Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  “Acknowledged, Lieutenant. Relay additional scanner data when available.”

  “Understood, Commander.” A short pause. “Be careful out there, Kyle.”

  “He’s okay, Stara, I know he is.” It was a lie, but he knew she needed to hear it. It was also a breach of normal protocol for them to even discuss it, but Jamison didn’t give a shit.

  “I want to believe that, Kyle. He’s so self-sure, but I could tell when he left…he was scared.”

  “I know, Stara. But he’s the best pilot I’ve ever seen, and the most infuriatingly stubborn cuss I know. He’ll get through it. We just have to believe.”

  “Thank you, sir.” He thought he could hear a touch of relief in her voice. People had a way of believing what they wanted to believe. It was a trait he’d never possessed, and one he’d envied from time to time. Kyle Jamison had a coldly realistic view of things, and in his gut, he was desperately afraid he had seen his friend for the last time.

  “Commander, we’re getting another data dump from the probes.” The instant he heard her voice, he knew it was more bad news. “It looks like they’ve launched another ten squadrons.”

  Jamison’s face twisted into a grimace. He’d been watching the approaching enemy first wave, and from the fluidity of their maneuvers, he’d come to the conclusion they were all interceptors. It hadn’t made any sense. The enemy station needed to defeat the two capital ships approaching it, and interceptors weren’t going to get that done. Now he understood. The first wave was intended to deal with his fighters. The second would be the strike force intended to destroy Dauntless and Intrepid. And Captain Barron had committed every fighter the two ships had available. There was no CSP behind his squadrons, no defense at all, save the point defense arrays of the battleships.

  And if that first group ties us up, and that second wave is all bombers…

  “Stara, send me the tracking data on the second group. They’re still too far for me to get a decent lock. I want to know exactly where they are at all times.”

  “Yes, Commander. Right away. Keep in mind a relay from the probes to Dauntless to you is going to put a…” Her voice paused for a few seconds. “…six minute delay on data.”

  “Understood, Lieutenant. And let me know if they launch anything else immediately.”

  “Of course, sir.” She paused. “Good luck, Commander.”

  “Thank you, Lieutenant. Jamison out.”

  He cut the line and switched to the main channel. “Listen up…we’ve got more fighters inbound, over a hundred. That means we’re outnumbered badly. But we’ve been there before, and this time is no different.”

  Bullshit…it’s different as hell if we’ve got a hundred plus bombers moving up on us behind this interceptor screen. You can’t let that strike force through. No way. Not if you want Dauntless and Intrepid to be more than two hot clouds of plasma…

  “We’re going to split into two forces. One to face off with those interceptors, and the other to blast right through and take on those bombers.” He didn’t even know if the whole second wave was made up of bombers, but his gut told him yes. And that meant the enemy interceptors would fight like hell to prevent any of his squadrons from breaking through.

  He had a cold feeling. His impulse was to send Stockton and the Blues to spearhead the attack on the interceptors. Even outnumbered two to one, he knew his friend and his elite pilots would make a fight of it, perhaps enough to let a few of his squadrons slip by. But Stockton wasn’t there. He was off, alone in deep space. Or he was…

  He snapped himself back into focus. There was no time for worrying about friends. Not now.

  Timmons…

  Dirk Timmons’s reputation was as widespread in the fleet as Stockton’s. Perhaps even more, since Timmons and his squadron had been assigned to the flagship. The thought of sending in the Blues along with Timmons’s Red Eagles…sending them under Timmons’s command twisted his stomach into a knot. He didn’t have anything against the pilot, but he knew how Stockton felt about his rival. It seemed disloyal, and he hated himself for what he was about to do. But his first obligation was to protect Dauntless and Intrepid, and he had to stop those bombers to do that.

  He thought of “Ice” Krill, lost in the fighting at Santis. He had been another star pilot, and Jamison wouldn’t have hesitated to put him in command of the force engaging the enemy interceptors. But Krill was dead. Olya “Lynx” Federov commanded Red squadron, but as skilled a pilot as she was, he knew she wasn’t in quite the same league as Stockton and Krill, or Timmons.

  “Warrior, you will take the Red Eagles, Direwolves, Blues, Yellows, Gold Shields, and Longswords. I need you to take on those interceptors. I know you’ll be outnumbered, but whatever you do, you have to keep them occupied. I’ll take the Reds, Greens, Grays, and Black Helms and go after those bombers. You’ve got to keep those interceptors off our tails, Warrior. Or those bombers are going to get through.”

  “Understood, Thunder. We’ll keep them busy…whatever it takes.” There was a touch of surprise in Timmons’s usually cocky tone.

  “I’m counting on you, Warrior. Get it done.” Every word cut at him like a knife, even as he said it. He could almost see Stockton’s eyes staring at him from the darkness. But he had to do what made the most sense, and Timmons was the logical choice. He needed his fighters aggressively led…conservative tactics weren’t going to get the job done. And Timmons was the only other crazy pilot he had with the chops to inspire the rest of the squadrons.

  I’m sorry, Raptor…I just don’t have a choice…

  “Reds, Greens, Grays, Black Helms…with me. We’re going to ignore those interceptors and blast right through their formation. We’re after the bombers behind, and we can’t let anything stop us. Full thrust on three…two…one…now!”

  He pulled back hard on his throttle, feeling the force of acceleration slam into him like an onrushing train. It was time to win this fight, no matter what that victory cost.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Interplanetary Space

  Turas System

  308 AC

  By the eleven hells…there they are. Right where the nav data said they’d be.

  Stockton stared at the dots on his screen. According to the information from the enemy nav unit, there were fifty-three battleships, and well over a hundred escorts. The combined invasion fleets of the Union, preparing to continue their irresistible advance. It was a massive force, one that threatened the very existence of the Confederation.

  And I have to get across the system…somehow…

  He glanced down at his gauges. He’d refueled before he made the transit into Turas, and he’d come in on a vector he’d guessed would lead him away from the enemy fleet the nav data had told him was there. His hunch had been sound, and his fighter and the shuttle following it were heading off into the system’s periphery, engines shut down, offering only the minimum energy output to any enemy scanners or probes.

  There were disadvantages to his plan too. His route was longer, and eventually, he would have to fire his thrusters and substantially alter his vector. He’d have to cut the shuttle loose before he did that…the stealth suite was giving his lumbering companion some cover, but when he cut back toward the transwarp link, he would need every bit of ECM he could get to slip by the enemy. And that meant cutting it close with his fuel. Damned close.

  If he could maintain the relatively slow course he’d set, he’d have just enough. But if he was spotted, if he had to blast his thrusters to get away, he was going to run out of fuel…this side of the jump to Mellas. He had pushed things to the limit more times than he could remember, but this one had even the legendary Raptor sweating hard.

  He’d never considered what a toxic combination fear and boredom could be. He had endless hours still to go to get close to the Mellas transit point, and he knew each agonizing second that passed could be the one when the enemy spotted him. He was used to danger—even his rivals like Timmons would acknowledge
that Stockton was no coward. But every man had his deepest fear, the one thing that pounded away at his psyche, unnerved him more than anything else. For Stockton, it was being helpless. He’d fight against an enemy that outnumbered him a hundred to one, and he would never lose his resilience. But the idea of being chased, hunted like a defenseless animal with no way to fight back…it shook him to his core.

  He looked down at his throttle, at the firing stud that would discharge his ship’s weapons. If it’d had any. The small row of controls on the panel was gone, the switches that would have charged his laser cannons replaced by plastic caps. He shook his head, wishing that Commander Fritz had found some way to leave him even one of the two pairs of guns his ship usually carried. Anything that would let him fight back.

  It was all pointless, he knew, but somehow it would have made a difference to him. He could have drawn strength from the ability to resist, even when it was as utterly pointless as a fighter’s laser cannons against the biggest war fleet he’d ever seen.

  But you don’t have that. You’re not a warrior here. You’re a messenger, whose only hope is sneaking past the enemy.

  He felt something strange, a feeling that was new to him. He was struggling to maintain the cool calm that made him so deadly in battle. He’d volunteered for the mission, of course. It was his nature to do so, but there was far more at play than just that. Jamison hadn’t said anything about it, but Stockton was sure his friend had wanted to go himself—intended to go, he would have bet. The captain had probably quashed that idea, and rightfully so. Kyle Jamison’s place was at the head of the squadrons, the combined strike force of both battleships.

  He also knew that, for all the great pilots on Dauntless and Intrepid, none of them had as much chance as he did of completing the mission. He hoped he’d made his point to Stara, convinced her that it wasn’t just arrogance that drove him into this lonely cockpit, and away from her. He just couldn’t stand by and let another pilot—a friend, a comrade—step up and fly this mission.

  Not even Timmons…

  Stockton’s face twisted into a frown at the thought of his rival. For all his noble thoughts about protecting his comrades, he knew Warrior was the one other pilot who would have had the same chance he did to complete the mission. And he had to admit to himself he’d had less lofty motivations as well for taking the mission. His competition with Timmons, his resentment of the other pilot…it made it impossible for him to stand aside, to let his adversary step into the shoes that were rightfully his. Stockton couldn’t even remember the origins of his dislike and rivalry with the other pilot, but he felt it nevertheless, even now. Was it rational, or was it just something that had built on itself over the years? He wasn’t prone to such levels of introspection, not normally, but the loneliness and boredom were bearing down on him.

  “Approaching optimal thrust point.”

  The AI’s cool voice interrupted his thoughts. He looked around the cockpit, his eyes dropping to the display. He was deep into the Turas system. He glanced at the chronometer, and snapped back to it again as the numbers sunk in. He’d been lost in thought for hours. Perhaps he’d even drifted off into some kind of waking sleep. But now there was work to be done.

  He took a deep breath and rubbed his eyes. Then he reached down and grabbed a bottle of water, lifting it to his lips. He’d planned to take a few sips, but as soon as the water touched his mouth he realized how thirsty he was, and he gulped down the whole thing.

  “Prepare for refueling operation,” he said hoarsely, clearing his throat and repeating the words.

  “Recalling shuttle, Lieutenant.”

  Stockton leaned forward, reaching out and flipping a series of switches. His eyes caught one of the gauges on his control panel, the gas pressure in his positioning jets. It was low, far more depleted than he’d expected, and he had no reserves. It had been difficult enough to rig the shuttle to refuel the fighter and recharge its life support systems. The gas jets were difficult to refill, even in the launch bay. There hadn’t been time to rig up some way to do it in deep space, and even if there had been, it would have been half-baked, unlikely to work very well.

  He’d guessed it wasn’t a problem, that one charge would be enough to see him through the mission…and Jamison and Fritz had agreed. But now, he wasn’t so sure. It was going to be close.

  Nothing to do about it now…

  He watched on his screen as the shuttle moved closer, the robotic arm extending the umbilicals toward his ship. This was mostly the AI’s deal, but the whole process was so delicately cobbled together, Stockton couldn’t help but watch nervously.

  There was a pit in his stomach now too, one he knew had little to do with the refueling. This was it, the last recharge. After the transfer was done, he’d send the shuttle off on its own vector, completely different from his own. Then he would engage his engines and line up his course toward the transit link. This was the truly dangerous part of his mission.

  A whole series of things had to go well for him to survive. Commander Fritz’s jury-rigged stealth system would have to keep him hidden, even as he fired up his engines. His fuel would have to hold out…and he knew that was going to be a close one. His air was in better shape, but only marginally. If he ran out of fuel, he’d have maybe an hour’s worth of oxygen remaining, a few final moments to ponder his fate.

  And the fleet’s got to be in Mellas, of course…otherwise you came all this way to die for no reason.

  He understood all the reasons to expect that Admiral Winston and his ships would have withdrawn to Mellas…and that they would still be there. He agreed with them all, completely. But that wasn’t the same thing as knowing they were there. Stockton had bet his life that they were, and now the doubts crept up around the edges of his mind.

  Perhaps someone will find me in Mellas, even if the fleet isn’t there.

  The Mellas system had two inhabited worlds, but with the Union fleet one transit away, civilian traffic would be at a standstill, which meant his fleeting thought was more fantasy than reality. If he got through the transwarp link, he’d have an hour left, maybe two. No terrified civilians waiting for an enemy invasion were going to react quickly enough to save him. No, it was either the fleet, or…

  He turned back toward the gauges, not particularly caring for where his line of thought was leading him. Almost full. He’d done seven refuelings now, and he started to get a strange, almost nostalgic feeling about this being the last. The shuttle had been a faithful companion, following him on the longest journey attempted in a fighter. He felt a pang of guilt for casting it off, cynically condemning it to destruction at the hands of the enemy. He knew it was silly. The ship was an inanimate object, and even the AI that had directed it so perfectly to follow him was nothing but data.

  You’re losing it, Raptor. You’re one step away from stark raving mad.

  He watched the monitors as the fuel and air storage topped off. It was time.

  He went through the cumbersome process he’d followed the other six times, reminding himself every half minute or so to be careful. He was tired, and he wasn’t entirely sure exactly what to call his emotional state. He didn’t jump right to crazy, but he wasn’t sure he was as coldly focused as he wanted to be either.

  He tapped his positioning jets, moving his fighter gently away from the shuttle with its great robot arm. There was fuel left on the vessel, and air too, something he suspected he’d remember if he found himself drifting and suffocating later. But where he was going, the cumbersome shuttle couldn’t follow. The time had come to bid his companion farewell.

  He reached down and tapped the comm unit, activating his direct laser link to the shuttle. “Activate navigation plan omega-zero.” His voice was grim, and despite his efforts to drive off the bizarre emotions he was feeling, he couldn’t quite banish the thought he was sending a friend to die.

  “Omega-zero operative.” The AI’s voice was cool, professional, without a hint of the resentment Stockton had il
logically half-expected to hear. “Farewell, Lieutenant Stockton. Good luck to you, Raptor.”

  The last part hit him hard, totally unexpected. Again, his rational mind knew it was just a bit of programming Fritz or one of her people had added. He was sure it was intended in the best possible way, but in his current state of mind, he found it upsetting.

  He watched on his screen as the shuttle moved slowly away, operating one or two percent thrust until it was well clear of Stockton’s fighter.

  “Goodbye, my friend,” he said softly, as the small blue dot moved farther away. He paused for a few seconds, taking a deep breath. Then he reached down and grabbed the throttle, easing it back slowly, kicking in his own thrust just a bit. He had a significant course change to make, but he wanted to be farther from the shuttle before he risked too much thrust. He had no idea how quickly the enemy would find his small tanker, but he knew they’d never get a chance to search it and discover the purpose it had served. The shuttle’s AI, the string of bits and bytes he’d come so close to calling friend, had one more duty to perform. It was to evade pursuit as long as possible, lead the enemy forces away from Stockton the best it could. But it would not allow itself to be captured. Its final duty would be to destroy itself, taking with it any evidence that another Confederation vessel was loose in the system.

  He waited as long as he could. Then he checked the stealth unit and confirmed it was operating at one hundred percent power before he pulled back on the throttle and accelerated at 4g toward the transwarp link.

  Toward the fleet, I hope…