by Jay Allan
He’d done what he’d decided was necessary, but now he questioned himself. Fighting eight frigates and other escorts was a tall order for three squadrons, and their absence in the center had put that vital battle into question.
Bellator shook again, and this time the bridge lights flickered. Egilius glanced down at his screen to check the damage report, but even before his eyes focused on the words, he knew the battered reactor was completely out now.
Damn. His ships were pounding the enemy as well. Several of their ships were severely wounded, and one seemed to be completely crippled. But his mandate was more than simply to win. A victory that left his four vessels too badly damaged to be quickly repaired would be little better than an outright defeat.
“Commander, Draconis and Aquila are to concentrate all available batteries on Electi.”
“Yes, sir.”
Egilius eyed the reports coming in from his scanners, and from the flights of drones he’d launched to deliver assessments of damage to the enemy ships. Electi was bleeding atmosphere and fluids, and one by one her guns had fallen silent, until just one turret was still firing. It was hard to tell whether a ship’s damage was spread out and superficial, or whether it reached deeply into the vessel, threatening total destruction. But Egilius’s gut told him Electi was close, that a few moments of concentrated fire would finish the battleship once and for all.
He’d felt strange when the fight began, as he had in Astara when he’d opened fire on Vexillium. But his four ships had over three hundred casualties already, and fifteen percent of his fighters had been destroyed. The flow of blood had been enough, finally, to wash away his old allegiances. He’d fought alongside many of the warriors on the opposing fleet, but he doubted his actions no longer. They were traitors, foul and black-hearted, and the blood of all who had died, who would die, was on their hands. They were worse than any outside enemy. They had come here, and they had killed his people, their fellow Palatians. And now he would send them straight to the Eleven Hells without so much as a second’s pity.
“Our guns too…all batteries with an arc on Electi are to fire. Divert all available power to those guns.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Cut all non-vital power output. Lighting and life support to minimums.”
A slight pause this time. Then, “Yes, sir.” A few seconds later the bridge lights dimmed, and the background noise of the air vents went silent.
Egilius felt his hands tightening into fists, his jaw clenched. Bellator shook yet again, her reduced thrust weakening her evasive maneuvers, making her an easier target. He worried for his ship, felt the pain of the damage she was suffering…but he needed every watt he could get for his guns. He had to end this battle—win it—as quickly as possible. And he knew only one way to do that.
He saw small white plumes on the screen, all along the icon representing Electi, impacts from the laser cannons targeting the wounded ship. The vessel’s engines appeared to be completely inactive, leaving the ship moving on a predictable and unchanging course. Now, Egilius truly smelled blood.
One shot after another slammed into the dying battleship. Egilius almost ordered his people to switch targets. Electi was no threat, nor could she escape. But he held back the command. Battles were about more than a tally of hits and misses. The destruction of one of their battleships would hit the attackers hard, and Egilius knew that was the way to end this fight, to repulse the attackers before his own flotilla was battered to scrap.
He could hear the distant whine of Bellator’s laser cannons, firing again and again…and then, suddenly, the screen lit up, the symbol representing Electi vanishing with a flash. He knew out there, fifty thousand kilometers away, the battleship had vanished in the fury of uncontrolled nuclear fusion. Nearly one thousand warriors, men and women he had called comrades, had just died…at his hands. He suspected it would hit him later, not only what he’d just done, but the realization that it was only the beginning. But there was no time. He had more former comrades to kill.
“All vessels, target the nearest enemy ship. Maintain fire.”
* * *
Vennius watched the battle rage, and even as it turned in his favor, his thoughts moved to the future. His people would repel this first attack, he was almost sure of that now. Brutus Egilius had proven himself to be as capable commanding a fleet as he had been his own ship. But Egilius had been facing fellow Alliance warriors, not the draftees of some neighboring world. There were no easy victories in such a conflict, no side breaking and fleeing early in the encounter. The victory here was vital, but by the time it was fully won, Vennius knew the cost would be high.
He’d watched on the screen as Electi was destroyed. It was a crucially important development in the battle, but all he’d felt was a coldness inside. He didn’t waver…he would kill a million former comrades, a billion if need be, before he would yield his Alliance to what it was like to become under Calavius, and his would be masters from the Union. But there was no joy either, no wave of satisfaction, as he had felt so long ago in his own battles.
He gazed at the row of screens, watching as the AI updated the data as vessels maneuvered, fired, and were hit. He was struck by the sanitized feeling of it all. The fortress was firing its longest-ranged guns, and of course its fighters were out there in the maelstrom of the great dogfight. But no enemy ship had gotten close enough to bombard the station, not even a fighter or bomber making a desperate run. Vennius felt almost as though he was at his desk in the Admiralty, sipping tea as he read dispatches, reports of what had already occurred. But what he was seeing now was live, happening even as he sat and watched.
He knew what was truly taking place was anything but sanitized. He could visualize the meaning of those symbols on the screen, the sweat and blood and death out there, under the guns of the enemy. He could see it in his mind with total clarity…because he’d been there before. It had been decades since he’d seen his ship being blasted to scrap all around him. Half a lifetime, it seemed, since he’d felt the pain of wounds, seen his fellow spacers broken and burned and dying. Those bright flashes, the AI’s way of showing hits scored on a vessel, also meant his great battleships were being twisted slowly into wreckage. Each of those neat little indications meant men and women sucked into space, crushed by falling debris, incinerated in the great explosions that rocked the ships.
When he was younger, even as he endured all of that up close, he’d only craved more. Glory, victory in battle, conquest…they drove his warrior’s heart in those days, pushing him onward. But the old man who was all that was left of that dynamic young fighter saw the cost more than the glory. He felt the void in his life where Katrine Rigellus had once been…and her father, Lucius, his oldest friend, more than a brother. Lucius had been gone so long, Vennius’s memories of him had begun to fade, his visions of his old comrade’s face blurring with each recollection.
He sighed softly, even as he heard excited cries begin to spread across the control room. The attackers were retreating, pulling back toward the transit point. He knew his people had won a victory, though having lost Palatia and most of the fleet, he was hard-pressed to consider it anything but a minor reprieve. Still, he owed it to his people to encourage them, to allow them to bolster their morale and celebrate their success.
“Commander-Maximus…Commander Egilius is requesting permission to pursue the retreating force.” Vennius could hear the edge in Cassius’s voice. He could feel it in the feral eyes of those staring at him from all around the control room. They ached to release Egilius, to send him in pursuit of the beaten enemy. But Vennius’s eyes were on the displays, and the damage reports from his ships. Not one of his four battleships had made it through the fight without damage. Aquila was the worst. The old ship would limp back to base on half power at best, and his people would patch her together the best they could. But the other three vessels had also suffered, and Bellator had numerous systems failures. No, there could be no pursuit. Even fleeing enemy shi
ps would return fire, and his small fleet couldn’t endure another shot. Not if there was to be a chance of having his ships ready in time for the next battle. The one he knew would be coming.
“Negative, Commander. The fleet is to fall back on the station and commence full damage control operations.”
“Yes, sir.”
Vennius could hear the disappointment in Cassius’s voice. He could feel it all around him. But he didn’t care. He had a war to win. Glory was meaningless, and vengeance, even, was of no importance. Only the future of the Alliance, and the legacy of sixty years of battle and sacrifice, mattered still.
Victory was all that mattered. Destroying the enemy. Killing Calavius.
Chapter Twenty-Four
CFS Dauntless
Polis System, Near the Etruria Transit Point
309 AC
Barron stared at the display, his eyes cold. He’d come through the Rim and out of Confederation space, down the series of sparsely inhabited and unaligned systems known as the Dragon’s Tail. Now Dauntless sat almost at a standstill, in front of the transit point that would take her into Alliance space.
The trip had been a hard one, especially the journey through the Krillus system. Barron wasn’t a superstitious man, but he’d felt the ghosts there, the hundreds of his people who had died in that monumental struggle. His people had fought seemingly endless battles since then, and many more had died, but that fight at Santis, under the light of the yellow sun Krillus, occupied a dominant place in his nightmares. He wasn’t sure if he felt as he did because Santis had truly been his worst fight, or if it was because the struggle had been his first. But though he was a hardened veteran now, and a decorated officer on the verge of assuming flag rank, he had been shaken by the trip through Santis’s system.
He’d struggled to put it out of his mind when Dauntless finally transited out, and even the dark unknown beyond the far borders of the Confederation had been a relief. But this was another kind of stress. The situation in the Alliance was uncertain, subject to the vicissitudes of war since Commander Corpus and Hastam had left to begin his journey to Archellia. Assuming, of course, Barron believed everything Corpus had told him…and he wasn’t there, not yet. Though his impression of the Alliance officer was a positive one, his doubts still held a place near the forefront of his thoughts. Jumping into the Etruria system could be an act of war against the Alliance, depending, of course, on who was in control.
Barron had the authority, even if he knew his actions would lead to war. Striker had left no doubt about that, given him no wiggle room to hide behind the need to request permission. Tyler Barron had the power of a king out here beyond the Rim. Any decision he made would automatically have the power of law. It was authority he didn’t want, but having accepted it, he knew his duty was to exercise it.
“Commander, set a course through the transit point. We’re moving forward.”
“Yes, Captain.” Travis sounded concerned, but there wasn’t a doubt in Barron’s mind she agreed with his decision. His first officer was not one to be deterred by danger or consequences. She was as aggressive as he was, more so, even.
“Advise Commander Corpus in Hastam that we are transiting.” The Alliance ship had followed Dauntless. Barron appreciated its presence. At least one of the warring factions in the Alliance would be deterred if he ran into their ships.
“Commander Hastam acknowledges, sir.”
Barron nodded. He leaned back for a moment, his eyes still fixed on the display. As far as he knew, no Confederation ship had ever entered the Alliance. There was a trickle of trade between the two nations, but it passed through intermediaries, mostly those of the Unaligned Systems still independent of Alliance rule. Barron had scoffed at Striker’s assertion that he was the Confederation officer with the greatest understanding of Alliance culture, but then he realized it was true. He knew very little, but his colleagues knew even less. Even Gary Holsten’s intelligence files on the Alliance had proven to be disappointing in terms of any real insights.
Barron was about to give the order to move forward, but he paused. “Commander, bring us to battlestations.” He looked over toward her workstation. “We don’t know what is there, but the Alliance is not the type of culture to leave their border entirely unprotected.”
“Yes, Captain.” He heard the seriousness in Travis’s tone, and he knew she understood his words, the meaning behind the order. Barron would try to talk his way out of trouble, of course. But if they ran into an enemy that wouldn’t let them pass, he was not going to back down. If Alliance forces tried to bar Dauntless’s way or turn her back, Barron was ready to fight. He couldn’t turn around now. The prospect of a hostile Alliance fleet allied to the Union was too daunting. If he had to open fire on an Alliance vessel to reach Vennius, he was prepared to do just that.
He heard the klaxons blaring, saw the red light of the battlestations lamps, and he looked straight ahead. “Engage engines, Commander. Bring us into Etruria.”
* * *
Joseph Ventnor stood in Dauntless’s forward galley, working with the other stewards to lock down the cupboards and batten everything down for transit. He was new to the ship, one of the recent batch of replacements for casualties. He’d never been in battle before, and the prospect of it terrified him.
Service staff had no real role in battle, save for what he and his comrades were doing now. At least on most of the ships of the fleet. But he’d heard enough conversation to realize that Dauntless’s stewards did much more. They helped carry wounded to sickbay, assisted the engineers with damage control…anything to contribute to the ship’s combat power. He’d heard all about Tyler Barron’s famous ship, but he’d never expected to serve on it, not until the last-minute transfer that had sent him there.
Ventnor had been relatively aloof, and in the weeks since he’d come aboard, he had hardly said a word to any of his comrades. He suspected the others thought of him as an introvert, and for the most part, aside from where their duties crossed, they’d ignored him.
He was shy by nature, but that wasn’t the cause of his standoffish behavior. Ventnor was different from all of them, in ways not one of his colleagues knew…could ever know. They were here to serve the Confederation, to fight its war and follow the orders of their officers. But Ventnor had different priorities. He was here to do a job, and it was not the same one the rest of Dauntless’s crewmembers were doing.
He’d watched Captain Barron, at least as closely as he could without raising suspicion. Dauntless’s commander spent an astonishing amount of time on the ship’s bridge, or in the small office located just behind. He slept maybe four hours a day, and he usually ate his sparse and rushed meals with Commander Travis…and sometimes, alone in his quarters.
That was it…his quarters. Barron usually ordered something simple, especially when he ate alone. A sandwich or soup and a salad. And when he did, a single steward delivered it. There was a guard outside the captain’s quarters, but no one else inside. Yes, that was how he’d do it.
There was one problem with that plan. He turned and looked over at Lars Cole. Cole was the senior steward, and he took Captain Barron’s meals to his quarters. Always. Even when Cole was off duty, he was called if the captain ordered something.
Cole had welcomed him aboard and shown him around the ship when he’d first reported for duty. Ventnor liked his colleague, at least as far as he knew him, but that was of no importance. He was here because he had no choice, because he’d gotten himself in trouble, and this was the only way out. He’d taken Sector Nine’s money, paid off those he’d owed…people who shouldn’t be crossed. Too late, he’d realized he’d traded one group of ruthless thugs for one far worse. If he completed his mission, they’d promised him enough additional money to leave the service for a quiet retirement somewhere. And if he failed, they had been very clear. They would kill him…but first they would cut his wife and daughter to bloody chunks.
He might like Cole, but he had to get rid o
f the steward, or he’d never get to Barron. How could he do it and not get caught? He had the vial his contact had given him, but it was only enough for the captain. If he was going to kill Cole, he’d have to do it some other way. And he had to manage it without getting caught. He needed a distraction, but what?
His head snapped around suddenly, looking toward the source of the red light glowing in the galley, the reason he and his comrades were securing the galley. Battlestations! Of course.
The prospect of battle scared the hell out of him. He wasn’t sure why Dauntless had been sent out so far past the Rim, but he knew it had to be dangerous. Tyler Barron was the most celebrated captain in the fleet. If he was sent out here, there was a damned good reason for it, and that very likely meant extreme danger.
But perhaps opportunity as well. His eyes moved to the lamps again. A fight…if there is a fight. I can stay close to Cole during the battle. I may get the chance I need.
* * *
“Commander Ephisius…Commander Vennius is still the fleet’s senior officer, and he serves the Imperatrix and the Alliance. I carry his blanket authorization to issue commands in his name. You are ordered to disengage your weapons systems and allow us to pass.”
Barron sat and listened to Corpus communicating with the commander of the Alliance battleship. As he’d suspected, the border was not unguarded. The vessel out there, less than one million kilometers from the transwarp point, was a capital ship. It was lighter than Invictus had been, perhaps seven hundred thousand tons smaller than Dauntless. But that didn’t mean it wasn’t powerful, or that engaging it wouldn’t be costly and dangerous. Tyler Barron did not underestimate enemies, and after his encounter with Katrine Rigellus, certainly not ones from the Alliance.