Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  “There must be a way, sir.” But even as he spoke, Barron knew there wasn’t. The Bottleneck was so named for a reason. Only one system in Confederation space led to it, and one in the Union behind it, and it was the only route to the enemy’s heartland, save the extremely long route through the Periphery. There was no way to attack except a straight frontal assault…against a weapon that could destroy a battleship with a single shot.

  “You see the problem. Our ship production has hit its stride, the Alliance is on our side, and every report suggests the Union economy is approaching total collapse…in every way, we should be on the verge of winning the war. And yet, we are desperate, staring inevitable defeat in the eye no matter what we do.”

  “What if we used the stealth projector to—” Barron bit off the end of his sentence, and turned to look at Travis. He wasn’t even supposed to know about that, and he wasn’t sure he should have blurted it out in front of his old exec.

  “Why am I not surprised you know about the generator?” Striker flashed a brief smile. “I don’t need to say again that everything we discuss in this room stays here, do I?”

  “No, sir.”

  “Of course not, Admiral.”

  “Good.” He paused. “Then to answer your question, Ty, I have considered the use of the stealth generator. The problem is a simple one. We only have the single unit. We’ve barely figured out how to make it work, if we’ve even really figured that out. There have only been two brief test runs, and neither of these was under anything remotely approaching combat conditions. We’re no closer to replicating the thing than I hope the Union is to building more pulsars. And, even if we could be sure it would work reliably—which we most definitely are not—we could still sneak only a single ship into the system with it. Hardly enough to engage the pulsar, and deal with the Union fleet.”

  Barron felt something, a thought being born. Rough, partially formed…but definitely there. “Why couldn’t one ship go in, Admiral?”

  “Ty, come on…”

  “No, hear me out, sir. I’m not talking about one vessel taking on everything the Union has. But what if the entire fleet transited in…with the stealth ship in the lead? All the rest of our ships advance slowly. From what I’ve read, we’ve got a solid estimate on the pulsar’s range, don’t we?”

  Striker nodded.

  “So, we make sure not to move into that range too quickly. We give the stealth ship time to advance.”

  “Advance where?”

  “Into point blank range of the pulsar.” Barron paused. He could feel the surprise from his companions. “We open up with primaries, as many secondaries as we can power, and every missile aboard in sprint mode. We pack her full of ordnance, as much as she can carry. Then, I take that thing down, its destruction will be guaranteed.”

  “You will take it down?” Striker sounded doubtful. “Ty, please tell me you’re not thinking you’ll take Dauntless into the Bottleneck, right past the entire Union fleet, and down the throat of the most dangerous superweapon we’ve ever seen? I know you miss your ship, but this is a bit of an extreme way to get back onboard, isn’t it?”

  “Do we have another choice, sir? Dauntless has come through some tough spots before. She’s got one more in her.” He looked over at Travis, concerned she might be upset he was conniving his way back into her command. But she was sitting there, nodding her head slowly, agreeing with him.

  “Ty…even if you succeed, you’ll be stuck behind the entire Union fleet.”

  “We’ll still have the stealth generator, sir. Once the pulsar is destroyed, we can shut down all weapons and reactivate it.”

  “Assuming it’s still operative. It feels like a long shot just keeping it working long enough to get you across the system. You’re betting it will still be functional after the battle, and that you’ll have the energy capacity left to power it.” A pause. “It’s a suicide mission, Ty.”

  “I don’t do suicide missions, Admiral. Even if the stealth generator dies on us, that’s when the fleet will hit the Union line. Those enemy battleships will have their hands full dealing with your task forces, and the Alliance’s.” He hesitated. “We’ll find some way to slip out of there in the middle of all that chaos.”

  Striker stared back at Barron, and then at Travis. “Captain, I can see from your face you agree with this insane plan.”

  “I don’t see a better alternative, sir. And Tyler is right…Dauntless has come back from other tough spots.”

  “Nothing like this. I’d hate to see what odds the main AI would give this of succeeding. My money’s on low single digits.”

  “That’s better than nothing, sir.”

  “And you don’t mind giving up your command to Commodore Barron?”

  “Dauntless will always be Tyler’s ship, sir. I’m just warming his seat there.” She looked over at Barron and smiled, a clear message, he knew, that she was truly okay with the plan.

  “Ty, are you sure about this?”

  “What other choices do we have, Admiral?”

  Striker was silent for a moment. Barron knew there were none, and he knew the admiral would have to admit that. Would have to approve his plan.

  Striker sighed hard. “All right, Ty…assuming I go along with this, and that is far from a certainty, what would you need?”

  “I want my old crew back together, every one of them. I especially want Commander Stockton and Captain Fritz.”

  “Commander Stockton is running the last scouting mission, but if…when…he gets back, he’s yours. Captain Fritz is at the Academy on Megara, terrorizing the engineering cadets.”

  “And hating every minute of it, sir. At least if her last comm to me is any indication.”

  “No doubt, she’ll jump at the chance to run back to you. I have to confess, I’ve never seen an officer better at getting others to follow him into hopeless situations. You have some kind of gift, Ty…or a curse. I’m not sure which.”

  “Perhaps there should be a service commendation for that, Admiral.”

  “Perhaps.” Striker hesitated again, for a long while this time. “Okay, Ty. Make me a list of anything you want. Repairs or upgrades to Dauntless, equipment, ordnance, personnel. Whatever you want, if I have it, it’s yours.”

  “You mean you’re going to approve the mission?”

  “I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit. But you’re right…I don’t have any choice. You get Dauntless ready, and I’ll make sure the fleet is prepared to set out with you.”

  “Thank you, sir.” Barron felt a smile pushing out onto his lips. Why are you smiling, you fool? It will be a miracle if this works…and if it doesn’t, you’ll be leading all your people to their deaths.

  Even if it does work, you may be leading them to their deaths…

  “I will put it all together. But for now, one thing. I’d like to get Fritzie here as soon as possible. She should have been working on that stealth generator all along, and I want to get her in the mix as soon as possible.”

  Chapter Five

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  Union Year 217 (313 AC)

  The line of white-coated engineers and scientists stood utterly still, staring in horror at what they saw through the clear plastic of the observation deck’s outer wall. Two bodies, frozen, their faces transfixed, holding the terror they had felt as they were thrown from the airlock. They were tethered to the station by small cables that prevented them from drifting off where they could no longer serve as examples for the others.

  Gaston Villieneuve was not a sadist, not in the way most of his predecessors in Sector Nine’s top chair had been. He was simply practical. He didn’t enjoy inflicting pain or fear, but he didn’t let anything so vague and immaterial as sympathy or pity keep him from doing whatever was necessary to see his goals met. The two fools floating in the frigid vacuum had let their own greed interfere with their duty to the state. That was common enough. Corruption was endemic in the Union. But onl
y a fool would grasp greedily on a project so clearly vital, not only to the state itself, but to the head of Sector Nine.

  Or, two fools in this case.

  The way Villieneuve figured it, the two thieves he’d spaced owed him for their thefts, and for the delays they’d imposed on the project, and just about the only value he could squeeze from them was fear. Fear that would drive the others to work harder, and to put their own petty larcenies on hold. At least until the project was complete.

  “These two criminals betrayed the Union. They betrayed all of us. And justice has come to them, at last.” Villieneuve stood there, dressed head to toe in a fine black suit, looking in every way the head of a dreaded secret police organization, which, of course, he was. Everyone present knew there were great rewards to be had for success. He’d been abundantly clear about that. Now it was time to show them all the other side of that coin…the cost of failure.

  “They stole from this project. They diverted needed supplies to the black market to line their pockets, actions which delayed the completion of our work here, placing the entire Union in danger.” Villieneuve glared at the terrified group, wondering for a moment if he was laying it on a bit too thick. “They paid a terrible price, yet one too lenient for such traitors.” He let the words sink in. He had every supervisor and manager on the project lined up there, and he wanted them leaving with a cloud of fear surrounding them. He wanted them worrying that they might be next to go out the airlock.

  Or worse.

  “There is no longer any time to lose. We must complete the work and ready the pulsar for movement.” He held up a data chip. “This chip contains the latest timetables all of you submitted to me for project completion.” He let the chip drop, and then he slammed his boot down, crushing it.

  “Your proposed completion date is unacceptable. The maximum acceleration figures, the time to move through a transit point and reassemble, the parameters for system reliability…all unacceptable. That is why I am here. That is why I have left Montmirail, and the myriad responsibilities I have there. Because this project is the most important one in the Union right now, and you people have treated it like some kind of tea party.” He paused, panning his angry gaze across the group again.

  “That ends now. From this moment forward, all work on this project will proceed at maximum possible speed. All work periods are extended, all safety regulations suspended. We are going to revise these timetables, and we are going to come up with completion dates that reflect the hard work and dedication I know I can expect from each of you. We are going to increase the operational capacity of the mobile system to levels that sustain the combat mission lying ahead.”

  He paused again, turning his head and glancing out at the two frozen corpses. “Do you all understand me? Are you with me, as any loyal citizen would be?”

  There were nearly three dozen people in front of him but not one made a sound.

  “No one is with me?” Villieneuve’s tone was ominous.

  “Yes, sir, of course.” It was one nervous voice, a woman, clearly terrified.

  “I am with you, Minister.”

  “Yes, we are all with you. Long live the Union!”

  Villieneuve held back the smile that tried to slip out onto his lips. There wasn’t a hint of real sincerity in any of the voices, but that didn’t matter. Loyalty was fickle…fear lasted forever.

  “Then back to your stations, all of you. Address your teams, advise them of the new priorities. You will all receive updated work schedules today. See that they are implemented at once.” A pause. “We’re going to finish this project, fellow Unionites, and we’re going to do it faster than any of you imagined possible.”

  The group stood in place, all listening, waiting to see if Villieneuve was going to say anything else.

  “I said, go! What are you waiting for? There is work to be done.” He waved his hand, watching as the group moved, rushing toward the exit like the herd they were.

  He stood silently, until the last of the engineers had gone, leaving him alone with his four guards.

  “Shall we have the bodies untethered, sir?” The captain, the commander of his bodyguard stood in front of him at rigid attention.

  Villieneuve looked back one more time, silent for a moment before he answered. “No, Captain, I don’t think so. Just leave them where they are to serve as a…reminder.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Villieneuve turned and walked toward the hatch, following the path his now-motivated crew had taken. He had a long day ahead of him, schedules to prepare, manifests to review, shipments to inspect.

  People to scare.

  * * *

  “All right, we’re going through in thirty seconds. That means complete radio silence, no matter what. Get in, get your scans, and get out. And once you’re back here, you head home. Immediately. No waiting for the others. The return trip is every man for himself. The admiral needs these scans, so that means some of us—one of us, at least—has to make it back.”

  That’s a pretty grim rallying cry.

  Jake Stockton twisted his body, first to the left and then to the right, trying to work out the kinks. He’d flown a multi-system run before in a fighter, as far as he knew, the only pilot to have done it before these recent missions. It was no mystery why Gary Holsten and Admiral Striker had recruited him to make spying runs to the Bottleneck. He’d made three trips so far, making it back each time soaked in sweat and feeling as though he’d beaten the odds. The first two journeys had been solo runs, and the last one had been at the head of eight other pilots, only two of whom had made it back with him.

  The first time he’d gone, he was pretty sure he’d slipped in undetected. The second time the enemy had sent a squadron after him, but his modified bird had more thrust than anything the Union possessed, and he zipped back through the transit point and managed to avoid everything sent after him. Fortunately, the systems between Grimaldi and the Bottleneck had become something of a no man’s land, virtually abandoned as the opposing forces massed in their respective fortress systems.

  He had two dozen fighters with him now. He’d argued with the admiral, practically begged to go alone, or with two or three others at most, but Striker had been blunt. The lives of two dozen pilots didn’t matter, not really. Not when the fate of the entire Confederation was on the line. Stockton knew Striker was right. Defeat meant death for millions, and slavery for tens of billions. But those two dozen pilots were his responsibility, and that altered the math considerably, at least in his own mind.

  He’d trained his small force relentlessly, not only in the cockpit, but in the classroom and the simulator as well. Flying a fighter through half a dozen systems was as much a psychological challenge as a physical one, and Stockton had brutally weeded out his recruits, tossing anyone who showed the slightest inability to endure extended periods in the small confines of a fighter. The trip to the Bottleneck was six days, and that meant maximum acceleration and deceleration, with robot tankers attached to a ship. That was a long time to live more or less in a chair, eating nothing but concentrated nutrition bars, with a bag for a bathroom and no way to stretch your legs. It was torture of a sort, and most pilots would lose their minds before they got back.

  He angled his thrust, adjusting his vector slightly. The enemy was aware of his scouting missions now, and he had no doubt about what awaited his small, elite force. The Union ships were deployed well back from the transit point, formed up in front of the pulsar, ready to face a fleet assault. But, the last time, they’d had pickets close to the point, waiting for his scouts.

  “Ten seconds to insertion.” Stockton had never been a huge fan of his fighter’s AI, but twelve days was a long time to be alone. Since most of the trip was conducted under strict radio silence, the electronic assistant had been his only conversation partner. He’d grown accustomed to the almost-human sounding voice.

  His hand shifted to the top of the controls, an instinctive move he hadn’t been able to shake. H
e would normally be ready to fire before he ventured into possible enemy space, but one of the costs of reworking a fighter for long-range use was ripping out every weapon. His bird didn’t have a laser hot enough to light a candle, nor any missiles, bombs…not even a bag of rocks to throw. His sole weapon against enemy fighters was maneuver…otherwise known as running like hell.

  He took a deep breath just as his ship slipped into the strange alternate space of the transit tube. Translight travel was a weird enough feeling in a large spaceship, but his fighter lacked the shielding a warship possessed. He could feel the strange alien sensation of the space, something he recognized but could never really describe. The trip took perhaps twenty seconds, but it seemed far longer. And then, he was through.

  He felt his adrenaline surge. He turned his head, looking out through the clear hyper-plastic of his cockpit. It was a pointless effort, he knew. The odds of anything being in visual range were infinitesimal. But he had nothing else to do. It would take a while, perhaps a minute or more, for his systems to reconfigure and restart.

  His heart was pounding hard, almost making a sound in his ears. He nodded to himself, acknowledged his intensity. That, at least, sounded better than fear.

  He stared down at his display, but the screens were still scrambled. He’d come through at a strange angle, just one more tactic to try to evade defenders, at least until he reestablished control of his ship.

  It was torturous, sitting there waiting, but then his systems snapped back on. He moved his hand instinctively, blasting his engines, changing his thrust vector. If any enemy was in range, they’d had plenty of time to target his course.

  He looked down at the display, just as the scanners began feeding information.

  Damn.

  It was a Union battleship. Not a particularly large or modern one, but as far as his unarmed fighter was concerned, it might as well have been the god of war himself.