by Jay Allan
“Alright everybody,” Fujin snapped out over the com, “we’re going in. Lightnings in alpha bay…Wildcats in beta bay. And the Dragons will bring up the rear.” Assuming they can shove us all in there somewhere…and whatever miracle is keeping those bays operating holds…
Fujin had lost four ships in the battle, two from the Wildcats and one each from the Lightnings and the Dragons. The other fourteen were decelerating hard, hoping their fuel would last long enough to get them inside the hulking warship. However it turned out, it was going to come right down to the wire.
She glanced at the tactical display. West’s task force was winning the battle, there was no question about that. Half the enemy ships were gone already, and most of the rest of them were wracked with internal explosions and bleeding gasses and fluids. But her forces had suffered badly too, especially in the initial approach, where they’d been forced to endure the enemy’s longer-ranged fire. Half a dozen ships were gone, and from a quick glance at the scanners, Fujin figured Conde’s chances of making it through the battle were no better than fifty-fifty. And if she didn’t pull through, four of Hurley’s squadrons would go down with her.
“Tighten that line, Wildcat Leader,” she snapped suddenly into the com. Her eyes had caught a gap between the second and fifth birds…the empty space where two of the Wildcats’ ships, and ten of their men and women, should have been but weren’t anymore. She understood how hard it was on a squadron commander to lose people, but now she was focused on one thing…getting all her surviving crews onboard that ship while there was still time.
“Yes, Commander.” And a few seconds later: “Commencing landing in thirty seconds.”
Fujin stared at the screen, watching as the Wildcats’ formation tightened up. She knew she only had to tell Bev Jones once. She felt a rush of satisfaction, but it faded quickly. I shouldn’t have had to tell her at all…
There was a logic to the hard edge Mariko Fujin had acquired since assuming wing command, a cold, rational effort to consider every aspect of the operation. Jones was a good officer, Mariko was certain of that, but she was too new to squadron command…and, honestly, too slow to adapt. The Wildcats’ leader was her friend, but now more than ever, she felt the yawning gulf between Jones and herself. Friendship only went so far…at least when lives were on the line. And if she decided Jones wasn’t ready to lead a squadron and she demoted her, what would that do to their relationship? Would Bev take it as a betrayal? Or would she understand Mariko was thinking of the wing?
Mariko didn’t know, but she couldn’t imagine it wouldn’t affect things…cost her a friend. Still, she was sure she would do it if she had to. The wing came first, her obligation to all of her people. Before friendship. Before anything.
She watched as the two leading squadrons completed their final approach. A few of her birds had battle damage, which was only going to make things worse…especially since Saratoga was clearly hurt too and already well over capacity.
She looked across the cockpit toward Wainwright. “How is our fuel holding out, Lieutenant?”
“We’re on fumes, Commander. That last attack run drained us. I don’t know if we’re going to make it.”
Her eyes darted to the screen. The Lightnings and the Wildcats were just going in. That meant her birds would be less than two minutes behind. But if they ran out of fuel at the last second, they wouldn’t have the thrust to slow down…and that meant they’d crash into the bay.
And there are three more squadrons behind us…including the admiral…
“There’s no ifs or maybes here, Lieutenant. This has got to be yes or no…and nothing in between.” She reached down and punched at her screen, doing her own calculations…just as Wainwright was doing. And she reached the same conclusion as the pilot.
“No, Commander. I don’t think we’re going to make it.”
She watched as the ships ahead of her landed, one at a time on each side. There were two more Lightnings to go…and only one Wildcat. Then she could switch up her people, send two into each bay. But her own ship was bone dry. She knew what she had to do.
“Dragon Two and Dragon Three, proceed to alpha bay…Dragon Four and Dragon Six, proceed to beta bay.” She took a deep breath and shook her head. Her other four birds would make it. But hers wasn’t going to.
“Everybody get your survival gear zipped up.” She pushed a final doubt aside, realizing there was no other choice. She reached down and grabbed the helmet lying next to her chair. “We’re going to lose life support any minute…”
* * *
“Definitely more ships coming through, Admiral.” Hank Krantz turned and looked over at West, and she could see the discouragement in his face.
She couldn’t blame him. The battle had been over, or at least close to it. Another ten minutes, fifteen at most, and the First Imperium armada would have been gone, wiped out. The task force could have made a run for it, buttoning up in the tanks and chasing after the main fleet.
Admiral Compton had been absolutely clear…once the fleet had transited, West was to break off as quickly as possible and follow at full speed. She wasn’t to try to explore X57 as Duke’s people had done with X58. The emergence of fresh enemy forces from both warp gates had pretty much cut off any options besides retreating, running back the way they had come.
She sighed softly, unable to stop her own frustration from slipping out, but trying to keep it as quiet as she could. She could feel her throat tightening, the hope draining from her body. But that was something only she needed to know. As far as her bridge crew was concerned—and every other man and women in the task force—she knew exactly what to do, how to get them all out of this. It was a lie, but the truth wasn’t going to help anyone right now.
“Order all damage control parties to focus on weapons and power generation systems. I want every gun in the task force ready to fire in three minutes.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Krantz turned and forwarded the order to the rest of the task force. “Admiral, Captain Trevian reports life support failures in significant sections of Conde…and radiation leaks in its engineering section. He reports he has affected crewmembers in survival gear and radiation suits, and he has pulled all technicians from life support and assigned them to increasing reactor power.”
West nodded. “Very well, Commander. Give Captain Trevian my regards. I fully support his efforts.” She knew Trevian wanted her clearcut okay, even though he was only obeying her commands. She understood completely. He could wrap his people in whatever gear he wanted, hand out as many oxygen tanks and survival suits, but pulling crews from life support and radiation detail was going to cost lives…lives that might have been saved if a new enemy force hadn’t been pouring into the system. Or if he committed resources to repairing life support instead of weapons. His people would fight, and no doubt they would squeeze more power from the fusion reactors…and pump it through their tenuously-repaired laser cannons. But some of them would die, some who would otherwise have lived if he’d had the luxury to bring his basic systems back online first.
It was the hardest calculus of war, making decisions that condemned crew members to death. But West understood war, and she was no stranger to the cost it extracted. Besides, if the task force couldn’t hold out against the enemy still coming their way, all her people would die…on Conde, on Saratoga, on all her ships.
She reached down and switched on the direct line to Captain Black. “Davis, we’re looking at another fight. I don’t know what we’re up against yet, but I’m going to need you to hold her together. I need everything the old girl can give me. Especially since Conde doesn’t have much left in her.”
She knew her flagship was badly beaten up, but West also realized the Yorktown class dreadnought represented perhaps half her remaining strength overall. Whatever chance her people had, most of it rested on Saratoga and the man at her helm.
“Don’t worry, Admiral. She’ll hold together.” His voice was firm, crisp. West couldn’t believ
e Black really believed it, but she had to admit he was doing one hell of an imitation of confidence. “Fight your fight, Erica…Saratoga will do what she has to.”
“Alright, Davis…fair enough.” She closed the line. She knew her flag captain was full of shit, that he was just doing his job, backing her up any way she could. But in spite of herself, she had to admit he’d made her feel a little better. His confidence, fake or not, was infectious, and she found herself looking across the flag bridge, gathering herself for the next fight.
“I need those scanning reports, Commander.” She’d always hated senior officers who said things like that when she was junior, as if their almighty authority overruled the laws of physics and the universe. There wasn’t a question in her mind that Krantz would have the data to her the second he himself got it…and that rendered her statement pointless. And yet she’d just said it.
“Just a few more seconds, Admiral…” The tactical officer was hunched over his scope, his tone distracted as he concentrated. “Data coming in now…”
West sat quietly. She knew the information she got in the next few seconds would tell her if her people would live or die. She had a pretty good idea how much the task force could take…and it wasn’t much.
“Twenty ships coming in, Admiral…looks like four Gargoyles and the rest Gremlins.”
West sighed softly. It wasn’t the massive force that had been floating around the edge of her nightmares…but her gut told her it was more than her battered force could defeat. It would be a good fight…her people would make the enemy pay. But she knew they were going to come up short.
The mathematics of war were especially brutal against the robot warriors of the First Imperium. Its AIs were generally unimaginative in battle, their performance profoundly average. It was this fact more than anything that had allowed mankind to resist them for so long. But that didn’t tell the whole story, and a closer examination revealed a far less hopeful outlook for West and her people.
While the enemy lacked the brilliant and unorthodox commanders who had led humanity so often to victory, they were also without incompetence, ego, folly. Leaders like West sometimes defeated human opponents despite being massively outnumbered. They broke the will of cowardly officers or they ran rings around incompetent fools who got their postings through politics and nepotism. But that couldn’t happen against the First Imperium. Its commanders were relentless and capable, if unimaginative. They might need a greater force concentration to overcome a brilliant admiral, but there was still a mathematical quality to it. If they had enough force, they would win. Even against West. Even against Terrance Compton or Augustus Garret. Still, an admiral like Erica West had no conception of how to yield…to give up…
“All vessels are to accelerate immediately…2g directly toward the warp gate. We’re going to pin those bastards against the transit point before they can launch any missiles…and then it’s going to be a bare-knuckled laser brawl.” Her voice was decisive, with a raw streak of pure venom. Erica West was one of the coldest battle commanders the Alliance had ever known, and her frigid savagery drove her doubts away.
“Yes, Admiral.” She could hear the energy in Krantz’ voice too, and she knew her people were feeding off her raw energy. She couldn’t speak for the rest of the crews in the task force, but she knew then and there her Alliance spacers would never run, never falter. They would fight, to the death if need be. But they wouldn’t let up…never.
“All ships…I want every weapon firing full. Redline everything, run the reactors at 115%. All safety guidelines are waived.” Her voice was frozen, her hands clenched into fists on the armrests of her chair. “We’re going to give them everything we have. Absolutely everything…”
* * *
“Stay calm, all of you…the admiral will have a rescue shuttle out here any minute.” Mariko Fujin was just above her command chair, hovering in the weightlessness of the dead fighter. She looked out at the four men who formed her ship’s crew, doing her best to maintain an aura of confidence…whether she felt it or not. In truth, she wasn’t sure. She knew Admiral Hurley would do everything possible to rescue her people. But Fujin didn’t know how many other fighters had been ditched…and it was clear that Saratoga and the rest of Admiral West’s task force were still deep in a fight.
Her people were all wearing survival equipment…skintight bodysuits, covered with a heavier insulated outer layer. They had their helmets on now too, and they were totally self-contained, living on recycled air and retained heat. The fighter had expended its life support, and now its power was completely dead. The temperature in the cockpit was dropping rapidly, down to 200 Kelvin the last time Fujin had checked. She knew they’d be dead already without the emergency gear…but the suits wouldn’t last for long. The equipment would keep them alive for a while, but it wasn’t powered armor, nor a spacesuit. Her people needed to be rescued, as soon as possible.
The gear was uncomfortable, but that wasn’t the real problem. Fighter-bombers were small, cramped ships, crammed full of weapons and equipment. And that didn’t leave much room for survival gear. Their suits would recycle their oxygen, and the batteries in each outfit would provide emergency power. But it was designed for short-term use, without food or water supplies, and with power only for a limited period. A survival suit couldn’t sustain life indefinitely. Her people had five hours, perhaps six. And then they would start to die.
She turned and looked over at the fighter’s main AI, still functioning on its own emergency power. The transponder was active, the computer system burning most of its power to send a signal the rest of the fleet, to tell their rescuers where they were. That would last three hours, maybe four…
* * *
“All cruisers…open fire.” John Duke’s voice was like death itself.
“All cruisers,” Alex Barret repeated into the com, “open fire.”
John Duke was standing next to his chair, his hands clinging to the armrest as he held himself up under almost four gees. The display lit up like fireworks, Captain Kato’s ships blasting their lasers as one, the ravening beams tearing into the First Imperium ships engaged with Erica West’s force. The second wave of enemy vessels had been slightly smaller than the first, twenty ships, including four Gargoyles…but it had looked like enough to finish off West and her survivors. Until Kato’s people attacked.
Now Duke was leading the last of his fast attack ships toward the enemy line. All of his suicide boats were damaged, many of them straining to keep their thrusters blasting and their weapons armed. But every one of them had a triple-strength plasma torpedo loaded, armed, and ready to go…and when they launched, they would tear a great gap in the enemy line.
“Attack squadrons, hold fire. We’re taking these things right down their throats…” His voice was deep, a feral savagery rising up from his throat. His body shook with rage, with hatred…images of the friends and comrades who had died fighting the First Imperium. He knew, intellectually at least, that the enemy robots were selfless, unconcerned with survival. They were tools, nothing more. If there was a real survival instinct among the First Imperium’s machines, it was at the very top…whatever staggeringly sophisticated computers still ran the domains of the long dead race. Still, he told himself they felt fear, that in their final moments, when his ships were bearing down on them, plunging plasma torpedoes deep into their savaged hulls, the hated enemy knew despair, horror. He had no reason to believe it…indeed, he knew it wasn’t true. But he lied to himself anyway, because he needed the hate. He needed to feel his enemy’s pain, payback for all those who had died next to him.
“Panther signaling Delta-Z, sir.” Barret’s voice had been almost as cold as Duke’s, but reporting the attack ship’s imminent destruction caused his intensity to falter a bit.
“Very well, Commander…all ships continue on course. And hold fire until I give the launch order.” Duke was rock solid, virtually ignoring the loss of Panther. He would deal with the casualties later, if he
survived. There was time for guilt, for sadness. But not now. Panther’s crew had died as part of this attack. It would do them no good—and no honor—to pause, to do anything but focus entirely on the combat at hand.
“Fifty thousand kilometers to enemy line, sir.”
“Very well…all units continue on present courses.” His ships each had an assigned target, and their navigation plans were bringing them to point blank range.
“Forty thousand…”
Duke just stood where he was. The pressure from the engine’s thrust was exhausting, but he held firm, as if defying the force to drive him into his chair.
“Thirty thousand…”
“All ships cut primary thrust. Pilots, take control.” The crushing pressure vanished, replaced by the relief of freefall. An instant later the sensation of acceleration returned, but it was less than half a gee. Jaguar’s pilot was adjusting the ship’s course, bringing it dead in on the Gargoyle Duke had selected as a target.
“Twenty thousand…”
Jaguar shook hard…a direct hit. The enemy had been locked in combat with Admiral West’s ships, and that had allowed Duke to get much closer than he’d expected before his ships took heavy fire. But the First Imperium forces knew how dangerous the suicide boats were, and now they had turned their attention to the deadly threat.
“Damage report,” Duke snapped toward his tactical officer.
“It’s bad, sir. We’ve lost hull integrity in several places, and we’ve got a dozen casualties…but the torpedo tube is still operative.” Barret paused, his eyes dropping to his screen. “Badger Code Delta-Z, sir.” Then, before Duke could acknowledge loss of another ship: “Ten thousand kilometers, sir…”
“All ships, fire when ready.”
“All ships, fire when ready,” Barret repeated.
Duke stared across the bridge. “Fire on my command.” He’d given his other captains the go ahead to launch, but he was determined to take Jaguar’s torpedo right down the enemy’s throat.