Echoes of Glory (Blood on the Stars Book 4)

by Jay Allan

  No…wait…

  He’d been wrong. Most of the interceptors were coming his way. But a single squadron continued on the original vector, toward the bombers.

  Damn. These Alliance officers know what they’re doing. One battered squadron wouldn’t make much of a difference in the fighter battle, but they could wreak havoc on an unescorted force of bombers.

  I have to do something…

  “Vagabond, on me. We’re going after that group heading for the bombers. Talon, you’ve got the squadron.”

  “Acknowledged. Raptor…” There was an edge in Talon’s voice. “Yes, sir.” Stockton understood what was troubling her. He knew his people were still worried about him, and he couldn’t blame them. But there was nothing he could do about it now.

  “I’m with you, Raptor.” Doug “Vagabond” Torrance was another Blue squadron old timer, a veteran of the fight at Santis.

  Stockton angled his throttle, driving his ship hard toward the ships heading at the bombers. His eyes moved around on the display, his mind shifting around, weighing possible courses. He edged the controls to the side, a maneuver half based on analysis and half on his gut.

  A quick glance told him Vagabond was right behind him. They were rapidly approaching the enemy ships, but it was going to be close. No matter what he did, the Greens were going to take losses, probably heavy losses. But he was determined that they wouldn’t be wiped out.

  “We’re going to have to open fire at long range, Vagabond…damned long. It’s the only chance we’ve got. Maybe if we can score a hit or two, the others will turn to face us.”

  “Roger that, Raptor. I guess we’ll just have to hit from out here.”

  Stockton smiled. It seemed misplaced, in the middle of a desperate chase during a hopeless battle, but he was proud of his people, and he couldn’t hold it in. He’d been too deep in self-absorbed misery to truly appreciate them in recent weeks, but he saw it in the matter-of-fact way Vagabond had spoken.

  That’s damned right…we just have to hit.

  His fixed his gaze intently at his screens, watching as enemy fighters moved from the long-range scanner to the tactical display. They were still far out. Even a direct hit might not completely destroy a target, but he had to try.

  He pressed hard on the firing stud, the sound of the lasers reverberating in the confines of the tiny cockpit. Then again, and again. A hit from this range was highly improbable, but that didn’t matter to him. He needed to hit…and so he would.

  He was tight, focused, but now he relaxed just a bit, allowing instinct to take over. He needed more than scanners, than AI-assists. He had to anticipate his target’s moves, guess just right…and fire.

  He shot again, and again. He was coming close, but close wasn’t going to get it done. He fired again.

  He opened his mind to the feelings in his gut, the unidentified part of him that had made him such a gifted pilot. Such a cold killer.

  His hand loosened, and he felt almost as though he was slipping into a trance. But his mind was still active, his eyes still locked on the target’s maneuvers. He waited…waited…and then he squeezed his finger.

  He was watching the display as it updated. A hit!

  The fighter was still there, but he quickly realized it was moving along on an unchanging vector, its power readings close to zero. He let the AI run the calculations this time…hitting a ship on a fixed course was nothing more than a mathematical equation, a job for a machine. Then he fired again, and an instant later, the icon vanished from his screen.

  One down out of eight. But will the others turned to face us? Or will they finish off the Greens?

  The Alliance ships had already taken down two of the bombers. Stockton maintained full thrust, firing constantly as he moved closer, Vagabond just off to his side. They hadn’t scored another hit yet, but they’d put a few shots close…close enough to get the attention of the Alliance pilots.

  He winced as a third Green squadron bomber winked off his screen, but then he could see the Alliance fighters firing their thrusters, bringing their vectors around to face him.

  We did it!

  Stockton felt a rush of satisfaction, followed by a sobering realization.

  Now all we have to do is take out seven enemy fighters.

  Just the two of us…

  * * *

  “Fritzie, I need that power. We’ve got to keep the secondaries firing full.” The batteries we’ve got left, at least.

  “I’ve got half my people working on it, Captain. But the bays were hit hard. Right now, we couldn’t land a single fighter. We’ve got to…”

  “The fighters won’t have anywhere to land if Dauntless isn’t here…and we’re not going to be for long unless we can keep pounding these Alliance ships.”

  “I’ll transfer more crews to the power lines and reactors, Captain, but the damage is heavy. It’s not going to make that much difference.” A pause. “I can get you more engine power, sir…the lines there are in better shape. But the cut-off batteries are going to take longer.”

  Barron’s eyes were fixed on his screen. The duel with the enemy ships had been a brutal one. Dauntless was badly wounded, but she hadn’t been idle herself. One enemy ship was gone, a lifeless hulk with no energy readings at all. The other three were badly damaged, but to one extent or another, they were all still in the fight.

  “Get me that power, Fritzie. Now.” He turned his head. “Commander Travis, plot a course to pull us back out of the enemy’s range.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The two responses came back in rapid successions, Fritz’s over the comm and Travis’s across the few meters between their stations.

  Barron didn’t like the idea of retreating, but it made sense here. One of the enemy ships, at least, had severe engine damage. Even if the other two could match Dauntless’s thrust, the maneuver would cut the enemy firepower by a third.

  “Engines engaging, Captain.” Travis’s words reached his ears an instant before he felt the thrust, a good 8g. He was surprised. He hadn’t expected so much power from Dauntless’s battered reactors.

  The move caught the enemy by surprise, and a whole series of volleys missed cleanly. Dauntless had been almost at a dead halt, save for her evasive maneuvers, so even at 8g acceleration, it would take some time to get back out of range. Three minutes, twenty seconds, Barron calculated.

  “Commander…maintain as much fire as possible.” Much of Dauntless’s available power was going to the engines, and what was left was constrained by damaged lines and conduits. But every shot counted now.

  “Yes, sir. The rear starboard batteries are operational, and I think Fritz’s people have managed to reroute the lines.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Barron was watching the display as he heard the distant sounds of the batteries firing. His eyes remained fixed, waiting for the scanner report. Two hits! Both on the lead enemy ship.

  Barron shifted in his seat. The g forces were uncomfortable, particularly on his sore chest. He’d enjoyed the new force compensators, but right now they were shut down. They’d taken damage, and Dauntless didn’t have a watt of power to waste on luxuries. She was in the fight of her life, outnumbered and battered. Barron had managed to avoid paying too much attention to casualty reports, but he knew they were bad.

  His Alliance allies were in no better shape, he knew, but his ship needed him now, and that was where his attention was focused…as it would be to the end.

  Which won’t be long now. Even if he managed to defeat all four enemy battleships—and he knew that wasn’t going to happen—it would only buy a few minutes. Vennius’s forces were acquitting themselves well, but they, too, were outnumbered. And the Alliance spacers facing them weren’t going to falter or make foolish errors. There would be no morale failures, not in this battle, and, notwithstanding the skills of the officers in command, that made the whole thing more or less a question of mathematics.

  “It looks like we got a jump on them, Captain. They’re accele
rating now, but only two of them are matching our thrust.”

  Barron nodded. Just what he expected. If Dauntless could get through the next couple minutes, the odds would be two to one instead of three to one, at least for a while.

  “Maintain thrust, Commander. And continue maximum…”

  Barron was thrown forward, his already aching chest slamming hard into his harness. A shower of sparks flew across the bridge, and a section of the ceiling collapsed and fell to the deck. Barron knew the hit was bad before he even looked to his screen for a damage report. And when he did look, he realized it was even worse than he’d thought. His display was dark.

  He looked up, staring around the bridge. All the screens were blank…and as he was looking, the main lights went out, the bridge lit only by the glow of the emergency lamps.

  He reached down to the comm unit, hitting Fritz’s channel. “Fritzie, I need a damage report…” He let his voice trail off. The comm was also dead, nothing but light background static.

  The g forces were gone too, or at least lessened. We’re not in free fall…it feels like maybe 0.75g. So, we’re not completely dead in space.

  He exchanged glances with his first officer. Travis nodded. Then she turned her head and said, “All right, you all know what to do. Emergency procedures. Lieutenant Darrow, break out the portable comm unit and see if you can get engineering. We need to know how bad this is. It could be just a line rupture.”

  Barron listened to Travis’s words, the subtle encouragement she was giving the bridge crew. But he knew in his gut that last hit had done critical damage. Dauntless was in trouble.

  As if to confirm his thought, the ship shook hard again, and he could hear the distant sounds of explosions from deep inside his vessel.

  * * *

  Damn!

  Stockton had been excited, riding high just a second before. He and his lone wingman had managed to take out five of the Alliance fighters in a swirling dogfight that was as hard and brutal as any he’d seen. The Alliance pilots were highly skilled and brave, but Stockton and his partner had fought like men possessed. They’d both heard the chatter on the comm. Dauntless was in trouble, and it sounded bad. Very bad. It was about more than saving the bomber pilots now, it was about them getting through and hitting the ships that were killing Dauntless.

  He’d just about let himself believe they were going to prevail, that they were going to take out all seven enemy fighters. Then Vagabond got hit.

  The pilot had been on the comm, mid-sentence when he went silent. Stockton hadn’t seen it coming either. One of the enemy survivors had spun his ship around and taken a shot. The Alliance fighter had been far away, and Stockton knew both he and Vagabond had underestimated their enemy. With disastrous results.

  He checked his scans frantically, hoping for a few seconds that Vagabond had managed to eject from his stricken craft. But there was nothing.

  His eyes moved back to his scanner, and his muscles tightened, gripped by the deadly rage that had taken him. There was no thought in his mind now, save killing these last two Alliance pilots. He swung his arm hard to the side, angling his ship. He wasn’t even thinking now…he was operating on pure instinct. He pressed the firing stud…then again.

  He watched as one of the enemy ships vanished from the scanner. Now, there was only one.

  The one who killed Vagabond.

  He came about again, altering his vector to bring him straight toward his foe. He knew this was a pilot to be respected, most likely an Alliance ace who had never met his match.

  Until now…

  The Alliance pilot was weaving hard, almost defying Stockton to score a hit. He was firing, too, and the shots were well-aimed, coming dangerously close, despite Stockton’s own evasive maneuvers.

  He knew the bombers were clear, that he had accomplished his mission. But that didn’t matter now. Nothing did…save the death of this Alliance warrior who had killed Vagabond.

  All kinds of thoughts drifted around Stockton’s mind, the idea that his enemy was simply doing his own duty, that the destruction of Vagabond’s ship had been no personal assault. Stockton had once nursed all sorts of romantic perceptions of war…honor among those who dueled in their fighters, for example. But after three years of war, he had lost too many friends, been too badly hurt himself. He had watched his nation come to the edge of disaster, and he had seen one deadly battle after another. There was nothing left of the chivalrous knight in his cockpit. Stockton hated his enemies, and all he wanted was to kill them. Before they did the same to him, or another of his comrades.

  He fired. Close! The shot almost grazed the enemy’s fighter, but the pilot had been just a little too fast.

  His enemy came about and fired a series of shots his way. Stockton’s instincts saved his life, and his fighter swung off to the side, just before the deadly blasts went by.

  He stared ahead, his mind black, empty save for his hunt. I ride a pale horse…I am here for you…

  His enemy was good, very good. He suspected the pilot was cocky, arrogant, that his belief in his own invincibility drove him, as Stockton’s had driven him. But Stockton’s memory of the flames, the nightmare that had tormented him before, now drove him. You are not invincible, whatever your Alliance doctrine tells you…and your confidence will be your undoing.

  He swung around, firing his engines full, decelerating hard. It made no sense, not by any set of fighter tactics or doctrine. Save one unwritten one. It was unpredictable. It would take his enemy by surprise.

  And so it did. Stockton spun his ship back around and opened fire, blast after blast directed toward his enemy’s location…until one found its mark.

  It wasn’t a direct hit, but it had damaged the enemy fighter. Badly. Stockton knew he could stop, return to his squadron, rejoin their fight. His old codes told him to leave this enemy, his fighter too disabled to pursue or to pose a threat to his comrades. But those thoughts were pushed aside. He imagined how many of his allies and friends this pilot would kill in the future if he allowed him to escape. He imagined Vagabond, the pilot, but also the man… He felt raw hatred, a lust for vengeance.

  And, finally, he felt the flames, all around him. The indescribable agony…the true essence of war.

  His finger tightened on the firing stud.

  Chapter Forty

  AFS Perigrinus

  Cilian System

  Year 61 (310 AC)

  “The battle goes well.” Lille stood alongside Calavius, looking up at the series of large screens the Alliance’s would-be Imperator had ordered installed.

  “Indeed. Our victory is assured. The traitor Vennius will soon be dead, and my only regret is that it shall not be at my own hands.” Lille held back a sigh. He despised arrogance. He’d seen it again and again, the lust for power, the wave of over-confidence that took people as soon as they tasted success. He did not suffer from that affliction. He was a man of action, one not afraid to pursue what he wanted…but he always respected his enemies’ abilities, and he never took anything for granted. The battle was progressing well, but it wasn’t over yet.

  Vennius’s line was falling back steadily, his ships all seriously damaged. Even as they pulled back deeper within the defensive zone around the station, Calavius’s smaller vessels were finishing them off and beginning to move around the flank. The fortress was pouring out heavy fire, but it, too, would soon be silenced.

  “I believe it is time to send the Ram forward.” The name was an informal one, but it described the function of the modified frigate. The ship had one purpose—to accelerate directly toward its target, building up a massive velocity before it impacted. It had been created for the express purpose of destroying the Sentinel-2 fortress, a stationary target unable to evade the incoming vessel.

  “I concur. It is time. Issue the order.”

  The Ram had nothing volatile aboard, no substances that could cause further damage after a hit. Most of its compartments had been opened to the vacuum of space to minimize
damage from decompression, its skeleton crew of volunteers operating in space suits. Everything dangerous that was not expressly necessary for operation had been removed as well. It had no weapons of any kind. It was essentially a massive chunk of metal, with nothing more aboard than reactors and engines. And even the reactors would shut down when the ship entered firing range of the fortress, a precaution to eliminate the possibility of a containment breach that would vaporize the ship before it had achieved its aim.

  The fortress would fire at the Ram, of course, and as soon as its crew realized the intent of the approaching ship, they would direct their most powerful batteries to destroy it. But that would avail them nothing.

  Their lasers would melt sections of the hull. They would slice off bits of the ship. They would bore deeply into its guts, turning once-vital systems into molten rubble. But by the time the Ram was in range of these weapons, it would need no systems. Its sole purpose would be as a massive chunk of dense metal, traveling at tremendous velocity, and carrying almost incalculable kinetic energy with it.

  The fortress’s weapons were enormously powerful, but their yield was far from enough to vaporize such a massive chunk of dense matter. They were designed to destroy vital systems, to rip open compartments and cause secondary damage by decompression…and by the spreading of internal fires. But there was nothing flammable on the Ram, and no oxygen to support fires. There would be no systems still functioning, no ongoing fusion reaction. The only way to destroy the Ram would be to blast it to atoms, one chunk at a time. And the lasers of Sentinel-2 had not been designed for that.

  Calavius was looking down from his perch, toward Lille. The Alliance spy wasn’t particularly paying attention, though. His eyes were mostly on the display, at the Confederation battleship being pounded by three Alliance vessels. She looked dead in space, and as cold and businesslike as he was, Lille couldn’t help but smile. He hadn’t believed it at first when the reports came in, identifying the Confederation ship as Dauntless. His success at bringing about a change in the Alliance government, in securing an ally in the war against the Confederation…that was gratifying enough. But the thought of also ridding the universe of that cursed ship, the one that had interfered so many times in the plans he and Villieneuve had concocted, was an added joy.