by Jay Allan
“Roger that, Thunder. I was just thinking the same thing.” Both men left a simple fact unspoken. They had no idea where Dauntless would go. Commander Travis would give them all the guidance she could, but if, as it appeared, the battleship would soon be evading multiple enemy vessels, he knew Dauntless’s first officer would be hesitant to transmit her intentions too explicitly, even in code.
“Bring your people around toward the artifact, say 3g tops. Then, as soon as Dauntless breaks, try to follow.”
“Roger that, Thunder.” Jamison was farther forward, bringing in the last of Yellow squadron. The Reds and Greens had been farther forward. They had already landed.
Even now, Timmons knew, Dauntless’s bay crews were frantically refitting those ships, prepping them to launch when whatever was coming through the transwarp link emerged into the system. He knew, probably as well as Commander Travis, what a daunting situation they all faced. There could be no retreat from this battle. Leaving something as awesomely powerful as the ancient vessel to the enemy was inconceivable.
Dauntless was the best the Confederation had. Timmons was sure of that, as was every other man and woman on the aging battleship. But even the best eventually ran into too much. His mind was beginning to cloud with darkness, with the growing belief that he and all his comrades would all die here in this haunted system.
His alarm dinged, and he looked down as his screen. Another Union ship had just emerged from the transwarp point. A battleship, and from the early data coming in, a big one.
Shit…
He could see Dauntless now on the scanner, her thrusters firing at something that looked very much like full thrust. She was heading in the general direction of the artifact, as expected. Then he got the recall signal, along with navigational data for his people to return.
“All right, Blues and Eagles…we’ve got to chase Dauntless, and we’ve got to catch her while we’ve still got enough fuel to land. That means precise maneuvering. Anybody who is careless is going to end up ditching…” Assuming we all don’t end up ditching. “…and with the enemy coming up, there’s not likely to be a rescue ship coming along before you freeze or suffocate. So, let’s stay sharp.”
His people were all veterans, and they didn’t need to be reminded of what he had just told them. But he’d seen too many experienced pilots make that one mistake at just the wrong time. He wasn’t going to let it happen to any of his people, not if he could do anything about it.
“Let’s go, boys and girls…back home. Back to Dauntless. Engage thrust now.” He pulled back on the throttle, feeling the pressure of the increasing thrust slam into him. He angled his head, slowly, painfully, checking to confirm that his squadrons were following. Then he just leaned back, allowing the padding of his seat to absorb as much of the force as possible, his mind drifting to the odds of his people getting back to Dauntless.
He figured it at about 50/50. He didn’t like that answer, so he went back over the numbers again, this time factoring in every detail he could think of that had a bearing on the squadrons stretching their fuel enough to catch Dauntless.
The second time he came up with 60/40. Against.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Bridge
CFS Intrepid
Krakus System
Sara Eaton stared at the screen in stunned silence. She gasped for air, forcing it into her lungs, even as her eyes clung to the blank spot on the screen, the one where Angus Douglas’s fighter had been a few seconds before. There had been no nervous chatter, no sign of fear or distress beyond the norm. One instant, her veteran strike force commander was there…and the next he was gone.
The pain was odd, theoretical. She knew it was there, but it didn’t hurt, not really. Not yet. It was just a vague…something. Douglas had been a loyal member of her crew, even a friend. But he was far from the last member of her crew who would die this day.
“All right, we’ve all got work to do. This battle is far from over, and we’ve got our orders.” She turned her head toward the exec’s station. “Commander Johns, I want full evasive maneuvers as we advance.”
“Yes, Captain.”
She tapped her hand on the comm unit. “Commander Merton, we’re about to enter firing range. Are you ready to power the batteries?”
“Yes, Captain, we’re ready.” A pause. “I’ll get you that one fifteen,” the engineer added.
“I know you will, Doug.” She shut the line and looked over at the display. Her guns would be in range any time.
Her eyes darted around, moving between four red ovals, Union battleships coming into range. There…that one. It was closest, and it was also damaged already. Conqueror had hit it twice with primaries. Eaton normally rated her ship the equal of any in the fleet, but Intrepid was grievously wounded, with nothing save half her secondaries left to face the enemy. She needed a weakened target.
“All batteries, target enemy contact A11. Prepare to open fire on my command.”
“All batteries report ready, Captain,” Johns replied a few seconds later.
She watched the range counting down, felt the wild jerks as Intrepid’s engines did their best to provide a difficult target to the enemy gunners. The Union ships had left her vessel mostly alone, concentrating their fire on Conqueror and Superb. It made sense to Eaton. Both of those vessels were in far better condition than Intrepid.
She was grateful for the respite…but it pissed her off too. In an illogical way, it offended her that the enemy didn’t respect Intrepid enough to fear her. She was going to make them sorry for that…
“Batteries ready,” she said softly. Intrepid was well within range now, but as long as the enemy was going to ignore her, she’d use the chance to close to point blank range.
She could see the deadly fight between the four Union ships and Conqueror and Superb. The Confederation vessels were giving better than they got, but they were outnumbered too. As Eaton watched, Superb took a hit, a bad one. The great vessel visibly staggered, its engines shutting down for perhaps ten seconds before kicking back in at half their former thrust. She knew that hit had caused damage…and that it had killed people. But the battleship’s primaries were still online, another shot lancing out even as she watched. The massive particle accelerator beam slammed into the enemy ship that had just scored the hit, and repaid it in kind. The Union vessel’s thrust stopped entirely, and unlike Superb’s, it didn’t come back, not even partially.
Eaton felt a rush of excitement, the thrill of the hunt. A ship without thrust was vulnerable, the extreme predictability of its exact location exposing it to enormous damage. She wondered if—it was Captain Wringer on Superb, she remembered—Captain Wringer would wait for his primaries to recharge…wait while each second, the crew of that thing frantically tried to get its engines restarted. It was tempting, she had no doubt, to aim the deadly main weapons with enviable precision, and rip deeply into the enemy vessel’s hull. But Eaton didn’t think she would let so much time go by. No, she would fire her secondaries.
Just as the thought crossed her mind, the display came alight, Superb’s entire broadside opening up, raking the wounded enemy ship. Apparently, Captain Wringer had come to the same conclusion she had. The high-powered lasers didn’t have the same punch as the deadly accelerators, but they hit hard enough, especially when nearly a dozen slammed into the stricken vessel’s hull.
The ship was still now, motionless save for its residual velocity. It didn’t respond, not a weapon returning Superb’s fire, even as a second broadside smashed into its shattered hull.
Eaton looked back at her own screen, at the ship Intrepid had been approaching. Still no significant fire. They think we’re a spent force. They’ve written us off…
She turned back toward the drama between Superb and its adversary, watching as the Confederation battleship attacked relentlessly, seeking the kill. She felt a burst of raw ferocity, a satisfaction at the impending deaths of so many Union spacers. It was a feeling she didn’t dare analy
ze too closely. This was war, and right now, her comrades were killing the enemy.
Her own ship was closer now…moving into short range. She had to fire soon. The enemy would pick up the energy build up in her weapons from this distance.
“All gunnery stations, lock on.”
“All stations locked, Captain.”
She glared at the screen, her hands tightly gripping the arms of her chair, fingers white from the pressure. She could see her target, and even as she was looking she knew the enemy captain had realized he was in danger. The vessel’s guns had changed their targeting—now they were firing at Intrepid. But her evasive maneuvers held, and the laser blasts went wide to the port and starboard.
The range readout dropped further, into the red zone. Not just close, but point blank range. It was time.
“All batteries…open fire.”
* * *
“Admiral Flynn’s task force is pressing forward, sir…but the losses…”
“The losses are not relevant now, Commander.” Van Striker listened to his own words, feeling as though they were coming from someone else, a demon devoid of human emotion and morality. But the voice was his, and though he despised what he had just said, he also meant it. He’d drawn a line in the Krakus system, perhaps even staked the future of the Confederation on victory there. Triumph here was all that mattered. No cost, no casualty list, no amount of suffering was too much to endure to attain it.
“Yes, sir.” Jarravick’s voice had a grave tone to it. Striker suspected his aide understood what was driving him now. How can he look at me now and not see a monster?
Striker turned and looked back across the command center, toward the unadorned spare workstation where the head of Confederation Intelligence sat, silently watching. Striker had urged Holsten to leave several times, but all his efforts had been in vain. The spy didn’t offer any tactical suggestions, he didn’t try to exert any control over Striker or his officers. He just sat quietly. Waiting to see if he and those around him would survive. If the Confederation would survive.
Striker had come to truly like Holsten, a development that had taken him completely by surprise. He didn’t think much of spies, and even less of rich scions born into massive family fortunes…but the longer he’d worked alongside Holsten, the more he’d come to realize just how different the man was from most of those with similar backgrounds. He lived a life of almost unimaginable luxury, yes, and he’d dated half the models and actresses on Megara, but on closer inspection, much of that was a façade. Holsten was a creature of duty, as dedicated and resolute in his own way as any who wore the uniform of the navy.
“Vanguard is reporting heavy damage, sir. And Superb has been bracketed by two Union battleships. Her primaries are down, and she’s bleeding air.”
“Very well.”
He watched the action on the display, listened to the reports. His people were putting up a vicious fight, the instances of extraordinary heroism worthy of decoration almost beyond count. He found himself hoping beyond reason that the time would come when those medals could be bestowed, when some at least, could gather, having survived the nightmare…and pay respects to the thousands lost.
The Confederation vessels were riddling their enemies with hits, blasting massive Union battleships to scrap. But they were losing too many of their own. Entire fighter squadrons had been obliterated, and hundreds of pilots had ditched, floating in the vastness of the system, helpless, waiting to see if their comrades would win the fight and rescue them…or if they would die alone in the frigid blackness of space.
It was a holocaust the likes of which he had never seen before…and there was no sign of an end. The Union pressed on with a comparable disregard for losses, and everywhere they had the advantage of numbers. Every battleship of his that took down its opposite number was engaged almost immediately by a fresh one, and sometimes by two. Reports flowed into station Grimaldi, hot and heavy, each one of them like the shrieking howl of a banshee, speaking of death and torment.
Still, Van Striker had remained in his place, barely wincing even when the report came in that Fortitude, his old flagship, the vessel from when he’d commanded Fifth Fleet, had been destroyed. He’d shut his mind down, forcing his thoughts away from his old ship. He didn’t have time to think of just how many friends he’d just lost.
He stared at the display, watching the immense battle that had degenerated into scattered struggles all across the system. Battleships dueled each other, smaller escorts made hair-raising attacks at their much larger counterparts. And, all across the system, the fighter squadrons threw themselves at each other and at the battle lines, torpedo attacks and strafing runs exacting a terrible toll. There were great victories, and gut-wrenching defeats, but slowly he began to come to a conclusion, one the AI projections confirmed, one he had feared from the start. His people were losing the fight.
It wasn’t by a large margin, but it was a fact nevertheless. Unless the Union forces broke, they would overcome his fleet…and he knew the enemy wouldn’t falter. The Union spacers knew too well what awaited any who failed in their duty. The shadow of Sector Nine was everywhere on that fleet, he knew, the culture of fear those spacers had been born into controlling them with a power no less effective than the Confederation’s patriotism.
Striker turned again, looking back at Holsten. He could tell the intelligence chief had come to the same conclusion. They were going to come close…but they were going to lose.
Unless we can get more power into the fight. But how?
A small reserve would make the difference, even three or four more battleships. But there were none. He’d already committed everything.
Almost everything.
He looked around the control room. Grimaldi. He’d committed the station’s fighters, but most of the combat had been out of range of the fort’s other weapons. If he could get the enemy to attack…
Yes, it just might work…
He could pull the fleet back, make a final stand around the station. Maybe…just maybe the extra firepower would make the difference.
No…not enough. But what if…
Yes!
“Commander, fleet order Priority One. All units are to disengage and withdraw at maximum speed toward the Ultara transit point.”
Jarravick hesitated, staring back at the admiral with undisguised horror. It was there, on his face, the brutal resignation. Striker had broken, his nerve had failed. He had ordered the dreaded retreat. The Confederation had lost the battle.
“Now, Commander.” Striker’s voice was sharper, harder.
“Yes, sir.” The veteran aide sounded like death warmed over, his words thick with defeat.
Good…if he believes it, maybe the enemy will too. And if they take the bait, we just might have a chance…
Chapter Thirty
Free Trader Pegasus
Approaching Union Frigate Chasseur
System Z-111 (Chrysallis)
Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)
309 AC
“Reverse thrust, Rina…now. We want to go in slowly. If that thing’s got an operable weapon left on it, I want to know before we’re too close to react.” If they’ve got one of their main guns up, I’ll know about it when half of Pegasus gets blasted to slag…
“Got it, Andi.”
Lafarge glanced over at Rina Strand, hunched over the operations console. She knew Rina had always fancied she could be Vig Merrick’s equal at backing Pegasus’s captain. But now she suspected her friend was realizing the true stress of that crushing responsibility.
“We’re inside the range of their main batteries, Andi…still not picking up any energy readings beyond basic life support and ship’s operations.”
Lafarge just nodded. Pegasus was well-equipped for what she was, an adventurer’s vessel. But she wasn’t up to military standards, not in most areas. And that included scanning technology. She didn’t doubt the Union frigate could hide moderate energy generation
from her. Things looked to be going as expected, but she knew there was at least some chance she was being suckered in. Not that it mattered. Dauntless was engaged in a desperate fight, and there was no way Captain Barron and Commander Travis were going to allow the frigate back into enemy hands. This was Lafarge’s only chance to save Vig…and there was no turning back from that.
She tapped the small comm unit next to her. “Lyn, I want you to stay sharp on the laser. If that ship’s got any of their point defense turrets active, we can’t give it more than one shot at us.”
“I’m on it, Andi.” Lyn Vetran was the best shot on Pegasus, deadly with the vessel’s main laser turret.
“Steady, Rina…steady.” Pegasus had decelerated almost to a stop, and now she was moving forward at barely a hundred meters a second, a virtual crawl in space travel.
She hit the comm again. “Are you ready back there, Sergeant?”
“We’re ready, Captain.”
“About two minutes. I’ll pop the hatch as soon as we’re docked.”
“Understood, Captain.” The Marine’s voice betrayed no emotion save cool respect for her position as Pegasus’s captain, but Lafarge knew the sergeant disapproved of her and her people. She might have been offended, but she didn’t really care what people thought anyway. Especially not Marines with ramrods shoved up their asses.
But you care what Captain Barron thinks. Why? Why are you letting him get to you this way?
She shook her head, trying to purge the thoughts from her mind. This was no time for going all soft over some naval officer she barely knew.
She’d been surprised when Barron had sent almost sixty of his Marines with her…and placed them all under the command of a sergeant instead of one of his officers. But she fancied herself a good judge of character, and despite his poorly disguised disapproval, she’d realized almost immediately that Sergeant Hargraves was a steel hard veteran, one who had seen more action than most warriors survived.