Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  “Go, Fritzie. We need those weapons.” And if we don’t have them, it doesn’t much matter if the stealth system holds…we’re dead anyway. The whole fleet is.

  “Yes, Captain. I’ll keep you posted.”

  Barron sat and panned his head from left to right, looking around the bridge. His people were at their stations, working as diligently as ever, but he could feel the demoralization. The news about the weapons had hit them all hard. It was too much…the close calls, the desperate, deadly journey. It was one thing to take a terrible risk, even to make the ultimate sacrifice to save friends, loved ones, country…but the realization that it all may have been for naught, that Dauntless and her people had come this far, only to fail, was more than even Barron’s devoted veterans could endure.

  More, even, that he could take. He couldn’t destroy the pulsar without Dauntless’s batteries…and the Union battleship was closer than ever, having gotten a solid lock while the generator was down.

  Barron had always believed in his ship, his people. But now, he saw failure looming ahead, and he couldn’t look away. Even if Fritz and her team got a couple batteries online in time, there was no real hope of destroying the pulsar with so little firepower, not quickly enough, at least. The massive weapon would blast Dauntless to oblivion long before her guns could do enough damage to prevent it.

  Barron sat rigidly in his chair, trying to maintain appearances for his people. He owed them at least that much. But behind the façade, he was as close to giving up as he’d ever been.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Formara System

  “The Bottleneck”

  313 AC

  Stockton brought his fighter around, altering his vector slightly, just enough to bring another enemy ship into his targeting range while preserving most of his momentum. His mind was racing, keeping a keen watch on his velocity and resources as his instincts took control of his flying. He’d caught up with the enemy fighters, though he’d only done so by taking wild risks. He knew he could lose his engines at any moment—or worse. Three of his pilots were drifting through space now with fried reactors…and two more were dead, the victims of more catastrophic malfunctions.

  But the rest were engaged now, and every Union bird they took down was one less that could hit the bombers. The enemy bases had remained inactive, no more launches showing on his scanners. With any luck, his assessment had been correct. The ships his people were chasing were the last ones the enemy had to send out.

  He fired again, taking down yet another enemy fighter. His aim had been uncanny. As well regarded a pilot as he’d always been, he’d never flown like he was now. His fighter moved at his will, as if he was operating it by pure thought. His instincts had been dead on. He knew what was at stake, not just his own life or those of his pilots, but perhaps the fate of the entire Confederation. If Dauntless couldn’t destroy the pulsar, the ancient weapon might very well obliterate the fleet, leaving Grimaldi exposed to attack…and then an open road to the heart of the Confederation. If that happened, everyone important to Stockton would already be dead, but now he realized there was a true patriot lurking under his cocky and restless demeanor.

  There was one other thing. He knew Kyle Jamison would have driven his people to the end of their abilities, that Dauntless’s old strike force commander would have stopped at nothing to see the mission completed…and Stockton intended to see his friend’s will be done.

  He fired again, his eyes darting back and forth, between the target and the ships at his side, the survivors of Dauntless’s two famous squadrons. Olvirez was gone now, one of the few original Blues, a victim of three enemy ships that had turned suddenly and hit him from multiple sides. Two of Timmons’s Eagles had been hit in the last few minutes, as well, one gone, the other floating helplessly, his bird’s engines melted to useless scrap.

  He swung the throttle again, and he pulled back hard, squeezing out every bit of acceleration his tortured ship could give him. He didn’t know what was keeping the abused fighter functioning. It felt almost as though his own stubbornness had somehow extended to the physical equipment of his ship. Whatever it was, the fighter continued to obey his every command, and as it did, more Union fighters were blasted to hell.

  He tried not to think of the cost his people had paid, of how few of the veterans who’d launched with him were still in the formation. The space all around was littered with the debris of destroyed ships and life pods holding surviving pilots, men and women who knew perfectly well how unlikely it was they’d be rescued.

  The two squadrons fielded less than half the numbers that had launched hours before, but there was no sign of disorder, no letup in intensity. The Blues and Eagles were hot on the tails of the enemy force, cutting them down one fighter at a time.

  Stockton was impressed with the Union pilots, as well. He’d come to expect a certain level of mediocrity in the enemy, but these squadrons were exhibiting skill and élan far in advance of the average Union wings. They continued to chase the bombers, most of them ignoring the Confeds on their tails as the running fight continued.

  Now, the lead elements opened fire on Federov’s assault force, and Stockton saw the first bomber taken out. The strike craft were cumbersome and sluggish, and even the veterans in those cockpits were vulnerable to interceptors coming up from behind. The Blues and the Eagles had done all they could, gutted the enemy squadrons, but some ships got through, and now Stockton watched helplessly as bombers started to fall. He fired his lasers, even before he was in range of any new targets. The pilots in those bombers were his people, his friends and comrades. But it went far beyond that. They were also the best hope to disable the pulsar, to save Dauntless, the fleet…and maybe the Confederation.

  * * *

  Guardian shook hard, showers of sparks flying around the bridge as an electrical conduit split down the middle, its remains falling in two different directions and hitting the deck with a loud crash. Ambrose Duncan was still behind his chair, holding on, shouting orders to his officers. Not only to Guardian’s crew, but to the rest of the forces under his command.

  His people had made good use of their range advantage, but even with half a dozen enemy battleships destroyed or knocked out of commission, they were still outnumbered…and now the Union vessels were firing back.

  The fight was a nasty one, with little finesse. Duncan had been concerned the enemy would attempt to blow past his ships, to close on the rear of the main fleet. It was what he would have done in their position, and he wasn’t surprised when it became apparent that was just what the Union forces were trying to do.

  The rest of the fleet wasn’t engaged yet, save for the sharp battle Eaton’s advance guard and Tulus’s Alliance ships had fought against the enemy picket line at the transit point. But if he let these ships get around him, they’d likely hit Striker’s force just as it was entering range of the pulsar—and engaging the main Union fleet.

  “Task group seven is to come around. I want to bracket the enemy left. If we can hit that flank from two sides, we can gain temporary superiority.”

  “Yes, sir.” Commander Eaton nodded as she answered, and Duncan could tell from her tone she agreed with his decision. “Task force seven acknowledges, sir.”

  Guardian shook again, not as hard this time. Duncan’s flagship was facing two enemy battleships, and the multiple angles of fire were complicating evasive maneuvers. The ship was jerking around wildly, random spurts of thrust in all directions. Duncan’s fingers were clenched, the flesh around his knuckles pale white as he steadied himself. He’d almost fallen twice, but he’d managed to stay on his feet. Now, exhaustion was taking its toll, and he edged around his chair, wincing in pain as he sat down. Guardian’s thrust levels were lower now, but Duncan’s old wounds ached from the abuse they’d suffered during the approach, and pain radiated out from his back in every direction as he bent into the seated position.

  “Bring us around…course 310-211-009.” His eyes were fixed on the dis
play as he gave the order. It was difficult to keep track of the relative movements of multiple ships all in the three dimensions of space, but he was trying to get around the flank of one of the enemy battleships Guardian faced, to block or at least obscure the line of fire from the other one. His ship and his people were more than a match for any Union counterpart, he was sure of that. But two to one was a different story, and even if his people pulled out a victory against both enemies, Guardian would be badly damaged. He had to protect his ship, keep it combat ready. The fight in the Bottleneck was just beginning, and there was a massive struggle ahead before victory—or defeat—would be determined.

  “Executing course change now, sir.”

  He watched as Eaton worked at her board. A vector change in the middle of battle was far more involved than simply angling the ship and firing the engines. Any ship that ceased evasive maneuvers would find itself easily targeted, and blasted to wreckage in minutes, if not seconds. Duncan’s orders were for a net course, the angle and speed where Guardian would end up. Now, Eaton had to layer on random vector mods and bursts of thrust. Anything to thwart enemy targeting systems, sophisticated AIs that were constantly trying to estimate where a target would be, where to place the next shot.

  Guardian jerked hard again, and Duncan felt a wave of pain as the g forces pushed into him. He closed his eyes, just for a few seconds, struggling to hold in the cries trying to escape from his lips. His people knew all about his wounds, but that didn’t matter to him. He was their commander, and whatever it took, he would behave that way. He would set the example he wanted his spacers to follow.

  He heard the distant whine, Guardian firing another broadside. His eyes darted toward the display, waiting for the damage assessment. Three hits…and one of them looked critical. The scanners were reporting follow up explosions, and the enemy ship’s thrust dropped sharply.

  “The nearer ship,” he said sharply. “It’s damaged. All guns concentrate on the closest ship.” He could smell the kill, and he wanted it. If he could take out the one ship, Guardian would have a one on one battle, at least right now.

  And that was a fight he knew his people could win.

  * * *

  Jovi Grachus leaned back in her seat and let out a deep sigh. She was exhausted, and her flight suit was nearly soaked through with sweat. Her hands ached from gripping the throttle as tightly as she had for so long, and her head pounded. Her people had faced wave after wave of enemy fighters, each of them fresh as they’d hit her ever more fatigued and depleted squadrons. Her people had done what they’d had to do. They’d fought and defeated each Union wing, taking on every ship the enemy could send their way.

  They hadn’t done so without cost. More than half her people were gone now, some dead, others nursing damaged ships or floating in escape pods. Their hope for rescue depended heavily on Dauntless’s survival. If the battleship was destroyed, it was far from certain any other ships would get there soon enough to conduct rescue operations.

  Of course, if Dauntless is destroyed, none of the fleet ships will even get this far. The pulsar will gut Striker’s formations before they even get close.

  She opened her hands, stretching her fingers, trying to work the tightness from her muscles. Then, she gripped the controls of her ship again, and moved her hand to the starboard, bringing her fighter around, toward the last group of enemy survivors.

  The Union fighters were in wholesale flight now, their morale thoroughly broken. But Grachus had come up in the cold militarism of the Alliance service, and she knew any functional enemy ships could cause damage. She wasn’t bloodthirsty, but she wasn’t going to risk the lives of any of her people, or her allies, by showing mercy to defeated, but still dangerous, enemies. She’d given the order to pursue and destroy the last Union formations, and her people were doing just that, with a grim determination that suggested they understood completely.

  She increased her thrust to full power, pursuing the closest Union fighter. Her Palatine-class ship was slower than the Confederation Lightnings, and even than the Union fighters. It wasn’t a large difference, but it was a burden in battle. The Alliance had mastered the art of war, and for all her respect for her Confederation allies, one on one, she still felt Palatian warriors were unmatched. But a nation sixty-years from slavery and despair, one that had funneled all its best and brightest into the military for that entire half century, paid a price in terms of science and technology. Most of the Alliance’s systems and weapon designs had been taken from conquered worlds, and for all the science and tech its armies had pillaged, the Palatian realm was a step behind both its new ally and its new enemy.

  Grachus squeezed the trigger, watching the scanner as her shot went wide. She fired again…and again. The range was long, but it was only going to get longer. The panicked Union pilot was blasting at full thrust, and every passing second pushed him a bit farther from her pursuit. She stared intently at the screen, adjusting her angle slightly, and then firing again.

  Her shot was closer this time, but still a miss. She didn’t have much time…a few more seconds, and her victim would elude her for good. She could see the Confed pilots pulling to the forefront of the chase, but the ship she was after was too far from them. If she missed, the enemy pilot would escape.

  For an instant, she wondered if that would be so bad. Then, she imagined that pilot, now so intent on fleeing, coming back later, killing one of her people. War was war, and there was no way to soften it.

  She stared at her screen, her hand clenched, ready to fire. Then, she squeezed the trigger…and an instant later, her target vanished from the screen.

  One terrified pilot killed. One less enemy to threaten her comrades, her friends.

  One tiny step closer to victory.

  * * *

  Sara Eaton stared at the display, trying but failing to hide her shock and horror. Resolute was gone…completely gone.

  One instant, the battleship had been on the display, in its position in the line, and then there was a massive energy spike, one that almost exceeded her instruments’ ability to measure…and the massive ship was no longer there.

  Over a thousand crew. Four and a half million tons of ship. Just gone, nothing left except a cloud of hard radiation.

  Eaton had known the pulsar could destroy a battleship with a single shot, but sitting on her bridge, watching it happen, it still hit her hard. The fleet was thirty thousand kilometers outside the projected range of the enemy weapon.

  A significant margin of error…

  She wanted to be angry, to blame the intel services or the engineers who’d analyzed the scant data on the enemy weapon, but it was nobody’s fault, not really. Everyone who’d given an opinion on the pulsar’s range had been sure to state that it wasn’t much more than a guess. And it didn’t make a difference. The fleet had to go in…and it would have gone in anyway, even if they’d known the pulsar had a longer range.

  But that makes the gauntlet that much longer…that much more time for them to blast us to bits before we can even fire…

  She hadn’t been ready, not yet. Eaton had a persona she wore in battle, a shield she put up that pushed aside feelings of loss and even fear…but she’d found it difficult to put in place this time. She’d been in desperate fights before, even the crushing defeat at Arcturon, but she’d never stared into the face of hopelessness as intently as she did now. The pulsar wasn’t just an enemy, and moving toward it wasn’t only a fight. Striker had to try, she knew that, but she was also well aware it was a long shot that any of them would get close enough to attack.

  “I want damage control parties on full alert, Commander. On all ships.”

  “Yes, Commodore.” The tactical officer relayed her order, first to Repulse’s chief engineer, and then to the other ships of the task force.

  Eaton felt strange, different than she had in her other battles, and she suspected her crews felt the same way. It was one thing to go into a fight, even outnumbered, outgunned…but now t
he ships of the fleet pushed forward, into deadly fire to which they couldn’t respond. The crews of each ship could only move forward, executing evasive maneuvers to make their vessels more difficult targets…and wait to see if they died.

  When they died.

  She wondered if Resolute’s crew even knew what had happened, if they’d had time to be terrified, to think last thoughts of loved ones…or if they died never knowing what was happening. The pulsar was a powerful weapon, but only a direct hit could obliterate a battleship so quickly and totally at this range.

  Perhaps Resolute’s spacers had been fortunate. They’d been spared the ordeal of struggling to keep their crippled battleship alive for a bit longer. There had been no pain, no burns, no long, slow deaths from radiation poisoning. No protracted periods of stark terror. Eaton knew any ship wounded in this fight was lost, its crew walking dead from the moment the pulsar’s deadly beam shattered their vessel. The fleet would advance toward the pulsar, desperately trying to get close enough to destroy the deadly weapon. But they would almost certainly fail…and, even if they didn’t, the shattered remains of the Confederation navy would face every ship the Union had been able to scrape up. Whatever ships escaped from the Bottleneck, they wouldn’t be battleships grievously wounded by the pulsar, limping back on crippled engines.

  The display flashed again, another shot registering, the massive energy readings showing up as a bright streak and then disappearing. This time, the pulsar missed. Eaton felt a wave of relief, but it didn’t last. The enemy weapon’s range was so long, it would get dozens, even hundreds of shots before the fleet was in range to fire back. Even wild evasive maneuvers were only so useful against the sophistication of the ancient targeting system. She didn’t do the math, but she had a good idea of the odds against them.

  She turned her head, looking toward the long-range scanners, and her thoughts wandered. Are you still out there, Tyler?