Dauntless (Blood on the Stars Book 6)

by Jay Allan

  “I promise, Atara. Now, go. I want you out there with the lifeboats. Take command, find the safest place you can for our people.” As though there’s anyplace safe in this system…

  She hesitated, looking as though she’d have preferred to follow virtually any order other than the one Barron had given her. But, finally, she just nodded, and then she turned and walked toward the ladder…and disappeared below the deck.

  Barron turned and took a deep breath. He looked around the bridge, feeling a moistness in his eyes. “It’s just you and me now, old girl.”

  He took a deep breath. “You and me.”

  * * *

  “We’re only getting one shot at this, so make it your best.” Jovi Grachus was leaning forward in her cockpit, her body as tense as it had ever been. She’d watched the Union ship attacking Dauntless, and she knew Barron’s ship had very little chance of enduring the assault long enough to complete the mission. Her people had to disable that vessel. It was the only way.

  She glanced quickly at her fuel gauge. She had enough to power her positioning jets to aim her shot—she hoped—but she didn’t have much more. Decelerating was an impossible dream, and her course would take her into the outer system after her attack, and then into deep space.

  She pushed the thought from her mind. That was a problem, of course, a huge one. But it was next in line, behind stopping the Union battleship.

  “I know this is a difficult attack, but you are the best pilots I’ve ever commanded, the deadliest aces, I’d wager, that exist anywhere. It has been my privilege to lead you, and my great honor. Now, let’s finish this battle. Confeds, you’re making this run to save Dauntless. I know what that means to all of you. And, Palatians, you are here to fight alongside our allies, the men and women who came to our aid when we needed them.” And the less all of you think about what happens next, the better…

  Grachus tapped her throttle, slowly feeding power into the positioning thrusters. She knew she’d pass by the Union ship in less than a second. There would be no time for second-guessing, no time for careful aiming. Her guts, her instincts…they would determine success or failure here, as they would for her comrades.

  “That ship’s got two gaping wounds, and we’ve got to hit right there. A few shots at the hull won’t get it done. Use your targeting computers…but trust your intuition as well, your feelings. Good luck to you all.”

  She shut the comm line. She didn’t want any distractions. She was in command, but there was nothing more she could do for her people now. They were all on their own, reliant on their own talents and skills.

  She figured they’d need two solid hits, maybe three, to disable the battleship…though that was mostly wild guesswork. She didn’t even think about the odds of scoring a single hit, much less multiple ones. It was what they had to do, so somehow, they would see it done. She vacillated between agreeing with that thought and questioning it.

  She had eight Alliance fighters and four Confed birds, all of her people who’d managed to adjust their vectors in time to join the attack run. The rest of her people were coming, but they were too far back, and they wouldn’t make it in time.

  She fixed her eyes on the display, nudging her controls, adjusting her targeting data. There were two spots, the locations where Dauntless’s bombers had struck. Grachus didn’t know much about the architecture of Union ships, but her focus went to the location closest to the ship’s aft. The gash in the hull was a little larger…and it was close to the engines. Her fighters didn’t have much hope of destroying the enemy vessel outright, but there was a good chance the reactors were near the engines. If they could cut the flow of power to the ship’s weapons, even for a few minutes, just maybe they could buy Commander Barron the time he needed.

  She tapped her throttle, lightly. For all practical purposes, she was out of fuel, but her ship was still responding, and she needed those last fragments of engine power. Most of her people would go in ahead of her, the result of their positions and vectors when the frantic attack had begun. She felt like she should be in the lead, but there was nothing she could do about that except watch…and learn what she could from her comrades’ attacks.

  She watched as the first two ships went in, both of them targeting the same spot she’d chosen. The lead ship was a Confed, one of the birds from Dauntless’s Yellow squadron, and the second was one of her Alliance comrades. They were coming in, one right after the other.

  She sat, still, focused, watching as the first shot impacted the hull…perhaps one hundred meters too far to the aft. Any hit at all at these velocities was impressive marksmanship, but she shook her head as the laser blast hit the battleship’s armored hull. It caused damage, of course, but nothing that would make a difference.

  Then she saw the second ship go in. Another hit…and another impact, perhaps two hundred meters from the hull gash. Her people were doing an extraordinary job of hitting the enemy ship at the breakneck velocities at which they were passing by, but not good enough.

  Another three ships went by, two of their shots just missing the battleship, while the third impacted against the starboard armor. Then, the next fighter went by…and it’s shot was right on target, the laser blast going right into the large hole on the ship’s hull.

  Grachus felt excitement as she saw a great geyser of energy flowing back out of the hull breach, secondary explosions ripping through the enemy vessel. For an instant, she hoped to see some effect, a stoppage of thrust or silence from the ship’s batteries. But the vessel was blasting as hard as it had been toward Dauntless, firing its ragged broadside as it did.

  Damn.

  Still, that pilot, one of her Confeds, had proven—to her and the rest of those stacked up, coming in on their own attacks—that it could be done.

  She watched again as the ship in front of her went in, and planted yet another hit in almost exactly the same spot. Another series of inner explosions tore through the ship, flames ripping out of the hull breeches in huge blasts of escaping air, before they were extinguished by the frigid vacuum.

  Grachus felt another burst of excitement, but there was no time to think about damage assessments. Her own fighter was on its way past. It was time.

  She took a deep breath, tried to relax her hand, to allow her instincts to take over. She opened her mind, allowed herself to feel her enemy’s presence, to let the warrior spirit inside her pull the trigger. Her ship zoomed up toward the enemy ship, and as it did, she tapped her throttle, slightly to the port. She felt her fingers tightening, heard the sound of the laser cannon firing echoing inside her cockpit.

  Then, she was past the target, her ship blasting away at just over one-half percent of lightspeed. She was several thousand kilometers past the Union vessel by the time she was able to review her scanner readings.

  A direct hit. She’d planted the laser blast deep inside the enemy ship, right where her two comrades had hit. The readings were off the scale, massive plumes of radiation and heat escaping from the stricken vessel, pouring out into space.

  She flipped the rear scanners on at full power, getting whatever readings she could from the last watts of power her exhausted ship had to offer. The enemy vessel had been hit hard. But there was no way to be sure its weapons were out, not without watching, checking to see if it fired again.

  Grachus knew she would have to take success on faith. A few seconds later, the scanners died as the flow of power was exhausted, most of her screens going to black. Her thrusters were silent, the laser cannons dry. She was out of fuel. Completely out, with no way to decelerate or change course.

  She still had passive scanners, at short range at least, and she could tell all her ships had passed by. And, one by one, they too, were running out of fuel.

  She looked out into deep space, the far reaches of the system into which she and her pilots were plunging, and she sighed softly, hoping it had been worth it.

  Hoping they had saved Dauntless.

  Chapter Forty-Two

&n
bsp; CFS Dauntless

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  313 AC

  Barron sat on Dauntless’s bridge, alone, staring at the display in stunned surprise. The Union battleship was still there, but now it was spewing radiation from internal explosions, and its guns were silent.

  Jovi Grachus. Once again, the Palatian pilot had come through. Barron remembered weeks earlier, when she’d pled with him to allow her to bring her squadron aboard. He’d almost refused her request, concerned about integrating Alliance and Confederation pilots, worried about Stockton’s reaction…and, just perhaps, burdened by some residual resentment for the damage she’d done to his forces when she’d served the Red Alliance. Now, she had saved the mission.

  “Evacuation status?” Barron leaned over, speaking into the comm unit that was now tied into the ship’s AI.

  “All personnel have been evacuated, Commodore.” The AI had never been reprogrammed with the informal demotions the crew had given themselves for the mission. “You are the only remaining life form aboard.”

  He turned and looked at the display. The pulsar was there, larger now, and the small symbol representing Dauntless was moving closer with every passing second. Stockton’s attack had disabled the weapon, giving the fleet a chance to win victory in the Bottleneck…and now, it was Dauntless’s job—her final job—to see the menacing artifact destroyed once and for all, to push this nightmare of a war closer to final victory.

  “Time until impact with pulsar?”

  “Projected impact in eighteen minutes, twenty seconds, Commodore.”

  Barron found it oddly unnerving that the AI showed no emotion. Not that there was any reason to expect a computer to have some sort of breakdown, but he would be leaving the ship in a few minutes…the AI would remain…and be destroyed in the fiery collision that obliterated both Dauntless and the pulsar.

  Barron knew he personified his ship, and he also knew it was irrational…but still, the pain cut deeply at him. He felt the urge to fire up the engines, to veer off and keep his ship alive. He shook his head. That wasn’t possible. Too many lives depended on destroying that weapon. Besides, if Dauntless was still here when the dozen enemy battleships arrived—in less than thirty minutes, he reminded himself—she would be destroyed anyway. This way, she would at least be sacrificed in victory. She would save thousands, even millions. And her name would always be remembered.

  Barron looked at the display. The enemy battleship had definitely been disabled…but the fighters it had launched were still coming in. He didn’t anticipate the Union pilots would be anything like Grachus’s warriors, but Dauntless was wounded just as the enemy battleship had been, and her starboard side was torn open, with gaping holes in her armor. Normally, he wouldn’t be too concerned about a few disordered fighters, but he felt the tension in his gut as he stared at the small yellow dots.

  And at the cluster of tiny white circles behind. Stockton, and a handful of his people, blasting toward Dauntless with what he suspected was something well beyond their full rated power.

  Grachus had faced the entire fighter force defending the pulsar, and routed it utterly, and then she returned and saved Dauntless from the Union battleship. Stockton had led the assault on the pulsar’s power plants, disabling the deadly weapon. Now, he was leading a handful of his people back, to intercept the incoming Union fighters.

  Barron had never been comfortable when the bulk of praise for Dauntless’s victories was heaped on his shoulders. Jake Stockton, Anya Fritz, Atara Travis—and heroes who were gone, Kyle Jamison, Tillis Krill, so many who’d been lost—had all played their part in the fierce struggles his ship had come through. And now, Jovi Grachus, he thought, realizing in full measure just how much she had contributed to the battle. For a passing moment—all he had for idle thought now—he considered the improbability of such a group of talented and capable people coming together, and he wondered if they hadn’t created each other to an extent, if each of them hadn’t driven their comrades to greater levels of success and heroism.

  Whatever answers might exist, Barron knew one thing for sure. He was honored to have led them, to have served these years with such men and women.

  * * *

  “Let’s go! I know you’re low on fuel. I know you’re exhausted. But we’ve got to take down those ships. We’ve got to keep them off Dauntless.”

  Stockton pulled back on the throttle, nudging up his ship’s acceleration. He didn’t know what was keeping his reactor and his engine together, not after the hell he’d put them through. He remembered reading reports, failure rates assigned to various levels of engine overpowering. Now, he suspected that had all been garbage, nonsense published to discourage the kind of reckless behavior he so often displayed in battle.

  Without which, the pulsar would even now be blasting the fleet to dust…

  Stockton wasn’t one who liked being told what to do. He could obey orders—usually, at least—but he wasn’t about to listen to prechewed warnings written by engineers who’d never been in a battle, much less in the cockpit of a fighter.

  His eyes were focused on one of the enemy ships. His lasers were pretty well drained, and he didn’t figure he had more than a dozen shots left. That meant aiming was vital…no pot shots hoping for a lucky hit.

  He moved up, staring at his prey, his view shifting every few seconds to keep track of his comrades, of the handful of fighters he’d managed to get back to defend Dauntless. He almost fired, but he stopped himself. He didn’t have the lock yet…and he didn’t have the shot to waste.

  He tapped his throttle, swung his ship around slightly, and then he squeezed the firing stud. Once. A second time. A third.

  He scored the hit, and his prey disappeared from his scanner. But the attack had cost him close to thirty percent of his stored energy. He’d have to cut his engines to restore his batteries and, by the time he did that, the Union fighters would have completed their attack runs.

  He swung his ship around, hard to starboard, angling toward another of the enemy ships. His people were cutting a huge swath through the battered attack force, but even as he fired twice more, taking out his second target, he knew at least a few ships were going to get through.

  Then he saw three fighters, at the edge of the formation. None of his people were going to reach them in time.

  He blasted his thrust at full, gritting his teeth as his ship swung around, bringing the targets onto his forward scanners. They were far out, difficult shots with laser cannons, but he had no choice. He’d never close, not before the ships were able to complete their runs on Dauntless.

  He fired, a reckless shot that went far wide of his intended target. Then again, this time much closer. His eyes dropped to his readout. He had four shots left, maybe five.

  He pressed the stud again, his shot zipping just to the port of the target. Then again, a glancing hit. The enemy fighter was still there, but it was rolling wildly to the side. The pilot might survive, but he wouldn’t be attacking Dauntless.

  That left two. Stockton drove his ship forward, squeezing everything he could get from the engines. The range dropped slowly. Another two minutes, and he’d be in close range. But he didn’t have two minutes.

  The enemy ships were closing fast, and they’d be firing any second. Whatever he was going to do, it had to be now. He fired, then again. Both misses.

  He shot twice more, both shots close, but neither hitting. Then he stared straight ahead, his hands moving across the controls, adjusting the target lock. He had one of the enemy ships dead to rights, he was sure of it. He squeezed the trigger…and nothing.

  Damn!

  His batteries were drained. He’d done all he could…but at least two birds were going to get through to Dauntless.

  * * *

  Barron watched as Stockton’s pilots tore into the attacking Union fighters. One after another of the interceptors went down, until finally, the survivors broke and ran.

  Save for two
.

  Stockton himself had chased those birds, pursuing them with an intensity Barron could almost feel from the bridge. But then the ace’s guns went silent. Barron didn’t have an active line to Stockton, but he guessed the pilot’s lasers were out of power.

  “Two fighters,” he said softly, half to himself, and half to Dauntless. Two interceptors weren’t normally a major threat to a battleship, but Dauntless had the same weakness that had brought down the Union vessel. Worse, even. The pulsar’s hit had left a jagged gash over seven hundred meters long down the hull. It was a big target, and any shot hitting the exposed innards of the ship would be massively more destructive than one impacting on the armor.

  Barron leaned back in his chair. His ship had already lost its weaponry, and he didn’t need anything more now than enough power for course adjustments. The pulsar was mostly immobile, but it did have its own positioning jets…and the enemy was racing to get tugs hooked up to the artifact. As long as one of Dauntless’s reactors stayed online, with at least some engine capacity, the battleship would be able to complete its mission.

  And the escape pod…

  Virtually every shuttle and pod on the ship had been launched, evacuating the giant ship’s crew and wounded. There was a single pod remaining, just in the corridor outside the bridge…the one the crew had specifically left for their captain.

  Barron looked around the bridge, one last time. He’d already plotted the approach orders into the AI. The ship’s main computer would adjust the thrust and vector as needed to match any enemy efforts to move the pulsar from Dauntless’s path.

  It was time for him to leave.

  He got up from his seat, pausing for an instant to look around the bridge. He was still worried about the attacking fighters, but there was nothing he could do about that, and no reason he could think of to stay longer.