Black Dawn (Blood on the Stars Book 8)

by Jay Allan

  They’d find it eventually, of course, now that they knew it existed, but the fleet wasn’t going to lead them there. Admiral Eaton had set a course out into the depths of unexplored space, and she’d dragged the Hegemony forces along with her. The fleet couldn’t maintain the flight forever, especially without time to stop and search for sources of fuel and other supplies, but every day, week, and month the Confederation got to prepare was worth another fight.

  He glanced at the local area scanner. It was empty, finally devoid of the dozens of his pilots who had clustered around his stricken craft earlier, refusing to leave his side. It had taken orders—from both him and from the commodore—as well as threats, pleas, and finally unrestrained verbal abuse, before he’d finally managed to convince them there was nothing they could do to help him. An escort might have made sense if there were enemy birds on his tail, but he was alone, in the middle of a silent quest to squeeze just enough performance from his tortured instrumentation to make it back.

  He looked over now to the longer-range display. Repulse was actually getting fairly close now, and a quick calculation told him he was about twenty minutes from landing…assuming he could get enough thrust from his engines to decelerate in time. If his power failed, he wouldn’t be able to stop, and he’d sail right by the battleship. That would set off a wild series of rescue operations, all of which he knew would be in vain. He wasn’t sure how long his air would stay breathable, but he figured it would be a close enough match to an optimal landing pattern…and definitely nowhere near long enough for rescue ships to launch and match velocities and all the rest.

  If he missed Repulse, he would die. If he lost too much of his focus, his vision, his attentiveness, he would die. If any of a thousand other things went wrong, he would die.

  Any calculation of his chances was inherently a depressing and demoralizing enterprise, save for one thing.

  “Raptor” Stockton didn’t fail.

  He took a deep breath, about halfway, before he decided it was counterproductive trying to get enough oxygen from the contaminated atmosphere of his ship. He reached down, under the seat, fishing around for the emergency bottle of air he knew was there. It was good for perhaps twenty minutes…which should be just enough.

  He moved his hand all around…until he felt the smooth, cold metal of the air canister. He felt for the finger holds, and then he tugged hard. The bottle resisted for a few seconds, and then it slid out hard, almost slipping out of his grasp as he pulled it free.

  He worked his hand underneath and pulled it up next to him, feeling around for the small mouthpiece he knew was clipped to the top. It came loose with a snap, and a few seconds later, it was strapped across his face, and clean, cool, oxygen-rich air was filling his lungs.

  He didn’t realize how poor the quality of the air he’d been breathing was until he got a few clean breaths. He realized almost at once that he’d never have made it without the bottled air. His head cleared somewhat, and the headache that had been pounding like a sledgehammer eased up. He still felt like something lying in the gutter on some slumworld, but he’d regained some of his normal sharpness.

  “Jake…” He’d normally be called “Raptor” on the battle comm, but he recognized the voice at once, and it explained the first name.

  “Stara…I’m inbound. My bird’s pretty shot up, but I think I can manage.”

  “Your power readings are fluctuating pretty wildly. Maybe you should ditch. I can send out a pair of rescue ships.”

  “No, Stara. That’s no good.”

  “Jake, I know you can land it, but…”

  “It’s not that, Stara. My life support’s blown. I’m on my bottled air now. I can make it back to the ship…just. But if I wait for a rescue ship to match up with me and dock…”

  “All right, Jake…then let’s get you on the beacon. You’d better start decelerating soon…just in case you have any problems.”

  He was surprised for a few seconds that she didn’t argue with him…but then he realized he shouldn’t be. She was often more concerned for his well-being than he was for his own, but she wasn’t one to base her actions on pointless worry. Stara Sinclair was a steel-hard veteran flight control officer, and she’d brought countless wounded pilots in with their damaged ships.

  And she’d lost enough of them, too. She was deadly serious in situations like the current one…regardless of who was flying in the damaged ship.

  “All right, Stara, I’m shifting power to the reverse thrust…now.” Stockton held his breath for a moment. His gut told him he had about a 50/50 chance of the engines firing without any problems.

  The ship shook, and it lurched forward, blasting at full for five seconds, maybe six. Then the engines cut out entirely.

  “Damn…”

  “Jake…I’m getting shaky readings here.”

  “My engines cut out.” Stockton wasn’t panicking. Well, he was panicking a little, but he wasn’t about to let anyone see that.

  “Have your AI activate the backups.”

  “I know what to do, Stara.” He was sorry immediately for the harshness of his tone, but it didn’t stop him from repeating it almost immediately. “I can handle this.”

  He flipped a series of switches. Nothing. Then, he ordered the AI to activate the backup systems.

  “Backups non-responsive.”

  Stockton wasn’t surprised. He figured it was something outside the engines themselves, probably nothing more than a fried series of connections or power feeds. A five-minute fix in the landing bay.

  But enough to finish him off out here.

  He leaned over to the side, checking a series of gauges. Most of them read normal, or close enough, but the last two were dead. He reached out and tapped them both, and then he had the AI run a diagnostic. No power at all.

  “Jake…” Stara had remained quiet for a few minutes, longer than he’d expected, and though he felt an initial burst of anger at the interruption, she had no choice. He had five minutes, maybe six. If he couldn’t get his engines back online by then, he wouldn’t have time to decelerate.

  And if he sailed past Repulse, his chances of holding his ship together long enough to come about seemed pretty damned nil…assuming he could somehow stretch his oxygen long enough to give it a try.

  “I’m working on it, Stara.” He was wracking his brain, but he wasn’t sure what to do next. He had as much a working knowledge of his ship’s guts as any veteran pilot, but he’d worked through most of what he knew how to do, and none of it seemed likely to help.

  “Jake…”

  He turned back to the comm, trying to come up with some kind of answer to satisfy Stara. Only, it wasn’t Stara on the comm now.

  “Captain Fritz?”

  “Yes, Jake. Listen to me carefully. We don’t have much time. Link your AI to the flight control AI. I want to see every readout and report your system is generating.”

  “On it.” He reached out and punched at the small keyboard on his control panel. Stockton wasn’t one to quietly obey instructions, but he knew one thing for certain. If there was anyone in the fleet who could get his ship operational in…four and a half minutes…it was Anya Fritz.

  The comm was silent for a time, perhaps twenty seconds. Stockton’s edginess was growing, but even the legendary Captain Fritz needed some time to review the data.

  “Okay, Jake…I think I know what it is.” A pause. “We’ve got to get you into a hard to reach spot, so get out of your harness…and grab the small emergency toolkit under your chair.”

  Stockton’s hand moved up, punching at the clasp that released the harness. He scrambled out of his seat, reaching down as he did to find the tool pouch.

  “I’ve got the tools…and I’m on the chair, leaning over, facing backwards.” Not for the first time, Stockton wished the designers of the Lightnings had managed to squeeze just a bit more space into the cramped cockpits.

  “Good. You’re going to have to lean down, behind your seat and below th
e bottom of it. Can you see the T-4 access panel?”

  Stockton looked down, his eyes landing on a small access hatch. There was a tiny T-1 next to it.

  Shit.

  He looked down, past the T-2 and T-3 panels. “You weren’t kidding. That’s far down.”

  “It is…and remember, Jake, you’re going to have to get yourself back up. If you get stuck or wedged down there…”

  She didn’t finish. She didn’t need to.

  He twisted his hips, and he felt himself sliding down lower. He very unsure he was going to be able to reverse the movement.

  He reached out, stretching his arms forward. His fingers touched the plate, and he pushed down on the small access control. He half expected it to just sit there, but the tiny door popped open immediately.

  “Okay, I’m in.”

  “You still have the tools?”

  “Yes.” That wasn’t entirely true when he said it. He swung his body to the side, pulling his left arm around—painfully—but getting it just far enough to grab the small pouch.

  “Open the pouch and pull out the number four replacement conduit.” A pause. “And whatever you do, be careful. Don’t drop it. You’ve only got one.”

  “I’ll try to remember that.” Stockton reached his fingers into the pouch, but then he hesitated. His faced was soaked with sweat, and it was pouring into his eyes, making his already blurry vision even worse. His hands were exhausted, and as he tried to hold them steady, he realized how much they were shaking. It would be a miracle if he could manage the repair…and another one if we could actually fly his ship back in both its and his current conditions.

  He poked around until he found what he was looking for. It was a small connector, about three centimeters in length. He looked at it for a moment, suddenly uncomfortable that such a small piece of metal would likely determine if he lived or died.

  “Got it.” He held it tightly, but it still almost slipped away from his moist fingers.

  “Good. Now get as close as you can to the panel. There’s only one number four in there, so you’ll know it when you see it.” A pause. “My guess is, it’s pretty fried, so it might not look just like the new one.”

  Stockton poked his fingers into the small cavity in the side of his ship. There were several different kinds of electrical lines going through the box, but at first, he couldn’t find the one he was looking for. He couldn’t see the chronometer, and he almost asked the AI how much time he had left…but then he decided he didn’t want to know.

  He picked at a section of burnt circuitry, and suddenly, he saw it. It was fried all right…beyond fried. In fact, he almost didn’t recognize it despite Fritz’s warning. The lines flanking it looked like they were in pretty rough shape, too, and he almost asked Fritz if just changing the one connector would be enough.

  He decided he didn’t want to know that either. There was only time to fix the one—if there was time even to do that. If it didn’t work…it didn’t work.

  He pulled his hand back and wiped the sweat off onto his other sleeve. Then he reached back inside and gripped the connector between his fingers. He pulled, but at first it didn’t move. He knew it should have come out easily, but he could see where it had melted into the structure around it.

  He pulled again, and his fingers slipped off. The stress and fear were really starting to get to him.

  He reached in again, and he tightened his fingers…and pulled as hard as he could. His hands ached, but he put as much force as he could into holding onto the small bit of metal…and then it finally gave way, his hand snapping back, slapping him in the face as it did.

  But he’d gotten the conduit out.

  He dropped the blackened chunk of metal and heard it slide down under his chair. Then he grabbed the new one, and he extended his hand back into the small panel. He expected it to resist, for the burnt and damaged bracket to give him trouble putting the new connector in place…but it slid right in.

  “It’s in, Anya.” He managed to keep some of the fear out of his voice.

  “Good…I’ve got to reprogram your AI’s power routing. Meanwhile, you get yourself back in that chair.” He was grateful she’d left out, “in case it works,” or something of the sort, though he didn’t have the slightest doubt she was thinking just that.

  As he was…

  Then she said, “It’s gong to be a rough ride, but you can handle it.”

  Stockton wasn’t exactly a pilot with a confidence problem, but he thought maybe she could have left that last part out, given him a little token encouragement. But Anya Fritz had ice water in her veins. She was the best engineer he’d ever known, but her bedside manner left much to be desired.

  He gritted his teeth and swung his body hard, rolling over to the side and reaching out to claw his way back up. He got himself up—just—and he tried not to think about how close he’d come to not making it.

  He slid down into the chair, grabbing the harness and pulling it around, slipping the connector in place with a loud snap. The he leaned back and closed his eyes, taking one deep breath and trying to center himself, to get his focus on what he had to do now.

  Assuming his hurried repair worked, that is.

  As he was exhaling, Fritz’s voice came through on his headset. “We’re all set, Jake. I need you to power up the engines…but slowly. Slowly.”

  He reached down toward the control, grabbing it and pulling back just the smallest bit. For an instant, he didn’t think the engines were responding. It hadn’t worked. He was done.

  Then he felt the thrust, the slightest bit of pressure pushing against him. He pulled his arm back, a bit more…and then more.

  The engines were working!

  He eased it back using infinitesimal taps…but then his eyes fixed on the chronometer. He was decelerating too slowly. He was out of time.

  Even as he was noticing, Stara’s voice came through the headset, where Fritz’s had been a moment before. “All right, Jake…you need to decelerate a bit faster. We don’t have much time left.”

  We don’t have any time left…

  He’d been cautious, exerted all care he could manage…but now it was time to get back to Repulse. Or not to get back.

  He pulled back, a bit harder at first, and then, all the way in one hard push. He half-expected the engines to die out, for his thrust to fail…but then he felt the massive wall of force blasting out, decelerating his ship, even as he saw Repulse looking large on his monitor.

  He watched as the velocity dropped, struggling to turn his head enough to get a view under the massive thrust. His dampeners were down, and he was taking the full force of better than 15g. His entire body hurt, and he could feel a muscle pull in his shoulder, the tissues in his body tearing away from the cartilage, spreading agony down half his body. The pain was almost unbearable, but he focused, gripped the throttle with the last strength he could muster…and then he shouted out, a long guttural cry against the pain.

  He tried to calculate, to figure out if he’d decelerated in time, if he could make the landing bay, or if he would sail past, to almost certain death. It was hard to keep the figures in his head…it was hard even to keep from blacking out. But his velocity was dropping rapidly, and his best guess was, he’d made the insertion angle.

  Barely.

  It was another ninety seconds or so, a minute and a half of unrelenting agony, but then he let the controls go and gasped a breath into his tortured lungs, as the relief of freefall eased the pain he felt almost everywhere. He’d done it. He was on a landing pattern, his velocity down to two hundred meters a second.

  He could see Repulse up ahead now. At a range of less than two kilometers, the massive battleship covered his entire field of view. He tapped his throttle lightly, angling his vector toward the landing bay, and slowing his velocity further. Even the slight movement of his arm sent pain through his body…and, suddenly, he had a wave of fear, a worry that he was too battered, that he wouldn’t be able to complete the landing.


  No…this is not how Raptor Stockton dies…

  He’d never realized how large a part ego played in the abilities set of a fighter ace. There was training at play now, skill, experience…but Stockton knew the thing that would play the largest part in saving him now was defiance. He was just too stubborn to die, at least not without a dozen enemy birds chasing him down.

  He could feel the darkness coming, that last of his vision barely hanging on. He was coughing hard now, and he could feel fluid building in his chest.

  The range was under a kilometer now, and he tapped his thrusters, reducing his velocity again, even as the large hatch leading to the landing bay loomed before him.

  His ship was shaking hard, pitching in every direction, and he knew it wasn’t going to last much longer. But it didn’t have to. He held on, somehow, even as the ship slipped past the hatch and into the bay.

  He was going a little faster than ideal landing speed, and he fired the positioning jets one last time—normally a no go in the bay—sending his ship down a bit hard to the deck…and then to soft collision with the wall.

  It wasn’t a pretty landing, not even a decent one. But it was one he’d survived…and without taking out the bay. Right now, he’d take that.

  He forced a painful smile, just for a few seconds. Then, the last of his strength slipped away, and he fell into blackness.

  Chapter Seven

  The Promenade

  Spacer’s District

  Port Royal City, Planet Dannith, Ventica III

  Year 316 AC

  “No…I’m okay, Vig.” There was edge in Andi Lafarge’s voice, but no anger, at least not any directed at her loyal comrade. She was sore as hell, and a little shakier on her feet than she liked, but she’d spent as long lying in a bed as she was going to. She had work to do. She had to find out what had happened to Gary Holsten.