Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

She lined up her shot and fired.

  Damn!

  The enemy fighter changed its vector again. And once more, the move was minimal, barely a shift at all. But enough to make her miss.

  This one is good…I can feel it…

  She was watching, looking for any sign her quarry was trying to spin around and take a shot at her. If he really was out of fuel, it was possible his guns were dead too. But she wasn’t about to get careless. She fired again…and missed one more time as her target shifted its vector slightly.

  She was frustrated, the relentless g forces wearing away her focus. But she didn’t let up. The closer she got, the harder it would be for her prey to escape. And she was going to get as close as she had to…

  * * *

  Stockton was dead. He knew it. He had no fuel, no weapons. He’d managed to use his positioning jets to buy a few extra seconds, but they were almost exhausted now too. He was close to the jump point, tantalizingly close. But not close enough. When the jets gave out, his enemy would finish him in seconds. The pilot on his tail was good…and relentless. Stockton felt like he recognized many of his own traits in his opponent.

  I’m sorry, Stara…I’m so sorry…

  He reached down, pawing through his kit, pulling out the small pendant. It had seen him through more than one close call, and now, if its power was exhausted, so be it. But he owed it something, and if he’d come to the end, he’d die with it in his hand.

  He punched at the controls, blasting the positioning jets again. He’d had to keep his moves complimentary, to offset thrust that would push him off his vector with others that restored his heading. It was a level of predictability in his movement, but he’d had to risk it. He didn’t expect to make it to the jump point, but he hadn’t given up yet, not entirely. It wasn’t that he had any real hope…but yielding just wasn’t in his DNA.

  He saw the energy spike on his scanners, another shot from his enemy going wide. Just wide.

  That was too close…

  He shifted one last time, expending the last of the compressed air that powered his positioning jets. The move put him exactly back on his initial heading, toward the transit point. It was only a few minutes ahead of him, but that might as well have been years. He was out of tricks, and his enemy was right behind him.

  Then he saw…something. Directly ahead, coming through the transwarp from Mellas. Then, suddenly, it was there, right in front of him. A Confederation cruiser, blasting out from the jump point.

  It was help, reinforcements, a vessel with more than enough power to destroy his pursuer. But it was too late. Even a moment earlier would have been on time, but there was no way the pilot on his tail would miss him now, not long enough for the cruiser to intervene.

  He slapped his hand down on the comm unit. “Confederation cruiser, this is Lieutenant Jake Stockton, callsign Raptor. I am carrying vital dispatches for Admiral Winston, and I am being pursued by a Union fighter. I am unarmed and out of fuel.”

  It was hopeless, he knew. They just didn’t have enough time. But he had to try.

  If only I had one last trick I could pull out of my sleeve…

  He sat for an instant, stone still. Maybe there was…but it would take flawless timing. And it would cost him most of his remaining life support.

  Another laser blast ripped by his ship, barely five meters away. There was no choice. He had no time left. It was beyond desperate…but it was all he had.

  * * *

  “Confirmed, Commander. That’s a Confederation Lightning, and his callsign and ID beacon check out.”

  “How the hell did a Confederation fighter get to Turas? It certainly didn’t come from Mellas…we’d know if it did.” Admiral Winston had ordered the Mellas side of the link bracketed with scanner buoys. If a meteor the size of a pebble came through either way, fleet command would have known about it.

  “I don’t know, sir. According to the fleet database, Lieutenant Stockton is assigned to Dauntless.”

  “Dauntless? Yes, she was supposed to link up with the fleet at Arcturon…but that was before the battle there. Could she have possibly survived?” Commander Lars Tarkus sat at his station in the center of Stanford’s bridge. He was shocked to find a Confederation ship in Turas, even a fighter. And what did that pilot mean, “vital dispatches?” Whoever he was, he was coming in from behind enemy lines.

  “I don’t know, sir…but I don’t think Lieutenant Stockton is going to make it.”

  “We’ll see about that, Lieutenant. All laser batteries…open fire. Take out that Union fighter.”

  “Yes, sir.” The lieutenant’s voice was grim. It was clear he believed they were too late.

  “I want 4g thrust, Lieutenant…directly toward those fighters.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  Stanford was a light cruiser, a vessel designed for scouting duties and for providing anti-fighter support for battleships of the line. She wasn’t much against an enemy capital ship, but she had a dozen anti-fighter batteries, and now every one of them opened fire.

  “Thrusters engaged, Commander. All gunnery stations active.”

  “Very well. Maintain fire at maximum…I want that fighter destroyed.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Tarkus looked at the screen, at the two fighters displayed in the center. Stockton’s fighter was heading straight for the transwarp point, that much was clear…but he wasn’t conducting any evasive action at all. No velocity changes, no vector adjustments. He was a sitting duck that way. Stanford would get that enemy fighter, he was sure of that. But not in time. Not unless Stockton managed to throw off his pursuer for just a bit longer.

  “C’mon, Raptor,” Tarkus whispered under his breath. “Help us out, give that Union bastard a hard time of it…”

  * * *

  “I have you now…” Lefebrve spoke softly to herself, her eyes unmoving, locked on her prey. She’d guessed her target had been out of fuel, and that he’d used his positioning jets to evade her fire…but now that had stopped.

  He’s used all the compressed gas…now he’s mine…

  She was less than twenty thousand kilometers away, close enough, especially when the target was locked on a fixed course. The fire from the enemy cruiser was becoming bothersome, but they were too late. They were slowing her down some, forcing her to engage in her own evasive maneuvers. If she’d been able to focus on the fighter only, she knew she’d have gotten it by now. But she wasn’t about to give up. She could take out that pilot…before the cruiser got close enough to overwhelm her with its firepower.

  She banked hard, and then again in almost the opposite direction. The cruiser’s fire went wide, missing her by over a hundred kilometers. Lefebrve was adept at executing tight, fast maneuvers, the kind designed to make enemy gunners tear out their hair. After losing her bird in Arcturon, she damned sure wasn’t about to get another one shot out from under her here. No way.

  She lined up her shot—the last one, she expected. It had to be…the cruiser was bearing down on her. She had to break off.

  Her finger tightened, her eyes focused like lasers. But as she fired, the enemy fighter lurched hard, mostly forward, increasing his velocity. It was slight, but enough to throw her shot off. She angled her thrust, dodging a series of shots from the cruiser.

  Damn!

  It was hard for her to let a target go, especially one like this. But the cruiser’s gunners almost had her…and unlike a fighter, the escort ship had multiple turrets, all focused on her. She was stubborn, not suicidal. She might run the cruiser’s guns if she could focus on that alone, but her own course was more or less locked in by her pursuit of the enemy fighter. She could bag her prey…likely at the cost of her own life.

  She swung her throttle to the side and pulled back hard, blasting at maximum thrust, pulling away from the cruiser’s grasp. She was angry, frustrated…but there would be other battles. It was time to live and fight another day.

  * * *

  Stockton could hear his heart
pounding in his ears. His hands were on the throttle, but it was habit, nothing more. His tortured, depleted, half-wrecked fighter had nothing left to give. He’d compromised its final effective status as his lifeboat when he’d expelled the last of his atmosphere to push the craft forward, to throw one final bit of uncertainty toward his pursuer.

  He took a breath, a shallow one. The only thing standing between him and instant death was his survival suit, and the meager amount of oxygen it carried. If he was careful, if he didn’t exert himself, it might last half an hour, perhaps forty minutes. But that didn’t matter, not to the mission, at least. As long as he got through the transwarp link, his message would be safe. The appearance of the Confederation cruiser was pretty strong evidence there were friendly forces in Mellas, even if it wasn’t the whole fleet. The intelligence he’d carried so far would find its way to Admiral Winston. As long as he made it through the portal. With luck, he’d survive, but if he died, at least it wouldn’t be in vain.

  He glanced at his display, watching as the cruiser closed hard on the Union fighter. His would-be killer was clearly a skilled pilot, far beyond most of those in the Union wings…so much so he wondered how he would have fared in straight up fight, fully fueled and armed. For an instant, he thought his enemy was going to stay on his tail, despite the growing threat from the cruiser. But then he saw the icon shift slightly, pulling away, and he knew he’d made it.

  He felt a wave of relief, the expectation that the laser blast that killed him would come any second fading away. But it was tempered by the realization that his situation remained desperate, that he could still die in the cockpit of his battered fighter.

  He stared for a few seconds, watching his opponent blast her thrusters and flee from the cruiser. He couldn’t help but respect a pilot of such ability, especially in a service that didn’t produce many aces. He tried to imagine how someone of such ability could serve a monstrosity like the Union, though he knew his perspective as a Confederation citizen, even one who’d had a difficult childhood, made it impossible to imagine what life was like for that pilot. For all the helpless billions subject to the Union’s brutal rule.

  Whatever motivation drove his foe, he was grateful his comrades didn’t have to face many adversaries like this one who’d come so close to finishing him. He was still thinking about it when his fighter slipped into the transwarp link…and out of the Turas system.

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Interplanetary Space

  Varus System

  308 AC

  Timmons brought his fighter around, lining up for another run across the confused enemy formation. His Red Eagles had smashed into the Union squadrons with unparalleled fury. The Blues were their rivals, or at least their respective commanders were, but they were allies too. They all had the same foe, and that enemy was before them. The savage attack had not only shaken the Union formation, it had renewed the energy of the Blues, who pounded away at every enemy fighter in their own paths, gunning them down one after another. Still, the enemy had heavily outnumbered the Confederation squadrons, and for all the desperate brutality of the onslaught, the battle continued.

  The Union forces were breaking, falling back, but that only increased the bloodthirsty rage of the Blues and the Red Eagles. Too many of their comrades had died this day, and too many in the battles of the past months. They were determined to have their vengeance, whatever the cost…and they swept through the disordered enemy ranks, shooting, killing.

  Timmons jerked his throttle hard—too hard, and he grunted as pain shot through his chest. He released the control and then pulled back, his motion slightly more controlled, increasing his thrust. He was going to cut through the densest part of the enemy formation, guns blazing the whole way. He knew his fuel status was becoming a problem, but he wasn’t even going to consider that, not until the enemy was in wholesale flight.

  He pressed down hard, firing his lasers again and again. One enemy ship erupted in flame, vanishing from his screen. The next fighter in his path took a hit far back in its fuselage, flaming out its engines, but giving the pilot enough time to eject.

  Two more…

  He angled the throttle, pushing his vector out to the side, lining up one last target before he had to decelerate and turn about. He fired, and missed. Then again. Another miss.

  Fuck…

  He pulled hard on the throttle, increasing his thrust, gasping for air as the relentless g forces pounded against his sore chest. The pain increased with every second, so much so he thought he’d rebroken the rib, but he didn’t slack off, not for a second. He wasn’t going to let that enemy fighter escape. Any enemy he allowed to flee was just another one who could refit and return to kill one of his comrades.

  He shoved the stick as far to the right as he could, the thrust changing his vector slowly, steadily. Then the enemy moved back onto his targeting screen. He waited, watching, his finger poised over the firing stud. He pressed it tightly, discharging the five hundred megawatt fury of his quad lasers. The enemy fighter winked off his screen, another kill.

  “Yes!”

  He looked back at the display, searching for another target. But the enemy fighters had broken off, barely a third of their number fleeing for their mother ship. Timmons felt the urge to pursue, but he held back. He didn’t have the fuel, and he doubted any of his fellows did.

  His comm crackled to life “They’re running, Warrior. Let’s finish them off.”

  “Negative, Typhoon. I feel the same way, but fuel status says no way. We’ve still got to hit that mother ship, not to mention the station. Dauntless and Intrepid need us, and we can’t end up ditching because we ran out of fuel on the way back.” And Raptor and I don’t get along, but it’s still on me to bring his people home…

  “Damn…you’re right, Warrior. Hell of a shame.”

  “Yeah, Typhoon…hell of shame.” Timmons shook his head, unaccustomed to feeling like the cool, rational one. He flipped his comm to the universal channel. “Okay, boys and girls…let’s head back to base.”

  * * *

  “Fritzie, I need that power available when I call for it. We’re running out of time.” Barron’s eyes were on his screen as he spoke, watching the enemy battleship moving steadily forward toward his two vessels. He’d been sure his plan would work, convinced the enemy would do anything to protect the supply base. The Union ship couldn’t risk any stray shots at the station, not if there was any choice. But Barron’s stratagem would only work if Dauntless was ready for the fight when it came, and right now, his ship was still on severely limited power, both its primary and secondary batteries inoperative.

  “I know, sir. We’ve replaced over a hundred kilometers of power lines and conduits. Those torpedoes hit us hard, and just because they didn’t rip the guts out of any main systems doesn’t mean that damage is easy to fix.”

  “Listen to me, Fritzie…there’s no one I’d rather have down there than you, but if we’re not ready by the time that thing gets into range, we’re sunk.” Barron knew Intrepid was in better shape than his ship, but the enemy battleship outmassed either of the Confederation vessels, and it was untouched. Dauntless and Intrepid had been through hell, multiple battles followed by patchwork repairs. And the three small escort ships that formed the rest of his fleet didn’t have enough power to make the difference. If both his battleships could lure the enemy into range and surprise them with their combined primaries, they had a chance to win a quick fight, one that might let them vanquish the Union battleship without taking more critical damage themselves. If they couldn’t pull off that joint attack, Dauntless and Intrepid might still win the battle, but both ships would almost certainly be too crippled to take on the station itself. And that was all that mattered. It was why they were here.

  “I understand, sir. We’ll get it done…somehow.” Fritz’s coolness in battle was legendary, among Dauntless’s crew and throughout the fleet. But now, the engineer sounded like she’d been pushed to the edge of her endu
rance. Barron knew Fritz drove herself relentlessly, and her people too. He felt guilty about riding her…but he still did it. There was no choice. He needed that power. He needed those weapons.

  “Twenty-two minutes, Fritzie. That’s all we’ve got. All you’ve got.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Barron cut the line. Then he jumped up from his chair and walked across the bridge, stopping in front of the main display tank. “Okay, let’s not waste this time. I want all gun crews tracking that ship. I want firing solutions updated every two minutes. Commander Fritz will get us the power we need, I’m sure of that…but I’ll hang the gun crew that misses when we open up.” The words sounded foreign to him. Barron didn’t feel like himself, not when he said things like that. He wasn’t a tyrant, he didn’t lead his people with threats. But he understood what was at stake here. He understood it all too clearly. If his people could destroy that base, the Union offensive would be stalled. It might even collapse for lack of supply. If they failed, if the enemy could send another convoy forward, the Confederation itself could be in jeopardy.

  He knew things were worse at the front than the reports suggested, that the fleet was on its last legs. Nothing as large as the Confederation died in an instant, of course, but there was a tipping point…enough ships destroyed, planets occupied…a level from which he knew his people couldn’t come back. And he suspected they were far closer to that terrible moment that anyone wanted to acknowledge.

  His grandfather had stared into just such an abyss, and he’d acted. He’d reached out and grabbed power, rallied a battered and demoralized fleet, and he’d saved the Confederation. The histories and legends don’t recount Rance Barron threatening politicians, intimidating war profiteers under the guns of his ships, executing deserters and cowards. But Tyler was coming to realize now that his grandfather must have done such things, and more. The Confederation had made a foolish error, allowing its enemy to escape so lightly at the end of the third war, and its troops were now paying the price for it. Barron didn’t compare himself with his ancestor, but he realized he was at a similar point. He couldn’t save the Confederation, he didn’t have the power. But maybe he could give it another chance. And the stress of it all was killing him, making him into something he didn’t like very much.