by Jay Allan
Calavius glared at Ricard. “We will do all we promised, Mr. Ricard…but first we will destroy Tarkus Vennius and the traitors who follow him.”
Ricard almost continued the argument, but he stopped himself. There was no point. Calavius was so angry with Vennius—or, truth be told, scared of his old friend—that he could think of nothing else but the commander’s destruction. And if that had to be done before the attack on the Confederation, it had to be soon. The Confederation shipyards would start to launch new battleships in a matter of months, and the Alliance had to strike before they reached the line. If they waited too long, even an outnumbered Confederation would be able to feed new ships into a defensive effort, creating a long, bloody stalemate instead of a decisive breakthrough.
Ricard looked at his creation, his creature. The Imperator of the Alliance. As was so often the case, ego and too much power had sapped the strength of a competent soldier. Calavius wasn’t going to defeat Vennius, not quickly. Not alone. Ricard would have to help every step of the way, devise a strategy to take Sentinel-2…to kill Tarkus Vennius and the deposed Imperatrix. And damn the cost.
Chapter Twenty-Six
CFS Dauntless
Polis System, Near the Etruria Transit Point
310 AC
“Primaries recharging, Captain.”
Barron was looking down at his workstation’s small screen, reviewing the damage reports. Dauntless had taken two hits, bombers that had managed to get through the defensive fighter patrol to firing range. It reminded Barron that he was facing the Alliance again, and not poorly-trained Union draftees. They were true warriors, and they were good. At least as good as most Confederation squadrons, though Barron thought of his own wings as the best in space.
His squadrons had handily defeated the enemy fighters, and his own bombers had scored three hits themselves. That, coupled with the direct hit his gunners had managed on first shot with the primaries, had hit the Alliance ship hard. Barron could see its captain’s skill—the ship’s well-executed maneuvers that caused Dauntless’s next two shots to miss entirely. He was facing a talented opponent, though the difference between this fight and his memories of the duel against Commander Rigellus was stark. He’d been pressed to the limit of his abilities in the battle three years before, and he’d tasted true desperation in Santis. Here, he respected his opponent, but he didn’t doubt his people could win. His concern was more on minimizing the losses and damage suffered in the process.
“This is probably our last shot before the enemy’s main guns come into range, Commander. Advise the gunners, I’m expecting their very best here.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Barron knew such encouragements weren’t really necessary, not with his crew. Still, even the hardest veteran could lose focus. He’d seen veteran pilots, victors of dozens of combats, inexplicably killed by opponents they should have easily vanquished. His gunners, the deadliest in the fleet by far, who had hit uncounted times from extreme range, had all occasionally missed crucial point blank shots. It was a lesson Barron took to heart, one of the few military maxims his grandfather had passed on to him. Ego, overconfidence…they were the deadliest enemies one could face.
“Twenty seconds to full charge.”
Barron looked up, his eyes darting to the small screen that displayed the primaries’ charging status. The bar was almost entirely lit up in red, just a sliver of white background remaining.
His stomach had twisted into knots when the enemy fighters had first scored their hits. The Confederation’s particle accelerators were the highest-tech weapons deployed since the fall of the empire, a huge tactical advantage against an enemy like the Alliance. They were longer-ranged than anything their adversary possessed, allowing Confederation battleships to open fire before their opponents could respond in kind. But that benefit was attained at a price. The highly-complex systems had always been enormously subject to breakdown, and even a few moderate hits had been able to knock them out or cut off the extensive power systems that fed them. But Dauntless’s new weapons were the latest versions, even more powerful than those they replaced, and perhaps more crucially, a lot more durable. The battleship had taken two solid hits from the bombers. Systems were damaged, crew members were killed and wounded. But the primaries were still online. Between the deadly, long-ranged weapons and the hits scored by his own wings, Barron knew the final close-up duel would be a lopsided affair.
He saw a wave of text scrolling up his workstation screen, reports from engineering. Fritzie had lost none of her drive or ability, that much was clear. The ruptured power conduits along the starboard side had been rerouted, and the compromised compartments sealed or cut off. Dauntless was damaged, but for all practical purposes, she was still fully-operational.
“Primaries charged, Captain.”
“Fire.” The familiar whine rattled across the bridge a few seconds later, and the lights dimmed as the weapons unleashed an enormous burst of power into a destructive blast. A few seconds later, Barron was surprised by the report. A clean miss.
Damn. Were his people rusty after their long rest? Did he have to do something to hone them back into the razors they were before Dauntless went into spacedock for six months? No, he reminded himself. It isn’t my people. These are not Union enemies. These are Alliance warriors. This war would be different. And a war it would be. His crossing the border and engaging this vessel meant the Confederation was now effectively at war with the Alliance—at least, part of the Alliance.
The Union had won the battles it had with numerical superiority, with a willingness to send vast numbers of ships to destruction and crews to their deaths. But the Alliance could match the Confederation in a fight at much closer to even numbers. They could perhaps even overcome the technical deficit between the two fleets. No doubt, they believed they were the superiors. And perhaps, overall, they were. Theirs was a culture entirely built on war, where there was no other honorable profession. Young children studied tactics and war, and the elite subjected their adolescents to an endurance test in which between one and two percent died. Barron understood he couldn’t treat these enemies as Union conscripts, and he intended to make sure his people understood that too.
“Primaries recharging again, sir.”
Barron just nodded. His thoughts were on what he had started here. Striker had given him the authority, but he hadn’t intended to use it, not most of it, at least. And now you barged across the border and got into a fight with the first ship you found…
He knew there was no choice. Commander Corpus’s arrival at Archellia and the news he had brought with him left little doubt. War with the Alliance was a certainty, whether he reacted or not. And Tyler Barron was not one to bury his head in the sand and wait for events to unfold. Perhaps his action would forestall disaster, or diminish its severity.
“We’re coming into their range now, sir.”
“Full damage protocols, Commander. Evasive maneuvers, program Alpha-3. Continue charging primaries.”
Travis responded to each order, her replies as rapid and sharp as his own commands. He’d enjoyed his leave, and part of him longed to be back there without the stress of duty and combat. But he felt he was back at home now, he and Atara working seamlessly together. He knew his first officer deserved her own command, that she should be on the bridge of her own ship, even now. But she had refused the promotion…and for all he was aware she deserved to advance, he was relieved she had stayed. He knew he’d have to move on too, one day soon. His partnership with Atara, and the perfect crew they’d put together, was just a fleeting moment in his life…but he was grateful to keep it all for just a little longer. Whatever hell they had to push through together.
“Thirty seconds to full charge on primaries.”
Barron might have switched to his secondary batteries before, afraid the enemy’s opening volley would knock out the fragile main weapons. But he was betting on the new equipment, on Fritzie’s confidence in it.
Daunt
less shook, a hit Barron could tell immediately had been a glancing blow. Then again, a few seconds, later, harder this time. He looked down at the damage control, his gut tight, waiting to see if some power line or secondary system had been hit, knocking out the primaries. But they still showed green. And the status monitor read full power.
“Primaries charged, Captain.”
“Fire,” he said, a smile slipping onto his face. I guess you were right, Fritzie…they’ve toughened the things up!
* * *
“All right, bombers back to Dauntless, now. Everybody else, on me. It’s time to pursue and finish off these enemy birds.” Kyle Jamison was already bringing his fighter around as he ordered Dauntless’s squadrons to do the same.
“Yes, Thunder.”
“Acknowledged.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Acknowledged.”
Last again.
Jamison shook his head as the responses came in from his squadron commanders. It was the final one that troubled him, coming in seconds after all the others, the voice deadpan, lifeless. “Raptor” Stockton had always been the first to respond, and his answers had crackled with energy. Stockton in a battle had always seemed like a creature in its natural habitat, a predator loping across the savannah, the king of his domain. Now, he seemed lost, out of place.
And he’s going to get himself killed if he doesn’t get past this…him and a lot of his pilots…
“Scarlett Eagles and Reds, take point. Yellow cover the left flank, Green the right.” He paused. “Blues in reserve.”
He knew the Blues belonged up front, leading the entire strike force, and he also realized putting them in reserve was telling every pilot out there that he was worried about Stockton. He’d almost sent Blue squadron forward, as he normally would, but something stopped him. He couldn’t get the image of Stockton out of his head, his old focus and instinct gone, blundering into the laser blasts of an otherwise doomed Alliance fighter. He didn’t enjoy disrespecting his best friend, but he liked the idea of speaking about Stockton’s exploits at a memorial service even less.
The Alliance pilots were too good for any of his people to give less than one hundred percent. Had the enemy been facing a normal Confederation ship, they would have put up a good fight, perhaps even won. But Dauntless’s strikeforce was not only elite, she had a larger complement as well, courtesy of the strays they’d picked up at Arcturon…my God, was that more than two years ago? Outnumbered and outclassed, even the skilled and courageous Alliance squadrons had suffered heavily and pulled back. Not quite broken, Jamison realized, but they had retreated, seeking to defend their mother ship with what they had left.
Jamison didn’t think the battle would go on long enough for Dauntless’s bombers to rearm and launch another strike, but just in case, he was going to make sure there wasn’t a fighter left to intercept them if they did.
Besides, these Alliance pilots are all crazy…if their mother ship goes, they’ll all be making suicide runs, screaming oaths to their ancestors about honor. He shook his head. His own people were slightly less crazy, perhaps…but only slightly.
“Full thrusters…we should have just enough fuel reserves to catch them before they get inside their base ship’s defensive envelope.” Jamison knew that didn’t matter much. The enemy ship was heavily engaged with Dauntless. It wasn’t likely she had enough power or focus to spare mounting an anti-fighter defense right now. But he wanted those birds destroyed, and he’d give his people any push to get it done.
He felt the pressure slam into him as he blasted his own engines at full. A quick glance at the scanner showed his wings doing the same, the whole line of ships lurching forward, accelerating toward the enemy.
Jamison stared at the screen and shook his head. Blue squadron was last, again, his elite force looking as sluggish as a group of trainees. C’mon, Raptor…pull it together, man…
He didn’t think less of his friend for the troubles he was having. Beyond the agony of his injuries and the long and torturous recovery, he understood Stockton better than anyone else, save perhaps Stata Sinclair. Stockton’s insane courage and the razor focus he’d used to such deadly effect had been driven by a sense of invulnerability…and now that was gone, burned away in the flames that had come so close to killing him. It remained to be seen if Jake Stockton could make it back, rediscover what he had been. And Jamison was very worried his friend would fail that challenge. If he did, there wasn’t a doubt in his mind Stockton would die out in space, in one of these battles, and probably sooner rather than later.
C’mon, Jake, you can do this… But he felt the emptiness of his own words, and he realized there was nothing he could do, no way to reach the man he considered a brother. Nothing he hadn’t tried and failed with already.
There was no time for any of it now, though. The retreating enemy fighters were turning. They knew they couldn’t get away, and he wasn’t surprised the Alliance pilots preferred a hopeless fight to being picked off as they ran.
His people had more work to do, and although they had the advantage, he was certain the win would be costly.
* * *
Barron pulled off his jacket and tossed it onto one of the large chairs against the wall. He stretched his neck, rolling it around on his shoulders. He got very tense in battle, and afterwards he always felt it in aching muscles and stiff joints.
He looked around his quarters. They were new, yet almost identical in layout and appearance to what they had been before the refit. Admiral Striker’s touch, he imagined, probably one of his own idiosyncrasies he’d projected onto Barron, assuming the captain wouldn’t want anything different. That was common in the service, ranging from a general preference in some officers to an outright obsession in others. He wondered which it was for Striker.
Whatever it was, it was one trait Barron didn’t share. Actually, he’d have welcomed a different look, a change of pace. But he didn’t care that much.
He sat down, extending his legs and resting them on the small table in front of his chair. It was probably a breach of etiquette, especially with his boots still on, but Barron didn’t care. These were his quarters…and besides, he’d always found it difficult to worry about superficial nonsense when his people were dying around him. Or had just died, in this case.
The battle was over, the enemy ship destroyed. He’d stayed on the bridge until the last of the damage was under control and all of his pilots were back aboard, including the four who’d ditched their damaged fighters and been picked up by the rescue boats.
The fight had gone better than he’d had any right to hope, but there was still a shadow following him. He’d started a war. A second war, a second front. He knew there hadn’t been a choice, but he felt the weight of responsibility heavy on his shoulders.
Was it like this for you, Grandfather? How did you carry your burdens? Commanding a ship…it’s difficult, and every man or woman killed is like a knife through your heart, but this? It’s too much. How many thousands will die because of what I’ve done here? Millions?
“Captain, the steward is here with your food.” It was the guard at his door, the voice on the comm unit pulling him from his thoughts. He’d long thought the custom of posting a sentinel outside his quarters was a foolish waste of a Marine, but it was tradition, and his attempts to abolish the whole thing were met with loud and strenuous complaints, and he’d relented. His Marines took his safety as their sacred duty, and in the end, he just hadn’t cared enough to take the duty from them.
“Send him in.” He smiled. He hadn’t ordered food. Atara… His first officer was his comrade and his best friend, but occasionally she tried to step in for his mother as well.
“Put it on the table, Lars…” He turned, and his words drifted off. “Excuse me…Spacer Ventnor, isn’t it?” Barron always made an effort to memorize the new members of the crew, but there had been a lot of them this time, and he only gave himself a coin toss on this one.
“Yes, sir.” V
entnor moved toward the table and set down the tray.
“Spacer Cole serves my meals…where is he?”
Ventnor paused, shifting his weight back and forth. “I’m sorry, Captain, I thought you knew.”
“Knew?” Barron stood up.
“Spacer Cole was killed during the battle, sir.”
Barron was shocked at the man’s words. He’d seen the casualty reports, but he’d only focused on the totals, intending to review it all in greater depth later…when he wrote the dispatches to the families of those killed in battle.
He’d lost seventeen of his people in the fight just concluded, a light toll for a fight such as the one just concluded, though every one of them hurt, as they always did. Most of the dead and seriously wounded had been gunners and scanner technicians and others posted near the ship’s exterior when hits had impacted, or engineers caught close to the reactors or the high-energy transmission lines when they were damaged. And fighter pilots, of course, probably most of all.
It had been an extraordinarily bad stroke of luck for a steward like Cole to be among the dead. Lars Cole had been Barron’s steward since the day he’d set foot on Dauntless. The steward and his wife had split up years before, but Cole had two grown children back home, Barron thought he recalled.
Ventnor stepped back from the tray. “I’m sorry, sir. From what I’ve heard in the galley, Spacer Cole was well liked.” A pause, then: “Can I serve you, Captain? You really should eat something.”