Dauntless

by Jay Allan

  If they want to fear something, it should be what Gaston Villieneuve will do to everyone on this ship if that enemy vessel somehow manages to destroy the pulsar…

  * * *

  Dauntless shook hard.

  “Damage report,” Barron snapped into the comm.

  “Hit amidships, sir…some hull damage and minor system failures.” The voice was not immediately familiar. With Fritz wounded and Billings and half the engineering team working on the damaged batteries, general control management had fallen several layers in rank. Lieutenant Hoolihan, Barron remembered after a few seconds.

  “Stay on it, Lieutenant. Report anything further at once.”

  “Yes, sir.” The junior lieutenant had only been on Dauntless for two years. The battles out in the Alliance had been his first, and the nervousness in his voice showed, especially compared to Fritz’s iron composure.

  He turned toward Travis. “Status on evacuation?”

  “Three hundred six personnel launched, Captain. Another two hundred sixteen pending.” Dauntless’s people were leaving her, sent away by Barron’s order. He stood by his decision. He had to stop that pulsar from escaping, whatever it took. But the wound he’d opened in himself widened as he watched his ship’s crew streaming away, abandoning her. Their futures were uncertain at best, stranded deep behind enemy lines in a series of escape pods and small craft. But they had some chance, at least. The battleship that had served them so well, that had fought enemies from the Rim to the Badlands, had none. Barron had condemned his beloved ship, and as he sat on the bridge, sweating the attack from his Union pursuer, the wound he’d opened in himself cut deeper with each moment’s realization at the finality of the sentence he’d pronounced on his beloved and loyal vessel.

  He knew it was foolish to personify Dauntless as he did, but he couldn’t stop himself, and he ached with sorrow for what lay ahead for her.

  “Do what you can in terms of evasive maneuvers, Atara.” He spoke softly, aware as he did that there was very little she could do that she wasn’t doing already. Any wild gyrations in thrust would wreak havoc on the evacuation operation…as well as adding time until Dauntless could reach the pulsar. There was a zero-sum game at work. He might make each enemy shot a bit more difficult, but adding minutes increased the number of volleys the enemy would get before Dauntless got to her target.

  “Yes, Captain.” He could tell from the sound of Travis’s words, she didn’t think the ship would make it to the pulsar.

  What made it worse, though, wasn’t his first officer’s doubt. It was his own.

  He didn’t think Dauntless could make it either. He’d come to believe his vessel was as special as her reputation had made her, that she was unstoppable, that she could get through anything. But the pulsar’s hit had severely damaged her, and the systems that were still online were functioning by the grace of God…and Anya Fritz’s wizardry.

  And now, he’d lost Fritz too. He’d ordered his engineer evacuated from sickbay as soon as possible, and given a place on one of the largest shuttles. If anyone had done her part in Dauntless’s victories, it was Anya Fritz. She deserved the best chance to escape this last mission, whether success or failure awaited, and Barron intended to make sure she got it.

  If she survives her injuries…

  Fritz was badly hurt. He knew that much, but nothing more. Sickbay had been full of wounded, all of whom were now being evacuated. It had been chaos, at a level that prevented the medical staff from taking time to issue reports on patients. For all he knew, his engineer was already dead, or she might die in her medpod as her shuttle blasted away from Dauntless.

  The thought of losing Fritz was painful, but Barron’s mind was focused on the what he had to do now. For seven years, he had brought his ship back from one desperate mission after another. But not this time. Dauntless was doomed…the only question that remained was whether the great vessel would die in victory…or in defeat.

  * * *

  “Dammit!” Stockton had relished the excitement of his bombers blasting the pulsar’s reactors to scrap…for all of perhaps two minutes. Now, he watched as the Union battleship, the one he’d spared by pulling away Federov’s bombers for their run at the enemy artifact, closed on an already badly damaged Dauntless.

  Stockton had hoped, at first, that Dauntless could fight off its pursuer, but then the awful truth dawned on him. The ship’s weapons were down. And Captain Barron wasn’t making an attack run at the pulsar. He was going to ram the enemy weapon.

  But Dauntless will never make it there, not with that ship on its tail.

  His eyes dropped to the display, staring at the hopeless mess his strike force had fallen into. His ships were scattered around, all on different vectors, blasting off at high velocities. It would take a miracle to get them all turned around…and back to Dauntless in time to attack that enemy ship, to finish the job his assault squadrons had begun.

  It was a long shot, of even getting there, and once there, launching an attack that could take out the Union battleship. He had nothing but a handful of interceptors, not much to destroy a ship of the line. But, there was no choice. That ship was going to destroy Dauntless, far short of the pulsar. Unless he got it first.

  His scanners were also picking up smaller contacts. Lifeboats. Barron was already evacuating the crew. But when Dauntless was gone, those shuttles would be at the mercy of the Union battleship. He had to stop that ship. Somehow.

  He angled his controls, bringing his ship around, ignoring the screeching sounds as he pushed his engines once again past their rated capacity. “All squadrons,” he said into the comm, the urgency of the situation clear in his tone, “we’ve got to get back and attack that enemy battleship. We damaged it already, but now we’ve got to finish the job.” He knew what had to be going through the minds of his pilots. Their ships were battered, abused…and the bomber squadrons didn’t have so much as a single torpedo.

  There was a moment of silence. Then, the responses began. “Commander, there’s no way we can get there. It will take twenty minutes for me just to reverse course.”

  “We’re too far…we’ll never make it in time.”

  “My engines are down to thirty percent.”

  Stockton shook his head as each answer came in. He wanted to argue, but he knew they were only telling him the hard truth. His ships, most of them at least, were too far away, their positioning and vectors impossible to reverse in time. He kept his hand on his own throttle, bringing his ship around, even though he knew he, as well, was too distant and poorly positioned.

  He’d never get there, not in time.

  He felt a wave of despair, even as he continued to push his ship to its limits, a pointless risk, since he knew he was too far away.

  “We can get there, Commander.”

  The voice took him by surprise, and for an instant it was unfamiliar. Then, there was recognition.

  Jovi Grachus.

  He normally felt anger when the Alliance pilot crossed his path, but now there was nothing but confusion. He still blamed her for his friend’s death, but he’d watched her take terrible risks to save his own pilots as well as Alliance ones.

  He’d seen Grachus and her pilots fight alongside his Confederation squadrons, and he couldn’t deny she’d done a brilliant job. The enemy had more fighters positioned around the pulsar than he’d expected, and that could have been a complete disaster. But Grachus somehow kept her people in the fight, battling endlessly, ignoring damage, fatigue, dwindling fuel…even as one fresh wing after another came at them. The dogfight had been nothing short of a miracle, one capped off by Grachus’s own almost unbelievable total of personal kills. Sixteen.

  Stockton had never seen anything like it, and he had to admit to himself, he was far from sure he could have done what she just had. He had a good idea the personal risks she’d taken to do it.

  “What’s your fuel status, Commander?” Stockton already knew. As strike force commander, his AI received regular u
pdates from the ships under his command. The dogfight had gone on almost endlessly, and sustained combat burned fuel rapidly.

  “Enough to make it there, sir.” That wasn’t a lie, not exactly, though Stockton knew Grachus hadn’t told him everything.

  “Maybe, Commander. Enough to blast there at full thrust…but not enough to slow down for a proper attack. And certainly not enough to come back around. Your ships will sail past the enemy, and then you’ll head out into the outer system with no way to come back around…and very little hope of rescue.”

  Stockton looked down at his controls, as he waited for his signal to reach Grachus and for her response to come back. He was trying to recalculate, to come up with another answer, any other answer. But he kept getting the same result. A small group from her force, mostly her own Alliance pilots, could get back to the enemy ship. But they couldn’t decelerate, either to attack or to keep themselves from blasting into the dark reaches of the outer system.

  “There’s no choice, Commander. It’s the only way to save Dauntless. By my count, eight of my Alliance ships are in position to make the run. They’ve all volunteered to go, and we’ve already engaged thrust.” A pause. Her last words hit Stockton hard, and now he realized he could hear the difficulty in her speech as she struggled with the g forces to push her words out. “I know we’ve had our…differences…Commander, but my people are going in, no matter what. Please…” He could hear a vulnerability in her normally strong voice, almost a pleading. “…don’t make this an act of mutiny. Give us your blessing, sir. Perhaps I can find some redemption in saving Commander Jamison’s ship.”

  Stockton had felt nothing but rage and resentment against Grachus, for as long as he’d known her name. But now he could hear a voice, Kyle Jamison’s, telling him to let go of his anger. Grachus had fought like a demon. She had saved countless Confederation pilots…and now she was taking an even greater risk, to rescue Dauntless, to give Tyler Barron the chance to finish evacuating the ship, and to take out the pulsar once and for all.

  “Go, Commander,” he said softly. “My best wishes are with you and those who serve you.” He knew the whole thing was a desperate effort. But he also knew they had to try.

  There was an even smaller chance any rescue operation could reach her or her pilots before their dwindling life support was exhausted. Stockton had acquired some familiarity with Alliance culture, and he knew just how hateful that kind of death would be to a Palatian warrior, to sit in a cockpit and wait for cold and lack of air to take her.

  He knew one more thing, a ray of knowledge that shattered his prejudice, his rage. He’d been talking to a true hero. His pain-fueled hate had been misplaced. War was war, when Grachus had killed Jamison, just as it was now, when she was putting her life on the line for the slightest chance to save Dauntless. He’d wasted too much time hating a true ally, a friend. He would make his peace with Jovi Grachus. He swore it to himself.

  Assuming he got the chance.

  He stared at the silent comm for an instant, and then he blasted his thrust again. He couldn’t get there in time for the attack run, but he was going to try anyway.

  Chapter Forty

  AFS Vexillum

  Alliance Flagship

  Intarus System

  Alliance Year 64 (313 AC)

  “All reserves forward…now.” Tarkus Vennius sat where he had many times before, in the command chair of an Alliance flagship, commanding his warriors in battle. He’d gone into his fights with unbridled enthusiasm as a young man, and with varying degrees of fatigue and disillusionment as an older one, but his record of victory stood proudly in the annals of the Alliance. Now, however, he faced his greatest challenge.

  “Yes, Your Supremacy.” An instant later. “All ships are underway.”

  The battle wasn’t the largest he’d fought, nor were the Krillians an enemy that should have threatened the Alliance with defeat and destruction. But, the civil war had dramatically weakened the fleet, and with the diversion of so many ships to Tulus’s expeditionary force, the Palatian realms lay open to invasion.

  Vennius had never faced such a disadvantage in battle, save for the struggles against Calavius and the Red Alliance forces. Never since his people had thrown off their chains had an external foe so challenged the Palatians. Vennius was tired, and the Imperator’s duties weighed heavily on him. He longed for retirement, for quiet years on his estates. But he was a Palatian Patrician to the core, and duty came first to him, above all things.

  Vexillium shook hard as the flagship took another hit. Vennius was an old school commander, and he led from the front. He could hear the distant high-pitched sounds, as his ship returned fire. The Krillian marksmanship was no match for that of his spacers, though his ships were crewed mostly by second-line forces and retirees returned to the colors. His people were superior in every way to their enemies…every way but one. They were badly outnumbered.

  Yet again, Vennius cursed the Alliance’s weakness in intelligence gathering. He felt the same distaste the rest of his people did for such a career, but he also knew an agency as effective as Confederation Intelligence—not to mention the awesome Sector Nine—would have alerted him to Calavius’s scheming, allowing him to avert the tragedy of the civil war. It would also have warned him the Krillians had nearly twice the hulls they’d been expected to possess. He would have sent the expeditionary force regardless, but he might have held back a few frontline battleships, assets that would be invaluable to him now.

  Vennius stared at the main display, watching his ships move forward into battle. Questions about whether the Alliance needed more spies, or if he should have sent fewer ships to aid the Confederation, were moot now. A warrior dealt with reality, not might have beens. The way was clear enough on that, and Vennius had lived his entire life in accordance with its mandates. All that mattered was winning the fight his people were in now.

  Vexillium was jerking back and forth, evasive maneuvers making the flagship as difficult a target as possible for the Krillian ships facing it. Vennius was proud of his collection of retirees and second-line spacers. They were rising to the cause, fighting with all the courage and skill he’d have expected from the very best warriors. But it wasn’t going to be enough.

  The Krillians were simply too strong, their advantage in hulls too great. Vennius had analyzed the battle, extrapolated the loss rates forward. His Alliance forces would give out more damage than they would take, no question, but they would still come up short.

  His eyes were fixed, coldly on the screen, moving from one symbol to the next. Vennius knew his people would lose a straight up fight, but he had another idea, a way to salvage the victory, and to save Palatia.

  Vexillium was in the forefront of the Alliance line, right where a Palatian flagship should be. But Krillus was a different animal, and Vennius knew his adversary’s advantage in numbers did not make him a true warrior, certainly not in the Palatian model.

  Vennius was looking for Krillus, for the enemy counterpart to his own Vexillium. His forces couldn’t prevail in a normal fight, he was convinced of that, but there were other ways to win a battle.

  He knew the current situation was his responsibility, as Imperator, and as the man who’d allowed Calavius to plunge the Alliance into civil war. It had been his command that sent the cream of the fleet to fight against the Union, and it had been his pride that assumed none of Palatia’s neighbors would dare to move against the Alliance. Tarkus Vennius had accepted his responsibilities all his life, and he wasn’t about to shirk them now.

  Krillus was a dictator, an absolute ruler with unquestioned power. His regime murdered any officers who showed independent initiative, any who were perceived as a threat to him in any way. Every decision went through him, and his officers were terrified of his wrath. Therein lay the route to victory. Through Krillus himself.

  Vennius’s eyes focused on a single icon, a small oval on his screen. It was tucked behind two other ships, back a good bit from the fron
t line. As he looked at it, he knew. That was Krillus’s flagship.

  “Commander…set a course toward contact 11A. Maximum thrust.”

  “Yes, Your Supremacy.”

  Vennius wished he could fight Krillus one on one, that the two of them could land on some planet in the system and battle each other in single combat, sparing the thousands of their warriors who would die in the fight now underway. But that wasn’t possible. Not against a gutless coward like the Krillian.

  Still, there was another way. Vennius’s forces likely couldn’t defeat the enemy fleet gun for gun…but he could lop the head off the beast. He was going to take Vexillium right through the enemy line, directly toward Krillus’s flagship.

  And he was going to destroy it. He was going to kill his enemy…whatever it took.

  * * *

  “What is that ship doing?” Krillus sat in his elaborate raised chair, staring at the display.

  His officers were clustered around him, sycophants, mostly, though there was some skill in their ranks.

  “It is advancing, Great and Terrible Krillus. The entire Alliance force is closing on us rapidly.”

  Krillus had watched as his fleet exchanged fire with the enemy. He was angry that the Palatians scored a hit ratio far in advance of that his own forces had managed, but all in all, things were going well. But that ship troubled him. It was the largest vessel in the Palatian fleet, and it outmassed his heaviest ships by a considerable margin.

  That is the flagship.

  He continued watching as the ship moved forward, firing the ships in range, but only as it passed. It didn’t decelerate, didn’t slow to engage. It just moved relentlessly forward.

  That is the Alliance commander.

  Krillus had wondered who was leading the Alliance fleet. Commander-Maximus Tulus was in command of the expeditionary force, his intelligence assets had confirmed that. So, there was either a lower-level Palatian on that ship, or…