by Jay Allan
“Yes, Minister. At once.” Beaufort’s voice was hoarse and heavy with exhaustion.
Villieneuve sighed softly to himself. The cost of this “victory” had been almost unimaginable. No fewer than fourteen battleships were gone, and most of what remained were damaged, at least to some extent. Whole fighter wings had been obliterated, and more than forty frigates and other escorts were now radioactive debris. He’d taken a chance committing the strategic reserve—and he still faced a dangerous and unpleasant confrontation when the Presidium discovered what he had done—but those ships had proved to be crucial, the added weight that pushed his forces through to victory.
This isn’t over yet. We still have to deal with the base…and then pursue and destroy the remnants of their fleet.
Beaufort had asked if he wanted the base destroyed or taken. He’d felt the urge to shout, “destroy it,” to be done with Grimaldi and the whole Krakus system, to push on after the fleeing Confeds. But his intended diversion offered the prospect of so much more now, and if he could capture Grimaldi, it would cut the time to build a forward supply base in half. It was too good a chance to pass up.
Villieneuve knew he’d taken a terrible chance coming to the front, and he’d been scared during the battle, especially when Victoire ended up on the front line, locked in combat with a Confederation battleship. He’d felt his mortality there for a few minutes, but then additional fleet units rushed to the flagship’s aid, overwhelming and destroying the enemy vessel. But the payoff was beginning to look like a big one. The Confed fleet was on the run…and he had dispatched a second task force to the Badlands, enough power to overcome anything Captain Tyler Barron and his troublesome group of spacers could manage, even if they had somehow escaped destruction at the hands of the first four battleships he’d sent.
He tried to stay focused, but it was hard to keep thoughts of victory from his mind. The coming months could see the long-awaited triumph over the Confederation and the recovery of the knowledge of the ancients. The power that technology offered was more even than he could easily imagine. But Villieneuve was a measured man, and he’d learned not to count conquests before they were won.
Even now, his leading fleet units were moving forward, enduring the devastating fire from Grimaldi’s particle accelerators. It was a gauntlet they had to run, but once they’d entered their own range the dynamics would shift measurably. The Confederation’s base was an awesome construction, but it was basically stationary…and that meant once they were in range, his ships could blast it until its weapon systems were so much scrap. Without the evasive maneuvers that made spaceships so difficult to hit, the massive fortress was an easy target.
“I want all FR contingents on alert, Admiral…all landing craft ready to launch. That thing has a lot of Marines on it, and I want every soldier we have ready to hit it as soon as you knock out the weapons.”
“Yes, sir. All Foudre Rouge companies on full battle alert.”
Villieneuve watched the main display as the fleet moved inexorably toward the Confederation base. Two more battleships had been gutted by the fortress’s weapons, but the rest continued on, and the lead ships were now opening fire.
He watched the fight going on in front of him, but his thoughts wandered, out into the Badlands, to Admiral Villars and the considerable forces Villieneuve had placed at his command. He had some questions, bits of information he longed to possess. First, had Villars found the ancient ship? Had he secured the greatest treasure trove of technology in the history of the Union?
And second…had his forces engaged Dauntless? Had they destroyed Tyler Barron and his thrice cursed ship?
Chapter Thirty-Four
CFS Dauntless
System Z-111 (Chrysallis)
Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)
309 AC
“Bring us around, Commander Travis. I want full thrust in thirty seconds.” Tyler Barron snapped out orders as he stepped out of the lift and onto Dauntless’s bridge. “Set a course toward the Z-117 transit point.” Barron felt a strange calm as the familiar surroundings of his ship’s control center sunk in. He trusted Atara Travis implicitly—at times he even thought she might be a better tactician than he was. But there had just been something…wrong…about his ship fighting for its life when he wasn’t there.
“Yes, Captain.” Travis leapt up from the Captain’s chair with an obvious wave of relief. “It’s good to have you back, sir.” She walked across the bridge toward her station, just as Darrow jumped out of her chair.
“I understand and agree with your tactics, Commander, in trying to finish off this last ship. I’d have done the same thing in your shoes. But there are a few tactical factors that apply now that you don’t know about…and they require us to get the hell away from here. Immediately.”
Travis paused, looking very much like she might question the decision to leave the artifact undefended, but it only lasted a few seconds. “Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “Ready for full thrust on your command, sir.”
Barron plopped down in his chair, pausing for a moment. The situation was as dire as any he’d experienced, but he still felt a rush of satisfaction at being back in his place. The unnatural feeling of helplessness, watching, waiting to see what would happen to his ship was gone. There was still fear, of course, and doubt…but at least he would share his vessel’s fate now. There was something about that fact that seemed right to him.
“Andi, you can take one of the extra workstations.” His head turned toward the lift, where Lafarge still stood after following him onto the bridge. “Get strapped in, this is likely to be a rough ride.”
There were a few surprised looks on the bridge. Barron had been far from solicitous of the smuggler captain and her crew earlier. But Dauntless’s team had more to worry about than their captain’s attitude toward a few passengers, and they quickly returned their attention to their myriad tasks.
“Fighter status, Commander?” Barron was looking down at his workstation, his finger swiping across the screen, his eyes skimming the damage reports. They were extensive, but nothing that seriously degraded his ship’s combat effectiveness. That was a lucky break, he knew.
“All squadrons are in the bays, sir. Refit operations are underway, but they’ve been slowed by battle damage. Beta bay is in better shape than Alpha…but they’re both still functioning. Blue squadron is ready to launch, but I held them back because I was planning to pull back on the artifact.” She paused. “Casualties have been high, sir.”
Travis didn’t offer any numbers to back up her statement, though Barron didn’t doubt she knew the exact strength of each squadron. And he didn’t ask.
“Very well.” He reached down, pulling up the harness and strapping himself into his chair. Then he turned his head, checking that Lafarge had done the same. “Full thrust…engage.”
“Engaging, sir.”
Barron felt the force of at least five times his weight slam into him, perhaps more. Dauntless’s dampeners were normally able to absorb just over half the battleship’s roughly 11 g’s of thrust, but the pressure seemed heavier than normal, most likely the result of damage to the compensation system. Barron sucked in a deep breath, struggling to force the air into his chest. High g maneuvers were hard on a crew, and no group of spacers performed as well sitting at their stations being slowly crushed. But Dauntless needed velocity now more than anything. In a few minutes, he would know if he’d been right, if the enemy was afraid enough of Dauntless to send two ships to pursue…as he hoped they would.
Rogan’s people had a chance against one ship’s FRs, but if two or more of the enemy changed course and moved on the ancient vessel, the fight would be over. The Marines would be overwhelmed and destroyed…and Commander Fritz and her engineers would be killed or captured before they could finish their work. His longshot, the plan to somehow prevail here against impossible odds, would be stillborn.
“C’mon, you bastards…follow us…” He spoke soft
ly, a whisper to himself, as he stared at the display, waiting to see how the enemy ships would react. Then, one of the two battleships that had been closing changed course to pursue.
That’s one…
His eyes were glued to the display, his stomach twisted into knots…waiting. Only a few seconds passed, but they seemed like hours, days. Then he saw it. The ship Travis had been pursuing blasted its engines, going after the first vessel. Following Dauntless.
Yes!
He looked back on the display, toward the first Union ship, the one Travis and Dauntless had crippled. It was accelerating, but still at a snail’s pace. Barron didn’t know whether the ship’s crew would get the wounded vessel truly functional again, but for now it was out of the fight. There was nothing to do but hope that state of affairs continued.
Barron sat in his chair, silent, but inside he was crackling with nervous tension. His plan was working…so far. It was desperate, a wild tactic to save the amazing technology on that ship for the Confederation, and to keep it out of Union hands. The odds of success seemed beyond calculation, but it was the best chance they had. Nothing less than the existence of the Confederation was at stake.
* * *
“Sergeant, I want this platoon divided into separate fireteams…and I want a veteran non-com in command of each one. Shift around the OBs if you have to. We don’t know where the enemy will dock, and we’ve got to be ready to react to anything.”
“Yes, sir!”
Bryan Rogan had been racing around the vessel, doing his best to prepare a defense. It was an impossible task. The ancient ship was enormous, over a hundred times the mass of a Confederation battleship. Only small sections of it had even been explored. If the enemy boarded in some remote section, they could disperse throughout the ship before his people could respond.
“And I want a tactical reserve placed here.” He held out a small tablet, pointing to a spot on the rough map displayed there. “This is where we docked, and there’s a good chance they’ll come right at us near there.” Rogan wasn’t sure what he would do in the enemy’s situation. Landing in remote locations and dispersing would certainly make it more difficult for his people to clear out the invaders…but the reverse was true as well. If the FRs wanted to gain control of the ship as quickly and effectively as possible, they’d come right at his people, seeking to wipe them out as quickly as possible. The assault shuttles docked to the giant ship’s hull were as good as a flashing sign pointing to his Marines’ location.
“Understood, sir.”
“See to it, Sergeant.” Rogan returned the non-com’s salute. Then he turned and took a few steps toward the door, stopping abruptly as one of his officers burst into the room.
“Captain, the enemy’s coming in. They’ll be docking within minutes, sir.” Lieutenant Plunkett had joined Dauntless’s Marine contingent in a unique way, as one of the few survivors of the force deployed to defend the tritium refinery on Santis. That battle—against the Alliance, not the Union—had been small, but one of the most horrific in the history of the Marines, and there had been no doubt afterward that Plunkett and his few surviving comrades would join Dauntless’s detachment. Captain Barron himself had seen to it, facilitating the necessary orders with a little push from his famous name.
“Well, it’s as good now as ever.” He took a step toward Plunkett. “As soon as we get a solid idea of where they’re coming in, I want you to command the forward defense. You know as well as I do, the more we can pen them in, the better off we’ll be.”
“Yes, sir…but we don’t even have a very good idea of where we are. If they break out from the area we’ve got mapped…”
“I know, Lieutenant, I know. We can only do our best.” He stared at the other officer. “And we can fight like hell. These are FRs coming…and they don’t get past us. It’s that simple.”
“Yes, sir.” Plunkett’s tone left no doubt he shared the captain’s animosity toward the Marines’ old enemies.
“Let’s see it done.”
Plunkett stared back for a second, his eyes blazing with intensity. “Yes, sir,” he repeated grimly.
* * *
“Any updates?” Clete Hargraves stood just inside the hatch, looking down at the engineer. Lex Righter was sprawled on the floor, his arms extended halfway into the open panel.
The engineer looked up, his face twisted in frustration. “Nothing. I’ve tried everything I can to get these engines operational. The fighters who attacked this thing hit it hard. A shipyard might be able to do something, but short of that, I think this ship’s flying days are over.”
Righter knew that technically the ship was flying. It was still moving through space on the course it had been on, and with the velocity it had possessed when its engines went offline…as it would remain forever, or at least until it ran into a sun or an asteroid, or nearby bodies exerted gravitational forces on it to change its vector. That was all well and good for a physics lesson, but the reality was starker. Every second took the ship—along with Righter, Hargraves, his Marines, and their captives—toward the outer reaches of the system…and eventually, interstellar space.
“No chance?”
“None. Sorry…I’ve done everything I can.”
Hargraves frowned. “I think we’ve got a problem, then. Pegasus is gone…sent back to the artifact with the rest of my Marines.”
“We should have them send it back before we get too far away.”
“That’s a no go. Things are too dangerous out there now…too many enemy fighters and escort ships. They’d never make it back. Besides, they’ve got troubles of their own. The last comm flash said the enemy is about to board the ship.”
Righter pulled his arms free, and scrambled up to his feet. “Sergeant, I empathize with what the rest of your Marines are dealing with, but we need a ride off this tub.”
“Well, we ain’t gettin’ one, not any time soon, so you might as well get back to what you were doing and try to figure something out.” Hargraves turned around and slipped back out the door.
“Fuuuuuck…” Righter looked back at the panel, and at the spread of control boards and conduit junctions he’d laid out on the floor. There was just no way. He could whip himself up, pretend for a while, maybe, but he was never going to get this frigate underway.
He thought about Pegasus, about the tense feeling he’d had watching it leave. Some part of him, the survival instinct of the adventurer, had longed to get on the ship. But his mouth had displayed a will of its own, as it had so often before when he’d gotten in trouble. He could still hear it…his words, volunteering to stay, and try to repair the frigate’s engines.
“That’ll teach you to keep your mouth shut.” He sighed. “While you’re drifting through space for the next ten thousand years…”
He froze for a moment. Wait…
A shuttle.
A Union frigate had to have its own small craft…a shuttle, or gig or a cutter. Something big enough to get him—and Hargrave’s Marines—off this ship. There was no guarantee such a vessel would be operational. The frigate was pretty badly shot up. But it was a chance, at least, maybe something he could fix.
Righter reached down, gathering his equipment into his kit. “So, where the hell is the bay in this thing?” he muttered to himself.
He got up, hoisting the sack over his shoulder. “Where the hell is the bay?” he repeated. He walked out into the corridor. It was a chance…and he was going to take it.
* * *
“Keep him in the compensator…and make sure those backup batteries are in place. Ten seconds of these g forces will kill him for sure.”
“Yes, Doctor.” The med tech looked concerned, her eyes moving over the doctor’s haggard form.
Stu Weldon stood against the wall, looking very much like he might fall over if forced to stand without support. His face was drawn, his skin so pale he almost blended in with the stark white of the sickbay walls. The procedure had been the most difficult he’d ever attemp
ted, and he’d had no right to expect any chance of success. He wasn’t ready to claim victory yet…there was at least a fifty-fifty chance that Jake Stockton would still die. But that was a damned sight better than the absolute certainty the pilot had faced earlier.
“And get me another shot of stims.”
“Doctor Weldon, you’ve already had triple the maximum dose.”
“Then this will be quadruple, won’t it?” Weldon stared at his aide with exhausted eyes. “Just get it, Lieutenant. I don’t have the time or strength to argue with you. We’ve still got wounded, right? Should I let them die? Ask them if they’ll just wait while I take a nap?” He knew he shouldn’t have been so hard on the tech. She was just doing her job, and he knew her concern was real. He also knew a few more stim injections, and his heart wouldn’t just stop, it would probably explode. But none of that mattered now. He had a job to do, just like the captain and the others. And by God, he was going to keep going until every wounded spacer on Dauntless had been treated.
“Yes, Doctor.” The technician turned and walked over toward a bank of cabinets, opening one and pulling a vial from a half-empty rack.
Weldon just stayed where he was. He needed that stim. He wasn’t sure he could walk across the floor without it. He turned his head, looking back at the life support pod that once again housed his patient. The regen was in place, the cells and development culture applied to the pilot’s body. It was a rough job, sloppy by any textbook standards, but those same books said it wasn’t even possible without a full medical facility. Weldon had intended to save Stockton’s life. He’d come as far as he could, trading certain death for a coin toss. Much of the rest of it was up to Stockton himself, and Weldon knew that was good news. He didn’t know many people tougher than Dauntless’s ace pilot.
His eyes caught the red lamp next to the door. Dauntless had been at battlestations for hours now. The crew’s going to be needing stim injections soon too.