by Jay Allan
“Red squadron commencing landings, sir.”
Barron just nodded. Then he tapped his own com unit. “Fritzie, are your people ready in the bay? I need those fighters turned around as quickly as possible.” He paused, then added, “Seconds count.”
“Yes, Captain. I’m down here myself. I’ve got a dozen people with me, and I’ve had a…chat…with Chief Evans about the chain of command.” There was a twinge of residual anger in her voice.
Barron suppressed a smile. He knew Evans well. The chief was career, a long service veteran, one who’d seen action in the last war. He wasn’t overly fond of officers, and Barron suspected the grizzled old spacer hadn’t reacted well to Fritz showing up on his landing bay and taking charge. And he had no doubt, Anya Fritz had made it clear who was top dog the second she’d stepped through the door.
“Okay, Fritzie…carry on.” He paused. “And try to take it easy on Chief Evans, okay?”
“Yes, sir.” There was reluctance in her tone.
Evans must have really pissed her off…
“Out,” he said, slapping at the com with his fingers. Then he turned back to the main display. He breathed deeply, staring down at his hands, making a conscious effort to hide his anxiety. He was the captain, the one all his people would look to for strength, for confidence. He was also a veteran of sorts, but like most of the officers in the Confederation navy, his experience had been limited to policing actions and minor fights with renegade forces. He had never stared down another battleship, never faced the prospect of a battle of equals, of two ships maneuvering, firing…a fight where only one vessel could prevail.
A duel…
He imagined two dandies from a lost era, swords in hand, fighting one on one. And like them, he realized, the cause of the dispute didn’t matter, not now. The politicians and analysts would unwind what had caused an Alliance ship to be here, whether the Union had managed to gain an ally in the coming war…or if the Alliance was simply probing for weakness. The high command would decide how to respond to the longer term threat, what forces to deploy and where. None of that made any difference to Barron and his people, no more than the original insult that might have caused his imagined duelists to meet. No. Causes were irrelevant, right and wrong meaningless concepts. Now, there was only victory…or defeat, death.
He stared at the screen, imagining the space between the enemy ship and Dauntless, the vast, frigid, black emptiness.
A duel in the dark…
“Commander…” His voice was softer than it had been, calmer. His people needed to see him totally in control, no matter how tense he truly was. “I want all gunnery stations to run full testing procedures.”
“Yes, Captain. Implementing testing now.”
He looked over at Travis’s station. The officer was sitting straight, almost as if a metal rod had been affixed to her spine. He knew she had to be as edgy as he was, but if anything, she hid it better than he did. He was grateful to have her aboard, to know he had a first officer he could count on no matter what happened. Travis was capable…no, far beyond capable. If they made it through this battle, he knew he would lose her soon. It was only just. She deserved her own command. She rated it in every measurable way…and if she’d had any family influence at all, if she’d come to the service anything but a penniless refugee from a hellish world, she would already be wearing a captain’s stars.
He promised himself, as much as he wanted to keep her with him as long as possible, when—if—they got back, he would throw the Barron name behind her, help her get her own ship. He felt a wave of regret he hadn’t done that sooner…but it passed quickly, overwhelmed by the gratitude he felt at having her at his side for this crisis.
He looked back to the display, staring at the holographic depiction of the space around Dauntless. The cluster of incoming fighters was closer, almost in range. And right behind them, seven of his own birds.
“Launch a double spread of probes, Commander. Full active mode…let’s get all the data we can on this enemy ship before we’re engaged. It’s not like anybody is hiding anymore.”
“Yes, Captain.” Travis punched at her workstation, leaning down over her com unit and relaying a series of commands. “Probes launched, sir. Feeding scanning data to your screen.” A few seconds later she added, “Captain, launch control reports all Red squadron fighters safely landed. Refuel and refit operations are underway.”
“Very well.”
“Sir, Lieutenant Federov requests permission to launch fighters piecemeal, as they are ready.”
Barron shook his head. He hated the idea of sending his people out one at a time, to stand in the way of two full enemy squadrons. But then he saw the seven dots in the display, less than half a squadron pursuing the incoming ships. He realized any fighter could be the one that prevented a critical hit to Dauntless.
“Granted,” he said softly.
I’m sorry, Olya, but you’re right. We need every bit of force we can get, no matter how much the risk to your people…
* * *
“Come on, baby…you know you can do it…” Stockton wasn’t sure talking to his fighter was something his instructors at the Academy would have considered effective…or sane. But he was close, so close. And he knew the bombers were going to launch their weapons on Dauntless any second.
His eyes were fixed on the range display, the numbers counting down. He was closing. Another ten minutes would put him in optimum range. But he didn’t have ten minutes.
He stared at the targeting display, his eyes locked on the closest fighter. It was long range, very long. The AI was showing the chances of scoring a hit at less than two percent, and below one percent of one causing enough damage to stop the enemy craft. But Stockton had never liked AIs.
Good pilots are born, not made. And they damned sure aren’t programmed.
He opened his hand, stretching his fingers, closing them tightly around the throttle. He stared intently, his finger squeezing gradually as he focused on the target. His lasers would lose a lot of power at this range. A glancing blow wasn’t going to do it. He needed an engine or cockpit hit. The shot had to be dead on.
His headset was quiet. He knew the others were doing the same as he was, putting all they had into picking their targets, getting ready to fire. They would all wait, he was sure of that. They would hold their fire until the AIs said they were close enough. But not him…
Fuck the AIs…
Stockton’s fingers tightened, the metal of the firing stud hard and cool against his fingers. His head was locked, immobile, his eyes fixed on the targeting display. The AI was feeding him data, but he ignored it.
If you don’t think we can hit, shut the hell up. I’ll do it myself…
His fingers tightened, slowly, steadily, even as he moved the controls slightly, correcting his firing angle. Silence…one second…two…
Then he heard the high-pitched whine, his dual turbo lasers firing. Once…then again. And again.
It was the third shot. He saw the dot on his screen, a small ring appearing around it, the designation for a hit. And then it vanished entirely.
“Oh yeah, baby!” His shout echoed in the cramped cockpit, and he thrust his arm up hard and screamed again.
The com unit crackled to life. “Nice shooting, Raptor!” It was Jamison. Thunder. And his voice was almost feral. “Raptor showed us how to do it, people. Now let’s take these bastards down!”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Interplanetary Space
Between Krillus IV and Krillus V
307 AC
“They’re breaking off, Lieutenant! They’re running! Should we pursue?” The pilot’s voice was excited, even giddy.
Tillis “Ice” Krill listened to the reports that continued to come in, half a dozen of them so far, all saying essentially the same thing. The surviving enemy fighters were pulling back. They were running.
Ice shook his head as he sat in his fighter’s cockpit. He had managed to take down two
of the enemy birds, and he was proud of the job his Yellow squadron pilots had done—proud of the entire strike force, actually. He was in command on the scene now, of the remaining Blues and even a few of the Greens that had made it through the fight, as well as his Yellows. Commander Jamison was chasing down the enemy bombers, and Raptor had gone with him. That left Krill in charge.
He was calm and cool now, as he was in battle and everywhere else, a trait that had long ago given him his call sign. But he felt the same anger as the rest of the pilots, rage at the losses they had suffered and the urge to chase the enemy down, to destroy every last one of them. But that wasn’t possible.
“Negative, Lieutenant…all personnel, listen up. Fuel status says we head back now.” He watched as the dots on his screen moved away, the enemy fighters returning to their own mothership. He wanted to believe Dauntless’s squadrons had won the fight, that the enemy was indeed fleeing, as his pilots were shouting. But he knew better. The Alliance fighters had come even farther than his own people had. They were breaking off to refuel and rearm, not because they were broken. They’d be back, Krill was sure of it. And his people had to be ready. Right now, they were low on fuel, out of missiles. No, there was no question of trying to continue the battle.
“Back to Dauntless, now. Form up on me.”
He got a wave of acknowledgements, though the number of responses was small, especially considering he was in command of three squadrons right now. What was left of three squadrons.
He stared down at his screen, at the large blue oval that represented Dauntless. And the seven small dots following a cluster of enemy fighters, so close now, the icons were barely distinguishable on their own. The enemy strike force was almost in range…and no seven fighters ever made were going to stop it cold. Dauntless was going to endure a bombing run, and Krill knew his people might return to a mothership whose landing bays had been blown to oblivion.
“C’mon you guys…catch those bastards. Take some of them down.” His words were barely a whisper.
Krill and Stockton were rivals, the two best pilots on Dauntless. They baited each other constantly, vied for the informal title of best on the ship. Though Krill would never admit it, he knew he was number two, and he considered Stockton the best natural pilot he’d ever known.
If anyone can catch and engage those bombers…
He smiled, his best wishes for his rival.
Get it done, Raptor. Get it done.
* * *
“Launch clearance granted. Transferring controls to your console. Good luck, Lieutenant.”
Federov was strapped in, her hands on the throttle. “Acknowledged, control. And thanks.”
She flipped the lever next to the throttle, activating the magnetic catapult. The force slammed into her like a hurricane, pushing her hard into her chair as her fighter raced down the launch tube and back out into space.
She angled the throttle, engaging her fighter’s thrust, and adjusting her vector directly toward the approaching enemy ships. There had been twenty-two of them left when she’d climbed into her fighter. There were twenty now. The birds chasing the strike force had drawn blood, and each enemy bird they knocked out was one less to fire on Dauntless.
It’s time for Red squadron to join the party…
She twisted around in her seat, trying to work out the kinks, the stiffness. Her people had been back from the mission to Santis no more than fifteen minutes before her bird had been cleared to relaunch. She hadn’t even thought that kind of turnaround was possible, but the bay was swarming with ship’s crew, including a dozen engineers sent down to help with fighter refit. And at the center of it all was Anya Fritz, Dauntless’s chief engineer, a taskmaster as unrelenting as Chief Evans, with a lieutenant commander’s clusters to back it up.
The bay had seethed with tension. The normal staff were resentful of a bunch of engineer interlopers poking their noses where they didn’t belong…and the engineers, considering themselves the masters, here to rescue the flight techs and get the job done. But the tension had created a weird sort of energy, a drive to get the job done, one that had pushed them all to do just that little bit extra.
She’d been so uncomfortable, she was grateful to be back out in space, but the strange partnership was working, she couldn’t deny that. The fact that her fighter had launched so quickly was the only proof required.
“Red leader, this is Red Eleven…I’ve launched, and I’m following your vector.”
“Acknowledged, Red Eleven. Let’s go give these bastards a welcome they won’t soon forget.”
And now Red squadron had two fighters. Two ships to stand in the way of twenty.
She stared straight ahead, wishing she had missiles. The bay crews had refueled her ship and recharged her laser batteries. But there simply hadn’t been time to reload the heavier ordnance.
She was moving directly toward the incoming enemy ships. No fancy flying. No finesse. There wasn’t time.
She picked out the closest of the enemy craft, tapping her throttle, aligning her vector toward the target. She adjusted the guns slightly, a bit of intuition added to the AI’s precise calculations. Then she fired. Her lasers blasted out, half a dozen shots in as many seconds. And then she watched her screen as the enemy ship winked out of existence.
She felt a wave of excitement, satisfaction…but it only lasted a second. She was staring at her screen when she saw it, all along the enemy frontage. Nineteen surviving craft, and coming from them, smaller dots.
Plasma torpedoes…
She slammed her fist against the fighter’s console, swearing under her breath as she did. Nineteen was better than twenty-four, but it was still too many.
At least they had to fire at long range…
She sat for a few seconds, frozen, a passing moment of indecision. She felt helpless watching the torpedoes move toward Dauntless, but she realized there was nothing she could do. Then she heard a small ding, her scanners reporting another enemy ship destroyed. It was Dauntless this time, her anti-fighter turrets opening up, scoring a hit. Then another enemy ship disappeared…the work of the pursuing fighters this time.
She let out a hard sigh. There was nothing she could do about the barrage headed toward Dauntless. All she could do was make sure the enemy paid the price, that none of those ships escaped to rearm and return.
She glanced at the screen. She had four birds now. They were strung out, disordered. There was no chance to form up in any meaningful way. There was only one thing to do.
“Red squadron, attack at will. All ships…attack at will.”
* * *
“All sections, brace for impact.”
Barron reached down and grabbed the straps of his harness, pulling them across his chest and snapping the latches into place. Regs said all crew were to be strapped in during any red alert, but Dauntless’s captain hated the damned bulky things, and they had hung down from the bottom of the chair, unused. Until now.
“All stations report ready, sir.” Atara Travis was also strapped in, as was every other officer on the bridge.
Barron knew what had happening in the gunnery control sections. The anti-fighter turrets were targeting the incoming plasma torpedoes, firing as quickly as they could recharge. But the weapons were hard to intercept. They began their run as physical projectiles, but on the way to the target they triggered an internal reaction, converting the normal matter of the torpedo into a high energy plasma. It was a chess game between the gunners on the target ship and the AIs controlling the torpedoes. The warheads had small positioning engines, and they could adjust their vectors and correct targeting until they converted. After that, they were nothing but superheated plasma, traveling on a fixed vector and velocity, the AIs that controlled them vaporized by the conversion.
“Engine room, forward one-quarter thrust.” Barron barked out the command, his eyes fixed on the display. Most of the torpedoes had already converted. That made his laser turrets obsolete, but it gave him a chance to e
vade, to move his hulking ship out of the path of the deadly weapons that could no longer adjust their own vectors.
“Forward one quarter.” Travis echoed his command, and an instant later Dauntless lurched ahead, her engines blasting at one-fourth of capacity.
Barron’s gaze remained set, his mind following each of the weapons heading for his ship. Dauntless’s gunners had taken out five of the torpedoes before they converted. Now four more zipped by into the space where Dauntless had been. But there were ten more still coming.
“Bring us around, course 311-120-128…increase thrust to forty percent.” Barron spoke rapidly, knowing his command was coming too late.
“Executing,” Travis snapped back.
But Barron had been too late. Dauntless shook hard. Then again an instant later. The second hit sent a shower of sparks flying across the bridge as a power conduit overloaded. The lights flickered for an instant, and Barron could hear the distant rumbles of explosions.
He slapped at the com unit, his eyes still fixed on the display as he did. Two more torpedoes zipped by, but another slammed hard into Dauntless’s bow.
“Damage report.” Barron reached down and grabbed his headset, pulling it roughly over his head. “Now, Fritzie. What’s going on down there?”
“I don’t have it all yet, sir.”
Barron could hear the sounds of shouting in the background, urgent calls for teams to deal with one problem or another…and worse ones, cries that hit him in his stomach, those of wounded men and women. His men and women.
“How bad is it?”
“It’s bad, sir. We’ve got power drains in multiple locations. At least half a dozen external compartments are compromised. I think the reactor’s okay, but I’m worried about that jury-rigged repair to the cooling lines. I just got back to engineering from the launch bay, and I’m still trying to get on top of things. Give me another few minutes, sir, and I’ll get back to you with better info.”
“All right, Fritzie…just remember, we’ve got the enemy battleship heading right toward us. They’ll be in range in…” He glanced down at the readout. “…twenty-nine minutes.”