by Jay Allan
To everyone but her.
“I’m glad to be of service, Fritzie, but this one’s going to be dangerous. It’s strictly volunteer, and I can’t state strongly enough, I’ll have no ill thoughts of anyone who takes a pass on this one. That includes you.”
“I’m in, sir.”
“At least wait until I tell you what we’re going to do. It’s a long shot, Fritzie, maybe even on coming back.”
“We’ve made it through everything else, sir.”
Barron felt a little uncomfortable. He knew Fritz would walk into a fire behind him, but he was a little troubled by how his reputation had grown, and how it affected his people. Fritz seemed really confident that Barron would get his people through…anything. It was a confidence he didn’t share.
“I mean it, Fritzie. I don’t know if we can pull this one off. I just know I have to try.”
“And if you have to try, so do I. It’s that simple, sir.”
“Thanks, Fritzie.” He paused, still unsettled. If Fritzie was acting this way, none of his people would question a word out of his mouth. Even Atara had stepped aside without hesitation when he’d suggested resuming command of Dauntless. She’d even seemed relieved.
“Is it true we’ll be back on Dauntless?” Barron could tell from her tone; the old ship’s draw didn’t only affect him.
“Yes, Fritzie. I’m afraid we’ll be asking a lot of the old girl this time.”
“She’ll be there with whatever we need, sir. She always has been.”
“Yes,” Barron said, trying to keep the sadness he felt out of his voice, “she always has been.” He paused for a few seconds. Then: “Before we discuss the mission itself, I have something else for you. You’re aware of the stealth generator Andi and her people found.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’d like you to take charge of the research team. The generator is a crucial part of our mission, and we’re going to need it functioning as reliably as possible. I can’t think of anyone better suited to handle that than you.”
“Thank you, sir…but that device is very sophisticated. How much time do we have?”
“I don’t know, Fritzie.” That would depend on Jake Stockton’s report…and his birds were a day overdue. “Probably not long. Two months, maybe three at most.”
She exhaled slowly. “That’s not a lot of time…but we’ll manage, sir. I assume we’re installing the generator in Dauntless?”
“You assume correctly, Fritzie. We’ll want it operational for extended periods, but there will be one stretch, a few hours at least, when we’ll need it at one hundred percent. Even a few seconds of failure could be disastrous.”
“That’s a heavy standard to meet, sir.” She paused. “But, we’ll manage it, somehow.” She turned her head and glanced behind her at the small stack of duffels piled alongside the hatch. “If someone can take my bags to my quarters, sir, I’ll get started right away.” She looked at Barron and smiled. “Just point me in the right direction.”
* * *
Stockton’s hand was wrapped around the throttle, his fingers pale white from the pressure. He was almost out of fuel, his ship was shot up, and he was on the verge of a psychotic episode from all the stims he’d taken. It was a race to see which problem would kill him first, and against all the challenges threatening to finish him so close to base, he had nothing left to hold it all back but pure stubbornness…and he was working it for all it was worth.
Even his AI had cut out on him. The hit he’d taken hadn’t been critical, at least it wouldn’t have been if he’d landed on a mothership afterward, instead of flying through half a dozen systems, practically begging his equipment not to give up the ghost. Quite a bit of it had done just that, one circuit at a time, and it had almost gotten down to using his nose to find Grimaldi. Now he was less than ten thousand kilometers away…and he still wasn’t sure he was going to make it.
He had Grimaldi control on his comm, but he couldn’t answer. His transmitters had gone the way of half his other systems, shorted out and non-operative. He tapped his positioning jets, wobbling his ship—“waggling his wings”—his best guess on how to let Grimaldi ops know he was reading them. One way communication was limited, but with so much of his equipment gone, it would be a big help if they talked him in. Which they’d be more likely to do if they knew he was getting their messages.
He pushed forward on the throttle, pouring what thrust remained into a full deceleration. He’d been slowing since he entered the system, but he’d done it in stages, giving his engines a rest before firing them again for another burst of thrust. He just didn’t like the pressure readings in the engines, and if they gave out on him it was over. He’d be out of life support before a rescue ship from Grimaldi could match vector and velocity and tow him into the bay. And he had to get back.
He wanted to get back because he ached to live, because for all his bravado, he was as scared of death as any rookie pilot. But he had to get back because of the intel he carried, the simple message that the enemy was close to moving the pulsar.
The message that his broken comm couldn’t transmit.
He started to take a deep breath, but he stopped himself. His life support had been slipping for the last two systems, and it was close to critical now. He had enough air if he made it to base on the initial pass, but if something else went wrong, he was going to need all the oxygen he could get. His survival suit and the insulated blankets in the emergency pack could ward off the cold for a while, but once he ran out of air…that was it.
“Recon fighter one, this is Grimaldi base. Do you read?” It was the same message they’d been sending for fifteen minutes, but something was different this time. The voice.
The comm speakers were barely functioning, and the static and distortion made it hard to tell, but he was somehow sure. Stara!
“Jake, if you’re hearing this…and from that thing you’re doing with your ship, I’m betting you are, vector toward landing bay four. We’ve got the bay cleared and emergency equipment standing by.”
He felt a rush of excitement. Stara was a lot of things to him, but most important right now, she was the best flight control officer in the fleet.
“I’m going to assume from the look of that ship, your navcom is as shot as your comm. So, I’m going to take you in, okay? Just follow my instructions, and we’ll get you back aboard.”
He sighed softly and loosened his grip. Stara would give him a chance of making it, a good chance. He realized how much he’d been bullshitting himself before, how poor his odds of making a clean landing were without some kind of nav.
“Reverse thrust…I’m going to guess that bucket can’t do anything we haven’t watched it do as you made your approach. That doesn’t leave much margin for error, so for once, shut up and do what I say. Tap another 2g on that backward thrust, and get ready to swing 234 to starboard.”
He smiled. He could hear how worried she was through the banter.
“Okay, Stara,” he said to himself. “Reverse thrust up 2g. Ready for starboard burst, course 234.”
He followed her directions, and in another moment, he had a visual on the station. Grimaldi was a vast structure, visible from a hundred kilometers or more.
His eyes dropped to the thrust reading. He was moving a little faster than he’d like, but there was nothing he could do about it. Stara knows what she is doing…
Now, he could see the different sections of the station. Bay four…
It was on the far side. That’s why she has me going there. Another few kilometers to slow down.
“Okay, Jake, your line is good. We just have to slow you down. I want you to hit your thrusters for all they have left…and don’t worry if you’re still coming in a little quick. We’ve got the bay filled with enough foam to catch that ship before it gets anywhere vital.
The vital parts I’m worried about are in this ship…
He could see the open hatch of the bay now, the flashing lights of the emergency cr
ews visible beyond. Stara wasn’t kidding…it looks like a ten-alarm fire in there.
He slammed his hand forward, squeezing out every bit of thrust his engines had left. He was almost to the bay, then he was inside. He could feel the fighter moving, still too fast. And then an abrupt halt.
His body lurched forward hard, his chest slamming into the harness. It hurt. It hurt like hell. But he was alive, and he was pretty sure he wasn’t seriously injured. And his ship was at a stop.
He’d made it back. Somehow, he’d made it back.
* * *
“There is no doubt. Commander Stockton is correct. The pulsar was moved from its previous location.” Admiral Striker was sitting on one of the chairs around the conference table. The fact that it had taken two aides to get him there from his power chair didn’t diminish from the satisfaction he felt.
“That seems clear, Van. Normally, I would say a move of such a short distance was a repositioning, not a sign of a true movement system. But all the intel points to the same thing. They’re building a system to move that thing, and when they finish it, they’re going to invade.” Gary Holsten sat across from Striker. The spymaster had docked at Grimaldi just a few hours before Stockton’s rather tenser arrival, and now he sat grimfaced and somber. Striker had filled him in on the plan. Barron’s plan. Holsten had agreed with Striker’s initial assessment…it was pure lunacy. Then, a moment later, he’d reluctantly concurred with the admiral’s second acknowledgement. There was no other choice.
“Commodore Barron, perhaps we should consider sending another ship, another crew, one more…”
Striker watched as Holsten fished around for a subtle was to say what he was thinking. Expendable.
“I believe if anyone can accomplish this mission, it is my people on Dauntless.”
“I believe that too, Tyler.” Holsten glanced across the table toward Striker, as if hoping the admiral would come to his aid somehow. But Striker just stared back, shaking his head ever so slightly. “It’s just that…we can’t spare you. You’re the future of this fleet. One day you’ll sit in Admiral Striker’s chair. I know it, he knows it…and if you’re honest with yourself, you know it too.”
“I appreciate the confidence, Mr. Holsten, but what difference does it make who will lead the fleet in ten or twenty years if the Union conquers us now?”
Holsten was silent, and Striker too. The admiral had already gone through the process Holsten was now. This plan was the closest thing he could imagine to suicide, and as much as he hated sending anyone on such a mission, the idea of letting Barron go to his death cut at him deeply. But he also realized no one had a better chance, and at the core of it, that was all that mattered. If the Union could turn the pulsar into an offensive weapon, they could destroy the entire Confederation fleet. Their advance would be unstoppable.
“At least take one of the new ships, Tyler,” Holsten said, tentatively beginning to accept the idea. “Dauntless, for all her unquestioned good service, is an old ship. A Repulse-class battleship will give you much more power. We can only use the stealth generator on one vessel, so it should be the strongest we have.”
Striker knew what Barron was going to say before the commodore uttered a word. Holsten, for all his undeniable skill and talent, had never been a naval officer. He’d never commanded a ship, so he probably wouldn’t understand. Not really.
Barron looked uncomfortable. “I know what you are saying, Mr. Holsten, and I appreciate the sentiment.” He paused. “But, there is more to a fight than guns and reactor capacity. It may not make sense, at least in hard terms, but if I’m going to do this, if my crew is going to, we have to do it on Dauntless. She may be an old ship, she may not have the quad primaries of a Repulse-class battleship or the modern armor of one of the new vessels…but there is more to her than steel and plastic and fusion cores. She’s…she is one of us, sir. We can’t go on a mission like this and leave Dauntless behind. We just can’t.”
Holsten didn’t look entirely convinced, but he didn’t argue. He looked over at Striker, as if waiting to see what the fleet admiral would say.
Striker just nodded. He understood how Barron felt. He’d been there once. His first command hadn’t been a battleship, it had been a frigate, a ship called Wolverine. She’d carried a crew of eighty-three, and her armament had been nothing compared to Dauntless’s, but he still remembered every meter of her corridors, the sounds her engines made when he’d ordered her to full thrust, even the smell that used to waft into the main corridor from the main mess. He understood why Barron had to take Dauntless on this mission…but he still had to hold back his own impulse to send his protégé out with the strongest vessel he could. In the end, he told himself Barron needed Dauntless, that he wouldn’t be able to give his best if he was forced into another ship. He wasn’t sure that was true, but it was enough, at least, to forestall any argument with himself.
“Very well,” Striker finally said. “Dauntless it is…but I want her refit from bow to stern, and I want that ship packed with every weapon and system we can cram in there.”
Barron nodded. “Fritzie will make sure she’s ready, sir. Dauntless couldn’t be in better hands.”
The other two men just nodded. No one was going to challenge Anya Fritz’s status as the fleet’s greatest engineer.
Chapter Eight
Fleet Base Grimaldi
Orbiting Krakus II
Krakus System
Year 313 AC
Andi Lafarge sat in her room. It was more than a room, it was a suite fit to house a visiting admiral. While she appreciated it, she also found it somehow…uncomfortable.
All her life she’d pursued wealth, indeed, she’d long had considerable resources, including a ship of her own. Pegasus was old, but Andi’d had more than a few improvements installed, and she owned it free and clear. But now she possessed true wealth, the kind she had sworn to obtain years before when she watched the local magnates of her homeworld living almost unimaginable lifestyles.
It was an old cliché, told in many versions, all testifying to the seemingly illogical and inexplicable superiority of wanting something to actually having it. It made no sense, none at all, and yet now she was beginning to understand the truth of it. Gary Holsten—spy, playboy, scion of one of the wealthiest families in the Confederation, whatever version of him one chose to see—had been a man of his word. He’d paid her and her people for the stealth generator, a sum of money so vast, she wondered now what she would do with it. She’d known he was rich, but the ease with which he transferred such a fortune gave her a hint of just how enormously wealthy the Holstens were.
She knew he’d make it all back, and then some. The stealth projector was an incredibly valuable piece of technology, and she couldn’t begin to guess how many billions more would be added to the Holsten coffers once its secrets had been decoded and more had been produced.
She didn’t care about that. She wished Holsten well. She had more money than she could spend in a hundred lifetimes, but now that she’d attained the goal that had driven her for so long, she felt unsettled, unsure of what to do next.
She’d searched the databases, glanced at the highest end properties available on the choicest worlds of the Confederation, but about all she’d decided was the one place she wasn’t going was back to the shithole that had spawned her.
She’d been about as close to an outlaw as possible without, at least in her mind, crossing that line. She’d broken laws, of course. Pegasus had long carried weaponry she wasn’t licensed to have, and certainly prospecting for old tech in the Badlands was illegal. But that was all nonsense as far as she was concerned, a level of villainy that rested solidly in the “gray area” of government overreach.
Still, she’d always seen the authorities, the navy included, as something to be avoided. She was loyal to the Confederation, though that hadn’t stopped her from purchasing leads from scoundrels she knew were Sector Nine agents. She had avoided official contacts for so long, it
was hard for her to realize that she had not only cooperated with the naval powers that be, but she had come to call some of them friends.
And one more than a friend.
Tyler Barron. He was a complication in her life, one she’d decided a dozen times to leave behind. But she’d never managed it. She liked him—in the brief moments when she acknowledged her own susceptibility to the weaknesses that affected people, she might say she loved him. They’d had fun together, more than that, even. She was different when he was around. She felt as she never had before. But Andi Lafarge was nothing if not a realist. Tyler Barron had been born onto a path as rigid as the one her own impoverished beginning had set before her. More so, even. She couldn’t imagine Barron ever leaving the navy. Or the feelings that would haunt him if he did. She suspected he just might leave his career behind for her if she asked him, after the war ended, of course, but she couldn’t do that to him. She didn’t want to be the cause of the guilt that would follow him, of the shade of his famous grandfather haunting him for abandoning the legacy that went with being the Barron heir.
Barron bore the weight placed on him by his name and birth, and for all the privilege and advantages they conferred, they were also chains that bound him. He was tethered to his path, and she wasn’t the kind to follow an illustrious mate around from posting to posting, a navy spouse ready to charm the higher ups and look dazzling at his side. Nor, she suspected, would a mate with as dubious a past as hers be an asset to an officer destined to rise to the top ranks of the navy.
Still, she found it hard to leave. The Confederation was at war, of course, but she played no role in that, not really. She had no duty, nothing to do but sit in her opulent quarters and pick up whatever bits of gossip she happened to hear. And she didn’t like what she’d heard recently.