Blood on the Stars Collection 1

by Jay Allan

  “General Ramsay, I will not abandon this station. Not under any circumstances.” Striker had made his choice. He’d declared that the battle in the Krakus system would be to the finish, and now he’d drawn a line across his control center. He would not be forced back. He would not retreat, leaving the Marines and spacers to fight in his absence.

  “Admiral…”

  “That’s my final word, General. See to your Marines and your battle lines. We are all expendable in the pursuit of victory here, and that includes me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Marine didn’t sound very happy. But he didn’t argue either.

  “Fleet status, Commander?” He looked over at Jarravick. It seemed strange to see his people wearing helmets and light body armor, but he’d ordered everyone so equipped. The FRs had landed in more than a dozen places. They were all over the station, the battle for control of Grimaldi taking place in hundreds of scattered actions. Anybody on the fortress could end up in a fight with the enemy, and Marines or spacers, engineers or stewards…Striker expected every one of his people to fight to the last.

  “All fleet units have fully disengaged. The lead units are approaching the transwarp point.”

  “Enemy pursuit?”

  “Minimal, sir. A line of screening frigates, but it appears all enemy capital ships have taken position around the base.”

  “Very well.” Striker tightened his fists, a passing expression of his satisfaction. The enemy was doing exactly what he’d hoped they would. Now, if we can just hold out long enough…

  He knew that was a big “if.” The enemy had hit Grimaldi hard. There were thousands of FRs moving through the corridors and compartments of the vast station, and Striker was far from certain his Marines could hold off such an overpowering invasion. They would fight, he knew…and if they failed, few would survive. But the end result was most certainly still in doubt.

  Time…I need time.

  He needed time to get the fleet in position. He couldn’t move too quickly. The enemy had to be fully convinced the Confederation navy was broken, fleeing. Then, when he sprang his trap, they would be too committed to respond effectively.

  “Status in sectors Epsilon seven and eight?”

  “Still under our control, Admiral. But enemy forces are getting dangerously close.” A short pause. “The same with Gamma two and three.”

  Striker nodded. “Acknowledged.” The enemy thought Grimaldi was disarmed, that all the station’s weapons were destroyed or offline. Exactly what Striker wanted them to think.

  The truth was somewhat different. Two large banks of heavy x-ray laser turrets were still operational, along with the reactors to power them. And at the point-blank range of the enemy vessels, they would rip through the Union battleships like an axe through half-melted butter.

  Assuming we can hold on to those sections.

  Hold on to anything…

  Striker knew every part of his plan was a gamble. If the enemy took the station and discovered the functional batteries, he could find the weapons so integral to his plan turned against his own ships, just as they arrived to spring the trap. His scheme to snatch a victory from this carnage in the system could backfire. Success depended on many things now. The officers and spacers in those ships, their morale battered by the losses they had suffered, by the apparent orders to retreat. His people in the control center, focusing on managing the battle, even as enemy soldiers pressed ever closer. And the Marines, fighting and dying for meters of corridor, for possession of each war-torn compartment.

  It was a nightmare, a horror worse than any he’d seen in fiction or even in the sweat-soaked ravages of his deepest, darkest dreams. It was his creation, and these men and women fought by his order. They would not fail; their sacrifices would not be in vain. He believed that. He had to believe it.

  His eyes dropped to the small panel on the side of his chair. He did believe his people could win, but Van Striker was not a man to leave such things to chance. If his Marines held, if the fortress fired its remaining guns, just as the fleet came around and bracketed the Union forces from two sides…the Confederation could win the victory, stop the enemy invasion cold. But if not…he had already programmed the destruct mechanism. If the Marines fell, if the chance of victory slipped away, he knew what his last act would be…what it had to be.

  Whatever happened, Grimaldi would not fall into enemy hands again.

  * * *

  Sara Eaton sat in one of the chairs facing the captain’s desk. Emilia Crown commanded Concordia, and it had been providence of a sort, one flickering ray of light in the otherwise all-encompassing darkness Eaton saw around her, that had put her friend’s ship close enough to rescue her people. Some of her people.

  Concordia had picked up three of Intrepid’s lifeboats, one hundred eighteen of her crew in all. It was a sad fraction of the nearly one thousand men and women that had been her ship’s complement, but she was grateful for every life saved. All except one.

  Eaton had been ready to die on Intrepid’s bridge, and only her crew’s emphatic display of loyalty, their refusal to escape if she didn’t join them, had gotten her into the lifeboat. There were all kinds of romantic legends, some ancient and others more modern, of captains meeting their ends with their ships. It wasn’t something taken seriously—certainly not by the navy, which was profoundly against the notion of losing trained and experienced officers when it could be avoided. But now she understood. She hadn’t wanted to survive Intrepid’s death when she’d sat on her vessel’s crumbling bridge, and now, though she’d had time to get more of a grip on her thinking, she still found outliving her vessel to be a painful experience.

  The retreat made it worse. Losing Intrepid in a victory, holding the line and turning back the invader, would have been one thing. Painful, certainly, but at least the sacrifice would have been worth something. But it hadn’t been. The Confederation fleet was in wholesale retreat, the battle a defeat…perhaps even the war lost. It was too much, and the pain was a price that exceeded the value of survival to her.

  She took a deep breath. Crown had told her to use her desk, so she could have access to the AI and the scanning suites, but she didn’t feel quite right about sitting in that chair. She had always had a great respect for the captain of a ship, and the day she had achieved that great honor herself had been the best of her life. Concordia was Crown’s ship, and the fact that she and Emilia were friends and former classmates at the Academy didn’t change that fact. Besides, she didn’t want access to more information. She had no command remaining, no job to do in the fleet. And the remnants of the once-mighty Confederation navy could flee without her help.

  She turned her head abruptly. The red of Concordia’s battlestations lamps filled the room with an all too familiar glow. Then she felt thrust…significant thrust, probably 8g or more before Concordia’s dampeners reduced the perceived effect. That was a lot of acceleration.

  She leapt up, old reflexes responding on their own, pushing against the forces slamming into her. She slid around Crown’s desk, her fingers moving to the workstation. Had the enemy had some force hidden out here? Some group of ships that had somehow slipped around the retreating fleet?

  No…nothing like that. But Concordia wasn’t heading for the transwarp link, not anymore. She had come about, her engines blasting in almost the opposite direction.

  Back toward Grimaldi…

  Eaton slid into her friend’s chair, all former concerns about it not feeling right gone. Her hands moved over the workstation controls, as quickly as they could with three times their weight bearing down on them. The whole fleet was doing the same, every ship blasting at near full thrust, every one of them now on a course for the beleaguered fortress.

  Of course…

  She didn’t know what was going on. There was no way she could. But she had a guess, and with each passing second, she became more and more certain of it. She’d been surprised when Admiral Striker had issued the retreat order. Striker had always s
eemed like a fighter to her, a man who would battle to the last. The idea of him losing his nerve, cracking and yielding to the enemy—at least while he still had a fleet that could fight—had been alien to her. And now, she realized her earlier assessments had been correct. This had been no retreat, no admission of defeat. It had all been a trap, a plan to get the enemy engaged against the fortress, and then to bring the fleet back, to hit the Union forces and start the final fight.

  She felt a rush of excitement. She wanted to jump up, to rush out onto the bridge. But Concordia wasn’t her ship. She was a spectator in this fight.

  Still, she leaned over the desk, her eyes darting back and forth across the formation. She could see the plan. The fleet was splitting into two groups. They were going to hit the enemy on the flanks.

  It wasn’t over. Intrepid hadn’t died in vain.

  * * *

  “What in the name of the Eleven Hells is going on here?” Villieneuve glared across the bridge at Admiral Beaufort. Victoire was positioned to the rear of the Union fleet, but most of the other battleships were deployed close to the station. The supposedly pacified fortress that was now firing laser blasts from point blank range.

  “Minister…there must have been a few emplacements that survived the earlier attack. The fleet will neutralize them before they do much damage.”

  Villieneuve was staring at the main display, watching as damage reports streamed in from the affected vessels. “That looks like considerable damage to me, Admiral. Do not treat me like a fool.” There was real menace in Villieneuve’s voice. The Sector Nine chief had a reputation for being less arbitrarily violent than some of his predecessors, but no one thought he was forgiving of failure.

  “We will have those guns destroyed in a few moments, Minister.”

  “You’d better.” Villieneuve stood and stared at the screen, watching hit after hit slam into his ships. Then another section of the station opened up, and more laser blasts began ravaging his battleships. He was no master of naval tactics, but he knew the heavy guns on the massive fortress were more powerful than anything on his ships. Beaufort had reported that the station’s defensive batteries disabled. Villieneuve had relied on that when he’d ordered the fleet to close to boarding range…but someone had clearly fouled up, overlooked several still-functional weapons the enemy had simply kept silent.

  We fell for a trick. Beaufort fell for a trick…and I let him…

  “Pull the fleet back, Admiral. At once.”

  “But, Minister.”

  “Now, Admiral!” Villieneuve cursed himself silently. He had enough intelligence on Admiral Striker…he should have known the Confederation commander wouldn’t have given up, not while his fleet could still fight.

  “We’re picking up Confederation fighter wings…incoming from…”

  Villieneuve heard the rest of the words in his mind before the officer finished the report. From the Ultara transwarp link.

  Suddenly, it was brutally clear. Striker had suckered them in. He’d never intended for his fleet to withdraw. He’d lured the Union battleships close enough to the station to tie them down. Then he would…

  “Confederation battleships heading this way at full thrust.”

  Villieneuve’s hands tightened into fists. He’d been a fool, placed far too much trust in Beaufort. He’d let the Union fleet fall into Striker’s trap…and if he didn’t get them out now…

  “Admiral Beaufort, launch all fighters. All ships. At once.”

  “Ah…yes, Minister.” The startled admiral turned and repeated the order. Villieneuve watched, wondering if the stunned officer would hold it together. He planned to address Beaufort’s stupidity, there was no question of that. But not now. There was only one priority at the moment. Extricating what he could of the fleet before it was too late.

  The strategic reserve…you committed it all…

  He had no idea how he would handle the Presidium…whether he could find some way to escape the doom he had created for himself. But that was tomorrow’s problem. Getting out of this Godforsaken system was today’s.

  “All capital ships are to prepare for full thrust as soon as squadrons are launched.”

  “Yes, Minister.”

  Villieneuve walked over to the admiral’s chair, glaring at the officer and waving his arm in an abrupt gesture. He’d declined the officer’s earlier offer to give up his seat, but the damned fool didn’t deserve that kind of consideration now. And Villieneuve knew, if the fleet was going to get out of this mess, he would have to see to it himself.

  Beaufort leapt up, rushing across the flag bridge toward another station. He looked back toward Villieneuve, silent, waiting for any orders the spymaster might give.

  Villieneuve sat in the admiral’s chair, fighting off the rage he felt. He’d underestimated Striker, and he’d placed too much trust in Beaufort. But he could still extricate the fleet—most of it, at least.

  “All escorts are to form a line and cover the fleet’s withdrawal.” His orders were firm, his tone practically daring anyone present to disagree.

  “Yes, Minister,” Beaufort replied, his voice becoming shakier each time he spoke.

  Villieneuve knew what they were all thinking. He was leaving the fighters behind. The FRs. Even the fleet’s frigates and escorts. Abandoning them all to destruction…to buy time.

  They were all expendable. Every FR in the fleet, every fighter. All of them. The battleships he was struggling to save…they were not. They were all that mattered.

  No, not all…

  Villieneuve felt a wave of relief as he began to realize he was in time. Just. The battleships would escape. They would lose a few more of their number, perhaps, and many would be damaged even worse than they were now…but the line would escape. Victoire would escape. He would escape.

  He’d allowed his discipline to fail. He’d been suckered in by the seduction of military victory over the Confeds. But all wasn’t lost. Far from it. His plan had still succeeded. He had kept the Confeds pinned down, even as he’d dispatched two task forces into the Badlands, more force by far than Striker could have sent.

  And even Tyler Barron and Dauntless will be overwhelmed…

  The fleet had been badly damaged, and the defeat would shatter what remained of its morale. But none of that would matter, not when he possessed the spoils his people would bring back from the Badlands.

  He hid a tiny smile, thinking for a few seconds about what his people would be bringing back. Power. Immense power. The lost technology of the ancients.

  And news of the destruction of Dauntless.

  * * *

  “I’m fine, Doctor. There are people here who need your help more than I do.” Striker stood in the middle of the control room—or, what had been the control room before the battle that had turned it into a smoking ruin. He pulled away, doubling over and wincing from the pain as he did.

  “Admiral, please…sit. Let me have a look.”

  Striker sighed hard, but he sat. “Just give me something for the pain, Doc.”

  The doctor sliced Striker’s sleeve open with a tiny blade, gently pulling the blood-soaked fabric away. The arm was broken, twisted into an obscene mess. A fragment of bone protruded just above the elbow, and blood was still pouring out.

  “Admiral…”

  “I will not be moved from here, Doctor, not while any part of this engagement is still in question. So, do what you can and be done with it. I have work to do.”

  Striker felt a pinprick, and then a wave of welcome relief. The shot didn’t eliminate all the pain—he knew nothing that would leave him in working mental order could do that—but it helped. A lot.

  “Admiral, I’ve got to at least straighten this arm out…and I need to put you out before…”

  “Not a chance, Doc. If you want to do it, do it here. Now.”

  “Admiral…”

  “I know it’s going to hurt. You don’t think this hurts already? All of it? How many dead do we have? How many are stil
l fighting? You think I’m going to curl up in a ball over a broken arm?”

  The doctor looked doubtful, but he just nodded. He reached out, putting his hands gently on Striker’s twisted arm. “I’m just going to get it straight enough to wrap it up for now. We’ll operate later.”

  “Just do it.”

  The doctor paused for a few seconds. Then he jerked the arm hard, twisting it back into something close to its original shape.

  Striker tried to hold it in, but it was too much for him. He yelled, the loud scream echoing off the walls and ceiling of the command center. The pain was indescribable, and he felt for an instant as though he might pass out. But he held on, and the agony slowly receded. It still hurt…a lot. But it was bearable.

  “Thanks, Doc,” he finally said, his voice raspy, out of breath.

  “Just let me wrap it up, Admiral…and get some bandages on your face and neck.” Striker had been hit by small shards of metal. He’d pulled most of them out himself, but they had left open gashes all over his upper body and face. He was lucky, he knew. When the blast had first hit him, he’d thought he was done for…but the damage, while ugly and painful, was also superficial. Still, he suspected he looked like hell.

  There was something floating around the pain, though. Satisfaction. Relief. His plan had worked…that much was clear. The Union battleships were in headlong retreat. The Krakus system was still in Confederation hands.

  His task force commanders had requested permission to pursue, and denying it had been one of the most difficult orders he’d ever issued. But there were still enemy escort craft, and hundreds of fighters, to deal with. And on Grimaldi itself, the battle in the corridors still raged, fed by the desperation of the abandoned FRs and the slow but steady feed of every Marine contingent his own battleships could spare.

  His people had done enough, and all he wanted now was to secure the station and the system…and give the survivors the rest they so profoundly deserved.