Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  The mission was complete, Jamison’s fighters off pursuing the remnants of the bombing force. But the Blues were hopelessly intermixed with the enemy formations. Turner wanted to sound the withdrawal, to lead his people back to Dauntless…but he knew it was impossible. The enemy had used their numbers in a surprisingly effective manner, and they had practically englobed his force. His fighters were being attacked from every direction, and a retreat now would turn almost instantly into a slaughter. And he’d see every pilot of Blue squadron die in battle before he’d watch them butchered like fleeing sheep.

  He pressed down on the firing control, loosing a bolt from his deadly lasers. The enemy fighter a thousand kilometers in front of him blinked off his screen. Another kill. His people had inflicted heavy losses on their enemies…but not enough to alter the deadly force ratio in effect. The Blues could inflict four kills for every one of their own taken down and still lose ground.

  Turner’s eyes caught something on the display, an approaching formation. For an instant he felt a wave of despair. Another force of enemy fighters would eliminate whatever infinitesimal chance his people had. But then he saw the direction of the approach…and the AI updated the screen, labeling the approaching fighters.

  Red Eagle squadron. Timmons…

  Turner lost his focus, just for a second. Dirk Timmons was Stockton’s great rival, and that made him persona non grata in Blue squadron. But here he was, at the head of his squadron and racing to pull the Blues out of the fire.

  He felt an instant of resentment, but he pushed back against it. Rivalries were one thing, dislike between pilots also…but right now they were all Confederation warriors. And the real enemy was before them.

  His comm crackled to life. “Blue leader, this is Red Eagle leader…we’re inbound. At your location in one minute. Hang on until then, Blues. Damned fine job chewing up those enemy squadrons…thanks for leaving something for us.”

  Turner was surprised at the tone of Timmons’s message, and he felt shame for the flash of resentment. “Red Eagle leader, this is Blue leader. You are most welcome. Thanks for the assist.”

  He gritted his teeth, staring at the screen with renewed ferocity. They had a chance now. He knew the Red Eagles were good…not as good as Blue squadron, of course, but pretty damned good nevertheless. It was time to show these Union pukes how to fly.

  * * *

  Barron watched as the cloud of enemy bombers moved forward. They would enter the outer limits of Dauntless’s defensive perimeter in a few minutes. The battleship’s laser turrets outranged the attackers’ plasma torpedoes, but not by a lot. That was one reason capital ships were so dependent on their own fighters for defense. Dauntless’s grid of anti-fighter guns was formidable, but her gunners would have two minutes, perhaps three, to inflict their damage. Then the bombers would launch their torpedoes, and the lasers would switch their targeting priorities, trying to destroy the small, far harder to target, warheads before they converted to plasmas.

  Jamison’s fighters were coming up behind the bombers. They were going to make it into range just in time, the result of his strike force commander’s herculean efforts, and those of the pilots he commanded. But they would still be pretty far out, their shots difficult ones. They weren’t going to get them all, but any bomber they took out could be the one that scored a critical hit on one of the battleships.

  Barron had almost become accustomed to the feeling of battle, the tension, the tightness in his stomach. He ignored it all, focusing with iron discipline on the scanners and readouts feeding him information. His ship needed him, and he would do whatever he possibly could to bring her through this fight…and into the next one.

  “All defensive batteries are authorized to fire at will as soon as targets enter range. Laser turrets have top priority for energy allocation.”

  “Yes, sir.” Travis turned around and relayed Barron’s order.

  A moment later, he heard a familiar hum, faint, distant. One of the batteries opening fire. Within a few seconds, all of Dauntless’s point defense guns were active. A bomber vanished from the display. Then another, this one on Intrepid’s section of the line.

  Barron’s eyes moved to a faint red line on the display, the AI’s estimate of the enemy’s maximum launch range. The tiny dots representing the fighters moved steadily forward toward that deadly border. Two more disappeared, victims of the battleships’ defensive fire.

  Thirty seconds…then they’ll start launching torpedoes…

  The bombing strike moved forward, into the teeth of Dauntless’s fire. But just before they entered range, Jamison’s fighters opened fire.

  Barron watched as four squadrons of Confederation interceptors fired almost as one, their lasers tearing into the enemy formation from the rear. The shots were long, desperate attempts to score hits against all odds. Many of them missed. Most. But some hit, and combined with the fire from the battleships, they began to take a toll.

  Bombers were winking out all across the line, ships that had traveled halfway across the system to attack the battleships falling short by a matter of seconds. Barron felt a wave of excitement as more and more of the enemy ships vanished. But then he saw a line of dots, smaller than the icons representing the fighters, indeed, barely visible in the display. Torpedoes. His people had shot down more than half of the attacking bombers, but the rest were launching their own attacks now.

  Dauntless’s bridge was almost silent. Every officer there understood what was happening. The laser turrets had taken their toll, and Jamison’s fighters had ravaged the attacking force. But now that was over. The batteries might take out a torpedo or two as they approached, but most of the incoming warheads would survive, and when they got close enough, they would convert to pure energy, removing any hope of interception.

  “I want the engine room ready for evasive maneuvers, Commander.” Once the torpedoes converted, they would lose their ability to change vectors. That would give Dauntless a window for maneuver, and a final chance to evade the deadly weapons.

  “Engine room standing by, sir.”

  Barron stared at the display intently, focusing on the incoming torpedoes, ignoring everything else save those horrendous warheads moving toward his ship. Coordinates ran through his thoughts, thrust levels…but he couldn’t issue the orders before the torpedoes turned to plasmas.

  His eyes were fixed on the display tank, each second passing like some tiny eternity, time seeming to slow until it was almost unbearable. But still, he concentrated. Then, one of the dots grew larger, the AI’s way of marking a conversion. Another after that, then more until all fourteen incoming warheads had turned to searing hot balls of plasma, moving directly toward the two ships on ballistic headings.

  “Full thrust, forward…three seconds,” he snapped into his comm unit. Time was of the essence, and there was no time for the formal nonsense of issuing orders through Travis.

  “Acknowledged,” came the reply. An instant later everyone on Dauntless’s bridge was slammed back into their chairs, 10g of thrust hitting them too fast for the dampeners to intervene. Barron figured there’d be some injuries, muscle pulls and maybe a broken rib or two, but every torpedo he could evade saved lives.

  “Bring us around to 320.098.003…thrust at 4g for six seconds.” Barron’s eyes were darting all across the display, his mind making snap decisions, his mouth spitting out the instructions without a second thought. There was no time to waste. Even with his best efforts, his ship wasn’t going to escape from all the approaching weapons.

  He watched as three of the torpedoes went by, evaded by his quick actions. But another three were heading directly for Dauntless, and he knew even as he started to issue the orders it was too late.

  “Bring us to…” Dauntless shook hard, once…and then two more times in rapid succession, all three torpedoes slamming into her amidships. Barron had no idea yet what damage his ship had taken, though the hits all seemed solid. But his mind was still focused on the remaining torp
edoes.

  “Bring us to 123.111.234, 6g thrust for ten seconds.” But this time there was no reply, not for a few seconds. Dauntless didn’t move. Then: “Captain, the engines are offline. I don’t think the damage is critical. We’re working on it now.”

  “Very well.” It might not be critical, but right now even a loose power lead could be the difference between survival and destruction. Barron watched, horrified, as three more plasmas slammed into his ship.

  The bridge went dark, all except for the red battlestations lamps and their local battery power. The display projection was gone, the tank black, empty. A few seconds later the lights came back, dimmer than usual, as Dauntless’s reserve power came online.

  “Damage report,” Barron snapped into his comm unit. He wasn’t even sure the communications systems were functioning, and he was relieved when Fritz’s voice replied.

  “It’s bad, sir…but not as critical as it seems. I think both reactors are fine, but the power distribution system is a mess. The thrust damage is minor. A leak on the main fuel line caused the AI to scrag the engines. I’ll have it back online in less than five minutes.”

  Barron felt a wave of relief. He wasn’t sure he should be happy at the extent of the damage his ship had suffered, but he’d expected worse, and in battle, such things were definitely relative.

  “All right, Fritzie…you know your priorities. We need power to the weapons systems.”

  “Yes, sir. I think the primaries are fine. As soon as I can get the energy transmission back online, they should be good to go.”

  Barron hesitated, just for a second. “The launch bays?”

  “I don’t know yet, sir. Sorry. But I don’t think they’re a disaster. I’m pretty sure we can keep beta bay open, at least. Alpha is reporting heavier damage.”

  “Okay, Fritzie…get to it. You know what to do.” He cut the line.

  The workstations were all back online, though the energy-hogging holographic main display was still dark, replaced by a large two-dimensional projection.

  He looked over toward Travis. “Anything from Intrepid, Commander?” He’d forced himself to forget about Dauntless’s companion. There hadn’t been a thing he could do to help Intrepid, not while she was evading incoming torpedoes. He knew the battleship was in the capable hands of Sara Eaton, and he’d left her alone to do her job.

  “Yes, sir. Captain Eaton reports that Intrepid’s engines are at half thrust, but her people have already effected repairs. And her landing bays are fully operational. Her primaries are offline, but she expects to have them back up within half an hour.”

  Barron nodded. Eaton’s ship had gotten off lightly, at least by comparison to Dauntless. He paused for a few seconds, then he asked the question he dreaded the most. “Casualties?”

  “We have thirty-one dead, sir, mostly in the outer compartments where the last three torpedoes hit. Sickbay reports twenty-seven wounded, but Dr. Stewart says they expect that number to rise significantly as more cases are brought in.”

  “Intrepid?”

  “Captain Eaton reports eleven dead and forty-one wounded.”

  Barron sighed softly. He wasn’t sure if it bothered him more that over forty spacers had just died…or that more than anything else, he felt relief. Relief that it wasn’t worse.

  “Sir, Captain Eaton reports that she will be bringing her engines back online in…”

  “No.”

  “Sir?”

  “Captain Eaton is to…no, put her on my line.” Barron’s eyes were fixed on a spot on the 2D display, a red oval marking the location of the enemy battleship. The oval that was moving directly toward his ships.

  “Captain Barron?”

  “Sara, listen to me. I want you to keep your engines offline. I want you to keep your power output suppressed. Repair everything you can, but don’t activate anything.”

  “Yes, sir…” There was confusion in her voice.

  “Look at your display, Sara…at the enemy battleship. They think we’re crippled, and they’re moving forward so they can hit us and finish us off. I want them to think we’re both in critical shape. Maybe we can lure them in. We’ve got a better chance if we can fight the battleship and the station separately.”

  “Yes, sir.” It was clear she understood perfectly now. “Should I jettison some wreckage as well? We’ve got plenty of it.”

  “Absolutely. And keep your power output at minimal levels. Anything we can do to make it look like both ships are shot to hell.” His mind drifted back to the fight at Santis. He’d used a similar strategy to lure Captain Rigellus in. And if it worked on an officer of Katrine Rigellus’s skill, he was sure the commander of that massive Union battlewagon would fall for it.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And, Sara…make sure your damage control crews have those primaries back online by the time that monster gets here. What’s the point of setting up a trap if you’ve got nothing to spring on the enemy?”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Interplanetary Space

  Approaching Mellas Transwarp Link

  Turas System

  308 AC

  “Who the hell is this pilot?”

  “Identity unknown. Best estimate from scanning data suggests the fighter launched from the Union battleship Montmirail, the lead ship of the class, mounting…”

  “Enough,” Stockton growled. He’d been talking to himself, and he really wasn’t interested in a lecture from his AI. Not now. He’d cleared the enemy formations, and he was on a dead line for the transwarp link. He was ripping along at one hell of a velocity, and he had no fuel left—none—to decelerate. So, if the fleet was in Mellas, one of the capital ships could send out a rescue shuttle to match course and velocity with him. And if the Confederation forces weren’t there, he’d tear off into the system’s fringe awfully fast. He’d only live for about an hour or so of that, but his frozen corpse would keep going, more or less forever. Unless his vector led into a planet or a star or a comet…

  If, that is, he got out of Turas. He’d been sure he’d managed that, but then he realized he still had one bird on his tail. He couldn’t understand why his hunter hadn’t fired a missile yet. With no fuel for evasive maneuvers, he was a sitting duck. But his adversary seemed to be closing to laser range. It was a break, he knew, but he couldn’t understand…and that was making him nervous.

  Not that nervousness was particularly troublesome over the full-blown fear and the soul-crushing exhaustion that were also wearing on him. He’d known the mission would push him to the limits of his endurance, and it had done just that. If the fleet wasn’t in Mellas, he almost welcomed the frozen death that awaited him there. Anything except more hours in the confines of this fighter, waiting for the enemy, for another malfunction, for the last shreds of his sanity to desert him.

  He felt the urge to reach out and grab the controls, to alter his vector, to conduct the kind of evasive maneuvers that had kept him alive in all his battles. But his instincts were pointless. With no fuel, there would be no maneuvers. He was on a straight line, and that made him an easy target.

  He glanced at the display. His pursuer was still accelerating, and every passing second closed not only the distance but the rate at which he was being overtaken. He didn’t have a lot of respect for Union pilots, but something told him this one was different. And that meant he was in trouble.

  He waited—what else could he do? His eyes were fixed on his controls, waiting for his scanners to report the first shots from his enemy’s laser cannon. If he was indeed facing a skilled pilot, it wouldn’t take many shots before his adversary finished him off.

  He wondered if he’d spent his last fuel well, if perhaps he should have broken his vector. But that didn’t make any sense. He’d still have been trapped, and his pursuer would have run him down anyway. He’d taken a gamble, one he still knew had been the right choice, but his luck had failed him for once, and put a truly skilled Union pilot on his tail.

  So close…I
made it so close…

  * * *

  Lefebrve’s eyes were tightly focused. Her target hadn’t changed velocity, hadn’t accelerated or decelerated. It hadn’t changed its vector at all. She understood…he was clearly heading for the transwarp link. But why not pour on more thrust? The Lightning could out-accelerate her for sure, but instead it was just moving forward with its velocity unchanged.

  Her mind raced, but she could only come up with two options. The fighter was out of fuel…or the whole thing was some kind of trap. She tried to think it through, even as she closed the distance.

  Why would they want to set up a trap for a single fighter?

  To capture me? To try to get intel? But how? They’d have to get me through the link…and I’m going to blast this fighter before it transits.

  Perhaps the pilot in front of her was a rookie, one who had no idea what he was doing.

  But what would a raw pilot be doing out here all by himself?

  She was edgy, but she wasn’t going to let it interfere with her kill. She’d gotten a fighter shot out from under her in the battle at Arcturon, and her bruised ego had been burning for revenge ever since.

  She opened her palm, moving her fingers, stretching her hand. Then she closed her grip on the throttle and brought her index finger to the firing stud. She was almost in range.

  The targeting was simple. Her enemy’s course was absolutely predictable. She had him.

  Her finger closed slowly…and then her target moved.

  She was shocked. She’d been just about convinced he was out of fuel. Now her mind raced. Is it a trap?

  She angled her controls, tracking the enemy’s move. It was slow, a minor shift. Almost imperceptible, but enough to make a laser blast miss.

  It wasn’t normal thrust. There was no energy reading on her scanner. If the fighter had engaged its engines, she would have picked up something. But the output was still reading zero.