Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II

by Jay Allan

  He saw the shadow first, a tiny sliver blocking the sunlight. Then, half a second later the bulk, a First Imperium warbot, gliding slowly around the edge of the debris. He felt his body tighten, and his breath held in his lungs. His rifle was already moving, swinging around to target the enemy.

  There was no room for error. He had a second, no more. One second, to destroy the enemy…and save his own life. His own movements would alert the bot at this range, even if it hadn’t already known he was there…and the enemy’s weapons would be on him.

  He acted without thought, on almost pure instinct, his finger pulling down hard on the trigger, his assault rifle spraying the area around the warbot with over a hundred hyper-velocity rounds in less than a second. Then he leapt, diving to the side and swinging around, bringing his weapon to bear again and opening fire.

  His jump had been just in time. His initial volley had torn into the enemy bot, but not in time to prevent it from returning fire…and blasting the spot he’d just occupied.

  He let his knee drop, pushing the armored joint into the soft ground, steadying himself as he unloaded the remaining four hundred rounds in his cartridge. The enemy bot was turning, trying to bring its own weapons to bear again. But Carson’s fire was too much. Too accurate, too deadly. The great war machine of the First Imperium had been bested. It staggered for a few seconds, caught in the blistering fire as the Marine emptied his clip. Huge chunks of it flew away, blasted apart by the spray of projectiles. And then, just as Carson’s cartridge emptied and expelled itself from the assault rifle, making way for a fresh clip, it fell over.

  Carson scrambled over the few meters between the two combatants, cautious, wary. He’d seen First Imperium ordnance go down and still retain combat capability. A dying robot, even an almost destroyed one, could kill him as dead as a horde of fresh ones.

  He heard the sound of the new cartridge snapping into place, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He’d been less than a second without ammunition, yet it had seemed an eternity he was naked, vulnerable. But then he scrambled up next to his adversary and got a close look.

  He knew immediately. It was dead, half its midsection torn out by the dozens of rounds that had slammed into it. He’d won, at least this small fight. But there was a long way to go before the battle was over. He looked back up at the display. There were two more bots moving toward his position. The combat had given his location away, and enemy units were responding.

  And Marines too. He could see two of his people rushing toward his position. They might beat one of the bots to him, but the closest enemy was going to get there first. He ducked back in between two chunks of debris and waited. One more bot to kill…one more and then his backup would be there.

  He slipped deeper into the pile of shattered wall sections and froze, rifle at the ready, watching the enemy approach on his display…

  Chapter Ten

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  The enemy is back. I can only imagine what is going through the minds of many of the crews, the disappointment and despair after half a year of relative peace. I tried to encourage caution, to warn them about becoming too complacent, too certain we had passed by the enemy fleets. Yet, how far could I go with that? Morale is crucial too. Should I have simply harangued them every day, warned them again and again that death was still stalking us? I don’t know. Perhaps I should have…yet men and women have their breaking points. And I do not regret the moments of peace and joy they might have had these last six months. I would not seek to snatch them back, replace them with endless darkness, even if I could do so.

  Nevertheless, we are back in the fire now, and I must confess I do not understand what the enemy is planning. When the First Imperium ships began appearing, I was certain it was a large fleet, come to face us once again in a climactic battle, one for which we are ill-prepared. But no additional forces have transited since the initial twenty vessels…twenty of their smallest. Even over the past months, when I maintained by caution—even pessimism perhaps—I never imagined they would move against us with a force so small. Indeed, the fleet could easily defeat this entire enemy incursion…something the Intelligences directing the First Imperium surely know full well.

  I can only assume this is a trick, an attempt to draw our forces close to the enemy’s entry warp gate, and then to release the rest of their forces…and destroy us before we are able to disengage. Indeed, I have no other thought now, not even the barest hypothesis. I am far from confident, but as I have only one explanation, I have no choice to embrace it. And that means I must withdraw the fleet…and leave a rearguard in position.

  That duty, I am afraid, must fall where it has so often before, on John Duke’s fast attack ships and Greta Hurley’s fighters. The brave men and women of those services have done far beyond their portion of service…and they have lost many more than their share of casualties. Yet, though they deserve naught but rest now, to take their positions in reserve at the end of the fleet and lick their grievous wounds, I must again order them forward, into the maelstrom.

  I will send help with them this time, Aki Kato’s cruiser squadron. Captain Kato is an extraordinary officer, one of the first to undertake a deadly mission in the aftermath of our becoming trapped. His forlorn hope with our damaged ships was instrumental in securing the fleet’s original escape from X2, and he was one of the last personnel to transit out of that system. Now I must send him on another mission, one no less deadly. I only hope these intrepid souls I leave behind will find a way to win their fight…and escape from the almost certain death the arrival of enemy reinforcements would carry with it.

  AS Jaguar

  X56 System – Near the X58 warp gate

  The Fleet: 144 ships, 32,644 crew

  “All ships are to maintain thrust.” John Duke’s voice struggled to remain audible, to force the words out through the crushing pressure slamming into his chest. He was pressed back against his chair, like everyone else on Jaguar…everyone on all fourteen of his engaged ships. Eight gees of acceleration was a lot to take outside the tanks, especially for any sustained duration. But he wasn’t about to ease off…not until his ships had closed for their attack runs. Then his people would get a short break—a few minutes of freefall, broken up my short bursts of thrust while the gunners lined up their shots. After that his vessels would reorient their engines and begin decelerating for a return run against any enemy survivors.

  He’d ordered injections for all of his crews, drugs to strengthen cell walls and help them endure the torturous trip he was putting them through. He’d almost ordered them all into the tanks and kicked the thrust up to 30g, but he’d decided against it. He didn’t have any shots to miss, and his gunners would lose a lot of their effectiveness if they were buttoned up in the tanks, trying to take potshots drugged half to oblivion. No, he’d decided, this was the only way, the only chance to take out the entire enemy fleet.

  He moved his head, slowly, carefully—it was too easy to injure yourself at 8g. His ships were displayed in a short row, a compact formation that was getting tighter every second. The enemy had launched their missiles along a wide trajectory, covering the original position occupied by his ships. But his people were accelerating at carefully chosen angles, closing the distance to each other as they increased their velocity toward the enemy. It wasn’t a panacea—the enemy missiles were guided, and they would attempt to follow his forces. But the abruptness of the formation change would confuse their targeting systems. Hopefully. It wasn’t enough by itself, but if they could knock out even a quarter of the strike with the maneuver, it would be a big help.

  And then we’ve got Commander Fujin and her people…

  John Duke had worked closely with Greta Hurley’s fighters before, in the battles along the Line and later in the combats leading up to the final engagement in X2 and the fleet’s subsequent entrapment. He knew just what they could do…and by all accounts, Mariko Fujin was one of the best, a rising star in what remained of
Hurley’s decimated corps.

  I’ll bet she’s pissed about pulling point defensive duty. From everything he knew about her, Mariko Fujin was classic fighter pilot, a predator through and through. Her blood called to attack enemy ships, he knew, and not to chase down missiles.

  Still, she will do everything in her power…and her people will save a lot of fast attack ship crews. Surely that’s something in return for being denied the kill…

  He stared at the main display. Fujin’s fighters would be engaged any minute. And if her people could take out enough warheads, maybe…just maybe…most of his ships would close, and deliver their plasma torpedoes. His vessels were lightly armored, built for speed and hitting power, not endurance. They weren’t called suicide boats for nothing. But his flotilla was even more vulnerable than usual. In their bomb bays they carried triple-shotted plasma warheads. He’d used double-packed weapons before, and they were fragile and unstable, a dangerous wildcard for any vessel to carry. But this was the first time his people had triple-powered a plasma torpedo, and calling the precarious weapon systems fragile was an understatement of epic proportions.

  Indeed, his technicians were in the bays, working frantically in the brutal gee forces to keep the things from blowing up in their tubes. It was a reckless operation to risk such volatile ordnance, one he’d failed to mention to Admiral Compton. But if his people could pull it off, the enemy ships would be blindsided, hit with weapons of extraordinary power. Even the dark matter infused hulls of the First Imperium vessels would be powerless against the strength of Duke’s enhanced weapons. If he could get close enough, if his people could keep their payloads from blowing up and destroying their own vessels…they just might have a chance to win this fight.

  But first, Mariko Fujin and her people had to take out some of those missiles. A lot of them. If his ships got too shaken up, if too many blasts of deadly radiation slammed into them from nearby nuclear detonations, they’d be finished. Any ship that lost control over its unstable torpedoes would turn instantly into a miniature sun…and when the explosion died down, there wouldn’t be anything left bigger than an atom.

  He felt his hands tightening, forming into fists. The tension gnawed at him, his mind scrambling, trying to think of something, anything to do. But there was nothing. Nothing but to watch Fujin’s fighters…and hope for the best.

  * * *

  “Missiles incoming.” Fujin sat in her chair, speaking calmly into her com unit. “I want everybody at their best right now…whatever it takes, those missiles don’t get through. Not a damned one. Do you all understand me?” She knew that was a pointless thing to say. No matter how perfectly her people executed their defensive run, some missiles would get through. She was upset her wing had been assigned to anti-missile duty, and she knew she was taking it out on her crews. If Admiral Hurley was going to keep her back from the main attack, shooting at missiles instead of enemy ships, then she was damned sure going to blow any volleys in her way to bits.

  Fujin was well aware that Greta Hurley had pioneered defensive tactics for fighter wings. Indeed, some of her first missions had been part of the massive groups of squadrons that had cleared the way for Admiral Garret’s massive fleets during the great climactic battles along the Line. Fujin knew firsthand how successful the operations had been, how many capital ships those hundreds of fighters had saved from certain destruction. Indeed, she knew that’s why her people were here now, staring down an incoming barrage of enemy warheads. But for all she understood, for all she’d served on these missions before, she was still a fighter pilot at heart…and that meant she wanted to be up on the line, ready to drop a plasma torpedo into the guts of one of those damned First Imperium ships. She’d accepted her orders, but she was restless about it, unhappy. Pissed.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, you are at the disposal of the gunners now.” She knew Wainwright had never run defensive ops before, and she wanted to remind him the two weapons specialists were in charge. The pilot often fired the main torpedo during anti-ship operations, but the lasers and shotguns belonged to the gunners. She knew that was always uncomfortable for any pilot, most of whom considered a fighter ‘their ship’ regardless of rank or responsibility.

  “Alright, Lieutenant, give us 2.5g for eight seconds, heading 305.111.201 on my mark…” Ensign Schultz was the senior of the two gunners. He was a junior officer, but his skill and experience went far beyond that implied by the single gold bar on his collar. Schultz had served six years as a petty officer in the CEL fighter corps, and another two as part of the grand fleet before Admiral Hurley had given him his commission. Fujin had snapped up the chance to get him on her bird after his own fighter came in damaged and broken…and he was the only one to survive the landing.

  “Mark,” Schultz snapped out.

  Fujin was watching Wainwright, a little concerned the cocky pilot would think his lieutenant’s bars gave him some kind of right to challenge Schultz’ instructions…and she was prepared to remind him they didn’t. But the pilot did exactly what he was told, without any argument, and she felt the 2.5g slam into her. She started counting down from eight, but by the time she got to four, she could feel the ship’s weapons firing.

  The lasers were first, precision weapons designed to score direct hits on incoming missiles. They were notoriously difficult to target, but Schultz had two hits in less than thirty seconds. Then a third almost immediately after that.

  Fujin just nodded. She knew the CEL officer was good when she’d maneuvered to get him on her crew, but she had to acknowledge she was even more impressed than she’d expected to be. Even the old Gold Dragons, her long-dead friends and comrades, had never hit missiles with such focused precision.

  She couldn’t help but smile when she saw a fourth missile go, and then, almost amazingly, a fifth and sixth in rapid succession. She felt her congratulations coming up, the words moving from her throat of their own accord. But she clamped down on it. There would be time later, and the last thing she wanted to do was break Schultz’ concentration.

  Then she felt the ship shake as both gunners began firing the electromagnetic railguns the crews called, simply, shotguns. The shotguns used the most mundane of projectiles, chunks of depleted uranium and other heavy metals. But they fired them at enormous velocities, in excess of three thousand kilometers per second. Even the smallest grain of metal could vaporize a warhead at such speeds.

  Fujin watched as another half dozen warheads were obliterated by the shotguns. Her eyes moved to the side of her screen, to the reports coming in from the entire group. None of her people had been as deadly accurate as Schultz, but she could see at once the attack had been a massive success. Her people had knocked out almost two-thirds of the incoming warheads…and they were still in the fight.

  She felt a rush of satisfaction. The suicide boat crews were the only ones in the fleet with casualty rates anywhere near the fighter crews, and she felt a kinship with them. She longed to be in the attack Hurley and the rest of the fighters were about to launch, but she had to grudgingly agree her people had done more good where they were, that they’d probably saved hundreds of their fellow spacers.

  And those spacers are about to drop heavy plasma torpedoes on these First Imperium bastards…

  * * *

  “Steady…” Aki Kato sat on Osaka’s bridge, his eyes fixed on the main display. He’d just watched Admiral Hurley’s fighter squadrons attack, and he’d been stunned, mystified at the almost unimaginable bravery of her crews. Her contingent had been savaged since the day the fleet became trapped, fighting one desperate battle after another. Kato couldn’t understand how a formation could endure such relentless and devastating losses and retain its combat effectiveness. No, more than that…for all the devastating losses, the fighter wings had become even more effective, a shrinking weapon, yet one of enormous power.

  The fighters had sliced through the enemy formation, concentrating on four of the Gremlins and blowing each of them to plasma. By the time her
people pulled back—after following up their torpedo attack with two strafing runs with their lasers—they left behind another twenty-one of their own. A hundred and five crewmembers. Kato hoped at least some had managed to eject, that they were floating in space in their survival gear, waiting for rescue…but he knew it couldn’t be many. And he realized there would be no pickup for those who did manage to escape, not unless these twenty Gremlins were destroyed, and nothing else came through the warp gate.

  “Sir, Captain Duke’s ships are closing. They should be in firing range in ninety seconds.”

  “Very well,” Kato nodded back to the tactical officer. The officer’s calculations were spot on, at least for normal operations. But John Duke had his ship loaded up with overpowered torpedoes…and you didn’t take a chance like that just to pop them off at long range and hope they managed to hit. No, you took them right down the enemy’s throat. And that meant another minute and a half at least.

  He stared at the display for another thirty seconds, then a minute. Finally, he turned back to the tactical station. “Very well, Commander. Take us forward. All ships advance.”

  Kato was Osaka’s captain, but he wore a second hat as squadron commander. He had three PRC cruisers, Osaka and her two sisters, Tokugawa and Tanaka…and Admiral Compton had given him three Alliance ships, Boise, Surrey, and Newfoundland. His people had been in supporting positions for most of the fighting since X2, but now they were at the forefront, charged with holding off the enemy while the rest of the fleet escaped.

  He remembered those terrible hours in system X2, where he’d been tasked to hold back the First Imperium forces while the rest of the fleet escaped. He’d been sure his mission was a suicide one, that his skeleton crews had been finished. But Admiral Compton had refused to leave them behind…and to Kato’s shock, most of his people made it out.