by Jay Allan
If we’re going to do this, we owe it to ourselves to hurt these bastards as much as we can. “You are authorized to launch all wings, Captain.” She paused, sucking in a raspy breath. “Good luck, Raptor. Give them hell.”
She listened to Stockton’s acknowledgement without really hearing it. She tried to hope for the best, to retain some shred of optimism, but in her heart, she believed Jake Stockton and his pilots were launching their fighters for the last time. She’d analyzed and re-analyzed the enemy fleet, imagined countless tactics and battle plans…but her people were just outgunned. The enemy had more powerful weapons, longer ranges…and bigger and more ships. She could hurt them, perhaps badly…she was sure enough of that. But she couldn’t win.
“Sonya…issue a fleet order. All ships are to increase reactor and battery output to one hundred ten percent. We’re going to give these bastards everything we’ve got.” She had made a concerted effort to speak formally to her sister on the bridge, ever since the younger Eaton had transferred from Dauntless. She’d used Sonya’s rank when addressing her, and hid any emotion she felt looking across the few meters toward her sibling. Now she let that small bit of her iron discipline slide away. She believed they were both going to die in the hours to come…and she wouldn’t deny either of them the last bit of closeness they would likely ever share.
“Yes, Admiral.” Sonya’s voice was crisp, sharp. Whatever fear she felt was clearly under firm control, and her determination to fight was utterly clear. Sara was proud of the woman and officer her sister had become, though she also felt a touch of sorrow that Sonya couldn’t as easily repeat her own informality. Such things flowed far more easily down the chain of command than up.
Sara turned and looked around the bridge, wondering as she did what was truly going through the minds of her people. From the first moment she’d ordered her ships to set a course for unexplored space, they’d all known that their prospects were grim, that utter destruction was the likeliest end to their desperate flight. She also knew such things were easier to accept when they lay in the future, and far darker and more imposing when the moment was at last at hand. The crew looked normal, or close to it, focused on their stations, their duties. Still, she had a pretty good idea of the thoughts ripping through their minds…if only because they were in her own as well.
“All ships acknowledge, Admiral. They all report at battle stations and ready, power systems at one hundred ten percent.” A short pause. “Six vessels report unable to comply fully due to battle damage. I’ve sent a list to your screen.”
Sara glanced down, but she didn’t really look. She knew the condition of every vessel in the fleet, and she was painfully aware of the six with reactor or power system damage.
She took a deep breath, watching as more and more tiny dots appeared in the display. Her squadrons, what was left of her exhausted and battered fighter corps, were moving out in front of the fleet, preparing to strike the enemy one more time.
But this time, they won’t be fighting alone.
Chapter Eighteen
High Orbit
Planet Megara, Olyus III
Year 316 AC
“Do what they say, Lieutenant.” It went against Tyler Barron’s very core to yield to an enemy. But right now he wasn’t facing an enemy. He was in a shuttle high above the Confederation’s capital, and the men and women threatening to fire on him were pilots serving the same navy he did. He didn’t really have any options to fight or resist anyway…but he wasn’t sure he would have used them, even if he did.
“Yes, sir.” The pilot’s voice was frail, shaky. Barron wondered how Stockton would have reacted if he’d been here, at the controls. Whatever his veteran fighter commander might have done, he realized the young pup of a pilot sitting next to him was well out of his depth.
“It’s okay, son. Just follow their instructions and bring the ship into whatever bay they tell you to. I’m sure they’ll let you go back as soon as I disembark.”
Actually, Barron wasn’t sure of anything at all. He was reacting, trying to defuse the situation…but he couldn’t, for the life of him, imagine why he would be under arrest. He’d come back without most of his fleet, and he could see that provoking questions, even a board of inquiry in some instances…barring, of course, the historic news he’d brought back. But four squadrons of fighters surrounding him like he was public enemy number one? It just didn’t compute.
For an instant, he’d forgotten why he was even there at all. The Hegemony. He had the most vital and deadly piece of news, perhaps in all of Confederation history, and the people he’d come to warn were arresting him? He wondered if they would listen at all now to what he’d come to report, and a cold feeling went through him. He’d come all this way, left most of his people behind, to get the warning to the Senate. There wasn’t time for…whatever this was. They had to listen to him, and they had to listen immediately.
He reached down to the comm. “This is Admiral Barron. I have instructed my pilot to follow all instructions. There will be no resistance.” He was surprised at how difficult it was to say those words. He had to be careful now…if any kind of fight broke out, not only was his shuttle likely to be the first ship destroyed, but the confusion would wreak havoc on the delivery of the warning Dauntless had brought back to Megara.
Barron looked over at the pilot and nodded. Then he said, “I have news of extreme importance, a discovery made by the White Fleet that must be delivered to the Senate and the Admiralty at once. I request comm access to the current fleet commander, and to representatives of the Senate as soon as we land.”
“I am the current fleet commander, Admiral…and you will see the Senate soon enough, I can assure you of that. But there can be no conditions to your surrender. You must land immediately…or action will be taken.
* * *
“No sign of him. Nor of his aide or his guards. Not even the transport he was riding.” Bellingham was clearly frustrated, but there was something darker in his tone, and Peterson knew what it was. The major was starting to think that perhaps the charges against Striker were true, that the admiral had gone into hiding just ahead of the authorities.
Peterson understood that…it was what anyone might think. There had been no sign of violence, no evidence of any kind of struggle. The transport had been out on one of the busiest streets of Troyus City. He couldn’t think of any explanation other than the apparent one. He didn’t believe that, not for an instant, but he knew Striker well, and he was one of the most loyal—and stubborn—cusses in the Corps. If someone like Bellingham was starting to have doubts…
“We just haven’t found the evidence that will lead to the truth yet, Hank. It’s out there, I know it is. Van Striker is no more a criminal and a traitor than I am.” He did believe that…but he also understood why his friend was less convinced. He was trying to think of something else reassuring to say when he saw Kate Britten walking into the room. Striker’s aide looked haggard, exhausted, like she hadn’t had any sleep in three days…which he suspected she hadn’t.
“Colonel, may I speak with you for a moment?” She’d walked up right to Peterson, coming as close as she could without it looking strange. Her tone was hushed. Clearly, she didn’t want anyone else to know what she was saying.
“Of course, Commander.” He looked expectantly toward her.
“Not here, Colonel.” She turned her head, looking quickly in both directions. “Let’s go into the admiral’s office.”
Peterson nodded, and when she turned and walked down the hall toward Striker’s door, he gestured for Bellingham to wait where he was.
Britten took another look around, and then she opened the door and slipped inside, closing it as soon as Peterson entered.
“What is it, Commander?” From what Peterson had seen of Britten in the past weeks, she was a no nonsense officer, and one who was utterly loyal to Striker.
“I think I’ve discovered something…it may not seem like much, but it’s difficult to
explain.”
“Tell me, Commander. At this point, I’m looking for any scrap to go on.”
“Well, Colonel…the day the admiral left, he went down to the front of the building to get his transport. That isn’t normal procedure. Admiral Striker usually comes and goes from the subterranean level…for security reasons.”
“That makes sense.” The streets of Troyus City in midday weren’t particularly dangerous, especially in the middle of the well-policed government district, but Striker was—or had been until the day before—the navy’s top commander. A certain amount of caution made sense in his comings and goings.
“He used the front entrance because we had gotten a notification that the underground facilities would be closed for maintenance.” She paused. “I didn’t think anything of it at the time.” Peterson could hear guilt in her tone, or at least self-admonishment. “After the admiral disappeared, I checked the notification more carefully. It did come from the operations office…and every other department I checked received it as well.”
Peterson had felt a burst of hope that Britten had found a clue, but then it slipped away. “That was a good thought anyway, Comm…”
“That’s not it, Colonel.” Britten looked right at him. “I almost left it at that, but I couldn’t find anything else…and I knew there had to be something. So I checked with the maintenance teams to find out what work had shut down the whole underground level…and it turns out there was no work done at all.”
Peterson’s eyes widened. “None?”
“None. I checked with the main maintenance office, and with each individual crew chief. Not only do none of them have any idea what work was done on the subterranean levels…every on duty maintenance technician is fully accounted for elsewhere.” She paused. “Someone in the operations office issued that memorandum…but its purpose wasn’t to keep the lower level clear for maintenance work. Something else was at play.”
Peterson looked at Britten, and he realized he was nodding. Striker’s aide was on to something, he was sure of it. He wasn’t sure yet where to go from there, but he no longer had any doubts about one thing.
Van Striker hadn’t run away from any bogus charges. He had been abducted.
* * *
“Scramble all squadrons…now!” Atara Travis stormed onto the bridge from the lift, if a woman hunched over, leaning on a powered cane as she hobbled forth could be described as “storming.” The officers on the bridge turned and looked over at her, seemingly in utter shock. As far as any of them were concerned, she was down in sickbay in a coma, as she had been for months.
“Yes, everyone, I’m awake…I’m back. We’ll have to save the welcome ceremonies for later, though. We’ve got a problem here, and it looks like a big one. The Admiral’s in trouble, so let’s do what we have to do to help him. I want those fighters in the tubes…right now.”
There was still a pause, despite the urgency of her words. Finally, Cumberland looked over at her and cleared his throat. “Captain…I’m happy to see you.” He wasn’t stammering, exactly, but he was still clearly unnerved by Travis’s sudden appearance. “I’m sorry…but, we don’t have any fighters aboard. Admiral Barron ordered them all to remain behind with the fleet.”
“With the fleet?” Travis suddenly realized she had missed months of activity, and she really had no idea what was happening. But she knew her friend was in trouble, and that he needed her. Nothing else was important now. She’d catch up on the rest later.
She shuffled over toward the command chair and let herself drop into it with clear relief. Her faculties had come back to her, mostly, but her body was lagging. She’d lost weight and muscle mass, and despite the medpod’s application of electrical stimulation to her muscles and nervous system, she was weak and stiff. She put that out of her mind, and she looked over at the main display.
“Range to Prime Base?”
“Approximately one hundred four kilometers, Captain.” Cumberland had more or less adapted to her presence, but her question clearly surprised him.
“Activate primary batteries…full override procedures. I want those guns charged up as quickly as possible.”
Cumberland paused…and then understanding flashed on his face. “Yes, Admiral.” It was hard for Atara to tell from his tone whether he was excited…or terrified. Or, more likely, some combination of the two.
“Primaries charging, Captain.”
Travis looked across the bridge toward the row of readouts that tracked the battleship’s heavy weapons. The small bars were moving to the right, slowly, about a tenth of the way so far.
“Get me Prime Base on the comm, Commander.”
“Yes, Captain.” A moment later. “Admiral Whitten on your line.”
She nodded and reached down to grab the headset. “Captain Travis here, sir,” she said, after she pulled the unit over her head. “There must be some kind of mistake. That is Admiral Barron’s cutter out there, sir. Those fighters…”
“There is no mistake, Captain. Admiral Barron is accused of being part of a treasonous conspiracy, along with Admiral Striker and many other officers. There is a Senatorial arrest warrant outstanding for him, and the fighter squadrons from this base are simply executing it. You are not to interfere, Captain…is that understood? Dauntless will stand down and await further instructions.”
She heard the words. At least they entered her auditory canal and her brain processed the meaning…but they still didn’t make sense. If she’d been told Barron had punched an officious fellow officer—someone like Whitten, for example—or that he’d refused to carry out some kind of outrageous order, she’d have believed it. Barron had always been a maverick thinly disguised as part of the establishment. But part of a treasonous conspiracy? She’d have bet her life that wasn’t the case.
“Admiral, that’s not possible. Admiral Barron is a war hero, commander of the White Fleet, a…”
“He is a traitor, Captain…and unless you want to give up your own bars and join him in the stockade, I advise you to obey my orders immediately.”
A flood of responses poured into her mind, most of them composed of the foulest curse words in her repertoire. Whitten was exactly the type of entitled, pompous fool she most detested. She held it all back, forced herself to stay respectful, to wait. To buy time…
Her eyes darted back toward the monitors tracking the primaries. Eighty percent charged. I need more time, twenty seconds…
“Admiral…”
“Captain, we are reading Dauntless’s energy buildup. You are to shut down all weapons and reduce reactor output to normal levels immediately…or you will be guilty of mutiny, and you will endanger every man and woman on Dauntless.”
“Captain, Prime Base is charging up its port batteries.” Cumberland was clearly unnerved, but he was holding himself together, barely.
Travis gasped for a breath, struggling to maintain her focus. The exhaustion was pulling at her, trying to drag her from the showdown she faced. She regretted not ordering Weldon to give her a dose of stims before she’d left sickbay…and then she wondered if she’d had a chance of him obeying that command. By her estimation, she’d barely gotten herself out of sickbay as it was.
“Admiral…”
“There will be no further discussion, Captain. You will obey my command at once, or you and your crew will face the consequences.”
Travis turned her head slowly, flashing a glance toward some of the nearby workstations. The bridge was silent, and she had no doubt every member of the crew was well aware of the tension, the danger stalking them all. Were they defiant, ready to face whatever came…or about to rise up and remove the lunatic sitting in the command chair, leading them to treason?
She put the crew out of her mind—they would stand with her or not, there wasn’t much she could do to influence that. She thought about Whitten, trying to gauge her adversary. She didn’t know him well, and from what she did know, he was a useless fop, another damned fool who’d been born into his pr
ivilege and had never earned a bit of it. She’d always hated pandering to officers of his type, obeying their orders and feigning a respect she could never truly feel. This miserable scrap of lucky sperm wanted her to betray her best friend…and there was no way she was going to do that. Not for him.
Not for anyone.
She checked the monitor. Ninety-two percent.
Prime Base was enormous, packed with as much weaponry as a battle fleet. But Whitten was bluffing, and Travis knew it. She had the jump on him. Dauntless’s guns would be ready to fire before any of the base’s weapons could be. A single battleship would normally have no chance against a base the size of Prime…but Dauntless was already in orbit, barely one hundred kilometers from the huge platform. She couldn’t even imagine the destructive force of Dauntless’s primaries at so close a range, one unheard of in space combat. She was willing to bet one direct hit would be enough to turn even that monstrous construction into a ball of expanding plasma.
There was no way Dauntless’s gunners were going to miss something that big and immobile at one hundred kilometers. She’d have bet her life on that, too.
In fact, she suspected she was about to do just that.
She took a deep breath, steeling herself to deliver a final ultimatum to the admiral. She wasn’t going to yield, but she knew the order she might have to give would kill thousands of fleet personnel…and she still wasn’t sure she could make herself do that.
She looked over at the weapons readouts, just as the glowing bars moved across the final few millimeters, and the yellow lights at the end illuminated.
The primaries were ready to fire.
Chapter Nineteen
12,000,000 Kilometers Ahead of Confederation Battleline
Unknown System 20
Year 316 AC
“We’ve only got one clean run this time, so let’s make it count. I want all squadrons’ attacks synchronized. We’re going to hit these bastards with seven hundred eight plasma torpedoes, all in a stretch of two minutes’ time.” Stockton wasn’t even sure that level of synchronization was possible, even for his veteran pilots.