Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  Clearly, D’Alvert had suffered a setback, and just as apparently, he’d underestimated the tenacity of his Confed adversaries. It was all the more reason to move against him, but Lille was uncertain on the timing. Should he strike now? Or should he wait, bide his time, give D’Alvert the opportunity to regain momentum and finally win the war?

  He wasn’t in the habit of giving second chances to those who failed, and he knew Villieneuve was the same. But despite his defeat, D’Alvert was still a capable admiral, considerably more skilled than any of the fools lining up to replace him.

  Lille would have preferred to simply follow orders, but he was alone, cut off. He had to make a choice himself. Killing D’Alvert now would be preferable, at least from an assassin’s perspective. Even for an operative as experienced as Lille, remaining under cover was a stressful endeavor. And if he completed his mission, he could get the hell off Victoire, and away from the bare accommodations and unappetizing food endemic to military life. But he knew that wasn’t the right choice. The war came first, and as much as he disliked the pompous ass, he would give D’Alvert time to finish off the Confeds.

  Then he would strike.

  * * *

  “I understand, Captain Quatraine. Virtually every battleship has damage, including Fortitude. But the enemy’s supply problems offer us a unique opportunity, one that will not last.” And I don’t have much time before I am relieved…and most likely imprisoned.

  “Sir, if we could just wait another two days, it would make a major difference.”

  “And possibly for the enemy too, Captain, if they receive a supply convoy while we sit here repairing damage. Their engineers will be working as ours are, so if we are in better shape, so are they.” Striker paused. “No, Captain, I’m sorry. We’re moving out in three hours, so do what you can to have Steadfast ready for action.”

  “Yes, sir.” Quatraine didn’t sound entirely convinced, but it was clear he wasn’t going to change Striker’s mind. The admiral’s voice was like steel.

  “See to it, Captain.” Striker cut the line and leaned back in his chair. He’d finally convinced Holsten to go back to his quarters and grab a few hours’ sleep. There had been no point in the intelligence chief standing at his side, watching as he obsessed over every detail of the fleet’s operation. Striker had no choice but to operate almost entirely on stims, and the meager snack he’d wolfed down a few moments before, but he’d ordered everyone not essential to repair ops to get at least two hours of actual rest. It wasn’t much, but to Striker’s strung out, exhausted mind it sounded like pure nirvana.

  “Fortitude will take the lead.” His flagship was in as good shape as any of the fleet’s battleships, but it was more than just that. He was driving his people hard, perhaps even brutally. Pushing them forward, less than sixteen hours after the last battle ended, right into the teeth of an enemy that still outnumbered them. His fleet was full of veterans, hardened by months of war. They knew their chances, the danger that none of them would come back. But there was no choice. They would never have a better chance than now.

  “You wanted to see me, Admiral.”

  Striker turned to face the man who had just walked off the lift. “Yes, Lieutenant Stockton. Thank you for coming so quickly.”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “We have two squadrons on Fortitude without commanders, Lieutenant.” He didn’t say what had happened to the squad leaders, and Stockton didn’t ask. “Blackwind and Iron Duke. I’ve got an extra fighter too. Do you think you can help us out and lead them in the fight to come?”

  “Yes, sir,” Stockton snapped back. “Of course, sir.” Stockton had badgered the officers on Repulse for a fighter when the battle began, but intra-service rivalries being what they often were, no one on the old flagship had wanted to let the famous ace steal their laurels. Striker had almost blown his top when he’d found out a pilot of Stockton’s talent had been ready to fight but was forced to sit on the sidelines, and he’d resolved to rectify that problem himself.

  “I’d consider it a favor, Lieutenant. Though, God knows, you’ve done enough already.”

  “If there’s a fight coming, sir, that’s where I belong. Just have someone show me to my fighter.”

  “We won’t be transiting for about two and a half hours, Lieutenant, so go down and get yourself something to eat first. Once we jump into Ultara, it’s liable to go on for a long time without a break. We’re going to push those Union bastards back where they came from, whatever it takes.”

  “Yes, sir!” Stockton stepped back and snapped off a perfect salute. “And thank you, sir. It feels good to be back in the fight.”

  Chapter Forty-Seven

  FSS Victoire

  Ultara System

  Union Year 212 (308 AC)

  “Fuel and supply transfers almost complete, sir. Priority one vessels averaging eleven percent fuel loads now, Admiral, up from five percent.”

  It was far from ideal, but D’Alvert’s orders to move fuel and weapons from crippled and severely damaged vessels to those more combat-ready had given him a force that could put up a fight, at least for a while. Not that he expected the enemy to invade. He didn’t even think it was possible. But he wasn’t about to take any chances, not now.

  He looked over at Renault, his eyes boring into her back as she stared down at her screens. He normally felt a rare warmth when he heard his aide’s voice, but now it was displaced by a deep suspicion. Sabine Renault had never given him cause to suspect her loyalty, but she was also one of the few people close enough to him to do real damage if she did turn. He hated the idea of having to kill her, but he knew he wouldn’t hesitate if she’d betrayed him. Or even if he was unable to rule out the possibility.

  “Weapons status?” he asked coldly.

  “X-ray laser cartridge inventory averaging sixty rounds on priority one vessels, sir. Priority three ships have transferred all their stocks.”

  “Very well.”

  His fleet’s secondary batteries were normal laser cannons. Given enough spare parts and a continued supply of energy, they could fire as long as the reactors had fuel and continued their power output. The primaries were a different matter. They were lasers, but they operated in the x-ray spectrum, and they were powered by the controlled detonation of fusion warheads. Each cartridge included an atomic bomb, and a magnetic bottle structure to contain and channel the massive energy of the nuclear explosion. Once his ships ran out of cartridges, their heavy batteries would fall silent, and they would have nothing with which to answer the devastating Confederation particle accelerators.

  Assuming they’ve got any still functional…

  D’Alvert knew the Confed weapons were notoriously fickle, and that their operation required almost all the available resources of a battleship. With the pounding he’d just given the Confeds, he wouldn’t be surprised if most of their vessels were down to just their secondaries.

  Not that they’d dare come at us. It was only our supply deficiency that saved them from utter defeat…

  * * *

  “Entering transwarp in thirty seconds.” Jaravick’s voice was gravelly, but the strength in it was clear. The old commodore wasn’t having any trouble with his new subordinate role as Striker’s aide, but the combined fleet’s new commander couldn’t say the same thing. For all his current rank and his crushing responsibilities, barking out orders at the old officer made him feel like a child playing a game.

  “Very well, Commander. Fleet order…all ships are to launch fighters as soon as they emerge in Ultara.” Striker had no idea what was waiting in the next system, how many of the Union ships were operational, or where they were positioned. It was reckless to proceed without scouting the other side of the jump point. But if he sent probes or ships through, he’d give away the fact that they were coming. The whole thing was a wild gamble anyway, so he decided to let it all ride and preserve whatever surprise he could. If he was able to catch the enemy napping, he just might gain the edge he
needed.

  “All ships report ready to launch, sir.”

  Striker just nodded. He sat back, his hands instinctively tightening on the armrests of his chair as Fortitude slipped into the maw of the ancient transwarp field and out of normal space.

  The trip from Turas to Ultara was a long one, at least in the physical universe, almost thirty light years. In the strange alternate reality of the transwarp tube, that meant roughly one minute forty-three seconds. As short a time as that was, it was an eternity in the strange, distorted reality of the link.

  Striker tried to sit quietly, ignoring the fear, and the strange side effects of the jump. He needed to be focused. His whole life had led to this moment. All the times he’d read about Admiral Barron, the endless series of memoirs by officers who’d served with the great man, when he’d heard the stories and watched the vidpics…he’d imagined himself someday in the same position as his hero. But he’d always considered that to be the wild dream of a young officer. Now, here he was, in the same situation. The future of the Confederation rode with him. He couldn’t fail…he wouldn’t. He needed every scrap of strength he possessed, every bit of cold analytical brainpower…and he was determined to give it all.

  Suddenly the screen went black, tiny pinpricks of light appearing in the background. Normal space. Fortitude was in Ultara. In an enemy-controlled system.

  “Launch operations commencing, Admiral. Scanning data coming in.” There was a short pause. Then Jaravick continued, “Preliminary data indicates the enemy fleet is still here, sir. They’re deployed back from the transwarp link. We should have time to get the entire fleet into formation.”

  Striker took a deep breath. It was time.

  * * *

  A mass of fighters moved across the interplanetary space of the Ultara system, dozens of squadrons, hundreds of tiny vessels. The first wave consisted of interceptors, lined up ahead of the bomber squadrons they were there to protect. And in the center of the formation, two squadrons in particular blasted their thrusters, heading for the enemy wings in front of them.

  “All right, Iron Duke, Darkwind…I know you both fought hard—and lost hard—in Turas. You both had good commanders, squad leaders who made you proud, who led you to victory. I can’t hope to take their places, nor would I try. But we’re here together now…and the enemy is in front of us. So, let’s fight as one today.”

  Stockton was relieved to be back in the cockpit of a fighter, a real fighter, one with lasers and missiles, though he was a bit wistful about his old ship. He’d been frustrated at her lack of firepower and almost insane from being cooped up in her for so many days, but she had gotten him across a vast distance and saw him through to his destination…if barely. She had given all she had to do it, and there was nothing left of her now but scattered debris, abandoned two systems back.

  There is plenty to worry about here beyond a shattered old fighter…but she was a good ship, and I will always remember her…

  His eyes moved to the display, passing over the serried ranks of approaching Union fighters. The enemy wings had been savaged at Turas, and they were outnumbered now. They didn’t seem to have launched any bombers of their own, sending nothing but a wall of interceptors to defend their battleships against the assault. There were enough of them to rush the Confederation screen, and if they did it aggressively enough, some would get through to the line of bombers. Unless he could disrupt their formation.

  “Everybody lock on a target with your first missile…but don’t fire, not until I give the order.” He wanted to create maximum disruption, and hitting a whole section of the enemy line with a coordinated barrage seemed likely to do just that.

  He picked out his own target, flipping the locking switch and nodding at the tone that confirmed his AI had acquired the target. He waited a few seconds…the closer his people were when they fired, the likelier they were to hit. His actions were logical, the strategy itself based on pure rational judgment. But his gut was completely in charge of the timing.

  “Fire,” he said sharply, pressing down on his own button as he did. The fighter lurched as the missile kicked off its mounting and accelerated toward its target.

  He waited a few seconds, his eyes dropping to the screen to confirm his pilots had all followed suit. Then he said, “Arm second missiles…pick out another round of targets.” Even as he spoke, detonations began to appear on his display, one hit after another blasting enemy interceptors to atoms.

  “Prepare to launch…now,” he snapped. He’d have waited longer, but the enemy ships had begun launching their own missiles, and his people couldn’t start evasive maneuvers until they’d fired. He locked onto a second enemy fighter. “Launch,” he said, his finger tightening over the firing stud.

  “All right, let’s break. We’ve got missiles coming our way now, so look out for yourselves.” He slammed his throttle hard to the side. Three missiles were coming right at him, the targeting a little too close for comfort. Stockton was nothing if not a confident pilot, but now he felt heat around his neck as his arm moved wildly over the controls, veering off on a wild escape route.

  The Union missiles were inferior to the Confederation weapons, with significantly less range and endurance. But Stockton still had to evade for at least two minutes, and with three separate warheads, he had to take care that escaping from one didn’t put him into the path of another.

  His eyes darted to his screens, even as he raced to escape from the missiles. He had twenty-one other pilots, and they were all his responsibility. He knew they weren’t all going to make it—a fact that hit home when one of them vanished from the display, a victim of a missile the pilot couldn’t evade.

  Damn.

  He swung around again, angling his thrust, responding to the missiles’ pursuit. One of the weapons had already lost its lock, and the second one had exhausted its fuel far short of his position. But the third one had stuck with him, stubbornly matching his every evasive maneuver.

  He reached down next to his seat, his fingers feeling around for the switch he knew was there. He slipped his finger under the lever and pulled it, releasing the safeties on his thruster. He needed more power, even if he risked blowing out his entire reactor. That would be bad, but no worse than getting picked off by the missile still closing on his tail.

  He blasted hard, feeling 12g of thrust slam into him. He gasped for breath, struggling to fight off the blackness, just for a few seconds. It was hard to concentrate, but he held on, counting down in his head. Then he released the throttle and felt a wave of relief as weightlessness replaced the crushing pressure. He’d gotten the distance he needed, and he watched as the missile’s thrusters died and the weapon continued on its final trajectory. He tapped his throttle a bit to the starboard, moving him comfortably away from the weapon’s course.

  He inhaled deeply, fighting off the tension. He hadn’t expected to be so sorely tested by the enemy missile attack. A quick look at his screens confirmed his fears. Four of his fighters were gone, and worse, he couldn’t detect a single escape pod.

  There was no time to think about that now. There were enemy fighters to destroy, and some of them were already pushing through, trying to break out toward the bombers.

  And Jake “Raptor” Stockton had no intention of letting that happen.

  * * *

  “The forward line is engaged, Admiral.”

  Striker heard Jaravick’s words, but his attention was on the display, on watching the very vessels his aide was referencing. He’d ordered the eleven ships with operational primary batteries to the vanguard, and now they were firing, their deadly particle accelerators lancing out, striking the enemy battleships facing them.

  The enemy’s maneuvers had been sluggish, unimaginative. He’d have guessed their commander was one of limited ability, but he knew better. He’d read Confederation Intelligence’s report on Hugo D’Alvert, and he’d studied the Union admiral’s actions in the war to date. According to the dossiers Holsten had provided, D’A
lvert was almost a pure sociopath in human interactions…but no one could call him an unskilled admiral.

  So, why are you just sitting there?

  Striker knew what he thought, what he hoped. But he was reluctant to let himself believe the Union forces were that low on fuel.

  The lights on the flag bridge dimmed for a second. Fortitude was one of the eleven ships with operational primaries, and Striker had rejected all suggestions that the flagship hang back from the forward line. The Confederation was in a struggle for its life, the fleet was making its stand. He would be nowhere, he’d declared angrily, but in the thick of the fight, just as Admiral Barron had been years before.

  His hand clenched unconsciously into a fist as he saw Fortitude’s shot on the display, the particle beams slamming into an enemy vessel amidships. Low on fuel or not, the Union forces still outnumbered him badly, and he knew his people needed every hit they could get.

  “Activity at the transwarp link sir. Something is coming in from Gamalon.”

  A cold feeling took Striker’s stomach. The intelligence Lieutenant Stockton had brought hadn’t shown any enemy forces within supporting distance, but he’d been concerned nevertheless, too cautious to completely believe the Union nav data. He’d bet his people could take out the larger, but poorly-supplied Union fleet. Just. But if enemy reserves were moving forward, he knew his people were finished. He could order a withdrawal, and the enemy’s fuel status might even allow most of his ships to escape. But then a reinforced Union fleet would be right behind him…and new ships would probably bring fresh supplies with them.