The White Fleet (Blood on the Stars Book 7)

by Jay Allan

  Still, any wrong move, even the right move taken too soon, would mean instant death. He was sure Delacorte resented his presence, and he didn’t doubt she’d take any excuse to gun his people down. He shook his head, slightly, imperceptibly…a signal to Breen to hold tight.

  The gunfire outside was heavier now. He suspected both sides were engaged in an intense firefight. Despite his determination to remain impartial, to keep his focus on the mission, he found himself rooting for the resistance. He’d seen more than a few firefights, and while experienced, trained troops like Marines or Foudre Rouge were well-drilled in assault tactics, such things tended to bog down between less skilled fighters.

  He watched Delacorte, saw the animation in her movement, the rage radiating from her body. If he’d had any doubt before that she was insane, it was gone. But, still, he stayed where he was, waiting. She might be crazy, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t capable, even brilliant. And he knew already that she was utterly ruthless.

  The fighting continued, and he thought the sounds were coming closer. It was hard to be sure, but another glance at Delacorte more of less confirmed it. She didn’t look scared…he wasn’t sure he’d ever seen her scared. There were occasional advantages to insanity. But she was tense, and her tone as she rapped out commands toward her soldiers became increasingly harsh.

  Hoover was still trying to get a good feel for the status of things outside when the whole building shook. He stumbled, struggling to stay on his feet, as debris fell all around the room from the ceiling. He heard the sounds of part of the building coming down, and then gunfire, much louder than it had been before.

  They’re breaking in…Bernard and his people just might pull this off…

  He felt a burst of satisfaction, but it was tempered by his cold analysis of the situation. If the resistance fighters got to the control room, he knew what would happen. They’d been victimized, their allies and comrades murdered, their families brutalized by Delacorte’s thugs. They would come in, guns blazing, and they wouldn’t stop until everyone there was dead.

  The sudden, cold realization of how poor a chance he had of surviving the counter-revolution distracted him. He’d been on dangerous missions before, and escaped a few of those by the slimmest of margins, but now, he realized he could be minutes away from his own death. He glanced again toward Breen. He could see how satisfied she was that Bernard’s people had seized the initiative, and he wondered if she’d given any thought to how the current fight was likely to end. Even if Bernard’s people didn’t just shoot everyone indiscriminately, he couldn’t imagine the resistance leader would be well disposed to him, or to his people. He’d turned the man down flat when he’d come looking for help, and he’d given the resistance every reason to categorize him as an ally of the current regime. He put some hope into the notion that the resistance wouldn’t want to alienate the Confederation, but he also wondered if Bernard had seen through the true purpose of his mission, the cold reality that he wasn’t there to help the people of Barroux at all, other than to make them the most effective barbs against a resurgent Union.

  There was another explosion, and one of the walls blasted open, sending debris flying all around the room. He saw a chunk of metal hit Silvia Breen, and he raced over, even as the spy dropped to the floor with a thud. For an instant, he was sure she was dead, but when he got to her side, he could see that she was still breathing. He tried to see if she had any wounds, but all he could find was a gash on the head where the chunk of metal had hit her. He couldn’t be sure, but he thought she’d be okay…unless, of course, they all were shot in the next few minutes.

  The battle raged all around the room, and within a minute, perhaps two, there were dozens of bodies littering the floor. The attackers, the resistance fighters, were suffering the worst, mostly because their weapons were older, less effective. But they seemed to have the numbers, at least at the point of the fighting, and Hoover was willing to bet they also had the drive of men and women who understood how fleeting their advantage was. Delacorte had no doubt called in reserves from all over the city, and that meant time wasn’t an ally to the resistance fighters.

  Hoover watched as the battle continued, and then, suddenly, he saw Henri Bernard. The resistance leader was crouched behind a pile of debris, partial cover, but a position that had a weak side. And, Ami Delacorte was standing on that side, bringing her weapon up to bear.

  Hoover had spent weeks—months—arguing with Breen, resisting her constant harangues to aid the resistance. But now, something took over inside him. Before he even knew what he was doing, he had leapt to his feet and lunged forward. He was stumbling across the room, off balance…right toward Delacorte.

  She saw him, too late, and she turned to shoot. But, he slammed into her first, the two of them dropping together. Bernard reacted, turning toward the spot he’d ignored until an instant before. His arm flashed up, and he fired, three times in rapid succession. Hoover gritted his teeth, waited for the pain of impact. But there was none. He hit the ground and brought himself back up in a combat role, and spun his head around, trying to figure out what had happened.

  He saw Delacorte. She was lying on her back, her eyes wide open, transfixed, seeming to stare at the ceiling. But they were cold, vacant. A chunk of her skull was missing, and he could see the exposed gray of brain matter, covered with a wet sheen of blood.

  Ami Delacorte was dead.

  He hesitated, just for a second, but by the time he raised his head, he could see two fighters, Delacorte’s people, aiming their rifles right at him. He’d survived two close calls, but it didn’t look like three was in the cards.

  I’m dead…it was the only thought that went through his mind.

  Then, he heard the shots, automatic fire…but there was no pain. Nothing.

  He watched in stunned silence as his two would-be killers fell back to the ground, their bodies riddled with half a dozen bullet holes each.

  He turned, still stunned, and he saw three of Bernard’s people, standing across the room, their guns still aiming at the spot Delacorte’s people had occupied until seconds before.

  Two of the resistance fighters just stood where they were, still, but the third looked at him, made eye contact, and he nodded once, right before he turned and plunged back into the battle.

  Chapter Forty-One

  CFS Repulse

  Zed-11 System

  Year 315 AC

  Sara Eaton stood in front of her chair in the center of Repulse’s command center. She knew she should be in her seat, her harness securely buckled across her body. But she’d never had an easy time sitting still in battle, and the residual effects of the wounds she suffered in the campaign around Arcurton early in the war had made remaining seated too long downright torturous.

  She’d been watching Jake Stockton’s squadrons launching their bombing runs on the Hegemony ships. Stockton had tried to target the enemy battleships but, in at least half a dozen instances, enemy escorts had interposed themselves, taking the brunt of the assault in those spots.

  The enemy ships were tough…and that was putting it lightly. She watched as Hegemony vessels, both escorts and battleships, soaked up enough damage to reduce their Confederation counterparts to clouds of super-heated gas. But, Jake Stockton was a relentless warrior, and his spirit had infected his entire fighter corps. His pilots brought their bombers in, one after the other, closing to unheard of ranges to counter the enemy’s maneuverability, before they launched their weapons.

  The enemy ships had considerably more thrust than anything in the White Fleet, and their navigation AIs seemed to be superior as well. Despite the courage and audacity of Stockton’s pilots, many of the torpedoes missed, evaded by last second moves more powerful and better planned than any she’d ever seen before. But the bombing runs had done their jobs nevertheless. At least half of the incoming ships were damaged, and some badly. The plasma torpedoes had claimed four ships outright, but they’d all been cruiser-sized vessels, like
those present in the initial battle. None of the enemy battleships had been destroyed, though Eaton had identified two she thought looked close. Both were lagging the main body of the Hegemony fleet, and one was leaking atmosphere and fluids badly.

  “Three hundred thousand kilometers to enemy’s lead ships, Commodore.”

  Eaton waved toward the tactical station, nodding and muttering, “Acknowledged.” Her mind was too occupied for more than that. She was staring at the display, at the enemy ships moving steadily toward the fleet. They would fire before her ships were in range to respond, that was a certainty. The screen was marked at the distances where the enemy escorts had opened fire, but Eaton’s eyes were on the large icons, the massive battleships at the center of the Hegemony formation. She was sure those giant ships would outrange the cruisers the fleet had fought before, and that their guns would be stronger, more powerful. But she had no idea whether that would be two hundred eighty thousand kilometers, or two-fifty…or two hundred.

  Whatever the distance turned out to be, it was the period of time before the White Fleet’s ships could advance into their own range and return fire that would decide the battle. The bombing runs had hurt the enemy, and the White Fleet outnumbered the approaching force. If her ships, and the others of the fleet, could close before they’d suffered crippling damage, they had a chance. If not, well, that wasn’t something she wanted to think about.

  We need to move forward now, at full thrust. We’ve got to minimize the time before we can return fire.

  The strategy sessions before the fight had been contentious ones. Many of the fleet’s senior officers had wanted to pull back, to allow time for the bombing squadrons to return to their mother ships and rearm for a second strike. Others, and she had been the leader of this group, argued that there simply wasn’t time, that the enemy’s superior thrust capacity would allow them to catch the fleet with fighters still half refueled in the bays…and the extra time it took them to close against slower retreating ships would only lengthen the period during which they could fire but the fleet’s ships could not.

  Cilian Globus had been her ally in the debate, though his reasoning had differed from her analytical and mathematical arguments. Eaton would have been all for the plan to pull back slowly, if she’d thought it had a chance of working, but to Globus, and most of the other Palatians, that tactic carried the taint of dishonor. The Alliance officers, almost as a block, clamored to push forward and hit the enemy as quickly and with as much force as possible, a position based on warrior code and not on any real data.

  Eaton had expected Barron to come down on her side, to order the fleet to move forward, to run the enemy guns and close as quickly as possible. He had agreed, more or less, but he’d been distracted in a way she’d never seen before, and he’d hesitated to make a final decision and issue the orders.

  Eaton knew the fleet’s famous commander was worried about the people on the surface, but she was sure there was something more than that on his mind. She’d considered it for a while, and, finally she’d come up with an answer. It was the impending battle, and what it portended. Tyler Barron had set out in command of a great exploration fleet, his mission to seek out old technology and improve the Confederation’s knowledge of the old empire. He’d no doubt expected dangers, but he couldn’t have been ready for what the fleet had found.

  A new war, one that might be very dangerous and deadly indeed…and it had started on Barron’s watch. She understood her friend’s hesitancy, his reluctance to order the fleet forward to finish the battle, one way or another. But, she also knew there was no choice, that Barron had done nothing to provoke the enemy and, that if the fighting here spread to a longer and wider war, he would have no fault in any of it.

  That is easy to say, but would you listen to that if you were in Tyler’s place?

  She wanted to help her friend, but she realized there was nothing to do. And, as she watched the enemy’s lead ships close to two hundred eighty thousand kilometers, she knew it didn’t matter. It couldn’t. The only important thing now was to do whatever gave the fleet the best chance at victory…and that meant moving forward now.

  She turned toward the comm station. “Get me Dauntless…

  “Commodore…Admiral Barron is on the fleetcom line now.”

  “On speaker, Lieutenant.”

  The officer’s hands moved over his workstation, and a few seconds later, Tyler Barron’s voice was blaring through Repulse’s control center speakers.

  “All ships, all crews…this is Admiral Barron. We came here in peace, as researchers, explorers…and yet, we have found a new enemy. It was my desire to avoid conflict, to seek peaceful relations, but that has proven to be impossible. So, if war is inevitable, it is time for us to set aside wishes for peace…and to focus on what must be done now. If a war must be fought, our only concern is to win it, at all costs, if need be. So, the order is simple. All ships, maximum thrust. Advance and close on the enemy. Conduct maximum evasive maneuvers…and the instant your weapons are in range, open fire with every watt of power you can throw their way. You are all veterans, and you know what to do. Go now, into the fight…and we shall win the victory, as we have so many times before.”

  Repulse’s control center was silent. Once again, she was amazed at the effect Tyler Barron could have on his subordinates—her crew, of course, but even her. She understood the situation, the challenges and dangers, but Barron’s words had bolstered her morale, and inspired confidence as if from the air itself.

  She turned toward the nav station and nodded. “You heard the orders, Commander. Full thrust…take us into battle.”

  The bridge erupted into a grim but enthusiastic cheer. Whatever lay ahead, her people were ready.

  * * *

  “I want all batteries powered up and ready to fire the instant we enter range.” Cilian Globus stood on Fortiter’s bridge, snapping out commands to his tactical officer. “The enemy has the edge on speed and maneuverability, but we do not concern ourselves with such things. We are Palatians, and the blood of warriors flows through our veins. Targeting will be key here. Use you experience, your skill, your intuition…but hit those bastards, and hit them hard.”

  Fortiter shook as another one of the enemy’s beams struck the ship. Globus was playing the role his people needed him to play, acting as though none of the enemy’s actions worried him, but the range differential between his ships and the Hegemony vessels he faced was a huge problem, and he knew it. His ships were all damaged already, and not a single one had yet fired a shot. The situation was worse, even, on his force than on the Confeds, whose primaries also outranged the weaponry of Fortiter and his other ships.

  The technology behind the enemy beams still hadn’t been fully explained, despite the best efforts of the fleet’s scientists and engineering teams. Even the legendary Anya Fritz, whose reputation had reached as far as the Alliance, had come up blank so far. But there had been a terrible revelation in this battle. Those deadly energy weapons were something akin to secondary batteries, and their battleships packed an even greater punch, one that had been absent from the cruisers the fleet had faced earlier.

  Globus had seen the effects of the enemy’s devastating primary weapons. They weren’t the mystery the beams were, at least not superficially. The Confederation had developed its own railgun systems, and even the perennially behind the curve Alliance had produced some models. But none of the Rim powers had managed to achieve the acceleration rates necessary to weaponize the devices over the ranges at play in space combat. At a range of one hundred thousand kilometers, a ship had less than a third of a second to react to a laser or other weapon traveling at lightspeed, but a railgun-launched projectile moving at fifteen-thousand kilometers per second took a full ten seconds to reach the target, which gave a nav AI time for a quick nap before launching evasive maneuvers.

  The Hegemony weapon solved that problem in a very straightforward way, if one that reached far beyond current Confederation technol
ogy levels. Somehow, the weapons accelerated the projectiles to nearly twenty-five percent of lightspeed, cutting the reaction time at one hundred thousand kilometers to more like a second and a quarter, not quite matching light-based weaponry in accuracy, but coming close enough to make evasion far from a sure thing.

  Globus had watched in horror as the Confederation battleship, Indefatigable took the first hit from one of the weapons. The shot had been an imperfect one, more of a glancing blow than a direct hit, but as the reports flowed in, Globus realized the ship had been virtually crippled, and a huge section of the vessel’s aft had been torn away…or simply vaporized. The Palatian was a warrior and not a scientist, but he had some idea of the kinetic energy a projectile traveling at near-relativistic speeds imparted to its target…and he shuddered to imagine what a direct hit would do to Fortiter, or any of the fleet’s capital ships.

  There appeared to be one saving grace. The rate of fire of the weapon appeared to be very slow, and only the largest Hegemony ships seemed to mount it. That didn’t help a ship unfortunate enough to take one of the deadly hits, but it did give the fleet as a whole a chance. The support systems supplying that kind of power had to be fragile, which meant the more the fleet could pound away at those Hegemony battleships, the likelier they were to take the railguns out of the equation.

  “One minute to firing range, Commander.”

  Globus turned and gestured his acknowledgement. His bridge officers had all seen the effects of the enemy railguns, and they all knew that one could fire on the Alliance flagship at any moment. But they were calm, focused, keeping their fears deep inside. They were Palatian warriors, and Globus expected—and would tolerate—nothing less from them. But that didn’t stop him from feeling pride. A Palatian’s life was a hard one in many ways, and duty and honor stood above all other considerations. It was how he had lived his life, and how his children would, and their children. Cilian Globus was unable to imagine an Alliance that deviated from its ideals.