Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  “Very well, Lieutenant.”

  Barron was edgy. His fighter squadrons were already badly damaged, and now he was risking his best pilots, the commanders of all of his squadrons plus a picked force drawn from the rest of the survivors.

  Alpha bay was operational, barely. Ideally, he’d have launched a full strike force to deal with the laser buoys in orbit around Santis and its moons, but with the bays virtually wrecked and a large number of personnel reassigned to damage control duties, his people had only managed to get ten fighters repaired and refit. And if ten pilots were going to clear the laser platforms, it had to be his ten best.

  He was still unsure how he felt about landing the Marines. He understood their attitudes, that the Marine code required them to come to their comrades’ aid. But he didn’t like sending his men and women into a totally blind situation. He had no idea how many ground troops the enemy ship carried, or if they had all been landed. And Dauntless’s contingent was at half strength, just one company where two would have been normal.

  He didn’t have a choice, though. Not a real one. The fight his people were in would be decided in part by hardware, in part by the abilities of Fritzie and her crews to get as much of Dauntless’s weaponry and equipment back online in time. But he knew morale was just as important. The gunner who kept his shit together instead of panicking…and who scored that last vital hit. The pilot who ran down the enemy ship’s throat and planted a torpedo right in its guts instead of firing from long range and then breaking off. He couldn’t expect that kind of courage and effort from his people if he didn’t respect them. And that included the Marines.

  He shook his head. He was never going to be comfortable about it, but his decision was already made. He leaned forward, tapping the com unit.

  “Prepare assault shuttles for launch.”

  “Shuttles report ready, Captain.” The response was quick. Darrow had clearly known already that the Marines were ready to go.

  Barron nodded gently. He was thankful, at least, that the shuttles didn’t use the fighter bays. There was no way the bulkier ships could have managed their way through the debris and damage the agile fighters had struggled to avoid. The heavy landing craft docked directly against the ship’s hull, and it was a miracle that, with all the damage Dauntless had taken, none of the shuttles had been damaged.

  Barron sat silently for a few seconds. Then he hit the com again.

  “Launch the shuttles.”

  * * *

  Sam Carson was lying on his bunk, trying desperately to get to sleep. It seemed absurd, because he’d never been so tired in his life, but he had been there almost an hour, and he was still wide awake. He’d spied the same small scratch on the ceiling at least ten times.

  It must be the stims. Your body is all strung out…

  He’d been popping the stimulants like candy, along with the rest of Dauntless’s engineering team. The lull in the fight had given the battleship’s crew a chance to get some real rest, all save those charged with repairing the enormous damage the ship had taken. Carson and his team had been at it for forty straight hours. And they’d still have been working if Commander Fritz hadn’t expressly ordered them all to take a four hour sleep break.

  Or, maybe you’re just scared shitless…

  Carson had been grateful to be too busy to seriously think about the situation. He was a combat officer, just like all the others on Dauntless, but he’d been a child the last time the Confederation fought a real war. Even the edginess of the duty along the Union border had been theoretical, the worry about what might happen. But the last few days…that had been combat, real and unfiltered. He’d watched comrades die, seen massive explosions rip through the ship’s structure.

  Now that a combat badge really means something…

  He rolled over, slamming his fist into the pillow before putting his head back down. He thought about taking something to help him sleep, but the idea was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh. He had to be back on duty in just over three hours, and he’d probably need another hit of stims as it was. If he took a soporific now, he’d be a zombie when he woke up.

  He sighed and sat up abruptly. He wasn’t going to get to sleep, that much seemed clear. It was bad…a few hours of real sleep would have done him some good. But worse, now he had to sit here for three hours with nothing to do but think. And thinking wasn’t something he wanted to do. Not right now.

  His thoughts had a choice of methods to torture him right now. Fear of the enemy, of dying here in this forsaken place. Letting his comrades down, watching them die.

  Lise…

  Or he could think of his wife, of their last parting. She had sent him mail in the most recent com dump. It had been short, affectionate, but he still knew he’d hurt her when he’d left. He was glad they’d made up by the time he left, but even as he hugged her the last time, he knew she was still hurt. She’d tried to hide it, but he’d seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. To her, he had chosen Dauntless over her, his comrades of a few months’ service over his pregnant wife.

  But there had been more to his choice than that. Archellia was his home now, and it was right in the path of whatever was brewing out on the Rim. Carson, in his own way, was here for Lise, for his new child. To protect them, to stand in the way of whatever might threaten Archellia, and the rest of the Confederation.

  He could have stayed behind, left that duty to others. But that wasn’t who he was. He’d hated leaving her in tears, but he was far more terrified of the prospect of one day looking into her eyes and seeing that she was staring back at a stranger, a man utterly different from the one she’d fallen in love with. The man he’d have become if he’d been willing to turn his back on his own values.

  He sighed softly. He’d done what he had to do, but he was still troubled. He understood why he had made his decision, but he wasn’t sure she did. And the thought of her believing he just didn’t care enough to do as she asked cut at him deeply.

  He got up and walked across the tiny room, leaning over and flipping on the workstation screen at his desk. The letter was still there, in all its generic warmth and caring. He could tell that she’d struggled to send him a pleasant message, to avoid burdening him with any bad feelings while he was in action. But he saw right through the canned affection, and he felt as if he was back in his quarters on Archellia, having the same fight they’d had before he left.

  I’m sorry, Lise. I hope I can make you understand why I had to go, when I get back…

  Carson looked over at the small clock next to his bunk. Two hours fifty-three minutes to go. Duty would be a relief, an escape from the thoughts haunting him in his dark quarters.

  He sat down in the chair, landing hard. He reached out to the screen, scrolling pages, bringing up Lise’s letter again. He read it, at least half of it, then he shook his head and flicked his finger, flipping back to the main screen. There was no point in brooding now, in stewing in guilt or sadness or whatever this was. He had a job to do, and for all the crushing fatigue bearing down on him, all he wanted was to be back at it.

  He stood up, abruptly, and he walked toward the small closet, pulling out a clean uniform. Fritz had told him not to show his face for four hours, but he saw no reason to sit there, not sleeping, thinking about things he couldn’t do anything about. There was damage to repair, systems to get back online. If the chief engineer pushed back, he’d be honest with her, tell her he just couldn’t sleep, as incredible as that would sound.

  He pulled on the uniform then he walked over to the table on the side of the room. He grabbed a small bottle, stims…and he dumped two into his palm. He paused for a moment, and then he shook the container, dropping a third pill into his hand. He picked up a bottle of water and threw the pills back, guzzling a deep drink to wash them down. Then he grabbed a large nutrition bar, and he walked toward the door…and then out into the hall.

  Back to work. He felt better already.

  * * *

  “Ra
ptor, ease up. I told you to be careful. These buoys aren’t designed for anti-fighter ops, but that doesn’t mean a lucky shot can’t blow your reckless ass away.”

  Jamison’s voice was sharp, with a hint of scolding. Stockton and Jamison were as close as two friends could get, at least until they stepped into their fighters. Then the commander sometimes turned into the parent, lecturing Stockton about his recklessness. It was annoying, but Stockton understood. He was reckless, or at least something close to it. But he was that good too. His skill and his daring went hand in hand. They made him the pilot he was.

  “C’mon, Thunder. Something out there’s got my number, I’m sure. But it isn’t one of these giant laser buoys. They…” He was about to say, “they couldn’t hit a gas giant,” or something equally cocky. But then he remembered that the Reds had lost a pilot to the buoys. And Lynx was on the mission. Stockton knew he was prone to arrogance, but he didn’t want to cause Fedorov pain. She was a good pilot and squadron leader, and he respected her abilities.

  “I’ll be okay, Thunder…I’ll be careful.” He angled his craft as he spoke, his finger pressing down on the firing stud and watching as the nearest buoy vanished from his screen. He smiled, to himself as much as anything. He felt he’d made his point.

  The rest of the fighters were zipping down into orbit, targeting the weapons platforms. The buoys had begun to fire back, but the fighters were too close, too maneuverable. There were a couple of close shots, but in the end the fighters cleared their targets quickly, without loss.

  “Dauntless, this is Thunder. Santis orbit is clear. Repeat, Santis orbit is clear. No casualties. We’re heading toward the moons.”

  Stockton listened as his friend made the report. He knew the assault shuttles were coming up now, that Dauntless’s hundred Marines would be landing within minutes. He saw faces in his mind, men and women he’d played cards with, and one or two he’d had altercations with. But now he wished them all well…even that snotty little corporal he was still sure had pulled that card from his sleeve…

  “Okay, odds, follow me to Lyra. Raptor, you take the evens to Assul. Let’s clear away the rest of these things and get back to the ship.”

  “Roger that, Thunder. Evens on me. Let’s go finish the job.”

  * * *

  “What the hell is that? Enemy reinforcements?” Joe Thoms was standing outside the cave staring up at the sky. It was almost dawn, and the dark still clung thick over the frozen hillsides. But the streaks in the sky were unmistakable, fiery trails that could only be one thing.

  Clete Hargraves stepped out onto the ledge, holding a small foil bag in one hand. Wisps of steam escaped from the small package. The combat rations were heated through a small chemical reaction, one the Marines decided was too insignificant a heat source to be detected. After a month in the bone-chilling cold without so much as a campfire to keep warm, the eight survivors of Santis’s garrison almost didn’t care anymore. More than one Marine had broken down and tried to start a fire. But Hargraves had stood firm, preventing anyone from breaking discipline, with rousing words if they proved sufficient…and with iron fists if they didn’t.

  “Those are landers alright, but they’re different from the ones the enemy used. I’d almost swear those are…”

  “Sarge, we’re getting a transmission on Marine priority channel one.” Buck Miller came rushing out of the tent, a stunned look on his face. “We’ve got friendlies inbound, Sarge!”

  Hargraves let out a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the glowing trails slashing across the sky. Could it be? After so long? It had been a rough time for the Marines, especially since the attack on the tritium facility. That raid had achieved some success, but nothing close to knocking the refinery offline. He had no question that production had been cut, but he was equally certain there was still tritium flowing into the almost full storage tanks. In the end, he doubted if the raid had been worth the lives it had cost. But that hadn’t stopped them from trying again, with even less success and greater loss the second time.

  The civilians were all gone now, as were more than two-thirds of the Marines, victims of combat, of the elements—and in two cases, of slipping on the ice and falling off the rocky coastal cliffs. Hargraves had been trying not to think about the fact that they would have run out of the rations he held in his hand days before if so many of their number hadn’t died.

  “Miller, get a fix on those ships. I want to know exactly where they land.”

  “Yes, Sergeant,” the Marine said crisply.

  Hargraves ran back into the cave, past the cluster of Marines in various stages of realization that something was going on. He turned a corner, moving into a small alcove beyond the main cavern. He stopped and dropped slowly to his knees, kneeling over a figure covered in a massive pile of blankets.

  “Lieutenant?’ Hargraves spoke slowly, softly, uncertain if the officer was awake.

  “Sergeant?” Lieutenant Plunkett turned over slowly, looking up at Hargraves with unfocused eyes.

  “Yes, sir.” Hargraves reached out and pulled up a blanket that had slipped down off Plunkett’s shoulder. “We have incoming landing craft, sir. I think they’re ours.”

  Plunkett looked back, saying nothing for a moment. Then he rasped, “Ours?”

  “Yes, sir. Corporal Miller’s tracking them now, sir. I think we should go meet them.”

  “Are you…sure they’re…ours?” Plunkett struggled to force the words out, then he twisted around and went into a coughing spasm. Hargraves could hear a rattling sound, worse than it had been a few hours before. Luke Plunkett was tough, especially for an officer, at least to Hargraves’ way of thinking. But he knew the lieutenant was slipping away. Hargraves had treated the wound himself, after their medic had been killed, but the infection had already taken hold. Now, Plunkett’s body was wracked by some native Santis bug, one that looked a lot like pneumonia. Hargraves was frustrated to the point of rage watching his commanding officer waste away, when a single injection might save his life. An injection the Marines on Santis didn’t have.

  “Can’t be sure, sir.” Hargraves paused. “But I’d bet on it.”

  “You need to go…” Plunkett spasmed again, his cough spraying speckles of blood onto the blankets. “…and you need to leave me, Sergeant.”

  “No, sir. We can’t leave you. Marines don’t…”

  “Marines follow orders, Sergeant. And I’m ordering you to leave me.” Plunkett coughed again, and then he lay back down, clearly too exhausted to hold himself up.

  “Lieutenant…” Hargraves’ tone was tentative. “We can’t leave you…”

  “You have to.” Plunkett gasped for breath. “I’m done, Sergeant. You know that. I know that.”

  “You ain’t done, sir. And I ain’t leaving you behind.” He turned and leaned backward, looking into the main cave. “Cole, Weir…get over here. We’ve got to rig up something to carry the lieutenant.”

  “Sergeant…no…”

  “I’ve served since you were a boy, Lieutenant. Don’t make me a mutineer, not now.”

  Plunkett looked back at Hargraves. “Okay, Sergeant…on one condition. If we run into trouble, you drop me and leave me behind. Whatever chance you guys have, I don’t want it thrown away dragging my dying body around.”

  Hargraves took a deep breath. Then she said, “Okay, sir. Whatever you say.”

  “Your word, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir…my word.”

  Plunkett nodded. Then he laid his head back and struggled to take in a deep breath.

  Hargraves turned away, partially to head back and get ready to head out…but mostly because he couldn’t face the lieutenant, not after lying to his face.

  Clete Hargraves had never broken his word before, but if it came to leaving Plunkett to die or forsaking a promise, he knew exactly what he would do.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  AS Invictus

  30 light minutes from Santis, Krillus IV

  Alliance Year 58
(307 AC)

  “Open the power feeds…but slowly. No more than five percent at first.” Raban Cinatus stood on the deck, looking up at the massive engines. The structures were immense, rising thirty meters from top to bottom, and almost seven hundred meters in length. And he felt as though his people had covered every centimeter of that vastness.

  The Confederation weapons had torn huge gashes in the engines, and they’d shattered the hull, exposing most of the engine room to the vacuum of space. Thirty of Invictus’s crew had died almost instantly, most of them blown out of the rents in the hull. Another fifty, at least, had been wounded. And the engines themselves had shut down immediately, leaving Invictus tearing away from the battle at greater than one percent of lightspeed, with no way to decelerate.

  Which it still was. Cinatus had deployed his crews immediately, and he’d worked them around the clock, pumping them full of stimulants and ruling over them with iron discipline. The gruff engineer had always believed loyalty and fear were a combination designed to squeeze the very best out of people, and he’d done his part to supply the fear as well as inspire the needed devotion.

  Commander Rigellus had been clear. She needed those engines back online. Every day, every hour before Invictus could return and finish the battle, allowed the enemy to make more repairs, to prepare for the final engagement. At best, that meant more of Invictus’s crew would die in the final confrontation. At worst…