Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  He trusted most of his people to make good decisions. He had a few new recruits in each squadron, replacing pilots lost in the last battles of the Alliance Civil War. He’d almost transferred them out before Dauntless had left Grimaldi, but he’d decided it made more sense to leave the formations together.

  His eyes were focused on the screen. Half a dozen Union birds were heading right at him. His hand was tense on the throttle, his finger over the firing stud. He squeezed once, letting his first missile loose. Then his other hand extended forward, hitting the controls, arming the second. He launched that one just a few seconds later, and then he swung his arm hard to the right, bringing his ship around, and out of the path of the approaching fighters.

  He watched as his missiles closed, and the target ships launched into frantic evasive maneuvers. Watching his chosen victims struggle to escape the doom he’d sent their way only confirmed what he’d feared. The formations he was facing were far from the Union’s standard squadrons. These pilots were clearly some kind of elite force, and while he couldn’t bring himself to imagine they were the equals of his own veterans, any hope of total domination and easy victory slipped quickly away.

  He felt a rush of excitement as the first enemy ship vanished from his screen, falling to the missile it had almost escaped. His satisfaction was short-lived, however, as he watched his second target evade the warhead on its tail…until the weapon ran out of fuel and continued on in a straight line, well wide of the Union ship.

  Damn.

  Stockton hadn’t been in battle for more than six months, and he wondered if his service on the long-range spy missions had left his targeting a bit rusty. The stat books said it took fourteen missiles to take out one enemy fighter, but Stockton had never paid any mind to such factoids. He wouldn’t expect to take out Alliance fighters with every missile, but he’d done it against Union forces many times.

  “Watch yourselves out there,” he said into the comm, wincing as he saw one of his Blues disappear from the screen, even as he was issuing his warning. “These aren’t ordinary Union pilots, they’re some kind of veterans.”

  He angled his ship hard, firing his lasers. His shot went wide of his target, just, and he fired again. And again. Finally, he hit. It was a glancing blow, a shot that cut the enemy’s thrust and maneuverability, but didn’t score a kill. He tried to fire again, but he was already past the fighter. He searched around, his eyes darting all around his screen, looking for another target. The enemy ships were moving too quickly, and they were already getting past his screen. His people were scoring hits, cutting down their enemies, but not enough of them. The ships getting through would wreak havoc on Federov’s bombers. He had to get more of them. If he didn’t, the shattered remnants of the bombing strike wouldn’t have a chance of taking out the Union battleship.

  He swung around. “Blues, with me…full thrust, follow those bastards who got through. Eagles stay in position and engage squadrons still approaching.” He didn’t like splitting his force yet again, but there was no choice. He brought his ship around, matching vectors with the enemy fighters heading for the bombing group. The Union ships had a high velocity, and they were getting farther from his Blues every second. But they were still in range, and Stockton intended to make them pay while he could.

  He fired…a clean miss. Then another, much closer. He stared at the small dot on his screen, the fighter he was targeting. The pilot he was after had seen the threat, and he was angling his ship back and forth, doing anything he could to throw off Stockton’s aim. He fired again, and then again, missing each time.

  He stared at the screen. Every second brought his target farther away, despite the fact that his own fighter was accelerating at full power. His eyes darted to the side every few seconds, checking to make sure no enemy was making a move on him. Otherwise, his concentration was fixed. In that moment, there was nothing but his ship…and the one he was pursuing. His enemy would be out of range soon, and each shot became more difficult than the last. He’d been relying on the targeting computer, but now, his old instincts began to fire up. He relaxed his arm slightly, let his instincts direct him. His arm moved, firing again…then again. Finally, the dot on his screen vanished. He’d taken out his target.

  But over a dozen ships had made it through…and they’d be hitting the bombers any second. He swore under his breath, and then he leaned back, trying to ignore the discomfort of the intense g forces. He wouldn’t get back quickly enough, at least not in time to prevent the bombers from enduring an enemy attack run. But the Union forces would pay a price for their high speed. They would blast right through the bomber formation, their attacks hamstrung by the limited window when they’d be in range. Stockton didn’t kid himself. It was going to be bad. But, just maybe, not as bad as it might have been.

  And he and his Blues would be there when the enemy slowed to come around and return toward the bombers. There would be no second run…he promised himself that much.

  * * *

  “Prepare for evasive maneuvers.” Olya Federov’s face was grim. She’d watched the battle up ahead, and she knew the interceptors had done all they could to engage the attacking enemy fighters. But the Union pilots were far more skilled than usual, and their ships were coming in at high speed. Despite Stockton’s best efforts, and the skill and heroism of Dauntless’s elite squadrons, the bombers were going to get hit.

  She took hold of her own ship’s controls, preparing to do what she could to make herself a difficult target. It was something she did well, at least when her normally-sleek Lightning was configured as an interceptor. But loaded up with the full bombing kit and attachments, the thing handled like a pig, something immediately noticeable to the touch of a skilled dogfighter like herself.

  Sarcastic remarks she’d uttered many times floated around in her head, thoughts along the lines of “a bomber couldn’t evade a rock thrown by hand.” It wasn’t that she disagreed with the essence of such statements…but they served no purpose now. Her Reds, usually deployed as interceptors, were carrying heavy plasma torpedoes in their bomb bays, and her only concern was to get as many of them as possible through what was coming, and to the enemy battleship.

  She angled her controls again, still finding herself surprised at how sluggishly the ship responded. The incoming fighters all appeared to have expended their missiles fighting the Blues and the Eagles. That, at least, was a small mercy. A missile barrage would gut her formation, taking down more of her ships than she wanted to imagine. The fighters coming in now would open up with their lasers, but they wouldn’t be in range for long before their velocity took them right past the bombers.

  She changed her vector again, another slow and cumbersome adjustment, but it took her out of the direct path of an incoming fighter. She was still taking fire, but the angle, and the now-growing distance between her ship and her attacker’s, severely reduced the likelihood of a hit.

  Federov hated dodging enemies—she was a fighter at heart—but she had no choice now. Her bomber was fitted out to engage the enemy battleship, not the sleek interceptors blasting through right now. The cumbersome ship didn’t even have laser batteries. The dual cannons she had used to take down so many enemies were sitting in Dauntless’s landing bays, removed to make room for the bombing kit.

  Her ship lurched forward, again, out of the direct path of one of the Union interceptors. She felt an instant of satisfaction, and then she winced as another of her bombers vanished from the screen. The attackers were almost through her formation, but they’d exacted a toll. She’d lost seven of thirty-six bombers. Four of those pilots had managed to eject, but she knew Dauntless was committed to its run at the pulsar…and that made any rescue attempt almost an impossibility. Those crews would have been better off if they’d been killed instantly like the others, rather than left to watch their life support dwindle to nothing, gasping for breath in their frigid escape pods.

  She’d lost another three ships to battle damage. Bombers were more
susceptible to system failures than the sleeker interceptors, and even a light hit was often enough to disable the bomb bay launch system, rendering the ship useless, and sending it back to base.

  But in this case, home base was hidden, cloaked by the stealth generator and on its way to an all or nothing attack on the enemy pulsar. There wasn’t another friendly battleship anywhere in range. Every pilot that had launched was well aware of the uncertainty of having a place to land. She’d sent her cripples back toward Dauntless’s location when they’d launched, for no practical reason other than to get the unmaneuverable ships away from the enemy.

  “Okay, bomber squadrons,” she said into the comm. “We made it through.” At least some of us did. “Now, we’re going in against that battleship in three waves. Eighty percent thrust, directly toward the target. That should let us finish our attack run before those interceptors can come about and hit us again.” If any come back. The Blues and the Eagles were on their tails, and Federov suspected Stockton and his pilots would hit those squadrons hard…and exact a price for the damage they’d inflicted on the bomber wings.

  She’d known Stockton a long time, and she almost pitied those Union pilots.

  Almost.

  * * *

  “A definite fighter launch, sir. We’re at extreme range, but it looks like Dauntless has launched all her fighters.”

  Striker sat in his seat in the middle of Vanguard’s control center. The new fleet flagship was a modified Repulse, the newest, largest, and most powerful class of warships in the Confederation navy. But Vanguard was something more, and she outweighed her sister-ships by better than 200,000 tons. The fleet control center, replacing what used to be called a flag bridge, had been specifically designed for the command of fleets larger than those of any previous war. The force Striker had led to the Bottleneck was the most massive the Confederation had ever put into space. Its battle line was a fearsome sight, and against any enemy force, he would have led it forward with the utmost confidence in victory.

  Any force save the pulsar.

  That bit of ancient technology had altered the balance of power, and it threatened to pull victory out of the Confederation’s grasp. Striker was well aware of the awesome power of his fleet…and he also knew, if and when he gave the order to advance on the pulsar, he was likely leading his people to defeat and death.

  He’d moved the main fleet slowly forward, toward the advance guard. He’d stopped several times, feigning disorder, and moved his ships around in the line, all in an effort to slow things down. He’d transited into the Bottleneck to fix the enemy’s attention on his fleet, to take as much heat as possible off Tyler Barron and Dauntless. But now, an enemy battleship appeared to be moving toward Barron’s vessel…and Dauntless had launched her fighters.

  Striker’s first concern was that the stealth generator had failed, but if it had, his scanners should be able to pick up Dauntless, even at extreme range. As far as he could tell, Barron’s ship was still hidden. But that battleship was tracking something. Had the Union vessel found a weakness in the stealth generator, a way to scan Dauntless?

  Something had forced Barron’s hand, compelled him to launch his fighters to intercept the Union ship. Even if Dauntless’s exact location was still cloaked, the enemy knew she was there now. That forced Striker’s hand.

  “Commander…” His words died down as his eyes moved across the main display. A large group of Union battleships was moving off their line. It was too soon to discern an exact course, but Striker didn’t think it was much of a stretch to assume they were after Dauntless.

  “Commander, execute fleet operation Alpha-1. The battle line will advance.”

  “Yes, sir.” Striker could hear the nervousness in the officer’s voice…he could feel it all across the control center, and hear it in the silence of the forty officers at their stations.

  They all knew the odds…and they all knew what they had to do.

  They had to draw as much attention away from Dauntless…whatever the cost.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Confederation Intelligence

  Troyus City

  Planet Megara, Olyus III

  313 AC

  “I told you never to come here.” Lars Garabrant was a Confederation Senator, and his demeanor was as pompous as any other politician’s. Garabrant represented Halkon, a backwater world out on the Periphery, and one of the most unimportant in the Confederation. But Garabrant had been its sole Senator for more than thirty years, and that seniority in the Confederation’s governing body translated into political power. He’d never have the influence the representatives from Megara or one of the other Core worlds possessed, but he’d made the best of what he had.

  “I took precautions, Senator. No one saw me arrive. I have an important message for you.” The man had walked into the office and sat across from Garabrant, without invitation. The presumption infuriated Garabrant, but he controlled his temper. His visitor looked like some type of political operative, or even a prosperous constituent come to visit Halkon’s representative, but he knew the truth. The man sitting on the other side of the desk, Banister was the only name Garabrant had for him, was from Sector Nine, and his very presence was threatening in more ways than the Senator could easily count.

  He’d taken money from Sector Nine—from the Union, while that power was at war with the Confederation—and that alone would likely be viewed as treason, even though he’d done nothing in return for it. Yet.

  Then, of course, there was Sector Nine’s reputation. The fact that he was in the Confederation, on the capital planet of Megara pretty much eliminated some of the dire prospects that might have threatened if he’d been in the Union, but he didn’t doubt the feared spy agency could manage an assassination if he crossed them sufficiently. They’d given him the funds to clear up all his debts, and enough beyond that to live the way he believed a Senator should, and he’d known full well that one day that bill would come due.

  “I remind you, Mr. Banister, that I am a Confederation Senator, and our respective nations are currently at war.”

  “As we were when you accepted the funds we transferred to your accounts. Those monies came from well-constructed shell companies, but I assure you, if we wished, we could trace it right back to the Union treasury. That would be an…uncomfortable…revelation for you, would it not, if it were to be disclosed in open Senate session?”

  Garabrant just sat still. He’d almost refused the money, too fearful of where the whole thing might lead. But, in the end, his finances had simply been in too desperate a condition, and he’d had no choice. His father had left the family’s affairs in a lesser state than he might have hoped, and he’d been quite undisciplined in his youth. His political machine back home virtually guaranteed his continued reelection to his seat under normal circumstances, but Halkon was a conservative planet, and a scandal like a bankruptcy could have destroyed his career.

  “I will not betray the Confederation, Mr. Banister.” He tried to sound firm, but he wasn’t sure it came out that way through his fear. The truth was, he’d do just about anything he had to in order to keep himself out of trouble. But plotting with a foreign agent was dangerous.

  “I am not here to ask you to betray your people, Senator Garabrant. Indeed, I wish you to help them, and my people as well. This war is pointless and destructive. It must end.”

  “I couldn’t agree more, as I have said multiple times on the Senate floor.” He paused. “You wish a ceasefire?”

  Banister stared back. “Something of the sort, Senator. Peace is in all interests, but the Union has endured enormous costs in this war.”

  “As have we.”

  “Yes…but we have the pulsar. If the war continues, I strongly believe the Union will prevail. Even now, we are on the verge of putting new pulsar units into production. The Confederation has no path to victory, not against such power, but your economic strength allows the warmongers in your government to sustain hostilities, when th
e Presidium would almost certainly grant a peace…if the terms were reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “That is where your aid comes in, Senator. You will lead a move to overcome the pointless pride and nationalism that has so dominated your Senate. You will propose a peace initiative.” Banister leaned forward and slid a small tablet he’d been holding across the table.

  Garabrant picked it up and read it. “Are you mad? You want us to cede ten systems? And this indemnity is…insane.”

  “And when our forces advance—when your fleet is destroyed by the pulsar—the terms will be far worse. Or, you can wait until we reach Megara itself…in which case the Confederation will be utterly destroyed.”

  “Even if I agreed to this, there’s no way I can gather enough support, certainly not alone. The hawks are too strong.”

  “You will not be alone, Senator. Your colleagues, Senator Kellerman and Senator Stilson, are also…indebted…to us. We have some level of influence on at least twelve Senators. While far short of the number that will be required, it should be an ample start for a man of your legislative experience, Senator. Your successful efforts will erase your debt to us. In fact, I can promise that a significant additional payment will be forthcoming from the indemnity. You will be doing a true service for your people as well. The Confederation will suffer some economic damage from these terms, certainly, but your industry will recover quickly…and what value can equal the lives that will be saved? If you fight to the end and lose, if you end up facing multiple incarnations of the pulsar, you will be completely destroyed. I’m afraid the Presidium would not be so…reasonable…in such circumstances.”

  Garabrant looked across the desk at his visitor. He’d always been a dove, and he considered buying off an enemy like the Union far preferable to war. But the terms Banister had proposed were extreme. The Confederation’s economy would be crippled for a generation.