Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  She knew she had to get a grip. The captain of one of the Confederation’s line battleships couldn’t allow the deaths of crew members—any crew members—to interfere with her operations. But it didn’t help that, with all the repairs that had to be done, there hadn’t been time yet to clean the stain Nordstrom’s blood had left all around his shattered chair.

  “Longsword squadron has completed their patrol circuit, Captain. They are requesting permission to land.”

  Taylor Johns was a fine officer, and she was sure he would be an excellent exec…if she could just get to the point where the sound of his voice coming from Nordstrom’s semi-repaired station didn’t cut into her like a knife in the chest.

  “Launch Black Helm squadron first…then the Longswords can land.”

  “Yes, Captain.”

  “And tell the bay I want those ships refit and ready in record time. We’re on point here, and if Union ships start pouring through that transit point, we’ll be the first to engage. We need to be ready.”

  “Yes, Captain Eaton.” Johns had been respectful, almost reverent. Eaton was sure her new second was well aware of her feelings. One of the effects of raw grief was a tendency to be a bit hard on others. She knew Johns hadn’t had anything to do with Nordstrom’s death, but he’d moved up in rank because of it, and some part of her—one she wasn’t very proud of—resented him for it. She knew it wasn’t fair, and she was sure she’d get over it…but she couldn’t deny that was how she felt.

  Nordstrom was a terrible loss, a deeply painful and personal one, but the tragedy could have been even worse. For a few terrible moments after the enemy fighter had rammed Intrepid, Eaton had thought her ship was lost. The hit had knocked out power and thrust, and the battleship had been left floating dead in space. But the Union AI had miscalculated, waited a millisecond too long to convert the warheads the fighter carried to plasmas. Intrepid took the kinetic impact, and perhaps half the reaction mass converted. Bad, but not as disastrous as it could have been. If the enemy line had been following up the fighter strike, Intrepid would have been lost for sure, but there were no Union forces left in the system, and within two hours Commander Merton and his people had restored partial power and enough thrust for basic maneuvering. Over the next few days her people had worked nonstop, and they’d managed to put the tortured ship into something vaguely resembling operational condition.

  Intrepid’s primaries were so much scrap, and nothing short of six months in spacedock would change that, if the spinal mount system could be fixed at all. Half her secondaries were lumps of twisted and melted metal. But she still carried working weapons, and half her fighters remained. In any reasonable circumstances, she’d have been sent to the rear for repairs, but Admiral Striker didn’t have a ship to spare. Not if the Confederation was going to hold Grimaldi. So, the orders had come down for Intrepid to remain in the line.

  Eaton had felt a moment of resentment, realizing that her people would be in that much more danger in any fight to come. It wouldn’t take much to cripple Intrepid again, and being helpless in the middle of a major fleet action was decidedly unhealthy. She felt, for a few moments at least, that her crew was being deemed expendable. But Admiral Striker was a good man, and she knew he’d only kept Intrepid in the line because he needed her there. Because the Confederation needed her there.

  “Black Helms launched, Captain. Longswords commencing landing oper…” Johns’s voice stopped abruptly.

  Eaton’s head snapped around, overcoming her earlier reluctance to look at the exec’s station. Something was wrong.

  “Captain,” Johns said, “we’re getting energy readings from the transwarp point.” He looked up from his scope, turning back to face Eaton. “Massive readings. If I had to guess, I’d say we’ve got one hell of an enemy fleet about to come through.”

  Eaton nodded slowly and took a deep breath. “Red alert, Commander Johns. All personnel to battlestations.”

  “Yes, Captain. Red alert.”

  Intrepid’s battered bridge was bathed in the red glow of the battlestations lamps. Eaton felt a deep exhaustion, a grinding fatigue at the nightmare of war. For more than a year her ship had been in the thick of the fight, and there was no end in sight. Nothing but more war…and now a battle she had expected, but had somehow hoped to avoid nevertheless.

  “Scramble all fighters, Commander. Advise the launch bay I want the Longswords’ ships refueled and ready to launch as soon as possible after they land.” Her voice was hard, terse.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Eaton just nodded curtly, scolding herself as she did. You’ve got to stop punishing Johns because he’s not Nordstrom…

  “And get me Admiral Striker on the comm. Now.”

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Inside Abandoned Spacecraft

  System Z-111 (Chrysallis)

  Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)

  309 AC

  “There’s a long transverse corridor down this way, perhaps five hundred meters farther down. I think it might run the entire width of the ship, but I only got about a kilometer, and that in just one direction.” Lafarge had been leading Barron around for hours, the two of them followed closely by a pair of Marines. Barron had hoped to slip away from the guards, but Captain Rogan had come close to an apoplectic fit at the thought of his commander prowling around the mostly-unexplored and not fully pacified vessel. He’d insisted Barron take a platoon with him, then he lobbied for a squad before he’d taken his final stand at two hand-picked Marines and utterly refused to budge. Barron finally acquiesced, considering it the only alternative to inciting Rogan’s first act of insubordination, even outright mutiny.

  “You know your way around this ship better than I do…what did you see that seemed most interesting? What looked like it was vital?”

  “There’s a room down this way, a big room. It’s some kind of storage area…I almost passed right through without a second thought. But then I realized there was a lot of functional equipment in there.”

  “Functional? What do you mean by that?” Barron looked around, at the glow from the ceiling, even perceiving the invisible but breathable air floating around them. It was clear that the artifact’s systems were operating, at least on some level.

  “Well, everywhere else I went, all the equipment—the workstations, the panels—they all seemed to be shut down. The lighting worked everyplace I went, and life support is clearly functioning. But I didn’t see an actual piece of machinery that looked like it was working. Not until that room.”

  “I think we should have a look. Do you remember how to get there?”

  “Of course I remember,” she said sharply. Then: “Maybe the canisters in that room are valuable. They’d be a lot easier to move than this entire ship. I could fit a couple dozen in Pegasus’s hold.”

  “Enough,” Barron said, his impatience getting the better of him. “We’ve got more important things to worry about than what bits and pieces you can scavenge here to make a killing.”

  “A killing? How about recouping my expenses?” she snapped back. “Do you get a bill when Dauntless is refit? Because I sure as hell do.”

  Barron stared back at his companion, and for a moment he was without words. He wanted to dislike her…but he just couldn’t manage it, no matter how much she grated on him. She was stubborn—no, pigheaded—and she never seemed to give up on anything she wanted. She might change the subject for a while, but it was always a tactical maneuver, and she’d work her way back to what she really wanted.

  She had ignored his earlier warning, paying lip service to it perhaps, but time and time again she brought the topic of discussion back to her claims to the artifact, or at least some portion of it, usually by circuitous means. Her confidence was like nothing he’d seen before, indestructible, no matter what the situation, and her will was as strong as the core of a neutron star. One minute he wanted to throw her in the brig, and the next the two were talking as if they were old frien
ds.

  “I’m quite certain the Confederation will pay for any repairs needed to your ship,” he finally said. His words started out cold, but somehow they didn’t come out quite as scolding as he’d intended. “Now, show me this room you were talking about.”

  She smiled and nodded, once again exhibiting her instinct on when to back off. “It’s this way,” she said sweetly. Barron knew it was fake—no, actually he had no idea how sincere it was—but he liked it anyway.

  The two walked down the corridor until they reached the perpendicular passage. Lafarge turned right, and Barron followed, the two Marines right behind. They continued for another fifteen minutes or so, until she stopped at a large double door. One side of the hatch was stuck halfway open. She slid through easily, staring back with a smile on her face. “This is it. Do you think you can squeeze through there, Captain?”

  Barron reached around, pulling at the body armor vest he wore, loosening the straps and wriggling out of it. The Marines behind him looked nervous, and one of them stepped forward. “Captain…”

  Barron turned around. “Sergeant, there is no way I’m going to get through this opening with my armor on…and I am going in there. So, unless you know how to open this door, I suggest you stand aside.”

  The Marine looked on, his expression as helpless as any he’d ever seen on one of the elite force. Finally, the non-com said, “Please, sir…let us go first.”

  Barron sighed. “Captain Lafarge is in there. Is anything bothering her?” He let the armor slip to the ground. “You can come with me, but I am not about to stand around here and wait. Follow if you’d like.” He leaned toward the door, twisting his body and pushing himself through. It was tight, but he made it. He looked back, watching the Marines for a second as they frantically shed their own armor in an effort to keep up with him. He found that kind of thing annoying in the extreme, but he always tried to remind himself it was loyalty at work. The Marines were just trying to protect him. Driving him crazy was only a side effect of their devotion.

  He looked around the room, even as his two guards pushed through the narrow opening in an almost comic display. It was immense, extending almost out of sight into the distance. There were racks and racks of large canisters, most piled neatly, but a few clearly dislodged from their normal places and lying on their sides.

  He walked over toward one of the closer containers. It was a cylinder, and near the top there was some kind of readout. There was writing of some sort, but it was in an alphabet that was unfamiliar to him. The readout itself was a glowing green bar. He looked around, confirming that the container wasn’t connected to anything, that no cables extended out from it. Clearly, the canister had some kind of power source of its own, at least enough to keep that indicator lit for all the centuries the thing had lain there.

  “Any idea what these things are?” Lafarge walked up, standing just behind him.

  He could feel her breath on the back of his neck, and he found it…distracting. “Umm…no. I have no idea. But I know someone who may.” He took a step forward, tapping his hand against the comm unit. “Fritzie, where are you?”

  “I’m in the main corridor, sir. Just trying to get my bearings and figure out what’s what in here. This ship is amazing. And the engineering…”

  “No time for that now, Fritzie. Grab a couple of your people and home in on my signal. There’s something here I want you to see.”

  “Yes, sir. On the way. Fritz out.”

  Barron thought he heard something, and his head snapped around, his instincts taking over. He stared across the room, his eyes searching for movement, anything. But there was nothing.

  He looked for a few seconds more, but then he turned back, first toward Lafarge and then the smooth metal of the canister.

  “What is it?” Lafarge asked.

  “Nothing. I just thought I heard…” He caught sight of Lafarge, coming at him suddenly. Then he felt her arm, slamming into his back, pushing him forward, even as her other hand grabbed for the pistol at his side.

  His mind raced, his usual calm in action deserting him. Lafarge was a pain in the ass, but he’d never expected her to try to attack him. It didn’t make any sense.

  He tried to swing his body around to face her, but it was too late. She’d shoved him hard and taken him off guard. He tried to regain his balance, but it was too late. He fell forward as she pulled the pistol from his holster.

  He slammed down onto his knees, and then forward to the floor, even as he heard the crack of a weapon firing. But it was from the wrong direction, from deeper in the room. Then again, another shot, from closer this time, and a third. He braced for the pain…but there was nothing. He threw himself over on his back, looking up, his eyes focusing on his Marines first. The two of them had leveled rifles, opening up on full auto, firing at something deeper in the room. Then he saw Lafarge, his gun in her hand. She was shooting in the same direction.

  He pulled himself up to his feet, turning his head toward the area they were targeting. There were two figures there, one already sprawled out on the ground, and the other falling backwards, riddled with bullets. It only took a second for his mind to catch up, to fill in the blanks.

  FRs…

  He was angry with himself. He’d been careless…far too careless.

  You let yourself get distracted, wandering around this ship like some kind of explorer, uncovering the past. And letting a woman mess with your head. What are you? A schoolboy? You deserved to get shot.

  “Captain, we need to get you out of here now, sir.” The Marine looked panic stricken, not Barron knew, because of any fear he felt for himself, but because he’d watched his commander almost killed in front of his eyes.

  “Calm down, Sergeant,” he said, still staring over at the bodies. “It was just a close call. Get on the comm to Captain Rogan…tell him I want a platoon down here immediately. I want every centimeter of this room searched. I don’t know what these things in here are, but we’re damned well going to find out. And I don’t want any more rogue FRs getting in the way.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Marine looked like he wanted to argue, but he just hit the com control on his helmet and relayed the orders to Rogan, looking nervous and uncomfortable the entire time. His eyes shot between Barron and the direction from which the attack had come, and his hands were tight around his rifle.

  Barron turned and looked over at Lafarge. She was standing still, her arm extended with the pistol. “Thank you,” he said, reaching out and putting his hand on her arm, lowering it gently to her side.

  “You’re welcome,” she replied after hesitating for a few seconds. “I guess you did hear something after all.”

  He looked back at her, and then a laugh forced its way out of his mouth. “Yes, I guess I did.”

  He stood still, and he smiled at her. She was a certified pain in the ass, there was no doubt about that. But she had also just saved his life.

  * * *

  Atara Travis sat in the captain’s place, uncomfortable, as she usually was when Barron wasn’t on the bridge. She didn’t doubt her ability to do the job. In fact, she suspected there weren’t many decisions she would make differently than Barron would. But it just felt wrong not to have him there. The two were a team, and she liked it that way. Her entire career had been one of relentlessly clawing her way upward, farther and farther from the wretched slum where she’d been born. But now that drive had dulled, or at least been tempered by the fact that her next step—to the command to which her entire life had been guided—meant leaving Tyler Barron, splitting up the team they’d created together.

  She knew that day would come. With all Dauntless had achieved, there was no doubt in her mind that she would be offered her own ship one day soon, probably one of the dozens of new battleships now under furious construction in the orbiting shipyards of the Iron Belt worlds. And even if it never came—or if she refused the offer of promotion—there was no question in her mind that Barron was destined for flag rank, and pr
obably very soon.

  They were different in many ways, certainly in their backgrounds, and yet they were the same too, totally compatible. She was an only child as he was, but now she understood what it was to have an older brother. And without him saying it, she knew she was a sister to him.

  “Commander, we’re picking up energy readings from the transwarp point.” Lieutenant Darrow was at her station, doing the job she did when Barron sat in the command chair.

  Her stomach clenched. She’d known the enemy was coming…she’d been as sure as she’d ever been of anything so speculative. But she’d hoped for more time.

  “Get me Red Leader, Lieutenant.”

  “Yes, Commander.” A few seconds later. “Red Leader on your line.”

  “Olya,” she said coolly, struggling to hide the tension rapidly building inside her. “We’ve got something coming through the transwarp link. Your people just launched, so your fuel status is good. I need you to move forward. I don’t know what’s going to come through there, but if they transit and try to launch, I want you ready to intercept.” One squadron of interceptors was a small force to send against even one battleship, but anybody coming through a transwarp jump was going to be disoriented at first…and pilots as good as Federov’s Reds could tear apart launching squadrons.

  Unless this is another ship like Vaillant…

  She’d been as surprised as the rest of Dauntless’s crew to discover they’d been up against the pride of the Union navy. She’d allowed herself to become as cocky and careless as everyone else, expecting to run into Union ships and squadrons that weren’t even close to a match for Dauntless one on one. The fight with Vaillant had taught her humility…and caution.

  “Understood, Commander.” Federov’s voice was almost emotionless, as usual. Travis knew that was as much affectation as anything else, the mode she adopted in battle and on patrol. Olya Federov wasn’t a pilot cast in the fiery hot mold of a Jake Stockton or Dirk Timmons. She was cooler, more meticulous. But she was far from cold, and she was actually immensely popular, not only with her squadron, but throughout the entire fighter corps.