by Jay Allan
Eaton’s evasive maneuvers had been brilliant, but also a little rough on the occupants of the ship. Even some of the vessel’s veteran crew members had lost the contents of their stomachs, and Santorini could only imagine what the corridors and operational stations looked and smelled like. Sickbay had a priority call on resources, and with that distinction had come, at least, enough maintenance bots to keep the medical facility more or less cleaned up, save for the occasional sheen of newly spilled blood. It was a luxury she suspected many other areas of the ship could only dream of.
“Yes, Nora…I’m here.” Tony Wright was dressed in the same scrubs, and Repulse’s second surgeon looked no less a blood-soaked nightmare than Santorini. Twelve hours of battle had many implications, but right at the top of the list was a steady—almost unending—stream of battered and broken bodies pouring into the infirmary.
“We’ve got another six coming in…the bots should be here with them in two minutes, three tops. Outer compartment breach. At least four went out…” The crew members sucked into space were dead, of course. She might have saved them after half a minute’s exposure, but that was all theoretical, as there had been no way to recover them at all. “…these have burns, pressure injuries, and God knows what else.” She’d been focused on the patient laying on the table in front of her, but then she looked up and stared across the small space toward Wright. Her face was smeared with blood, and a sweat-soaked strand of her light brown hair hung down over her left eye. “We need someplace to put them. We’re out of medpods…” She paused, looking around the room, an affectation of hers more than anything else. She couldn’t see anything of note from where she stood, and she wasn’t really paying attention to anything within her sight anyway. “Pods 15 and 19…we’ll need to get those clear and ready for use.”
“Nora…” There was surprise in Wright’s voice, and a touch of horror. “…we’ve got patients in those pods.”
“They’re hopeless, Tony, and you know that.” Even worse than Fritz and Billings, she realized…though she suspected, a good case could be made that she should probably clean out their pods as well.
No…they’ve still got a chance. I know they do. The two officers in 15 and 19 were outright hopeless. One was braindead, or damned close to it, and the other one might have had a miniscule chance at the fleet hospitals back on Megara or Grimaldi, but she didn’t have the time or the resources for the wildly experimental surgeries that might give him a sliver of a chance.
She glanced down at the patient on her table and then back toward Wright. The doctor was just standing there, unmoving. “Now, Tony…move your ass. We’ve got more casualties coming, and if you don’t clear out those pods, we’re going to have dead people here we could have saved…and fifteen and nineteen will be dead anyway.” Her words were harsh, her tone caustic. She was worn to a nub, exhausted, and she had no energy left to cushion her remarks or smooth the bluntness of her commands. She’d be damned if she’d lose anyone she could save, even if she had to dump the current occupants of those pods out to die faster, and anyone who didn’t like it could go to hell. “Administer a level five dose of sedatives and pain meds. “She had to leave two of Repulse’s crew members to die—far from the first in the last twelve hours—but, she would see that they didn’t suffer at least. She’d have ordered a lethal dose if regs permitted, but that would have required a signoff by three officers including the captain, and there wasn’t time for that.
“Yes, Nora.” Wright didn’t sound happy, but she knew he’d obey. He didn’t have the stomach for a toe to toe contest with her…and he knew as well as she did that leaving the hopeless cases in the pods could cost lives they could save. Wright was a little weak, she’d always thought, but he was a good doctor, and he was a military officer just as she was. He understood the realities of practicing medicine in the middle of a battle…and he would never let a patient he could save die over complicated ethical decisions.
She leaned back down, pulling the small laser fuser across her patient’s chest. The surgery had been touch and go for a while, and there’d been a few minutes when she’d thought she was going to lose the badly injured spacer. But, he’d make it. He would survive…assuming, of course, Repulse did.
And, we don’t lose power down here…
She jerked herself upright, shouting out a series of sharp commands to the two medical technicians in the room…medpod settings, medications, a schedule for following up after surgery. Even as she finished, she was halfway out of the alcove, back into the main area of the battleship’s primary sickbay. Things were crazy, as they’d been the last half a day, and she didn’t expect them to slack off anytime soon. There were patients waiting at the triage station, segmented by degree of urgency. She didn’t have time…she had to get to the next wounded spacer.
But, she slipped inside one of the small rooms to the side first, grabbing a syringe and jabbing it into her arm as she leaned over the two medpods sitting next to each other. Anya Fritz’s face lay just below the clear cover, looking a bit gaunt, perhaps, but giving no indication of how desperately, critically ill the officer truly was. Santorini sucked in a deep gulp of air, feeling the stimulant take effect as it spread through her blood stream. She’d been shooting up recklessly, and unlike many of Repulse’s overworked officers, she knew just what the powerful drugs were doing to her body. But, it didn’t matter, not then. She had to keep going, and she would do whatever it took…even if she dropped dead the minute she was done.
“Hang on, Captain,” Santorini said softly, glancing one more time at Fritz’s serene face. “Stay with me, and I’ll pull you through…somehow.” She glanced over at Billings, and then back again to Fritz. Then, she took another deep breath, and she plunged out into the chaos of the infirmary. She had work to do…and far to travel before she slept…
* * *
“We’re getting the recall command, Captain.” A pause, and then Fuller continued, “All fleet units are to proceed toward the Bellus transit point.” There was something in the tactical officer’s voice. Exhaustion, certainly, but also…relief? Sonya knew her people were close to the breaking point, that for all their courage and stamina, they didn’t have much more to give. But, she had a good idea just how difficult the retreat would be. The enemy ships would be on them all the way, and showing their blind sterns, the battleships of the fleet might as well be in a shooting gallery.
Admiral Winters has to know that. He must have…
“We’re ordered to refit fighter squadrons as quickly as possible…and to launch every ship in thirty minutes, in whatever state it is in.” Fuller’s voice was grim. It was clear he couldn’t imagine asking yet more from the shattered fighter wings, any more than she could.
Still, despite her initial reaction, it was clear there was no choice. She’d realized Winters needed a way to buy his battleships time to escape, and she realized even as she felt resistance to the order, it was the only way.
“Issue the orders, Commander.” She held her voice as resolute as she could, even as she closed her eyes, trying to ban the image of Olya Federov’s face from her thoughts. She couldn’t imagine the state her pilots were in, the fatigue and mental state afflicting every pilot in the fleet. It was nothing less than murder to send them out again, especially now, without the support of the withdrawing battle line…and without a chance to properly outfit them all. She knew she’d be sending some of them out with no torpedoes, and perhaps half filled with fuel.
And, she didn’t have a choice. Winters didn’t either.
Federov will understand that. How many of the others will?
Or, will their rage at Stockton’s loss carry them even farther…how many of them, bitter and distraught, will welcome the chance to go out there yet again?
“Flight control acknowledges, Captain. Commander Sinclair advises she’ll have the squadrons launched in twenty minutes, whatever it takes.”
Sonya nodded. It was all she could manage in that moment, as she tho
ught of Stara Sinclair, devastated at Stockton’s loss, exhausted, yet still so in control. And, the pilots, preparing to go out yet again. They weren’t fools, and they knew what a desperate race they’d have to make to land before the fleet reached the transit point and bugged out…and yet they were standing even now by their ships, ready to launch one more time.
She took another breath, deep, and she held it for a good fifteen seconds. Then, she exhaled, feeling the air pass through her mouth for what seemed like minutes. She closed her eyes, for just a few seconds…and then, she heard Fuller’s voice again, a startled sound in the officer’s tone.
“Captain, we’re picking something up, coming from behind the enemy fleet, from their entry transit point.”
Sonya turned around, abruptly, with so much force she almost pulled a muscle in her neck. It hardly mattered if more enemy forces were coming through, of course. The Hegemony fleet didn’t need any more, not to finish Winters’s disintegrating formation.
But, as she looked at the display, she saw that the energy signature was small, miniscule. Repulse was barely even picking up the energy from the transit…it was mostly pulling in the comm signal the tiny ship was blasting forward, directly toward the fleet.
She pulled on her headset, flipping the channel to the incoming signal…but there was nothing but static. The ship was too far, still, with too much Hegemony jamming between it and the fleet.
“Put this through the computer, John…see if we can clean it up.”
“Yes, Captain.”
She looked up at the display, wondering what she could be looking at, what kind of vessel could have come from behind the enemy forces to frantically signal the fleet. She had a brief thought, the flash of an idea…but she pushed it away. Impossible.
But, then, who is that out there?
* * *
“Commander, it appears the enemy forces are commencing a retreat.” Venticles knelt before the large pedestal, his voice somber, even by the standards of normal communication with so highly-ranked a Master as Chronos.
“Very well, Venticles.” It is about time. Chronos had expected the enemy to break off much sooner. It was logical that they would seek to exploit perceived logistical weaknesses affecting an invader, to fall back on their own supply lines, while pulling the Hegemony forces farther from their own. It was a logical tactic, indeed one the early Hegemony had employed against the Others.
It was that experience, that single success in the otherwise costly and almost disastrous encounter with the Others, that had led to the development of the support fleet. Freighters, tankers, factory ships, even a dozen immense mobile shipyards. The support armada was as incredible a creation as the war fleet itself, and as crucial to ultimate success in a war so far from the Hegemony’s primary bases. Chronos had expected the enemy to fight a hit and run campaign, to pull back from one defensible position to another, forcing his vessels to expend fuel and ordnance.
It was the right call, the tactically correct choice. But, it wouldn’t work. The support fleet could replenish his vessels in days, a week at most, after the most intense battles…and then the massive Hegemony host would move forward, perhaps even before the Rim dwellers could draw on their own interior lines to refit their battered forces.
He’d been confident, supremely so, both that he was correct in his assessment of enemy plans, and also that his own relentless advance would work. He had complete maps of the Confederation now, and of most of the rest of the Rim…spoils of war from Dannith. The Rim nations were larger than he’d believed at first, but that was of no particular concern. More spoils, more genetic material to build the Hegemony, to take it into the future.
To prepare to face the Others when they return.
But, Chronos had experienced a moment of doubt, in the current battle. The enemy force had remained in the system, they had continued the fight…and his own losses vastly exceeded even his most pessimistic estimates. The Rim dwellers had always been stubborn and skilled in battle. He’d known that before he’d even taken command of the fleet. What he’d seen over the past hours, however, exceeded all he’d witnessed before, every account he’d read, every recorded stream of combat operations from the preceding engagements.
Perhaps it is because we are nearing their more significant systems…
He’d expected the enemy to fight hard for a while, and then to lose hope, for their morale to fade, their fighting spirit to desert them…and compel them to yield, to surrender. But, if anything, they were becoming fiercer in their resistance, more stubborn. The reports from Dannith suggested that even there, on that border world, the enemy was still fighting, its warriors striking from hidden bases, and prolonging the pacification effort.
He’d reset his projections, allowed for greater losses and the need to concentrate even stronger forces to the forefront of each assault. For a short while, he almost believed the enemy fleet was going to fight to the end in the current system. He might have imagined that as a possible end to the conflict, assumed that the enemy would surrender once their fleet was annihilated…but the captured data from Dannith suggested the Confederation’s forces were much larger than what he had seen so far.
What are they waiting for? I expected them to mass everything they had against us…
Now, Venticles had finally delivered the report he had expected hours before. His plan was still operative, and his confidence that he knew what the enemy’s next actions would be was renewed. They would retreat, choose another system to defend. That would become harder, of course, from their perspective as his fleet continued its relentless advance, creating multiple possible routes for him to follow with each new system.
He could divert his forces toward their intensely developed manufacturing area—Iron Belt, they call it, he reminded himself—or he could move to approach their Core systems.
He could seek to cut off sections of the Confederation, or to move to block access to their allies farther out to the Far Rim—the Alliance, he recalled. He had many options.
But, he had seriously considered only one. The fleet would advance, as soon as the support train arrived. His ships would refuel enroute, they would continue forward on the course he had set, engaging any enemy forces that stopped to face them. There would be no deviation.
He looked at the large screen on the wall in front of him, displaying a section of the Confederation star map, and a jagged blue line connecting several systems…the course he had already commanded the fleet to follow.
It was a direct line, through a number of heavily-populated and developed systems, all of which would be blockaded, and then invaded one by one as ground forces moved forward. But, the main battle fleet would hardly stop, nor even slow its movement. It would continue forward, to the one target chosen for the maximum effect on enemy morale. For its ability to compel the enemy to combine all of their forces to one climactic battle.
Chronos didn’t want to spend months chasing multiple task forces across dozens of systems. He wanted to break the enemy, and end the war, before he had to annihilate the Confederation forces. He wanted to gain the enemy’s surrender, not obliterate them. The Rim dwellers would strength the Hegemony with their addition, and the sooner he could break their will, the better.
Their warriors were impressive, their courage and skill undeniable. They would make fine additions to the legions of Kriegeri.
That was why he had chosen the target he had, why his ship was on course directly toward a single location, and one planet in particular in that system.
Megara.
Chapter Thirty-Three
Communique from First Citizen Villieneuve of the Peoples’ Union
It is with great pleasure I extend to you of the Hegemony the profound and heartfelt greetings of the Peoples’ Union. We have become aware, with great understanding and empathy, of your conflict with the Stellar Confederation. We of the Union have been in your position, and have stood here on the Rim against the tyranny and expansionism of the Conf
ederation for a century. We watched in astonishment as the Confederation forces formed their fleet and pushed deep toward the old imperial core, seeking to find any such as yourselves, with conquest in their minds, and a ruthless intent to bring any they discovered under their own rule.
I, as First Citizen, make you this offer, on behalf of all of my people. We are prepared to join you in your conflict, fight at your side, and as allies, see to the final and complete destruction of the Confederation that so threatens both of our nations. When the danger of this aggressive and destruction power is washed away, both we of the Rim and you of the Imperial Core can look to a future of peace and mutual cooperation.
I have ordered our fleet to move to our border with the Union, prepared to advance as soon as a treaty is signed between our nations. I entrust this message to one of my highest-ranking diplomats, and I have authorized him to take all steps necessary to reach an understanding between our peoples, and to forge a path for our armed forces to fight together against our shared enemy.
UFS Illustre
Pollux System
Union-Confederation Border
Union Year 221 (317 AC)
Andrei Denisov sat in the center of Illustre’s bridge, looking out over the more than twenty officers at their various workstations, attending to both the operations of the large battleship and the fleet she led. The admiral was silent, immersed in his own thoughts and concerns. Still, it was hard for him to ignore the satisfaction he felt at the size and power of the vessel surrounding him, or at the fact that Illustre was but a single unit in the fleet he commanded. The Union navy had not recovered to its previous size or power yet, certainly, but for a man like Denisov, whose obscure beginnings lay behind him in the shadowy mists of years long past, the command of such a force seemed almost impossible to grasp as reality.