Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  Watching as the two battleships sliced the enemy station into chunks of worthless debris and pools of rapidly congealing slag.

  * * *

  “They got too cocky. They equipped the thing with a massive fighter wing, but only one supporting capital ship. The modular design was brilliant for portability, but it was a dangerous vulnerability in an attack.” Sara Eaton sat in Barron’s office on Dauntless. The station was gone, torn apart section by section along the weak points Fritz had identified. Every supply vessel that had been docked had also been destroyed, including one freighter that had gotten to within ten thousand kilometers of the transwarp link before Astara had taken it down.

  Barron sat back, something close to relaxed. The war was still going on, of course, and his tiny fleet was several systems deep in enemy territory, but for the first time since Dauntless had arrived at the front, he felt there was some cause for hope. The Confederation was still in trouble, but he knew his ships had given another chance to the fleets and spacers on the front lines.

  “There may have been some arrogance at play, Sara, but I think it’s more that we’re seeing the limit of Union resources. They did an impressive job in the twenty plus years we gave them since the last war, far more than any of us thought possible. They built that thing, and they got more battleships into service than our most aggressive estimates suggested was possible. But their resources had to run out at some point. They kept the station back multiple transits from the front. They figured they were safe back here. And ninety-nine times out of a hundred, they were right. When we’re patting ourselves on the backs, let’s not forget to give luck its due. How could they have anticipated the way our ships ended up behind the lines? That two Confederation battleships would meet up behind their line of advance, directly astride their communications lines?

  “And the modular design was the only way to make the whole crazy plan work. It’s all well and good to look back now, to critique it, but earlier we were dumbfounded about how they even moved the thing. The vulnerability we used to destroy it was an unavoidable aspect of its design, but we almost didn’t discover it. We wouldn’t have if Fritzie hadn’t studied the engineering scans.” And I still don’t know how she found the time to do that…

  “You’re right, of course. You have one fine engineer there, Captain Barron.”

  “She is that. And she’s very taken…so don’t get any ideas about poaching.” He flashed a smile across the table.

  Eaton returned the grin. “Still, I don’t know how they managed to build it. The cost…it must have been almost incalculable.”

  “At Confederation rates of labor and costs of materials. The Union is not like us, Sara. No doubt, those they conquered were reduced to virtual slavery to build that station. Forget trying to measure that thing in money…the true cost analysis there is one of human misery. How many workers killed, how many lives destroyed. How many millions lived on the brink of starvation so the Presidium could launch its war to conquer the Confederation?”

  Eaton just nodded, and the two sat silently for a few minutes, each deep in thought.

  It was more than a surprising level of Union production, Barron realized. It was Confederation neglect. The Confederation’s famed productivity had, to a great extent, saved it in the earlier wars. The problem wasn’t what a scared and mobilized Confederation could achieve when pressed against the wall…it was what a complacent and soft one did between conflicts. The Confederation fleet was only a shadow of what it could have been. But there was no way a republic could sustain public support for constant wartime levels of military production.

  Barron knew the Confederation, if it survived, would face the same problems again. He had no doubt the worlds of the Iron Belt were in a frenzy of production, the terrified populations unwilling to oppose any level of military spending…now that it was almost too late. And it would have been too late if Dauntless and Intrepid hadn’t found themselves in a position to strike the blow they had.

  Barron sighed, weighed down by heavy thoughts…including one he’d tried to ignore, at least for a few moments. But it kept beating at the edges of his thoughts. They had to get back to the fleet. Somehow.

  Both battleships were battered, their savaged systems pieced back together by sweating teams of engineers…and in danger of renewed failure at any moment. Now, their path led toward home, but Barron knew the bulk of the enemy’s forces lay between his people and their comrades in the fleet. He had to figure some way to get his people past their adversaries, back home.

  * * *

  Timmons walked slowly down the corridor, lost in thought. He’d just returned to Dauntless, and while he wouldn’t have thrown around the word “operational” to describe the launch bay, all his people had landed safely, as had the others who’d been stranded on Intrepid.

  The fight to destroy the station had been a brutal and costly one, and he knew every squadron on the two battleships was riddled with vacancies…friends, comrades, skilled pilots who weren’t there anymore. He was heading toward the officers club as custom demanded—a bit delayed, perhaps, by the extended fighting, but on his way nevertheless—to show his respect for the fallen. He and his fellow pilots would drink to them, and then, when duty called again, forget them. They would push forward to another struggle, another fight. And he had no doubt that more desperate battles lay ahead.

  He’d gone through the motions many times since the war began. Too many. And for all the bluster about the “pilots’ sendoff,” as it was called, he remembered his fallen friends well. “Skinny” Pete Jenkins, Blake Daniels, Tony Trammel…and a crowd of other faces, staring back at him from the depths of his mind. He thought of them often. They were dead, but at least as far as he was concerned, they were far from forgotten. It was heresy, perhaps, to acknowledge that, a violation of the pilot’s code, but it was true. He could lie to everyone else, but not to himself.

  Are you on that list now, Raptor?

  For as long as he could remember, he’d resented the other pilot, a rivalry perhaps made inevitable by the fact that the two of them had always been the best. But now, his only thoughts of Stockton were best wishes, hope that his counterpart had somehow completed his seemingly impossible mission, that he had survived against the odds.

  He stepped into the officers club and walked up to the bar. Before he got halfway across the room, Rick Turner walked over to him and handed him a mug. “Red Eagle leader is here, pilots,” he said, his voice so loud it was almost a yell. “Listen and listen good. The Red Eagles did the Blues a solid service in the battle we just fought.” Turner reached out and put his hand on Timmons’s shoulder. “We’ve had bad blood between us, and we’ll probably have it again, but tonight you have Blue squadron’s heartfelt thanks. Whatever happens, the Blues owe you one, Red Eagles, and we always pay our debts.”

  Timmons stared back at Turner, a smile slipping on to his face. “Thank you, Typhoon…” He looked around the room and raised his mug. “Thanks to all the Blues. You damned sure know how to fly, all of you.” He raised the mug to his lips and took a deep gulp, watching as everyone else present did the same. Then he put his hand in the air.

  “One more toast, friends…one that’s been a long time coming for me.” He paused, his smile slipping away to an emotional, almost pained expression. “To a man who is not here today. A magnificent pilot, a Confederation warrior whose courage is legendary, a man I have often been at odds with…but no more, at least not for my part.” He panned his eyes around the room, lifting his mug high into the air. “To Jake ‘Raptor’ Stockton…and to his swift and safe return…to his squadron, and to the rest of his comrades.”

  Timmons drained his mug, but even as he raised it to his mouth, the applause began. He wasn’t sure if it had started with the Blues or with the Red Eagles, but in a few seconds, both squadrons—and every other pilot in the room—were screaming, slamming their hands down on the bar, on the tables. And they began chanting, “Raptor…Raptor…Raptor…”


  Chapter Forty-Six

  CFS Fortitude

  Turas System

  308 AC

  “Was it what you expected?” Striker stood on Fortitude’s flag bridge, amid the smoke and still-blaring klaxons and the detritus of war. The battle had just ended, but the frantic efforts to land fighters and contain out-of-control fires had the fleet’s personnel still at a fever pitch of activity. There was damage control activity going on all around, and it seemed hardly less frenetic than it had moments before, when combat was still raging.

  Holsten was next to the admiral, still trying to absorb everything he had seen, the mass of feelings swirling around inside him. He was afraid, certainly, and horrified at the magnitude of death and suffering. But there was something else. Was it hope? “Was it what I expected?” There was a touch of confusion in his tone.

  “Yes. War, Mr. Holsten. The heat of combat. When you chose to stay with the fleet, I suspected you wished to experience it firsthand.”

  Holsten took a deep breath before answering. “Perhaps you are right, Admiral. My thoughts were more to stay with you, to support you if anyone questioned your right to command, as I felt responsible for your position. But perhaps there was more at play beneath my conscious thought. I had never faced battle myself, though I daresay I have been responsible many times for sending people to their deaths.”

  “So, what are your thoughts now? You have seen it virtually at its worst. I can’t recall a more terrible battle.”

  “It is…not as I thought. I’d have expected I’d be more afraid, though of course I was afraid. But it wasn’t as I’d imagined. It was more…detached.”

  “We all have the capacity to face more than we think we can, but we don’t realize it until the need is upon us. Then, later, when the danger has passed, we wonder how we did what we did.” Striker paused. “You acquitted yourself well, Mr. Holsten.”

  The intelligence chief nodded. “That means something, coming from you, Admiral. I don’t know what else to say. Except that your leadership has confirmed my choice of you to take command.”

  “For as long as that lasts.” Striker spoke softly, leaning toward Holsten as he did. The victory had done nothing to change the illegitimacy of Striker’s command, nor the fact that there would be hell to pay when the confusion cleared. He owed his continued command to the delays imposed by vast distances, and nothing more. “Still, we won a victory of sorts here, Mr. Holsten, even if it is far from complete. Though we have paid so great a price to drive the enemy from Turas, I question whether we haven’t worsened our position in terms of the relationship of total forces deployed. We may be more outnumbered now than we were before.”

  “No, Admiral…you have not worsened your position. Numbers are not everything. You have taken a defeated, demoralized fleet, and you have renewed its energy. You have reminded them that they can win.”

  “Perhaps, Mr. Holsten, but numbers matter too. That is still one massive enemy fleet we face, and unless I am very mistaken, they are now waiting for us in the next system.”

  Holsten just nodded, and the two men stood there, silent for a moment, the only sounds those of the bridge crew in the background, fielding damage reports and updates from the fleet.

  The two forces had fought in Turas for two days, the combat almost non-stop. Fighter groups savaged each other, and strike wings launched themselves in desperate attack runs against the enemy line. The great capital ships themselves had broken up into groups, closing and raking each other with deadly fire.

  The Confederation fleet had been outnumbered, and the enemy’s advantage in size had almost prevailed. The Union forces had seemed like they were about to break through, to shatter the Confederation line and win the day. Then, suddenly, they retreated. Striker’s plan to force them to expend their supplies in a sustained struggle had been successful, though only by the closest of margins.

  Holsten had watched in stunned surprise as the Union ships dropped back toward the transwarp link and slipped out of the system, falling back on Ultara. He’d known, of course, that the enemy was low on supplies, but suspecting something, even believing it, was different than watching it unfold before your eyes.

  The flight of the enemy fleet revitalized the exhausted Confeds, and all across the remnants of their battered line, ships surged forward, nipping at the heels of the enemy as they fled. They had known months of almost nonstop defeat, of endless, agonizing retreats. Now they fell on their enemies with vicious abandon, and not a ship of the Union rearguard escaped to join their fellows. When it was done, only the battered units of the Confederation fleet remained in Turas.

  “Well, Mr. Holsten, at least this time we paid a cost to gain something. Perhaps not a true victory, certainly not a decisive one. Yet, not another defeat either. And that is something.”

  “You struck a blow here that Admiral Winston could never have matched. What you did here has given it another chance. I likely sacrificed my career, even my freedom, to place you in the position to achieve this, Admiral. You have amply repaid my trust. So, until the Senate has me dragged away to face trial, don’t you think you should call me Gary?”

  * * *

  D’Alvert was in his office, standing, staring at the wall. His arm was bandaged and held in a sling. It would have hurt if he’d been able to feel anything but searing, relentless anger. But he wasn’t.

  Perfect. His plan had been perfect. His years of preparation, his meticulous execution. All spot on. He had been on the verge of breaking the hated Confeds once and for all. And now the chance for ultimate victory was lost, for lack of supplies.

  He still didn’t know what had gone wrong with his carefully-planned logistics. He’d heard nothing. Not from Admiral Lund and the missing convoy, not from those he’d sent looking for it. Not even from the supply base itself, though a second shipment should have been sent by now. It was maddening.

  If I find that worm, Lund, I will have him skinned alive…

  He was still wondering if there was more at play than simple incompetence. Was he dealing with outright betrayal? He’d always been careful, keeping his officers at arm’s length, but had he watched them closely enough? Had he somehow telegraphed a weakness, encouraged a move against him?

  Anyone plotting to take his place would know the final victory in the war would make him untouchable. It seemed insane that Union officers would hamper their own war effort, but there was always a delicate balancing act between the state’s interest…and a desperate grab for more personal power.

  D’Alvert hadn’t shared his thoughts or plans with anyone. Well, with Sabine, perhaps, though only to a limited extent. He was genuinely fond of his aide, thinking of her almost as a daughter. Was that where he’d gone wrong? Had she taken advantage of his feelings and betrayed him? Who was involved in the conspiracy? He swore to himself he would find out…and when he did, there would be a reckoning the likes of which his enemies had never imagined.

  He realized he was sweating heavily, that he was standing there shaking with rage. His mind was racing, images of associates whipping before his eyes, wondering whether they were part of the plot against him. He’d kill them. He’d kill them all. Whatever it took to crush the moves against him, to ensure his grip on power.

  But first, he had to preserve the fleet. He had to see it resupplied, and he had to lead it back against the Confeds and secure the victory the traitors had stolen from him.

  He’d hurt the Confeds, badly in Turas. That was a solace, at least, though he’d been surprised at the ferocity of their attacks. He’d thought their morale had been shattered, but the fact that they had invaded Turas suggested otherwise. Something had changed…some force had poured new hope and determination into their defeated spacers. They’d clearly been reinforced, but not by enough to explain the change in their conduct.

  A new commander? Did they finally put that old fool, Winston, out to pasture?

  He didn’t know, and to an extent, he didn’t care. Things were still sa
lvageable. He had to reopen the lines of communication with Supply One, that was the primary concern. Once he did that, when his fleet was resupplied, he could resume the offensive. The battered Confederation fleet could never withstand his resurgent forces.

  He was tempted to retire with the entire fleet, dropping back until he was able to reestablish communications with Supply One, but he discounted that option almost immediately. His enemies would certainly use it against him, seeking to discredit him in front of the Presidium. And his own spacers were shaken now, their string of relentless victories snapped at Turas. He could analyze the losses, evaluate the respective conditions of the two fleets…but the men and women in the ranks only knew they had retreated. That, for the first time in this war, their enemies had pushed them back. If he abandoned Ultara, fell back farther, fear would spread.

  The Union didn’t over-educate its masses like the Confederation did, but even the carefully-designed school curricula couldn’t entirely cover up the fact that the Union had fought the Confederation three times before. No school text would state that any of the wars had been lost, of course, but it didn’t take incisive brilliance to realize the need for a fourth conflict said something. He knew his spacers’ morale was fragile, even in victory. No, he had to draw the line here. Besides, there was no way the Confeds could follow, not for a few weeks at least. They’d suffered too badly, lost too many ships and seen too many others badly damaged. They simply didn’t have the strength to invade another system.

  And by the time they gathered enough forces together, he intended to be resupplied…and ready to hit them first.

  * * *

  Lille sat in his quarters, his feet up on the bed, thinking. He wished there was some way to contact Villieneuve, but it was quite impossible. It would have taken weeks for a message to get through, even if he’d been able to get one off Victoire. His mission had been clear…wait until the victory was won, and then dispose of D’Alvert. He’d pondered his method and his timing, but never the idea that the victory wouldn’t come. Now, he wasn’t sure. The Union fleet was still the stronger, he had no doubt about that, but the ferocity of the Confeds had unnerved them. D’Alvert’s dispatches had suggested a demoralized foe on the brink of defeat, but that wasn’t what he’d seen in Turas.