Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  He knew immediately…the pulsar had scored with its last shot. He didn’t have any hard data, not with so many systems down, but he realized immediately, it couldn’t have been a direct hit. If it had, he’d never have known it. He and Dauntless and everyone aboard would be gone already.

  Still it was clearly bad…bad enough. Dauntless was crippled, out in the open and sitting helpless, right in the deadly weapon’s field of fire.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Barroux City, Union Sector Capital

  Barroux, Rhian III

  Union Year 217 (313 AC)

  “It is done, First Citizen. Vaucomme and his inner circle were the last of them.” Ami Delacorte’s tone was so calm, anyone not privy to the events of the past several days would have thought she was talking about supply convoys, building projects, job appointments…anything but a series of more than three dozen political murders, all carried out over a period of less than thirty standard hours.

  “That is good, Citizen. You and your people are to be commended.” Remy Caron sat in his office, which had been previously occupied by Victor Aurien, the former Commissar and senior Union official on Barroux. Aurien and his surviving cohorts were prisoners now, enjoying a level of hospitality far below that they were used to. Caron had almost executed the survivors after his forces had finally taken the compound where they had held out for weeks, but he’d hesitated. His mercy hadn’t been spawned out of pity. The two failed Union attempts to reassert control over Barroux had made it clear to him, the struggle for independence was not over. He didn’t know if hostages of high rank would be useful at some point, but it didn’t hurt to keep them alive until he was sure.

  That logic hadn’t applied to his political rivals like Matthew Vaucomme. Caron may have been swept unexpectedly into the frenzy of the revolution, but he’d quickly adapted to his role, learning to use—and enjoy—power. His victories, against the landing force and again in repelling the invasion fleet, had won him the admiration and loyalty of the people, and they had given him an edge over other ambitious revolutionaries. He’d tried to work with Vaucomme and the others, but they resented his newfound power…and they threatened the new order he was creating. He’d finally decided he couldn’t risk their scheming, that to ensure Barroux’s survival and independence, he had to take total control.

  So began a day of terror that was already being called the Putsch. Most of those targeted had been killed in the night, shot in their beds without warning. A few had gone out with more exciting finishes, including Vaucomme, who’d managed to barricade himself in an old warehouse with half a dozen stalwarts. He had only held his murderers at bay for a few moments.

  Caron leaned back in the chair, savoring the plushness and comfort Aurien had enjoyed for so long as he practically starved the workers of Barroux. The massive food stores destined to be shipped off world had been confiscated by Caron’s people and a portion of them had been distributed to the population, enough to double the food rations. That was more than enough to buy the loyalty he needed to secure his position, and he didn’t see any need to waste more.

  Caron had held back some of the supplies to feed his soldiers, as well. He needed their loyalty more than anyone’s, and their readiness to face any threats to the new order, external from the Union forces he knew would be back…and internal ones as well. He didn’t doubt there were others out there who would challenge the revolution, besides those he’d eliminated. No one could be allowed to interfere with the new Barroux, and Caron would do whatever was necessary to ensure the revolution survived and prospered.

  “Thank you, First Citizen. I will pass on your words to my people.”

  “I would have you do more than that, Citizen Delacorte. We all despised Sector Nine, yet we can also see how the agency was integral to the Union’s ability to maintain control. Our former masters did so for their own selfish purposes, to the great suffering of the masses. We seek something better, higher, a world where workers can live their lives, where all share in the bounty of their labor. But to attain that lofty goal, we must defend it. Against outside attack, certainly, but we must also face enemies within, those who would seek to derail the revolution.” Caron was blissfully unaware how similar his words sounded to standard Union dogma.

  “Like Vaucomme?”

  “Yes, Citizen Delacorte, exactly like Vaucomme. He was not unique, nor, I am afraid, is there any shortage of his ilk out there. We must defend the revolution. I would have you keep your team together, form them into a special unit. We will call them the Protectors of the Revolution, and you will be their leader…and report directly to me.”

  Delacorte smiled and nodded, obviously in complete agreement with everything Caron was saying. “I am honored, First Citizen, and proud to serve the revolution every way I can.”

  “Thank you, Ami. It’s a great relief to have a comrade like yourself whom I can trust. Whom I can call my friend.” He paused. “I would have you do more than assemble your existing people. We must know what’s happening all across Barroux. I will authorize you to draw from the supplies—food, medicines, luxuries. I want you to assemble a network of watchers, loyal citizens who can inform on those who would seek to destroy the revolution. There is no place for traitors in the future before us, Citizen, and we must root them out and destroy them.”

  Delacorte nodded. “I agree completely, First Citizen.” She stood up. “With your permission, I will get to it at once. We have much to do before Barroux is the worker’s paradise we will make it into.”

  Caron looked up at his comrade. “Go then, First Protector. I will work to build the new order…to lead Barroux into the future.”

  * * *

  Ricard Lille sat in his office, brooding. He hadn’t wanted to take the Barroux mission. He was no admiral, no general, and he’d said so. He’d only accepted it because he’d seen no way out. It had been clear Villieneuve was desperate, that his old friend needed him.

  And now, my old friend will kill me for failing him again. Unless I kill him first.

  Lille didn’t like the idea of assassinating Villieneuve. The first negative, and the one he tried to tell himself was the only one of consequence, was simply that it would be difficult and dangerous. It had been quite some time since Villieneuve had last conducted an active field operation, but Lille wasn’t foolish enough to underestimate Sector Nine’s chief. Villieneuve knew him as well, how good he was, which meant there would be no notice of displeasure, no warning at all. When Villieneuve decided to terminate him, he would see it done as quickly as possible. Unless he’s already decided…

  Lille felt an uncharacteristic edginess, and he looked around the office, suddenly suspicious of everything. It was really just a cabin he’d appropriated. The water on the table might be poisoned, every closed drawer might hide a bomb. For that matter, every spacer on this tub could be an assassin waiting for a chance to strike. I wouldn’t put it past Gaston to have sent his killer out here with me, disguised among the spacers or Foudre Rouge.

  Lille had always been cynical and cautious, but never paranoid. Until now. He tried to push the panicky thoughts from his mind, but they clung stubbornly. He had to get off the ship. He had to get back, and kill Villieneuve as quickly as possible.

  That brought him to the second problem. He didn’t want to eliminate his…patron. Part of his mind had struggled to put the word “friend” in that place, but he’d resisted. The death of his longtime ally would be a blow to him and, depending on who won the power struggle to take Villieneuve’s place, perhaps a grave danger. He’d kept as low a profile as he could, but there were others in Sector Nine who knew just how dangerous he was. He might kill Villieneuve only to face a new assassination plot by the successor to Sector Nine’s top spot. He was just too dangerous to be allowed to survive.

  The friendship issue was there, too, still plaguing him. One part of his mind was sure Villieneuve would kill him for his failure on Barroux. The problem on that world was worse than his friend had
imagined, and he hadn’t managed to do anything about it except lose fifteen ships and over two thousand Foudre Rouge, without even reaching orbit. But the other side argued that Villieneuve couldn’t afford to lose one of his closest allies, and that even Sector Nine’s legendary commander was affected by normal human emotions like friendship. The truth was, he didn’t know the answer, but trusting to Villieneuve’s mercy seemed like a shaky wager with his own life on the line.

  Villieneuve was in trouble, too. Lille knew that, perhaps more than anyone else. His friend had lied to the Presidium, manipulated them, and ransacked the Union economy to fund his schemes. When his colleagues on the ruling council found out all he had done, he was as good as dead.

  Unless…

  He had an idea, one that sounded crazy. No, more than crazy…outright insane. But if he could pull it off, he might save Villieneuve, and restore his place in his friend’s good graces.

  It would be difficult, something no other operative would even imagine possible. But Lille was a master at what he did, a virtuoso unmatched by any of his peers. And what he did was kill.

  His mind raced, considering potential strategies. It would be his masterpiece, the crowning achievement of his already impressive career. If he could manage it, Villieneuve would be in his debt, and in a position to show appropriate gratitude. Lille’s recent failures would be washed away in one brilliant moment.

  Yes, he knew exactly what he was going to do. He had to get back to Montmirail immediately…and he’d work out the details on the trip.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  313 AC

  “Fritzie, we’ve got a minute, maybe ninety seconds. Then that thing’s going to blast us to plasma.” Barron was hunched over the comm unit, telling his engineer what she already knew. He was speaking loudly, slowly, clearly. The connection was staticky, full of interference. He could barely hear Fritz, and he didn’t suspect she was doing any better with his own transmissions. But he was grateful to have any comm at all. Thirty seconds before, that had seemed an impossibility.

  “I know, Captain.” There was an edge to her tone. In seven years of riding his chief engineer, of expecting—no, demanding—the impossible from her, he’d never heard her sound as stressed as she did now.

  He didn’t say anything else. Distracting her could only lessen whatever chance they had that she could get the ancient device operational again.

  “Atara, what’s the engine status?”

  “I think we can manage thirty percent, sir. Forty is possible, but we’d be risking a total blowout if we push that hard.”

  “Get ready. If Fritzie gets that thing back on, I need you to get us the hell out of here. Random course change…somewhere that thing can’t calculate.”

  “I’m ready, Captain.”

  Barron took a deep breath. He was scared, of course, but mostly he was focused. The situation seemed pretty close to hopeless, but less so than it had half a minute before. When the pulsar had first hit Dauntless, he’d thought his ship was finished. Sitting in the near-darkness of the stricken bridge, his vessel seemed crippled, almost dead. But then, the backup systems came online, and the automated damage control sprang into action. Emergency power restored lighting, core scanning, and workstation capacity to the bridge, as well as intraship comm. And as his people tallied the damage to the ship, they discovered that while one of the reactors was useless scrap, the other was still operational.

  He’d felt a flash of gratitude to his ship, which he’d always personified. She’d come through for him again. But then he realized none of it mattered. Not unless Fritz could restore their stealth capability.

  He knew he expected the impossible from her, but it wasn’t the first time…and she’d come through before. He had long attributed a massive credit for the success he’d enjoyed in his career to his astonishingly talented engineer and her team, and through the darkness and despair clouding his mind right then, a spark of hope endured. Some part of him actually expected Anya Fritz to save the day again.

  It made no sense. His rational mind told him it was impossible, that they were all doomed. And then the comm crackled, and he heard Fritz’s barely audible voice. “I think we got it back, sir.”

  “Atara,” he said, almost shouting her name across the bridge. But she was ahead of him. He felt the ship lurch as the engines blasted back to life…and a few seconds later, his restored screen lit up as the pulsar’s deadly beam ripped through the space Dauntless had occupied seconds before, no more than a kilometer from where the engine thrust had moved the ship.

  He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, the wetness of his shirt, soaked with sweat and plastered to his back. They weren’t out of the woods yet, not even close. But the list of Dauntless’s seeming miracles was one longer than it had been a moment before…and his crew was still alive, still in the fight.

  * * *

  “There’s another wave coming, Commander. At least fifty, maybe more.”

  Jovi Grachus sat in her cockpit, shaking her head as the message came through her comm. She’d led half of Dauntless’s strike force, her own squadron and two of the Confed ones, against more than twice their number. They’d won, sliced through the enemy formation and blasted almost every ship to dust. The enemy had been no match for her people one on one, but with better than a two to one edge, it had been somewhat of a fight. Still, she’d had reason to feel good about what they’d done and the light casualties they’d taken.

  Until the second wave came. Another hundred Union fighters, launched again from the bases around the pulsar. This time her people had to endure the enemy’s missile barrage without firing one of their own. Then, the fresh birds came in on her people with a fury she hadn’t expected from Union pilots. She’d told herself she shouldn’t be surprised, that the enemy would assign their best squadrons to protect their superweapon. But that didn’t help, not when her people started to take losses. She’d seen more than one of her own Alliance aces fall, and a number of the Confeds too.

  She’d been subject at one time to the same pride that affected Alliance warriors, an unwavering belief that she and her comrades were the best, the bravest. But she’d seen the Confed pilots in the battles during the civil war and again here, and she was hard pressed to detect any inferiority in them. They fought as hard as her people, and they died as bravely.

  “We’ve got a third wave coming in,” she said into the comm. I know you’re all tired, and some of you are getting low on fuel, but we’re warriors, all of us, and we do what we must. I’ve never led a group of pilots that filled me with more pride than all of you. Let’s finish this…now.”

  She pulled back hard on the throttle and blasted her engines, changing her vector toward the incoming ships. Her people would have to face another missile attack, and as she looked at the display, she realized there were a lot more than fifty ships coming at her. It looked like another full wave…a hundred more fighters coming for her exhausted, depleted squadrons.

  * * *

  “Break off!” Stockton shouted the order into his comm unit. The first wave of bombers had gone in against the Union battleship. They’d scored two hits, done some damage, enough to set things up for the second line. But now, Stockton was calling them off, just as they were about to make their final approach.

  “Commander, we’re almost in range. We can finish this thing.” Federov’s normally cold voice betrayed her surprise.

  “Break off,” Stockton repeated, louder this time. “That’s an order. Bring your ships around, one eighty degrees, full thrust.”

  Stockton knew his pilots were frustrated, that they didn’t understand. That was fine—they didn’t have to, only he did. He’d been as anxious to finish off the Union battleship as anyone under his command. But he’d also been watching what was going on around Dauntless.

  The battleship had popped onto his scanners, and that had immediately diverted his attention to the m
other ship. He’d realized immediately that the stealth generator had failed. That was the only thing it could be…and without that bit of ancient tech, Dauntless was doomed.

  He’d watched the crazy evasive maneuvers, the two misses from the giant enemy weapon. And then, the hit. Dauntless had taken a glancing blow, one that tore off a big chunk of the starboard hull. The ship had been badly damaged—but Stockton couldn’t tell if those wounds were mortal. Not from his fighter.

  For a minute or two, he was sure the fight was over. The crippled Dauntless was a sitting duck. As soon as the pulsar recharged, it would fire again, and without any evasive maneuvers, it would hit. Tyler Barron would be dead, and Commander Travis, “Warrior” Timmons.

  Stara…

  Stockton was frustrated, angry. He knew there was nothing he could do.

  He felt a spark of hope as he saw the big ship move. Dauntless had some engine power left, at least, some chance of evading the death blow. Then, she vanished.

  For an instant, Stockton thought the ship had been destroyed, that he’d missed the killing shot. But then, the pulsar fired, its massive blast ripping through open space where Dauntless had been a few seconds before.

  He knew immediately. Commander Fritz had pulled off her incredible wizardry one more time. Somehow, despite whatever malfunction had dropped the cloak, despite the damage the ship had suffered, she’d managed to get the generator functioning. Dauntless was cloaked again.

  His relief had lasted for six minutes before the ship reappeared on his scanners, less than twenty thousand kilometers from her previous location. She sat there for almost a minute, as Stockton again steeled himself to watch the destruction of the vessel, of everyone he cared about in the universe. But once again, he was spared the agony. Dauntless again slipped into nothingness, just before the pulsar was able to get a target lock and fire.