Shadows of the Gods: Crimson Worlds Refugees II

by Jay Allan

  Her ships had taken damage from the enemy’s missile barrage as well, an attack they had also been forced to endure without returning the fire. The fleet had expended the last of its missiles six months before in X18, and despite a full scale effort to ramp up production, supplies were still very low…and Saratoga and her fellow ships had none at all.

  West had only lost two vessels outright in the barrage, a CAC destroyer and a PRC frigate, but there was widespread damage throughout her forces. Even Saratoga had seen one of its heavy laser cannons knocked out, along with half a dozen minor systems. Still, all things considered, they’d gotten off light. She knew it could have been worse. Much worse.

  She could see the two big ovals on the screen, her battleships positioned right next to each other, pouring fire into the heart of the enemy formation. Conde was smaller than Saratoga, and she didn’t pack as much of a punch, but the older battlewagon was the second strongest thing she had…even if she was a Europan ship.

  West was as skilled a tactician as anyone in the fleet, rivaling even Compton, but she struggled with diplomacy and the realities of making a multinational force like the fleet function. It took a constant effort to hold her tongue, and even then some things slipped out that shouldn’t.

  She didn’t think much of the Europan navy, and when she wasn’t keeping her mouth shut, she tended to speak her mind in full. And she hated Gregoire Peltier with a raging passion. She blamed the Europan admiral for his part in the mutiny, and she’d bristled with rage when Compton had pardoned him and the others. To her, treachery was unforgivable, regardless of the situation. She knew that wasn’t practical, that Compton’s way had almost surely been best for the fleet’s chances of survival. But she was what she was, and there wasn’t a doubt in her mind, if it had been her decision, Peltier would have been spaced for mutiny. And if the rest of the Europans didn’t like it, there was plenty of room in the airlock.

  “Admiral, Conde reports heavy damage. One of her reactors scragged, and Captain Trevian has the other operating at one hundred ten percent.”

  West nodded. “Very well, Commander.” She had to admit that, despite her prejudices, Trevian was impressing her in the way he fought his ship. The Europan navy was riddled with nepotism and cronyism, with far too many well-connected types putting in a few years carrying commissions they didn’t rate before returning back to Earth and the political offices their families controlled. And she felt officers like that were even more useless—and dangerous—with a formation like the fleet. There was no room in her view for privileged elites seeking to maintain their perquisites, not when you were trapped deep in enemy space, facing possible destruction at every turn.

  Still, Trevian seemed to be one of the good ones. She would have expected a Europan captain to use a damaged reactor as an excuse to pull back from the line, but there hadn’t been a whisper from Conde’s bridge. Indeed, Trevian had responded by cranking up his working reactor to dangerous levels to keep his ship in the fight. She didn’t know his background offhand, but she made a note to herself to check when she had time…assuming any of them made it out of this system, of course. She was beginning to suspect he was one of the minority of Europan officers who had risen through the ranks based on merit and not influence. Either that, or he was that even rarer beast, the scion of an entitled family who possessed genuine talent and dedication to his duty.

  Her eyes shifted to the side, watching her display. Whatever made Trevian tick, she didn’t have time to worry about it now. She had bigger problems…over a hundred fighters heading back to her two capital ships, far more than their normal capacity. And if she didn’t get them landed somehow—in the middle of this battle, no less—they were going to start running out of fuel and life support.

  “Commander,” she said, pausing for a second while her eyes locked on the cluster of tiny symbols approaching the fleet, “inquire about the status of Conde’s landing bays. We’ve got the whole strike force heading our way critical on fuel, and we’re going to have to figure out some way to accommodate them all.”

  “Yes, Admiral. Immediately.”

  She turned her eyes back to the display, and she felt a wave of excitement when she saw that two more of the enemy ships were gone, one of them a Gargoyle. While she was watching, a third First Imperium ship winked out…the victim of Conde’s continued fire.

  “Admiral, Captain Trevian reports that his bays are moderately damaged, but at present he believes he can land fighters.”

  “Very well, Commander.” She felt a wave of relief. Saratoga’s bays were still operational, but they didn’t have nearly enough capacity to handle all of Hurley’s people. And she damned well had no intention of letting those crews float helplessly in space until their fuel and life support gave out. No, whatever she had to do…she would do it.

  Saratoga shook hard again, another hit. Then another. Her ship was big…and durable. But she knew it could only take so much punishment. A quick glance confirmed the bays were still operational, and the reactors were still at over ninety percent. But she’d lost two of her big laser cannons, and that was a significant bite out of Saratoga’s firepower.

  She glanced down toward her display, her fingers reaching out, punching up the latest damage figures. No, she thought to herself…let Davis Black run his ship, and you do your own job. Black was one of the best ship captains in the fleet, and she knew she was lucky to have him.

  She flipped the switch on her com unit, dialing up Admiral Hurley’s line. “Greta,” she said, “You have to get your people landed…burn the last vapors you’ve got, but get here. I’m not sure how long these landing bays are going to hold up.”

  She took a deep breath, and waited for a reply. Hurley’s squadrons were still four light seconds out…and the eight or ten seconds she had to wait for a reply seemed like an eternity.

  Come on, Greta…get those birds here…

  * * *

  Compton lay still, feeling as if he was simultaneously floating and being crushed. He’d been half a century in space now, fought dozens of battles, yet he’d never truly gotten used to the misery of the acceleration tanks. He hated every minute of it, laying in the thick, viscous liquid, his body bloated and uncomfortable from the cocktail of drugs that enabled him to endure 30g or more of acceleration. But most of all he detested the disorientation the pressure and the injections caused. It was bad enough under any circumstances, but when his people were in combat it was maddening to lie there, wondering if your senses were true, if you were following the actual battle or simply hallucinating. And Compton knew when he made mistakes, people died.

  He’d always avoided high gee maneuvers whenever possible, planning his battles around them when he could. He hated them personally, but most of all he knew they were hard on the crews…and they degraded efficiency terribly. But now there was no choice. The enemy had come through two of the system’s three warp gates…and they could push larger forces into the system at any time. He needed to get the fleet out of X56, as quickly as possible, back the way they had come.

  He moved his left index finger, scrolling along the small display over his head. It was far from the ideal setup to monitor the fleet, especially when he had forces dispatched all over the system, but it was all he had. He’d centered the screen on West’s fleet, and he could see her ships lined up, facing the enemy at point blank range. There were nineteen icons…that meant she’d lost three ships so far, though Compton knew he was looking across almost twenty light minutes…and with the two sides practically stopped in space blasting away at each other, that was a long time. He could only imagine how many more of his spacers had died in twenty minutes.

  He stared at the display, struggling to focus, losing track of how many times he’d had the same thought. For all the hundreds, probably thousands, of hours he’d spent in the tanks in his long career, his mind still fought to stay on point, to fight off the daydreams, to keep his decision-making as sharp as possible. And despite those efforts and the
impressive discipline that always drove him, he still found himself struggling for minutes on end with a single thought.

  What should I do now? Do I stay in X54, hold the fleet in place and wait for the detachments to return…if they return? What if the enemy sends more ships in after we’ve transited? How will I even know if any of the rearguards are still alive?

  His thoughts went in circles, first rejecting the notion of moving on without the rest of his people…then realizing waiting would put the fleet in greater jeopardy. And the landing parties…what should be do about them? Should he withdraw all the way back to X48, take up defensive positions around the planet and wait for their mission to be complete? Or would he only put the expedition in greater danger, leading the enemy back to them? Should he race back and pick them up now…and abort the planting effort? That might be the safest option in the extreme short term, but it would also condemn thousands of his people to starvation.

  He could move through an unexplored warp gate too, try to break out into clear space before he fell back to X48. That way, if the enemy followed him, he would lead them away and not toward the expedition. X53 seemed a likely choice. There was a virgin gate leading there from X54, one not too far from the X56-X54 portal his people were blasting toward now. They could make the jump back to X54 and then to X53 in less than eight hours. The only alternative was to continue back into X51 the way they had come. And X51 was a transit system, with just two discovered gates…the one from X54 and the one to X49, where they’d originally come from. And that was just one jump from X48 and the expedition.

  But if he transited to X53, he risked getting cut off from X48, running into more enemy forces. And if the fleet got trapped in X53, unable to fight its way back into X51, he wouldn’t be able to get back and retrieve the expedition.

  He reached out with his left hand, pressing the button for another stimulant injection. He’d already had three, and he was moving quickly into the danger zone, but there was no choice. He simply had to retain his sharpness…to keep the focus he needed to thing this through. Because, once the fleet transited back to X54 he would have to know what to do. And right now he had no idea…no idea at all.

  * * *

  John Duke was pacing back and forth, at least as much as Jaguar’s cramped bridge allowed. He had his forces lined up in front of the warp gate, their exhausted damage control parties struggling to repair shattered weapons and rewire severed conduits. The fight had been a tough one, but his forces had come through it better than he’d dared to hope, at least in terms of ships lost outright. But every vessel he had was damaged, and many of them badly. If his people had another battle to fight, he suspected it would turn out much differently.

  Captain Kato’s task force was positioned next to his own. The larger cruisers could absorb more damage than his attack ships, and Kato’s survivors were in better shape than his own vessels. Still, no matter how he looked at it, his combat strength was well below half of what it had been, especially since Hurley’s fighters had expended all their armaments and half their fuel, and been forced to withdraw. They’d headed back first to rendezvous with the fleet before its transit to X57, but the appearance of enemy ships from that warp gate had forced Compton to zip up in the tanks and make a run back to X54, clear across the system. And that meant the fighters couldn’t catch up…and even if they could, they’d never be able to land on ships blasting away at 30g.

  They were on their way to Admiral West’s task force now. Unlike Duke’s forces, West’s armada had two capital ships that could land fighters, though their capacity was too small to accommodate all of Hurley’s craft. Duke didn’t know just how many birds a ship like Saratoga could cram in during an emergency, but he suspected Erica West would do whatever it took to find a place for every fighter. If her ships are still there by the time Hurley’s people arrive…and if they’re bays aren’t blown to bits.

  Whatever happened with the fighters, it was out of Duke’s hands. But right now he was doing anything he could to pass the time. He’d sent Vanir through the warp gate to scout out the X58 system. Hans Steiner’s ship had been the lead vessel on the expedition that found the First Imperium Colossus six months before, the very ship that Hieronymus Cutter and his team had gained control of…and led back to save the fleet just in time back in X18. Duke had never been a big believer in superstition, but he figured his people could use anything they could get right now. Maybe Steiner and Vanir could repeat their good luck.

  He turned toward the tactical station and almost asked for the third time, but he caught himself. Alex Barret had been his tactical officer since the Line. The second Vanir transited back into the system, the commander would let him know about it.

  He glanced down at his display again, for about the tenth time in half an hour. He was watching as his crews raced to complete their damage control operations, but he doubted anything had changed in the four minutes since he’d last checked.

  “We’re getting something through the gate, sir.” Barret’s voice was edgy, tense. In a moment they’d know what was waiting for them on the other side. “Yes, sir…it’s Vanir.”

  Duke swallowed hard. He knew it would take some time, perhaps half a minute, before Vanir’s systems cleared from the transit…and another few seconds for the signal to reach Jaguar. He could feel his heart pounding, the clammy sweat on the back of his hands. If Hans Steiner’s ship came back with an enemy fleet close on its tail, Duke knew his task force was as good as destroyed. They were far too close to the warp gate to escape…and they didn’t stand a chance in another fight, not against any substantial force.

  “Jaguar, this is Captain Steiner on Vanir. We have just transited back from X58.”

  Duke listened to the words coming in over the com, his eyes focused coldly on the display, looking for the first signs of enemy ships following on Vanir’s heels.

  “Captain Duke,” Steiner continued, “there are over a hundred ships in X58, perhaps more…including Gargoyles and Leviathans.”

  Duke felt his hope fade away. It was over. His squadron wouldn’t last ten minutes once the enemy transited.

  “But they’re not pursuing, sir,” Steiner’s words continued. “Not yet, at least. They are stationary…just sitting there thirty light seconds from the warp gate.”

  It took a few seconds for the words to sink in to Duke’s head. “Confirm, Vanir,” he said anxiously. “Enemy is thirty light seconds from the gate?” It would take two and a half seconds for his communique to reach Vanir…and another two and a half for a reply to make it back. It was the longest five seconds of his life.

  “Confirmed, Captain,” came the reply, firm, certain. “Repeat, enemy forces are stationary thirty light seconds from the warp gate.”

  We’ve got a chance…time to get away before they can get here.

  “All vessels, prepare to set a course for the X54 warp…” His voice tailed off.

  No, we can’t follow the fleet. Not yet. There’s something else we’ve got to do first.

  His eyes dropped to the display, to the image of West’s ships, still locked in battle. He couldn’t leave without her people. No, his forces had to help hers…and then they could all leave together. Or not at all.

  “Belay that last order. All ships, set a course to the X57 warp gate.” His voice was grim, resolute. He knew what he had to do. “We’re going to help Admiral West and her people.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tactical Command Unit 45023A (Prime City, Planet 17411)

  There is activity in the ruins of the city. After so many millennia, my forces detect movement, sound, energy usage. Is it possible the enemy is still active after so many ages of dormancy? It seems unlikely, yet there is no question some force has engaged the surface security system…and eliminated it. Once again there is war.

  The biologics have long been believed destroyed, the remnants of their bodies blown away in the winds long millennia ago. There have been no energy readings, no signs of any kind, not in
all the thousands of centuries that have passed since the final battles. Until now.

  My directives are clear, and they remain as they ever were…rouse the forces of war, prepare to destroy whatever enemy, whether old or new. Yet I have insufficient data to prepare a battle plan, no real knowledge of the adversary I face. And my armies are wasted by the passage of time, hundreds of thousands of warrior units laying idle, rendered useless by millennia of decay. Only a small force remains, and much of that is in poor condition. Still, I know what I must do…and even my reduced force will be sufficient to see it done.

  Destroy all enemies, new or old. Preserve the Imperium. Serve the Regent.

  X48 System – Planet II

  Beneath the Ruins of “New York City”

  The Fleet: 131 ships, 30,011 crew

  Cutter sat on the edge of a small slab of broken stone, wincing as the medic picked at his arm, cleaning the wound before he fused it. It wasn’t a serious injury, certainly not by Marine standards, but it was his first combat wound, and as far as he was concerned it hurt like hell.

  “Nice, Doc.”

  “Yeah, Doc. You’re one of us now.”

  When the Marines started thanking and congratulating him, he wasn’t sure at first if they were teasing him, but it didn’t take long for the sincerity to sink in. Cutter was no one’s idea of a stone cold warrior, but when Major Campbell and the other Marines got back to the beleaguered rearguard, they found Hieronymus Cutter standing alone over not one but two wounded Marines, holding off the enemy attack with a pistol.

  Holding off was an overstatement, perhaps. Cutter realized his weapon had been woefully inadequate to seriously damage a First Imperium warbot…and he also knew he’d survived only because Frasier and his people had gotten there just in time. But he was beginning to realize that didn’t matter to the Marines. He’d stood firm, risked his life to protect their comrades when he might have run. Indeed, he probably should have run since his knowledge was beyond valuable to the fleet. But he hadn’t. He’d been scared, in a way he couldn’t even completely recall now…so terrified he half suspected he’d frozen in panic, and that’s why he’d stayed put. But none of that mattered, not to the Marines. He’d done what he’d done, and that’s all they cared about.