by Jay Allan
“Yes, Commander. Gunnery crews are ready at all weapons stations.” A short pause. “Commander Jamison reports all squadrons are moving to engage.”
“Very well.” The enemy had overreacted to Dauntless…but they had underestimated her fighters. The approaching vessels had a screen of interceptors out in front, perhaps eighty fighters in total. That outnumbered the interceptors Dauntless had been able to launch, especially since Barron had ordered Green squadron outfitted for bombing runs. But he knew just what his pilots could achieve. They had fought well three years before, facing off against Invictus’s veteran squadrons. But then they were only a seed of what they were now. They had become a blade, honed by combat to a razor’s edge.
“Commander Jamison reports his fighters have entered range. They are launching missiles now.”
Barron had enormous faith in Kyle Jamison. The officer was a gifted pilot himself, an ace ranking in the top one percent of the Alliance’s fighter jocks, but he was an even better commander. Barron had never met an officer more knowledgeable about mass fighter tactics, or more able to direct the operations of multiple squadrons. And those squadrons had some of the best pilots ever to climb into a fighter’s cockpit. Dirk Timmons, Corinne Steele, Olya Federov…he was proud to command them all.
Jake Stockton…the best of them. If he can find himself. Barron had been worried about Stockton since the horrifying crash that had almost killed him. The pilot, once so unflappable, had lost something of himself, and Barron didn’t know if he’d ever get it back…if he’d get it back before some enemy pilot put him down for good.
Jake, where are you…the real you. We’ve never needed you more than right now.
* * *
“Raptor, you’ve got a squadron coming in from the flank. You’ve got to bring your Blues around, now.” There was urgency in Jamison’s voice as it blared through the comm. Stockton had seen the enemy coming already, and he was thinking about how to respond.
No, that’s not you. You are better than this. Your instincts have served you well, yet now you ignore them, hesitate. Why can’t you trust yourself anymore?
“I’m on it, Thunder.”
Kill yourself. Turn the squadron over to Talon, and do everyone a favor. He could hear the words coming from deep within himself, from the part of him that was disgusted with what he had become.
“Blues, I want odds to come about to face this squadron we’ve got coming on the flank. Evens hold off the fighters to the front.”
His comm crackled with acknowledgements, his pilots responding with far sharper reactions than those he’d displayed recently.
His eyes moved to his scanner. There were two enemy fighters coming at him. He felt a wave of fear, and he hated himself for it.
Just fly straight ahead…you’re a useless piece of garbage. They’re all better without you. The Blues, the captain, Thunder…Stara. All of them.
He hesitated, thinking for a passing instant that he would give in to the voice tormenting him. But there was something else there too.
No…I do not quit. I do not yield…
Then act like it. Be what you are, what you were…or be nothing. It’s time. Do you have the strength to overcome this? If the answer is no, let this be your last battle…
Images floated in his mind, past battles, sitting in the wardroom with Jamison, in his quarters with Stara…
No!
His hand jerked hard to the right. For an instant, he didn’t even know what he was doing. It was an odd feeling, but familiar too. Pure instinct.
He angled his positioning jets and flipped his ship around, opening fire as he did. The range was long, but he kept shooting…and one of the fighters heading his way vanished from his screen. He didn’t stop to think about it. His hand was already pushing hard in the other direction, blasting at full to alter his vector toward the other fighter.
The Alliance bird was coming on hard, and he could tell from its reactions to his moves, the pilot was highly skilled. He felt a touch of the fear, the hesitation that had plagued him, but he quickly shoved it aside. He changed his thrust angle again, gaining a jump on his enemy. The Alliance fighter matched his move, but not quickly enough. Stockton had altered his course yet again. His hand moved back and forth, adjusting his vector more quickly than conscious thought could follow. He felt an energy inside him, one that had been too long absent. One he had thought was gone forever.
He pulled back hard on the throttle, and then to the right. His eyes were fixed on the screen, watching as his adversary reacted to his every move…expertly, but just a little bit too slowly.
He wondered if the Alliance pilot was afraid, if his neck was wet with sweat as he tried to match the sudden maneuvers of the fighter he’d chosen as his prey. Was his mind racing, trying to understand what was happening, how the sluggish fighter he’d targeted was suddenly anticipating his every move?
Stockton had felt that fear, too many times since he’d returned to duty. He had forgotten how to trust himself, to surrender his reasoned judgment to the wild beast that lived inside him, the essence that made him the deadly pilot he was.
That’s right…be afraid. You picked the wrong fighter, my friend. I am Raptor, and now you’ll learn what that means.
He gripped the throttle hard, his finger moving slowly, steadily to the firing stud. He had worked his way almost behind his enemy, gained enough of an edge to close, to finish this. He blasted his ship forward, feeling the engines straining as he maintained full thrust. His finger tightened, and he heard the sound of the laser cannons firing. His enemy evaded his first shots, but Stockton’s focus was unbroken. He angled his thrust again, even as the Alliance pilot struggled to escape. He could feel his enemy’s moves, and he countered them immediately.
He fired again, barely missing this time. He stayed on his target, once again the predator, denying his victim’s every attempt at escape. He could tell this pilot was a veteran. No doubt he had fought many battles, destroyed the adversaries he’d faced. Until now.
Stockton felt the pride, the controlled arrogance he knew was at the heart of every great fighter pilot. He’d lost it, almost forgotten what it felt like, but now it was flooding back. He fired again, a miss, and then one more time. A direct hit. The circle on the scanner stayed there for a few seconds, and then it vanished.
Stockton howled madly, the sound of his voice echoing through his cockpit. His hands clamped together in triumphant fists, for just a second or two. Then he gripped the throttle again, his eyes back on the scanner, checking the status of his Blues for an instant before he began the search for another target.
Raptor was back.
* * *
“Maintain fire. All ships.” Egilius leaned forward, watching as his battle line poured everything it had into the enemy’s heavy ships. His forces were fighting hard, performing as well as he could have expected, but they were still outnumbered, even after the four enemy ships detached from the main formation to attack Dauntless. For all the damage his people had inflicted, his own ships had taken at least as much…and that was a losing ratio.
The situation with the light ships was even worse. His frigates and escorts were outnumbered by a greater margin than his battleships. They were falling back, struggling to keep the enemy forces from outflanking the fleet, but it was only a matter of time before they would be wiped out. For all his pride in his warriors, Egilius couldn’t escape one fact. His forces were losing the battle.
“Commander…Impetus reports status critical. Power output below twenty percent. Engines failing.”
Egilius shook his head, his eyes on the display. He wanted to order the stricken vessel to fall back behind the line, to buy time for emergency repairs. But Impetus still had three operable laser batteries, and just enough reactor output to power them. He couldn’t allow the beleaguered vessel to retreat, not now. Impetus was right in the center of his already stretched out line. Its retirement would open a hole large enough for the enemy’s battleships
to pour through.
“Understood, Optiomagis. Commander Kleavus is to hold his position and maintain maximum fire.” He knew his words were a death sentence to Kleavus, and the nearly one thousand Alliance warriors he led, but there was no choice…and it looked very much like none of them were going to survive the battle anyway.
Not one thousand on Impetus. Not anymore. His best guess was, Kleavus’s ship had two to three hundred dead already. The rear starboard of the ship was nothing but twisted wreckage, bleeding air into space. But he didn’t have the slightest doubt Commander Kleavus and his doomed crew would follow his orders, that they would fight to the death to buy time. He wondered if they would resent him, blame him for issuing the command that sent them to their deaths. Alliance doctrine said no, that they would do as they were ordered, with no animosity, no question. But Egilius was beginning to realize that even Alliance warriors were just men and women. The Palatians had built a warrior culture that produced excellent and disciplined fighters…but it had also developed one hell of a propaganda operation, and created the legend of invincible warriors who feared nothing. That, Egilius knew, was a fiction.
Bellator shook hard, pulling Egilius from his thoughts. There was no time for such philosophical meanderings. Perhaps later, if through some miracle, he survived the battle. Now, his people needed him.
“Damage control parties, concentrate on the reactors and the transmission lines. I want as many batteries as possible firing.” His quick glance at the screen told him that last hit had been close to reactor B. It didn’t look like the power plant itself had been seriously damaged, but there were all sorts of red indicators on the lines leading out toward the rest of the ship…and power wasn’t worth anything if it couldn’t get it to the weapons, engines, and other systems.
“Yes, Commander.”
Egilius looked back at the display, his eyes moving across the rows of circles, tiny lights representing massive ships with crews of one thousand warriors. He was still looking when Bellator shook again, harder this time…and the bridge went dark.
* * *
“Fire!” Barron’s voice was calm, clear. His body ached, especially his chest. But that was only from the residual effects of the surgery, and not any real physical problem. His mind was sharp and clear, nothing like it had been before. He was ready, strong enough for what was needed from him. To fight what was starting to look ominously like his ship’s final battle.
Dauntless had been pounding one of the Alliance ships, hitting it three times with the primary batteries. The target vessel was large for an Alliance battleship, but still three hundred thousand tons lighter than Dauntless. It had taken significant punishment—enough, Barron figured, to stop most Union vessels—but the Alliance battleship was still moving forward.
Barron read the damage assessments scrolling down his screen. He knew the enemy ship was in trouble. Dauntless’s weapons had torn into its hull and shattered its systems. There were casualties too, he knew, probably a couple hundred, at least. Whole sections of that ship had been torn open, their compartments exposed to the vacuum of space. Though too small for his scanners to detect at this range, he suspected bodies had been blow out of those great rents in the hull. And parts of bodies…
Radiation had no doubt taken its toll as well, both directly from the particle accelerators and also the residual effects from destroyed equipment and blasted shielding. He knew what it was like to be in such a ship…Dauntless had been such a ship, at Santis certainly, and other battles too. So, he could truly appreciate what it took for that captain and crew to continue to close, their engines damaged, half their guns knocked out. He respected the courage, and it made him think back to Captain Rigellus and her crew, the relentlessness they had displayed in combat. He admired these opponents…but that wasn’t going to stop him from killing them.
The small icon on the display sparkled again. Another hit. Barron watched as the enemy ship’s detectable energy levels dropped yet again. Her engines were still engaged, but at less than twenty percent power. Now, however, they were entering the range of their own primaries, and battered though they were, they opened fire. Barron felt as though he understood the captain, his need to lash out, to repay some of what his people had suffered.
Dauntless shook, taking a hit from the enemy’s first volley, despite Barron’s evasive maneuvers. No Union ship would have hit us from this far…
“Alliance damage control teams are highly effective,” he said, his voice grim, determined. “We don’t lay off that ship until it’s dead in space.” He looked over at Travis. “Bring us forward, Commander, right between that vessel and the next one in line. Charge secondary batteries. Port broadside target one ship, starboard the other.”
“Yes, Captain.” He could hear the relief in Travis’s voice, even in the stress of the battle. He knew she’d been worried about him, and he was just as sure she realized he was back.
For as long as that lasts…it will still be a miracle if we get through this fight…
Barron’s eyes were fixed on the screen, watching as the other three ships moved into firing range. Dauntless had enjoyed the advantage in range to this point, but the ratio of incoming to outgoing firepower was about to swing heavily against her.
“We’re coming into range of the other ships, Captain,” Travis said, telling him what he already knew.
“Get me Commander Fritz.”
“On your line, sir.”
“Fritzie, I’m counting on you and your people. You remember the Alliance gunners at Santis. They’re a damned sight better than their Union counterparts. I’ll do everything I can to throw them off, but evasive maneuvers will only go so far. We’re going to take hits.”
“We’re ready, Captain. I’ve got emergency teams deployed in every critical section.” A short pause. “We’ll keep her in the fight as long as possible, sir.”
Barron could tell from his engineer’s tone…she didn’t expect Dauntless to survive the battle. He wasn’t sure he did either.
“Godspeed, Fritzie.”
“And to you, sir.”
Barron cut the line and turned back to the display…just as Dauntless shook hard, twice in rapid succession. He could hear excited chatter across the bridge, and Travis on the line already with Fritz’s people. His ship was in top condition, and he knew she could take a lot of damage and stay in the fight. He doubted those last two hits had hurt anything critical…but they had confirmed one thing for him, something he’d never doubted.
The Alliance gunners were good. Damned good.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Cilian System
Deep in the Alliance
Year 310 AC
“Let’s go, Blues…on me.” Stockton brought his fighter around, pushing his engines to their limit to alter his vector. “Dauntless is taking a pounding, and we need to make sure the Greens get in for their bombing run.”
Dauntless’s squadrons had torn into the enemy fighter screen, and in the swirling melee that had followed, they had driven the Alliance wings back with heavy losses. But Alliance warriors weren’t Union conscripts, and “driven back” wasn’t the same thing as broken. The enemy’s retreat brought them back toward Dauntless’s approaching bombers, with no one but Stockton’s Blues close enough to intervene.
He was still a little shaky. His old strength had reemerged, but he hadn’t entirely banished the new fears…the memories of the flames. He doubted that would ever leave him, and he knew it would always be more difficult, that he would never be able to rely on the easy confidence that had once driven him. But he was Raptor Stockton, and whatever it took, he was determined never to lose himself again.
His eyes darted around the screen, and he became more concerned as he did. The Alliance squadrons had left a rearguard to cover their retreat, and that had given them a head start…now they were about to run into the Greens. That was luck as much as anything, Stockton was sure, an unfortunate coincidence that brought the withdrawing wings back jus
t as Dauntless’s bombers were coming through. But it didn’t matter how it had happened. The enemy interceptors would obliterate the cumbersome bombers…unless his Blues could get there in time.
“Full thrust…everybody. We’re just going to make it in time to cut these interceptors off and save the Greens.” Or we’re just going to miss…I’m not sure yet…
His people would be outnumbered, thirteen pilots against perhaps twice that number. He’d never let that trouble him before, but he reminded himself these weren’t Union pilots out there. His Blues were the best…but they were going to pay a price for this one.
He sucked in a deep breath, his chest resisting under the heavy g forces. The steady acceleration was hard to take, but he didn’t dare ease off, not even for a second. It looked like his people would get there in time, at least if the enemy turned to face them instead of continuing on toward the bombers.
He glanced down at his readouts. Fuel status was still good. Lasers were fully charged. His fighter was as ready as it could be. And so was he.
His eyes fixed on the tiny dots on the long-range display, tense, waiting to see if his rapidly-approaching force was enough to divert their attention, to give the bombers a chance. He was counting on his counterpart doing something he wouldn’t have done. He’d have split his force, sent half after the bombers and faced off against the interceptors with the other half.
Then he saw. The Alliance fighters were engaging their thrusters, changing their vectors toward Blue squadron. All of them.
Yes!
Stockton felt relief, for an instant, before the stress of facing so many enemy ships hit him. Still, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do. The Greens were saved, and they’d have an unimpeded…