by Jay Allan
For all the tactical advantages he enjoyed, Villieneuve knew time wasn’t his ally. Reports had flooded in, even as he’d worked to prepare the mobile system for the pulsar. Worlds slipping into rebellion, work stoppages, supply shortages. He’d pushed things hard during the war, probably farther than anyone else could have, but now the price was coming due. The collapse was coming, faster than he’d expected. Indeed, it was already happening. He had to crush the Confeds, here, now. He had to send the shattered remains of their fleet reeling in retreat. Then, he would follow them to Grimaldi…and the pulsar would destroy the Confederation’s great base. After that, his agents on Megara could force through a favorable peace, one that provided sufficient reparations to salvage the Union’s economy, to avert total collapse. One that would cripple the Confederation economically, and set the stage for the next war to be the last.
“Minister Villieneuve, we have received a scouting report. The enemy fleet is massed on the other side of the transit point.”
“Very well, Admiral Bourbonne.” Villieneuve had been through four commanding admirals in the preceding months, but he hadn’t found one he truly trusted to get the job done. Velites had come through with the mobile system, and he’d been duly rewarded, but he was more of a logistics specialist than a combat commander. Bourbonne was the best of the fighting admirals, but Villieneuve had decided to take charge himself, relegating the admiral to second-in-command. “All fleet units are to come to alert status two, Admiral.” Status two was the Union equivalent of the Confederation’s yellow alert. It initiated a heightened level of preparedness and crew deployment without the full-scale commitment of battle stations.
“Status two orders sent to all ships, Minister. Acknowledgements coming in now.”
Villieneuve knew the responses would take time. The flanks of the fleet were light minutes from his position in the center, and each communication had to reach the target ship before a response could begin the journey back. But that didn’t matter. He was less than thrilled about the quality of his officer corps, but he didn’t doubt they could handle an expected alert well enough.
“Activate the pulsar’s reactor chain.” The fusion reactors that powered the ancient weapon were constantly operating at a modest level. But it took a few moments to bring them to full energy production, and to feed the almost incalculable amount of power the massive gun required.
“Yes, sir.” A few moments later. “Minister, all task forces acknowledge status two alert, and the pulsar reactors report three minutes to full readiness.”
Villieneuve just nodded, his eyes fixed on the main display. He’d been expecting to see enemy ships start coming through at any time, but there was still nothing.
Why are they waiting? They must know we’ve detected them, that we know they’re coming.
He’d have thought the aggressive Striker would come through the instant his fleet arrived at the transit point. Striker knew what he faced. Sitting, thinking about it…it could only drain his people’s morale.
But the image of the point was still, no activity at all.
Where are you, Striker? What are you up to?
* * *
“All systems check, Captain. The generator is functioning normally. Engines at sixty percent thrust. No problems.”
“That’s good, Fritzie, but don’t take anything for granted.” Barron felt like a fool the instant the words came out of his mouth. “I want constant checks on all systems.” He finished the thought, foolish or not. Anya Fritz was the most meticulous engineer he’d ever known, and she’d forgotten ways to obsess that he’d never known. But it wouldn’t take more than a minor malfunction to doom them all.
Not just them. If they failed, the fleet would be devastated by the pulsar, and the enemy would advance behind their superweapon, first to Grimaldi…and then to the heart of the Confederation.
“I’m running diagnostics every ten minutes, sir. Engines, reactors, transmission lines…all check out one hundred percent.”
“Stay on top of it, Fritzie. We’re getting close to the enemy’s main force. We’ll be passing right between a task force of battleships, so do whatever you can to keep that thing running.”
“I’m here, sir, right next to it. I won’t be leaving until we’re back through the gate.”
“Anything you need, Fritzie, just let me know. There’s nobody in this fleet more vital now than you and your people.”
“We’ll get it done, sir.”
Barron wasn’t sure if she sounded confident or full of shit. Then he decided he didn’t want to know. The truth either way would have no effect on what he did.
He cut the line, and turned to look over at Travis. Things looked like they always had, but he knew they were different now. He’d planned the mission because there had been no choice, because the future of the Confederation was on the line. But there had been a selfish side to it too, an urge to recapture what he’d felt as Dauntless’s captain, to go back in time, just for one last mission.
Things weren’t the same, though, as much as they looked that way. He wasn’t sure if it was the gravity of the mission, the enormous danger they all faced…or just some immovable reality that pushed relentlessly forward, defying all attempts to turn back the clock. Commanding Dauntless had been the greatest thing in his life, but he knew now, even if his people survived and returned to Confederation space, that was all over. He would always remember it fondly, ache to relive those years, but he could never go back.
“Primaries check out, Captain. Green and green. Initiating diagnostics on secondaries now.”
“Very well, Commander.” He’d ordered the test on the primaries a few minutes earlier, but from the brief length of time that had passed, he suspected Travis had begun it earlier, on her own initiative.
The weapons were the one variable still remaining, the last decision he had to make. The primaries were Dauntless’s most powerful batteries, but they required almost all the ship’s power. Barron would have to drop the stealth field to fire them. The secondaries could engage while the generator was still active, at least a partial broadside, but he had nothing but guesses on how many hits it would take to destroy the pulsar with the lower-powered laser cannon.
We’ll only have seconds to take it out, either way. Once the guns open up, we’ll give away our position, regardless of the generator’s status.
He’d been thinking for days, and he still wasn’t sure what he would do. He wasn’t sure he’d know until the orders left his lips.
* * *
Van Striker sat stone still, silent, almost like a statue in the center of Vanguard’s flag bridge. The new flagship was a modified Repulse-class battleship, the first enhanced and upgraded version of the massive new warships. She’d barely completed her shakedown cruise before Striker had enlisted her as the fleet’s new command ship. There had been no choice, not really. One of Vanguard’s upgrades was its main AI, a quantum-computing marvel that had five times the processing power of the fleet’s other units. A more sophisticated computer was useful for any ship, of course, but it was invaluable for a flagship commanding the largest force the Confederation had ever sent into battle.
Striker was in pain, though he was certain he was hiding that pretty well. The last thing he needed was everyone fussing over him. He shouldn’t be back on duty, he realized that, but war was rarely accommodating of individual schedules, and he was going to lead this fleet into the Bottleneck if he had to do it from a bed in sickbay. He’d violated a dozen regulations in taking command before the surgeon-general certified him fit for duty…violated or suspended outright. The fleet admiral’s prerogative in such matters had turned out to be a gray area in the regs.
Once again, the “book” proves to be overrated. If things go badly, they can put the blame on me, cashier me, do whatever they want. I’ll be dead, anyway, and even if I wasn’t, I wouldn’t give a shit.
None of that fuss made any sense anyway. He had his faculties, and he could sit and give or
ders well enough. If he was a general in command of ground forces, he might understand. But he would direct this fight from a chair, and if his insides throbbed and his back ached, that was his problem and no one else’s. Such sufferings were nothing next to what he was about to ask of thousands of his spacers.
“It has been four hours, Admiral.”
Striker just nodded. The aide had given a time update every fifteen minutes since Dauntless had transited. Does he think I managed to forget? That ten seconds has passed without me counting it?
He knew the officer was just doing his duty, but he was edgy, and he felt as though the tension was closing in from all sides.
“Commander Garson…bring the fleet to red alert. All ships are to prepare for immediate transit.”
The plan had been to wait six hours, to give Dauntless a chance to move deeper into the system…and to buy time so the fleet could appear to be there to engage the pulsar without actually advancing into range. But Striker had waited as long as he could.
“Yes, Admiral.” He could tell from the tone that the aide agreed completely with his decision. His people were afraid—anybody who wasn’t scared out of their wits was clinically insane—but they all knew what had to be done, and they’d come to do it. And the sooner the better.
Nothing is worse than sitting here staring at that transit point and thinking about what is waiting on the other side.
At least he felt that way now. He wondered how sitting and waiting would look in a few hours, when his ships were moving toward the pulsar…when his people started dying.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Formara System
“The Bottleneck”
Union Year 217 (313 AC)
“Captain, engineering reports the malfunction in cooling tube four has been fully repaired.”
Captain Jean Turenne was staring at the display, his gaze intent, his mind completely occupied with his thoughts.
“Captain…” Commander Maramont spoke tentatively. The Union was a rank-based society, and it was generally unwise to irritate a ship’s captain.
“What?” Turenne turned toward his first officer. “Repeat,” he said, his voice now alert.
“Repairs to the cooling tube have been completed, Captain. Both reactors are fully operational and capable of one hundred percent energy production at your command.”
“Very well, Commander,” he said, his eyes already returning to the display. A few seconds later, he said, “Commander, I want a spread of probes launched to sector 2103.”
“Yes, sir.” Maramont sounded confused. The fleet was waiting for the Confeds to come through the transit point. The sector Turenne had identified was considerably deeper in-system, not at all where the enemy would emerge. A moment later: “Probes away, Captain.”
Turenne leaned back in his chair, putting a hand to his face, rubbing his chin gently. He was probably seeing things, almost certainly so. The scans showed no contact of any kind, but he’d noticed something else, subtle changes in the light dust clouds floating through the sector. It wasn’t anything significant, in fact, he’d told himself half a dozen times he was seeing things, but he still couldn’t put it out of his mind.
He turned and look at the small screen on his workstation. “Feed probe input directly to my station, Commander.”
“Yes, sir.”
Turenne stared at the screen as data began to scroll down. It was preliminary—the probes were still some distance from the target area—and they showed nothing abnormal. Not yet, at least.
He looked back at the bridge’s main display, still focused on the spot he’d specified. There was something…wrong. It was still more gut feel than hard data, but somehow, he was sure he was right.
His eyes moved back to the small screen, waiting as the probe moved closer toward the target area.
* * *
“Scanners coming back online, Andi. We’ve got trails everywhere. The fleet definitely…” Merrick spun around and looked at Lafarge. “Multiple contacts, the far side of the system. The fleet’s still here, Andi, or it was an hour ago.”
“Cut all power.” Lafarge felt her stomach tense. Van Striker was a cautious man, and she wouldn’t put it past him to have scouts all across the system. Pegasus had just transited, and the fleet was almost a light hour away. Even if they picked her up, it would take some time. But if there was a scoutship nearby…
Time to act like a hole in space.
The ships of the fleet weren’t enemies, but they were bound to be edgy right about now. Even if her people managed to avoid a deadly encounter with a trigger-happy ship’s captain, no good could come of being detected. If his people found her, Striker would send her back to Grimaldi, she was sure enough about that. He wouldn’t be wrong either. Pegasus had no place in a massive fleet battle. The small ship was armed, well-armed for her class, but against military vessels she had no chance. She could handle a fighter or two—probably—but even the smallest escorts in the Union fleet could blow her to atoms.
For about the hundredth time, she wondered what she was doing there. Her concern for Barron was no mystery to her, but exactly what did she think she was going to do? It seemed inconceivable that Pegasus could make any difference in what was going to happen in the next system, and for an instant she thought about ordering Vig to bring the ship about, to head back home.
But she couldn’t. She might not be able to do anything, but she couldn’t give up. Whatever was going to happen, she had to be there.
Right now, there was nothing to do but sit and wait. She’d expected Striker to have transited already, but the fleet was still there, formed up at the transit point leading to the Bottleneck. If she was lucky, their focus would be on the battle ahead and not on the tiny ship hiding a billion kilometers behind them. But she couldn’t blast her engines and move across the system. That would be begging to be found.
She wondered if Dauntless was up there with the fleet, if Barron’s ship was hidden by the stealth device. It was all supposition on her part, of course. She had no confirmation that the stealth generator was being used at all, or that Dauntless was the ship carrying it…but she had no real doubt either. She’d wager she knew Tyler Barron as well as anyone ever head, except, perhaps, for Atara Travis. But Travis would be a co-conspirator in this escapade, an officer just as crazy as Barron.
“What do we do, Andi?”
She glanced over at Merrick. The plan had been to get across the system as quickly as possible. She’d expected the fleet to have transited already. Now, there was only one thing to do.
“We sit here, Vig, as quiet as a mouse. And we hope they aren’t that interested in anything behind them.
* * *
“Captain…we’re picking up a spread of probes. They’re moving up, about two light minutes behind us.” Travis turned and looked at Barron, her expression betraying her concern. “Their vector is very close to crossing ours.”
Barron felt his stomach tighten. If the enemy was somehow able to detect Dauntless…
“On the display, Commander.” He looked up just as Travis fed the data to the big 3D hologram. There was a pale blue line displaying the course Dauntless had followed, and a small cluster of white dots, the group of probes. They weren’t close to approaching Dauntless’s path. They were right on top of it.
“Calculate projected future course for probes.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later, a white line extended forward from the center of the probe spread. It passed within ninety kilometers of Dauntless’s path. In space, that was close. Damned close.
“That can’t be a coincidence.” The enemy hadn’t launched any other probes, or executed any abnormal scans, at least as far as his cloaked ship had been able to detect.
“Fritzie, what’s the status on the stealth generator?” He leaned over the comm as he spoke.
“Green, Captain. All systems check. No irregularities.”
“Check it again, Fritzie. I want a full diagnostic, or whatever you�
��re able to do on that thing, but I want it checked from top to bottom.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Atara, track those probes back. What ship launched them?”
“Yes, Captain.” Travis leaned over her workstation for a few seconds. Then, one of the nine triangles in the display—the closest group of enemy battleships—got larger. “No ship ID available, sir, not with passive scans from this position, but mass readings suggest a Union battleship of moderate size and age. Best guess, 3.4 to 3.8 million tons. If pressed, I’d say, Leval-class or Confiance-class.
Barron nodded. “Very well.” Not one of their best…nothing special. “Any abnormal activity from the other ships?”
“Negative, sir. No scans, no additional probes. All other Union vessels appear to be inactive, standing on station.”
Barron’s comm crackled to life. “Captain, Fritz here.”
“Report, Fritzie.”
“The generator checks out, sir. It’s working perfectly. I also ran tests on the reactors and engines. All output well within expected parameters. If anything, we’re running quieter than normal.”
“Thanks, Fritzie.” He paused. “Keep a close eye on everything.” He hesitated again, and then he added, “I mean a closer eye than normal.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Barron leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath.
He stared at the large triangle. Who are you?
“Atara…I want a course change. Bring us around, ten degrees to starboard and ten up in the z coordinate.”
“Sir, that will increase our time to target by…” A brief pause, no more than a couple seconds. “…twenty-six minutes, forty seconds.”
“I understand, Commander. But I don’t like those probes. I have no idea what’s going on back there, or how we could have been detected, but we’ve been on a straight-line course too long. Execute vector change immediately.”