The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars Book 7)

by Jay Allan

  He appreciated her words…but they cut through him like a knife, as well. She was absolving him, but in his heart, he knew it was his fault. If it hadn’t been for him, she’d still be on Tellurus, in her big, beautiful villa. She might be bored, but she wouldn’t be lying in bed, battered to death’s door…and no doubt, struggling with memories he couldn’t even imagine.

  He would feel the guilt for recruiting her for as long as he lived, and his only solace in the matter was that he had done everything necessary to save her. Whatever the eventual cost of that…

  Even as he thought about it, he heard a commotion out in the hall. He knew what it was, or at least he had a good idea, and he didn’t think Andi needed to see it.

  “I’ll be back to check on you later, Andi.” He leaned down and kissed her on the forehead. “You get some rest…and don’t worry about anything. No one can get to you here.”

  She managed a thin smile, all the response he needed. Then, he turned around and walked out into the hall.

  The Marines in Andi’s detail were standing in front of the door, tense, holding their weapons, but not pointing them at anyone. Yet.

  Holsten’s eyes darted around the wide hallway, from the Marines—whose number included Colonel Peterson, he realized as he panned his view across the rough line they had formed. Facing them were other uniformed personnel. Port Royal City police.

  And behind the police, most of whom carried heavy riot gear, was Walter Aguillar and his collection of Troyus City parasites, and even more useless-looking, a detachment from the Senate’s Lictor Corps. The Senatorial aide wore an obnoxious smile, one Holsten desperately wanted to slap off his face.

  “You are under arrest, Mr. Holsten, for the offenses listed in his Senate Order, and for your efforts in resisting apprehension. You will come with me now. My orders are very clear. I am to bring you to Megara to answer the charges against you.”

  Holsten felt his defiance rising. He was about to hurl an insult as the sleazy piece of shit when Peterson beat him to it.

  “Mr. Holsten is under our protection.” His tone was hard, cold…everything a fop like Aguillar probably expected—and likely feared—from a veteran warrior like Peterson.

  “Do not interfere, Colonel,” he managed to say, making a partially successful effort to hide the fear in his voice. “This does not concern you.”

  “The hell it doesn’t, you useless piece of Troyus City garbage.” Peterson arched back and, though it hadn’t seemed possible, he stood up straighter than he had been, almost a full head taller than Aguillar. His hand was at his side, resting on the holster that held what Holsten could only imagine was a well-worn pistol.

  Aguillar looked queasy, as though he might throw up any moment, but the aide impressed Holsten by holding his ground, more or less.

  “Captain, prepare your officers.” It was another voice. Holsten could see the man standing behind the police, and he recognized him immediately. Stanford Beresford, the president of the Dannith Planetary Assembly…and a politician who’d spent every waking moment over the past weeks railing against the blockade and the groups of Marines bashing down doors all over the planet.

  The police looked nervous, and Holsten could see most of them looking over at the Marines. But, one by one, they drew their weapons.

  “Marines, at the ready.” Peterson’s voice was crisp, his tone in every way that of a combat veteran. Jonathan Peterson had fought against Foudre Rouge…Holsten didn’t imagine the Marine was the slightest bit intimidated by a bunch of local cops and Senatorial lapdog guards, even if they outnumbered his people by better than two to one.

  “I am warning you, Colonel. You have one last chance to stand down…or I will have you arrested as well.

  Holsten was surprised at Aguillar’s burst of courage, and he winced instinctively, having some idea what the Marine’s response would be.

  “You listen to me, you pampered piece of garbage. You may think you’re a tough guy coming here with your bullshit orders and this crowd of enforcers, but you ain’t got nothing more than a mob fit to scold a bunch of out of control kids on a playground. Not a squad of Marines who’ve seen things that would make you wet that fancy set of clothes you’ve got on.”

  Aguillar stood silently for a moment. Holsten suspected the Senatorial errand boy was trying to steel up his courage, to convince himself Confederation Marines would never open fire on a group of local police and a representative of the Senate. Holsten might have thought that, too, but he knew Peterson well, and he wasn’t so sure anymore.

  “It’s up to you, sonny. What’s it gonna be?” Peterson raised his hand, and the Marines brought their rifles up, not quite aiming at the police, but definitely at the ready.

  Holsten was gratified that his friend would go so far to protect him. He didn’t doubt the ten Marines could wipe out the two dozen or so police and Lictors, and probably in three seconds without taking any losses.

  At least losses on the spot. But such an action would be treason. They’d lose their careers, and that would be just the start. They would probably spend the rest of their lives in the stockade. And, Jon Peterson might even mount the scaffold. He was grateful, to his friend, to the Marines. But he couldn’t be the reason Confederation Marines clashed with civilian law enforcement personnel. It was hard to even imagine the damage that would do to the Confederation, to the delicate balance that made the whole thing work when every other nation on the Rim embraced some form of total or partial autocracy.

  He’d done what he had to do, for his friend, for Andi. But she was safe now…and as defiant as he’d always been, he wasn’t ready to be the reason the Confederation military killed Confederation civilians.

  “No, Jon. Stand your Marines down.” He paused, taking a shallow breath. “I will go with them.”

  “Gary…” The Marine officer was clearly upset. “…you can’t…”

  “It’s okay, Jon. Don’t worry…getting me back to Megara isn’t the end of the story, I can promise you that.” He thought of the files he had, the dirt on members of the Senate. They were vile creatures, many of them, even most, and they didn’t deserve to hold the high offices they did. And, if they push this too far, more than a few of them will lose those positions they lied and cheated and stole to get. “Stand down, my friend. Please.”

  Holsten turned toward Peterson and forced a smile. “Please, Jon.”

  The colonel hesitated, but finally he just nodded to Holsten, and then he put out a hand, lowering it. The Marines brought their rifles down, holding them at their sides.

  “These Marines are not to get so much as a note in their files.” Holsten’s eyes were fixed on Aguillar’s, and even as a man about to become a prisoner, his force of will rushed over the aide with the power of a tidal wave.

  “We only want you. As long as these Marines stand down, we have no interest in them.”

  “Then I will come.” He turned and looked back toward Peterson. “Jon, do one thing for me. Watch out for Andi…please.”

  “I will, Gary.” Peterson’s voice was somber, as sad and emotional as Holsten had ever heard it. He’d always considered the Marine to be a friend, but he realized there were certain times in life you found out just who you could count on when you most needed help. Holsten would never forget Colonel Jonathan Peterson was firmly in that group.

  “Alright, let’s go,” he said to Aguillar, making sure his voice showed as little respect as possible. “Some of the people who sent you here are in for a rude awakening when I get back to Troyus City.”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Ten Thousand Kilometers from Transit Point Alpha

  Zed-12 System

  Year 315 AC

  Stockton sat in the cockpit, twisting his body to the side, trying to work out the kinks. He’d been in his fighter for almost sixteen hours, which was nothing compared to the great multi-system journey he’d made years before, but it was still enough to get really uncomfortable. Lightnings weren’t designed for s
uch long duration missions, and the assortment of modifications needed to provide sufficient life support and fuel, not to mention addressing food needs and the accommodation of bodily functions, were extensive. Stockton had fought in more battles than he could easily count, but he still remembered that very long flight as the most challenging thing he’d ever done.

  He’d been watching the Hegemony fleet moving toward the transit point, recording every move, every burst of thrust. Maybe someone back on Dauntless could make something of it all in terms of estimating enemy capabilities. It was clear enough just watching that the enemy had greater thrust capability than the Confederation vessels. That would be a strong edge in any fight, and combined with their longer ranged weapons, it laid a major problem at Admiral Barron’s feet.

  But if they really don’t have fighters…that’s an edge for us…

  Stockton wouldn’t have assumed that the Hegemony lacked fighters simply based on the fact that the escort ships in the first battle hadn’t had any squadrons. Vessels of that size in the Confederation navy mostly didn’t either. But it was the lack of close-in anti-fighter defenses that gave him hope. Any power that deployed its own fighters seemed likely to be as ready as possible to defend against them as well.

  Unless they have them and never faced an enemy who did…

  His thoughts had looped around, various versions of this kind of logic moving in and out of his mind. It was important, he knew, but it also passed the time. Not quickly, of course—the topic wasn’t nearly interesting enough to really make the hours go by—but it was better than seeing how many consecutive seconds he could count before his mind wandered.

  He reached out, poking at the controls on his panel, doublechecking his status. The AI had done it already, of course, but he was happier checking himself. First, it gave him something to do…and second, he would need everything his fighter could give him when it was time to sprint back to the transit point and send the fleet the information on enemy dispositions and nav data.

  He’d brought a drone with him into Zed-12, though he still wasn’t sure how Anya Fritz had managed to attach the thing to his fighter. He’d sent it back a couple hours before, with most of the data the fleet would need. His purpose now was to stay in position, and monitor any changes in enemy dispositions prior to transit. At least he wouldn’t have the drone hanging off his ship on the way back. His fighter had handled like shit with that thing hanging off it…and he knew the trip back would have a lot less room for error.

  His eyes moved to the screen, watching as the approaching ships came closer. They didn’t seem to be decelerating much, which probably meant they were going to come through at a relatively high velocity. That made sense. It was a precaution against a transit point defense on the other side…at least it was if the defenders didn’t have current information on the attackers’ velocity and vector.

  It was almost time to go. Actually, by mission parameters, it was past time, but Stockton knew the longer he waited, the better his final data would be. His squadrons would launch as soon as he transited back and gave the order, and they would move to the positions he transmitted. If everything went according to plan, the enemy ships would zip out of the transit point, through the minefield Eaton and Fritz had laid, and straight into seven hundred-twenty-four waiting fighters. The Hegemony forces would be heavily battered before they got close to a Confederation battleship.

  Stockton was taking a chance with his strike forces, gambling that the enemy truly did not have its own squadrons. Fully two-thirds of his wings were outfitted as bombers, a deadly wave of immense destructive capacity if his bet was right…and a mass of sitting ducks if those ships coming on were, indeed, loaded up with their own fighters.

  He looked back at the screens, checking the enemy ships as they got closer. His fighter wasn’t as fast as an unmodified Lightning, he reminded himself. Don’t cut this too close…

  He flipped a row of switches, powering up his reactor. He’d been operating on minimal power, doing as little as possible to draw attention to himself, but now it was time to get his engines online. He doublechecked his course back to the transit point. Everything looked good.

  He did one last scan of the enemy fleet…everything seemed unchanged. He’d already crunched the numbers, and he had the orders ready to transmit to his squadrons, which were, even then he knew, waiting in the launch bays for him to return and give the final command.

  He waited another few minutes, knowing he really was cutting it close. He didn’t know the maximum acceleration of the Hegemony ships, and all it would take was some equivalent of a Confederation fast escort racing forward to intercept his ship short of transit. Getting the latest data was important, but the risk reward relationship was shifting.

  It was time.

  He pulled on the throttle, bringing his ship around, lining up his engines along his course to the transit point. Then he pulled back, slowly at first, just until he confirmed his engines were back online and firing properly. He slammed the controls all the way back and felt the force of acceleration slam into him as his fighter blasted hard for the transit point.

  He didn’t know if the enemy would pursue him, or it they would change their plans based on his presence…but they were getting close to the point now, and even with their superior thrust capacity, they could only modify things so much. Stockton was confident he had what he needed to put a hurt on them as they emerged.

  He could see the wall of ships getting closer. For an instant, he thought several small vessels were accelerating toward him, but then he shook his head. They’d just repositioned themselves in the formation.

  He looked straight ahead as he neared the point, bracing himself for the transit. The move between systems was more unpleasant in the confines of a fighter, lacking the heavy shielding of larger vessels. He took a few deep breaths as his ship approached…and then he held his breath as his fighter slipped into the strange alternate reality of the tube.

  The trip between systems only took a few seconds, but it seemed longer to Stockton, sitting there, trying to deal with the incomprehensible sensations of the strange space of the tube. The feeling wasn’t pain, nor sickness, but it was decidedly uncomfortable, a strange sense of…wrongness.

  Then, with a small flash of light, he emerged into the normal space of the Zed-11 system. He shook his head, trying to banish the disorientation, and he looked down at his controls, waiting for his systems to reboot. He reached up, put his hand to the side of his headset, his fingers on the activation controls, waiting for the row of green lights that told him his ship and its comm systems were back online.

  The seconds passed, seeming longer for the tension he felt, the anxiety of the impending battle. Then, he saw the lights flick on, and the displays on his panel came back to life.

  His finger pushed against the button on the headset’s earpiece. “Dauntless flight control, this is Captain Stockton. I am transmitting the latest enemy nav information. I project entry into the system in six minutes, twenty seconds.” A short pause, barely perceptible, then: “Fleet order…all squadrons launch. Repeat, all squadrons launch.”

  * * *

  Atara lay back in the chair, her breath soft, shallow. She’d tried to get up twice, despite Weldon’s strict instructions to stay where she was…and each time she’d fallen back into her seat, almost losing the contents of her stomach as the room spun around her.

  She’d insisted Weldon take—her exact words were—’as much blood as he could without outright killing her.’ The doctor had hesitated, insisting that it was dangerous to draw too much, but she’d reminded him that the lives of hundreds of their comrades depended on his producing as much serum as possible…and then she outright ordered him to do it. There just wasn’t hadn’t been any time to waste.

  Atara had been shocked at how quickly Weldon himself had recovered. The doctor had been deathly ill, barely clinging to consciousness with the aid of deadly stim overdoses. But he recovered at a rapid rate afte
r injecting himself with the serum derived from Atara’s blood. He’d convulsed in pain almost immediately, giving her a few minutes of worry and despair, but then the pain subsided, and she could tell in a few minutes something was happening. His fever broke almost at once, and the black lesions on his skin, another sign of the terrible disease, began to dry out and fall off within just a couple hours. By evening, maybe six hours after he injected himself, he seemed almost normal. Indeed, his only symptoms remaining were those caused by the stims. By morning, a series of blood tests had confirmed. The virus was gone.

  It was clear now his original formula, the one that had almost killed him, had been on the mark, the only problem being some genetic incompatibility with the residents of the planet that caused a rejection reaction similar to that caused by mismatched organs.

  Atara didn’t know whether the problem applied to blood from everyone on Planet Zero, or the Masters and survivors on other worlds of the coreward region, but there wasn’t time for proper analysis, and Weldon’s near fatal reaction to the first reckless experiment hardly recommended more trial and error. As far as she knew, right now, she was the only source of the immunity factor that could save the landing party. And there were a lot of them still sick, every one of them dying.

  Weldon was trying to refine his formula, to stretch out the blood she could supply…and he was pumping her full of retinol and every other drug he could think of to spur increased blood production in her body.

  “I think I can get forty doses from the blood you were able to provide. That doesn’t get us through this nightmare, but giving it to the forty most dire cases will give us a little more time.” Weldon paused. “That is, of course, assuming the worst ones aren’t too far gone, even for the serum.”

  “Then let’s not waste time. Go. The sickest ones are in cryostasis…that’s going to complicate things a little, isn’t it?”

  “It will slow them down. I just don’t have enough ambulatory staff to handle the medpods.”