Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  He was angry with himself for allowing his ego to convince him he could handle this level of command. He’d let himself dream of saving the Confederation…now he would go down in history as the man who lost it all. His only saving grace that there would be no history, at least none the Union censors didn’t write.

  “Admiral…” There was something in Jaravick’s voice, a sound that pushed aside his normal hoarse growl in favor of something more…optimistic. “…we’re picking up ID beacons from the ships at the transwarp. They’re ours. It’s Dauntless and Intrepid, sir. And they’re both launching fighters.”

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  CFS Dauntless

  Ultara System

  308 AC

  “All squadrons launched, Captain. Intrepid reports the same.” Travis was nailed to her chair, her hands outstretched over her workstation, her eyes locked on her screens.

  Barron had expected his people to face an almost impossible journey to get back home, an insurmountable effort to get past the enemy fleet. But instead, his people had transited into the middle of a battle, a big one…obviously a major fleet action.

  They were still on the far side of the enemy formation, and Barron knew that beyond the risk of battle, his people still faced an uphill fight to survive. But even if they were to die here, it was far preferable to do it helping the fleet win this fight. Helping them turn back the Union onslaught.

  “Advise Intrepid we will be increasing thrust to 6g, Commander. Set our course…directly toward the nearest section of the enemy line.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Barron knew the fight his people faced. They’d come a hair’s breadth from destruction in Varus, and then they’d chased a squadron of Union escort ships all the way back to Arcturon, before catching up and destroying them. Now they were going back into battle.

  “I want primaries charged and ready to fire as soon as we enter range.”

  “Yes, sir. All gunnery stations report ready.”

  “Get me Commander Fritz.”

  A few seconds later: “On your line, sir.”

  “Fritzie, give it to me straight…are these systems going to hold up?”

  “Yes, sir, at least until we start taking hits. We made good use of the time it took to get here, Captain. I’m not saying she doesn’t need time in spacedock for some real repairs, but we’re a lot less fragile than we were in Varus.”

  “You’re a treasure, Fritzie. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  “Neither do I, Captain…neither do I.”

  “Have your people ready, Fritzie, because we’re heading right into the shit again.”

  “Where else would they be, sir? Where else would we be?”

  “Good luck down there, Fritzie.”

  “And to you, sir.”

  “Captain,” Travis said, “entering primary range in ten seconds.”

  Barron just nodded. Back into battle.

  * * *

  “On me…we’ve got to hit that wave of fighters, and we’ve got to do it now.” Lefebrve was already bringing her ship around, and she swore under her breath at the sluggishness of the pilots under her command. The battle in Turas had been a holocaust, and she’d lost half her people there. She liked to think those that remained were seasoned for the exposure to such a terrible fight, but she suspected stunned was closer to the mark. Fear had taken hold, its cold hand gripping their spines. They’d launched, of course. An open display of cowardice in the Union was a ticket to the airlock. But their fighting spirit was gone.

  “Let’s move it!” she screamed, anything to wake them from the funk they’d all been in. They had half loads of fuel, and that was the last the fleet had to give them. They had to make this fight count. It was the only chance they’d get.

  She knew she didn’t have the fuel to burn, but she pushed her engines close to maximum thrust anyway. Most of her people were falling behind, but a few—likely the best ones, and certainly the bravest—were coming close to keeping up. It didn’t matter anymore, not really. Beneath the bravado, and the coldblooded focus on her job, she knew this was her last mission. She didn’t have enough fuel to fight a battle and return to base, so that meant this was a one-way trip. And she intended to make it count.

  Her eyes locked on her screen, watching the wave of fighters coming at her. It looked like two Confed battleships had transited into the system, right in the rear of the fleet. It wasn’t a large force, but their position was dangerous. The line ships didn’t have the fuel to come about to face the new invaders, so her people had been sent to buy time. Somehow.

  She’d already fired her missiles, so there was nothing to do but push forward to laser range. She glanced down at her fuel readings. Not good. But crawling forward through the enemy’s missile range wouldn’t have been any better.

  She punched in her turbos, accelerating to the side, trying to sweep around the flank of the enemy formation. A few of her pilots followed her, but most were blundering forward, serving themselves up as targets for the Confeds. Her stomach tensed, and she ached to help them…but there was nothing to do. She had to get around the interceptors and take down as many enemy bombers as she could. The battleships were always the priority.

  The pressure of her thrust pushed her back hard into her seat, but she kept it up until her course brought her around the end of the Confed formation. She could see the enemy pilots, some of them at least, reacting, blasting toward her position. But she was going to get to the bombers first. Her, and two maybe three of her people.

  She’d have two minutes, she figured, maybe three…and then the enemy interceptors would react, and she’d be overwhelmed. But every bomber she could take down in that time was a plasma torpedo that wouldn’t hit one of the battleships. Every one she stopped could save dozens of lives, even hundreds. And that kind of math was appealing. It made it easier to face the near certainty that she wasn’t coming back from this mission.

  * * *

  “Let’s go, Blues…follow me. Red Eagles and Direwolves too. We’ve got to cover the bombers, now! We’re already too late, so let’s not waste any more time.” Jamison had watched the Union fighters slipping around the flank, but he hadn’t taken it seriously at first. He was used to facing overwhelming Union numbers, but now he realized too late that he was up against a capable tactician this time…and one hell of a pilot as well. “Yellows and Black Helms, hold the line here. Don’t let any more groups break off.”

  He kicked in his thrusters, gulping a breath as the g forces pounded into him. He had no time to waste. He was already late. Whoever that pilot was, he was damned good. And the thought of a flyer that skilled attacking the almost defenseless bombers made Jamison’s blood run cold.

  He had been a little shaky when he’d first launched, but his chops had come back quickly. He’d been moments from death in Varus, down to the last breaths of air when the rescue shuttle had plucked him out of space. He’d been sure he was dead, absolutely convinced. But, against all odds, Dauntless and Intrepid had managed to destroy the station. He’d heard the plan had come from Commander Fritz, that she had identified a weakness in the design. He had intended to find her and thank her when he got back to Dauntless, but she’d been busy around the clock on repairs, and he hadn’t seen her anywhere. Every place he’d gone he had been told, “she was just here.” or “she’s down at Reactor A.” And, of course, when he went there they told her she’d just left for somewhere else.

  “We’re with you, Thunder.” Charles Aires was one of a minority of pilots with a calm demeanor. His friend Timmons had often spoken of him in jest, calling him a robot…but Jamison knew Warrior respected Aires’s abilities, and he took Warrior’s opinion very seriously, at least when it came to judging piloting skill.

  “Roger that, Mustang. I think your people are actually closest. But be careful, that Union ship is being flown by somebody who knows what he’s doing.”

  “Got it, Thunder. Don’t worry…we’ll take care of him.�
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  Jamison didn’t like the sound of that. He knew a large number of pilots who tended to be a little wild, and a few downright crazy ones like Timmons and Stockton, but he’d run into a lesser number of the stone cold killer type, men and women who considered comparisons to computers to be compliments. “Ice” Krill had been one of those. But Jamison had never seen one of the latter lose his cool edge without disaster resulting. War could wear a man down, he knew, and the tightly wound types like Aires were sometimes susceptible to it. But it usually got them killed.

  “Mustang, wait up a few seconds. I can be up there in less than a minute.”

  “We don’t have a minute, Thunder. You said it yourself. We’ll hit them hard…don’t you worry about that.”

  Jamison opened his mouth, but no words came out. He had a bad feeling, but that wasn’t justification to allow the enemy an extra minute loose among the bombers. Finally, he just said, “Be careful, Mustang. That pilot’s dangerous.”

  “I’m always careful, sir.”

  Jamison frowned. The Red Eagles were even farther back. If anyone was going to get up there and support the Direwolves, it was him. He pulled back the rest of the way on the throttle, maxing out his thrust.

  * * *

  Lefebrve fired, then again…two lasers blasts, and two bombers destroyed. The cumbersome ships were trying to flee, but her throttle was like an extension of her arm, and she whipped her ship around, firing in multiple directions as her vector took her right through the heart of the strike force.

  Her wingmen were there too, and each had a kill of their own. All together, her attack had taken out six bombers, cutting a wide swathe through the enemy formation. She wanted to decelerate, to come about and launch a second run, but there were enemy interceptors inbound, and she could see they would get to her first.

  “We’ve got visitors,” she said into her comm. She’d always been a cool customer, but now her calm was almost eerie. She’d never felt as much one with her fighter, and it had never been more effortless to target her shots, to put the deadly laser blasts exactly where she wanted them.

  She fired her thrusters again, adjusting her vector, setting herself up to face the attackers coming in. She was outnumbered, badly, but at least they were coming in waves. If she could take enough of them down, maybe the rest would break off.

  No…these are veterans. I can tell by the way they fly. I may kill a few, but then they’re going to get me.

  The thought was almost clinical, as if it had already happened, as though she were reviewing the details of her own death, like some flight instructor narrating a training video.

  Her fingers closed around her firing stud. The deadly lasers fired again, and they claimed another victim. She held her thrust, her turbos burning through the last reserves of her fuel as it brought her course around, directly toward the new attackers. She fired again, and a second interceptor exploded. There were half a dozen ships left in the squadron coming at her…and then one of her wingman hit another. A few seconds later, one of the enemy ships fired, and she lost one of her companions.

  Her eyes locked on that blip on her screen, marking the ship that had fired the killing shot. He was skilled, she could see that watching his maneuvers.

  That’s got to be the squadron leader.

  She adjusted her vector, bringing her fighter to the side, around the enemy interceptor. Her eyes darted back and forth to her fuel readings. Her maneuver would use up most of the rest of what she had, but she was going to do it anyway. Her plan relied on deception. She was heading right toward another enemy fighter, one deployed farther back, giving every indication she was bypassing the lead bird, that she was making a mistake, leaving herself exposed.

  She waited, watching, as focused as she’d ever been in the cockpit. For an instant, she thought her adversary wasn’t going to take the bait. But then the energy readings shot up as the Confed fighter blasted its engines, its vector coming around, moving right toward her.

  She smiled. I have you now…

  * * *

  “Mustang!”

  Jamison heard Timmons’s voice on the comm, a frantic scream that echoed through his cockpit.

  “Get out of there, Chuck…now! Blast your thrust!”

  Jamison saw it too, the trap…and the Union fighter moving to spring it. But it looked like Aires was blind to it. The Union pilot, the one that had captured Jamison’s attention, was luring the Direwolves’ leader in. It was brilliant, hard to detect, but a trap nevertheless. Aires should have seen it, but he didn’t. He was too focused on saving the bombers from taking any more losses.

  “I’m fine, Warrior.” Aires’s voice was calm, unconcerned. Then, a few seconds later: “Shit.”

  Jamison gritted his teeth against the pain as he continued at full thrust. He had to get there…he had to save Aires. But even as he jammed his throttle back full, he knew he wasn’t going to make it.

  “Shit…shit…”

  “Get out of there, Mustang,” Timmons screamed, his frantic voice reverberating in Jamison’s cockpit as it blasted out of the comm. “Now!” But it was too late.

  Jamison watched on the screen, almost as though it was happening in slow motion. The Union fighter spun around, still thrusting hard, opening fire as it did.

  The laser blasts flew all around Aires’s ship, bracketing his position, even as his attacker moved in a sweeping arc behind his ship. The lasers fired again…and again.

  Jamison was moving right toward the enemy fighter, firing his lasers already. But pressing the firing stud didn’t change the fact that he was still out of range. He watched in stunned horror as the Union ship fired another burst of shots, each one closer than the last had been.

  “I can’t break…” Aires’s voice was cut off, even as Jamison watched the small dot disappear from the screen. He felt the bile in his stomach rising, as he stared at the scanner with fading hope, looking for a transponder signal, any sign that Aires had ejected. But there was nothing at all, just a cooling cloud of dust and debris where his fighter had been.

  Then his cockpit erupted, as Timmons’s primal scream blasted from the comm.

  * * *

  Lefebrve watched as the Confederation interceptors closed. She was still savoring the victory, likely her last, she realized. The enemy pilot had put up a fight in the end, but she’d outmaneuvered him. Now she would be outnumbered, surrounded…if she didn’t run out of fuel first.

  The lead fighter coming toward her had been firing from well out of range. She’d expected him to be her next opponent, and very possibly the one who took her down. But now there was another ship on the screen, accelerating at the almost unimaginable rate of 14g.

  He must have blown out every safety feature on his ship…

  She wondered how he was even maintaining consciousness, but he kept coming on, the massive thrust relentlessly continuing.

  That is a skilled pilot. If I’m going to die, this is a worthy opponent to face for the last time.

  She moved the throttle, adjusting her thrust, trying to get herself in a reasonable position to face her new enemy. She didn’t have the fuel for an optimum approach, but she would do what she could. She could accept death if need be, but she’d never go down without a fight.

  She’d never seen a fighter flown so aggressively. She had killed dozens of enemies, but it had always been cold, impersonal. This pilot was after her blood.

  She thought of the ship she’d just destroyed. A brother, a friend?

  Yes, it made sense. Lefebrve had always been a loner, but she’d seen others who’d formed attachments, and she’d watched the pain of loss that so often accompanied such relationships. It seemed somehow appropriate that she, who fought neither for patriotism nor for hatred, should be killed by a pilot consumed with vengeful rage. But if he wanted her, he was going to have to earn it.

  She tapped her thruster to the side, and then she fired the port positioning jets, bringing her ship around, targeting her lasers on the e
nemy fighter streaking toward her like a bullet. It was poor tactics, suicidal even, but she knew that pilot wouldn’t blunder forward into her range.

  He’s going to break one way, just before range…and then he’s going to trust to his aim to take me out quickly. But which way will he go?

  She watched carefully, knowing that if she waited until she could see his movement, it would be too late. She closed her fingers around the throttle, ready to adjust her angle. She wasn’t a creature of instinct like so many of her fellows, but there was no place for cold logic in this choice. It was a guess, a random chance of being right. She waited until the last possible moment…and then she tapped her jets to starboard, an instant before she saw the enemy fighter breaking to her port. She fired, her beams lancing through empty space, even as her enemy’s shots came right at her.

  The first blast missed, but the second hit, tearing the tail section clean off her fighter. Her helmet slammed down automatically, and her portable oxygen supply started feeding her air, even as the atmosphere of her cockpit blew out into space through the massive breach. She saw the next incoming shot on her still-functioning screen. The chunk that had been blown off the fighter saved her, the change in her vector from the impact moving her away from what would have been a direct killing shot.

  She almost resolved to stay where she was, to die with her ship. But something made her reach out and pull the escape lever, and she was pushed out into space, to float there helplessly, waiting to see if the Union won the fight…or if death would finally take her.

  * * *

  “Primaries…fire!” Barron was leaning forward in his chair, sitting at least, instead of standing in the center of the bridge. Even in his chair, though, his harness still hung loose under him.

  Nothing happened. No familiar sound, no scanner report on the shot he’d just ordered.

  “I said fire, Commander.”

  “Gunnery reports primaries down, sir. There seems to be some sort of power interruption.”

  “Fritzie…” Barron was on the comm in an instant.

  “It’s reactor A, sir. It scragged.”