure the necessary permits, carrying any kind of weapon—much less even a partial chunk of the considerable arsenal she had on Pegasus—would draw dangerous attention.
She’d just have to find what she needed after they landed. Maybe she could track down Colonel Peterson…assuming the Marine had managed to escape the dangerous attention that had likely followed the rescue operation. He’d have weapons stashed, she was sure of that. She’d have to tell him something, give him a reason she needed them. A lie, of course. Going up against Ricard Lille was no more Peterson’s fight than it was anyone else’s, and if the Marine colonel knew what she was planning, he’d insist on helping her.
This was her vendetta, and she had to do it alone.
If I can’t find Peterson, I’ll have to see what Megara’s seedy underworld has to offer. She’d plied her trade among that kind of element all along the frontier, but the capital was a different animal entirely. It would be harder to find the people she needed—though she had no doubt at all that they were there—and, almost certainly, far more expensive. But that was okay. Money wasn’t a problem, and she suspected sleazy smugglers and gunrunners were cut from the same cloth, whether they were working the wild frontier or ensconced in high end establishments in the Confederation’s Core.
“Andi…when we get down to the surface, I want you to lie low.” Holsten reached into the small carry bag at his side, pulling out a small data chip. “My resources aren’t what they once were, but I think I’ve got an alias that will keep you safely hidden. At least you’ll be able to get a hotel room and conduct yourself in the open.” He paused. “I’d take you with me, but I’ll be reaching out to people who are almost certainly being watched—if they’re not all locked up by now—and I don’t want to spook any of them with someone they don’t know.” His voice was hesitant. Andi took it as a compliment that Holsten respected her own abilities enough to feel he had to explain why he wasn’t going to bring her to his meetings. Of course, the spymaster had no idea it served her purposes perfectly, that she needed to be alone more than he did, and she’d been wondering how she could give him the slip.
“That’s fine, Gary…I understand.” She reached out and took the chip. “I’ll find a hotel and…and I’ll lie low until you contact me.” She didn’t like lying to Holsten, but she didn’t see any alternative. He already felt guilty about luring her into his service and sending her to Dannith. She hadn’t told him how badly she’d been abused, though her physical condition when she’d been rescued had told much of the story. If she even hinted she was going after Ricard Lille by herself, Holsten would flip…and he’d probably chain her to his side.
“That’s good.” He seemed hesitant, suspicious, perhaps just by instinct. But then it faded, and he just nodded.
He handed her a small comm unit. “Take this…I’ll call you on it when I can. With any luck, I’ll make the contacts I need quickly, and we’ll get a good idea of just what we’re facing here.”
Andi already knew what she was facing. There was a good enough chance that neither she nor Holsten would leave Megara, but if she had to bet, she’d have put her money on Holsten making it. She didn’t doubt the spy had men and women who would be loyal to him. He was in grave danger, but she believed he would pull it off.
She was far less certain that she could do what she’d come to do. Ricard Lille was one of the most skilled killers on the Rim. He was brilliant, experienced…and incredibly dangerous. She had to go after him. She couldn’t live with herself if she didn’t. But she was far from certain she could win the duel that lay before her. It would be the fight of her life…and very likely, her last.
Holsten wasn’t a pilot, at least not as far as she knew, but she’d programmed Pegasus’s AI to obey the spy…and to leave without her if he got to the ship alone. The AI could get Pegasus through the transit point, even all the way to Archellia…as long as the departure wasn’t a headlong flight from pursuit. And if Holsten couldn’t get to Pegasus, he could probably find another way out. She knew she’d be abandoning him. She was sad about that, just as she’d been sad lying to Tyler and leaving him behind to face his own bloody trials. But she didn’t have a choice.
She knew she was obsessed, that her need to kill Ricard Lille had crossed beyond the borders of sanity. That realization didn’t change anything. She knew what she had to do.
She looked up at Holsten and managed a small grin. She hoped her friend would make it out—and she’d left a message for Tyler Barron on Pegasus she knew Holsten would deliver.
* * *
Van Striker turned over, trying for about the thousandth time to get comfortable. His injuries had mostly healed, except for the one or two small infections oozing pus on his arm. After the brutal surgical search for tracking devices, his captors had mostly left him alone. In fact, he hadn’t been out of the basement cell where they’d imprisoned him for what he guessed—and all he could do without hint of sunlight and nightfall was guess—had been at least a month.
Striker was a hard sort, the type who’d gotten a high as a young officer by enduring pain and hardship without complaint, whose early sense of self-worth was enduring more than his comrades could stand. He’d been considered unbreakable, impervious to any amount of abuse, willing and ready to do whatever it took to get the job done. There’d been some truth in all of that, he fancied, and he certainly hadn’t done anything to hold back the talk and the reputation it spawned. But, sitting in the cold, damp confines of his makeshift prison, he’d come face to face with the reality. He was worn, on the edge. He didn’t know what was going on outside the confines of the nine square meters of his current home, but he knew now that Sector Nine was involved, and that meant, whatever the specifics, it was probably a full-blown crisis.