by Jay Allan
He took two steps across the bridge, and then Dauntless lurched wildly. One of the fighters had scored a hit, a bad one, he knew immediately. He stumbled to the ground, but then the grav compensators gave out, plunging the bridge into zero gravity.
Barron pulled himself up, and made his way carefully back to his chair. He’d been scared for a moment that the hit had knocked out the engines, but the readouts showed twenty percent power. Not great, but enough.
He took a deep breath, steadying himself, holding onto the armrests of his chair. He was about to go, but then he decided to confirm one last time that the engines were still functional. “Activate thrust, 1g pulse, forward for two seconds.” It wouldn’t be enough to upset the approach course, just a quick burst to ensure the systems were still online.
But there was no response.
“AI, this is Commodore Barron. Give me a 1g engine pulse for two seconds.”
Nothing.
Barron pulled himself down into his chair, his fingers moving feverishly over the workstation. He pulled up the AI’s diagnostic display, and the second he looked at the screen, he felt his hope slip away. Dead on all readouts. Whatever else that last hit had done, it had taken out Dauntless’s main AI.
The reality closed in on Barron as he sat there, staring at the display, at the growing icon representing the pulsar. Dauntless could still complete the mission, but she would need manual control over the engines.
Barron had to stay, at least until the last instant. Then, hopefully, he could make a run for it.
It would be close. Very close.
Chapter Forty-Three
Free Trader Pegasus
Formara System
“The Bottleneck”
313 AC
“What is he doing?” Andi was staring at the small display on Pegasus’s bridge, watching as the battleship moved closer and closer toward the pulsar. She’d been waiting for the battleship to open fire—it was well within range—but there had been nothing. No shots at all.
“We’re picking up a number of small craft, Andi.”
“Fighters?” She’d watched as Dauntless’s squadrons hit the Union battleship, and again as they’d taken out most of the attacking enemy fighters. But those ships had moved out of the area now, carried off by their high velocities.
“No, not fighters.” A pause. “My guess…shuttles. And escape pods. It sure looks like they abandoned ship, Andi.”
She shook her head. Something wasn’t right about what she was watching. She reached down to her comm unit and sent a signal toward the battleship. Pegasus was close now, and the transmission time was minimal. But there was no response.
“Dauntless, this is Pegasus. Do you read?” She resent the message.
Still nothing.
“Maybe they all evacuated, Andi. I’m picking up a lot of small craft and escape pods. It sure looks like enough to be the whole crew.”
“Maybe.” She knew Vig was making sense, but she had a strange feeling something was wrong. She turned toward her number two. “Send out a wide-angle signal to those lifeboats, Vig. See if you can raise Tyler. Or Atara.”
“On it.” He leaned over his workstation, his hands moving over the controls. “This is Pegasus, looking for Commodore Barron or Captain Travis…do you read?”
She listened as Vig repeated the same words a second time…then a third.
“Pegasus…”
Andi heard the voice, and she recognized it even before the speaker could identify herself.
“…this is Atara. Are you there, Andi? What are you doing here?”
“Atara…I’m so glad to hear your voice. Did you evacuate Dauntless?” A pause. “Is Tyler…”
“Andi, Tyler’s still aboard Dauntless. The weapons are down. He’s…”
Travis’s words vanished from Lafarge’s mind as a single thought formed and, for a few seconds, blocked out everything else. He’s going to ram the pulsar.
“He can’t…”
“He has an escape pod near the bridge, Andi…but he should have launched it by now.”
“We have to get him off of there.” Andi felt her insides tighten. She felt like she was going to retch.
“We can’t, Andi. The shuttles and escape pods don’t have enough thrust to get to Dauntless…not on time. We’ve been trying to reach Tyler, but that last hit must have knocked out the comm.”
Lafarge stared at the screen, at the small oval representing Dauntless. She knew what she had to do…she just didn’t know if she had time.
“Well, Pegasus has enough thrust…and we’re heading right toward Dauntless already.” She gritted her teeth and looked across the small bridge toward Vig. “We’re going in, Atara. We’re going to get Tyler out of there.”
* * *
Argentum’s bridge was a scene of silent efficiency. Tulus and his warriors were doing what they’d been born to do, or at least raised to do, and before them, their enemies fell, one after another. Tulus had seen Tyler Barron’s ships in action at Palatia, and the sense of calm superiority he’d always had as a Palatian had been sorely shaken. Barron’s people conducted themselves with courage and honor, even as they advanced into Palatia’s defenses, a web of fortresses previously thought to be impregnable.
Tulus was here now, repaying that debt…and coming to the aid of friends. But there was pride on the line too, and he couldn’t allow his forces to perform with any less zeal and ability than Barron’s had done in Alliance space.
He watched as the Union ships began to fall back. This enemy lacked the warrior spirit he’d seen in Barron’s crews, and he stared at them with disgust. The Union was dangerous, no doubt, but its threat came not from the warrior spirit or martial skill. Their strength came from numbers, and from their dangerous ability to work in the shadows, to undermine from within. It was a repugnant way to make war, at least to Tulus’s Alliance sensibilities, and he was determined to make the enemy pay, not only for attacking the Confederation, but for all the harm their deceits and machinations had done to his own nation.
“All ships, continue to advance. Keep them in close range, and maintain full fire.”
He could see what the Union forces were doing. They wanted to flee…he could feel that. But they were mostly holding, fighting hard to hang on long enough for the pulsar to withdraw. And, as much as it galled him to acknowledge it, they were going to succeed. Tulus’s force had penetrated the deepest into the enemy line—save perhaps for Sara Eaton’s battered ships, which, despite the heavy damage many had sustained, were driving forward with a vigor that matched that of his own people.
“All ships matching enemy acceleration levels, Commander. Maintaining fire.”
Tulus looked to the long-range display, to the symbols moving around the pulsar. The tugs were almost hitched up. In a few minutes, the enemy would begin moving their ancient weapon. Tulus had no doubt the fight in the Bottleneck would be a victory, but as long as the pulsar survived, the fate of the Confederation—and the Alliance—would remain in limbo.
He began to turn back toward the close-range screen, but something caught his eye. It was a symbol, a small oval, and the instant he saw it, Tulus knew what it was.
Dauntless.
She was heading toward the pulsar. Directly toward it.
“My God,” he whispered softly, as realization dawned. Tyler Barron was going to ram the pulsar.
Tulus shook his head, his eyes fixed on what he was watching. He wondered if Barron would manage to escape—or if he already had, if Dauntless was moving under its computer’s control.
And he had one other thought, one he’d had before, but now could no longer deny.
He couldn’t explain it, but he was sure Palatian blood somehow flowed in Tyler Barron’s veins.
* * *
“Commander Grachus, this is Jake Stockton. Are you reading my signal?” Stockton was blasting his ship hard, burning through far too much of his scant fuel. But he had to maintain contact. Grachus and her survivors wer
e careening toward the outer system, and Stockton had to stay with them if there was any hope of rescue.
“Commander Stockton, this is Jovi Grachus.” Her voice was soft, somber. Stockton could tell immediately she’d given up any hope of rescue.
“Listen carefully, Commander. I’m going to maintain a line on your people. The fleet is advancing, and when the first ships get here we can get some retrieval boats out to your people.” A short pause. “Do any of your fighters have any fuel left?”
“A few, Commander. I’m out entirely. So are several others.”
Stockton paused for a few seconds. Then he said, “Any of your ships with remaining fuel need to decelerate at once. There’s nothing else they can do.” He knew those pilots had a better chance of rescue than Grachus herself, or any of the others who had burned through all their fuel in the fight.
In Grachus’s case, she had exhausted her power fighting like no pilot Stockton had ever seen. The number of kills she’d amassed, the speed with which she’d gotten her squadrons where they had to be…it had been nothing short of astonishing. Stockton’s anger, the searing hatred he’d had for her had changed, morphing into a grudging respect. It had been less than a year since she’d been in his sights, since he’d come half a second from killing her…and now he wanted—he needed—to save her.
But he didn’t know if he could. Her ship was already deep in the system, and there was no help to be had, not until the fleet arrived.
He’d calculated half a dozen times, and he’d come up with the same result in each instance. Grachus and her comrades would run out of life support long before the fleet got there.
But Stockton refused to give up. It wasn’t his way.
* * *
Jovi Grachus shivered. She’d turned her heat levels down to the absolute minimum. It was normal protocol for the situation, an attempt to extend her life support, to increase the amount of time she could survive without rescue.
It was pointless, too, she realized. First, because it did nothing to increase her oxygen supply, which, if anything, was in worse shape than the heat. And second, because she knew, in her head and her gut, that she was just too far out, that no rescue could make it to her in time.
She felt a strange satisfaction that Commander Stockton seemed to have gotten past his anger toward her. He hadn’t forgiven her, at least not in so many words, but then she hadn’t forgiven herself either. She’d been a fool to join the Red Alliance, and her efforts had helped to keep that terrible conflict going. Hundreds were dead because of her, perhaps thousands. She didn’t want to die, and it saddened her to think she’d never see her children again…but she was ready.
Ready to atone.
Ready to follow Kat.
She thought of her friend, of the years they’d spent together, growing up on the Rigellus estate, and of the loyalty Katrine had always shown her. She owed her entire career to Kat, her position as anything but a common footsoldier. Kat had given her the chance to shine, and she liked to think, save for the unfortunate Red Alliance episode, that she’d made good use of the opportunity her friend had made possible.
Even now, she could look at the battle in the Bottleneck with some level of pride. Her squadrons—Alliance and Confed—had held off a huge enemy fighter force, and then they’d managed to disable the enemy battleship moving against Dauntless. She didn’t know if Tyler Barron would succeed in destroying the pulsar, but she was sure she’d done her part. And there was satisfaction in that, some level of redemption for her actions of the previous year.
She didn’t know why it mattered as much as it did to her that Stockton accepted her. The two were very much alike, she suspected. They should have been friends, comrades…but they’d been born to different worlds. She remembered Tyler Barron’s words to her about Kat, about the feelings he’d had when he’d finally spoken to her, right before she destroyed Invictus, killing herself and all hands. He’d spoken of a strange familiarity, a feeling that this enemy he’d just fought should have been something different. Should have been a friend.
But war didn’t conform itself to feelings or wishes, and they’d all been born on their own paths. Kat’s fate had been to fall to Tyler Barron and Dauntless. And Grachus’s had been to survive long enough to reach this point, to serve alongside the Confeds, to help solidify the growing friendship between the two nations.
She’d fought well. That, at least, was a solace. She was scared, sad at the prospect of death, of never seeing her children again. But she knew they’d be well cared for, that their futures were assured. None less than Tarkus Vennius had promised her that.
She had followed Kat most of their lives…and now she was ready to follow her in death. She had done her duty, she had redeemed her family name.
The way is the way…
* * *
Barron stared at the shattered panel, cold realization setting in. His first thought when he’d seen the damaged controls for the escape pod had been to activate the overrides, to force open the hatch and control the launch sequence from the pod itself.
Then he saw the real extent of the damage.
His people had left him the pod nearest to the bridge, the one that would be easiest to get to…but luck, which had saved his people more than once, had swung against him this time. Along with the damage done to Dauntless by the last two fighter attacks, the escape pod had been wrecked.
Barron guessed it had been hit by a chunk of debris flying off from some other part of the ship. But none of that mattered. The pod was beyond repair, that was clear, and it meant Barron was stuck where he was. His plan of guiding the ship in manually, of staying this post and escaping at the last minute, was gone.
For an instant, he considered blasting the engines, trying to change course to avert the impending collision. But he couldn’t do that. Too many people would die if the pulsar was allowed to escape…far too great a price to pay for the life of one man.
He walked back onto the bridge, to his chair. He wanted to live, he wanted to see his people again…and he wanted a chance to talk to Andi, to tell her he was sorry he’d been so cold to her the last time he saw her.
That, he had already done, at least in a way. The message he’d left for her at Grimaldi explained everything. He’d just had to get her away, to know she was safe somewhere. And when the pulsar was destroyed, she truly would be safe. There was peace for him in that realization.
He sat back in his chair, and let out a deep breath. His grandfather had died in the last war with the Confederation…and, now, he would die in this one. He couldn’t be too angry about it. He’d escaped his share of close calls, and he’d always known that, sooner or later, fate would come for him.
He stared at the screen on his workstation, reaching out to the makeshift nav controls he’d set up. He adjusted Dauntless’s vector, slightly, keeping the massive ship on a direct line toward the pulsar. The enemy tugs were moving feverishly, but they were going to be too late.
He fought to hold back the flood of emotions that wanted to consume him. The comm was down. There was no way to call for help…or even to say goodbye.
He sighed softly, staring at the main display. Eleven minutes.
Eleven minutes to impact. Eleven minutes left to live…
Chapter Forty-Four
Presidium Square
Liberte City
Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,
Union Year 217 (313 AC)
“See to it at once.” Ricard Lille gestured for his operative to go, to complete his mission with all possible haste. Lille generally liked to work alone, but that wasn’t always possible, especially on missions of significant scope. And nothing he’d ever done had matched what he was about to attempt. Trusting anyone, even his few loyal retainers, with even partial knowledge of what he was going to do was dangerous…but he just couldn’t pull it off alone.
He stood along the side of the street, the shade from the massive presidium building shielding him from the midday heat o
f Liberte City’s high summer. Everywhere he’d traveled in the Union, the signs of economic collapse and despair had been evident…save here. Liberte City was the Union’s capital, the home of its highest government functionaries, and it would remain pleasant and well supplied, Lille knew, no matter how many millions of its citizens starved.
Ricard Lille was a cynical man, one who believed almost nothing he saw or was told. In his estimation, most people lived in a perpetual state of self-delusion, greedily accepting the lies they were told because the truth was too uncomfortable, too depressing. The Union was supposed to be a worker’s paradise. Its core founding documents spoke extensively of the rights of workers and the demand for equality.
Lille shook his head. The political power brokers of the Union lived as staggeringly plush a lifestyle of any of the nobles who’d been massacred in the revolution almost two centuries earlier, and the plight of the common man had only worsened since then. Organizations like Sector Nine had become adept at spying on the population and removing troublesome elements, and for almost two hundred years, every movement designed to win some level of freedom had been stillborn, extinguished as often as not by Sector Nine kill squads, wiping out the founders before they could spread the word.
Lille wasn’t a dreamer, and he certainly didn’t care about the workers. As far as he was concerned, people who let themselves be herded as sheep deserved no better than they got. He didn’t believe in the Union…he didn’t believe in anything. But the current government had always suited his needs. He lacked the self-destructive lust for power that drove members of the Presidium, and those in the lower strata of the Union’s ruling structure, to constantly scheme and struggle. He liked to live well, but as long as his comforts were attended to, he had only one other vice.
He loved to kill.
He’d never understood his natural affinity for murder, nor the intense pleasure it gave him, but he’d long ago acknowledged it to be true. For years, he had worked with Gaston Villieneuve, eliminating the Sector Nine chief’s worst…problems. He’d been happy in that relationship, and he lived his life of privilege and quiet debauchery between assignments.