by Jay Allan
“Yes, Lieutenant?” Barron was impatient, distracted. Flash updates were standard procedure, normally full of nothing more pressing that routine updates and crew mail. Nothing that justified interrupting a vital strategy session.
“There is a coded message for you, sir. Priority one designation.”
Barron looked up at his assembled officers, trying to keep the surprise from his face. Priority one was the Confederation’s highest level of urgency.
He stood up abruptly. “If you’ll all excuse me for a moment.” He turned toward the door, but then he stopped and looked back. “Commander Travis…” He gestured toward the door.
Travis got up with a nod. Then she walked around the table, following Barron out of the room.
* * *
“Well, that makes the decision for you, doesn’t it?” Travis was sitting at one of the two chairs opposite Barron’s desk. She was looking right at Dauntless’s captain, her surprise at the content of the communique obvious on her face and in her tone. “There’s no leaving now, no backing down.”
Barron sighed hard. “Yes, I suppose it does. I thought the stakes were high enough when it was just life and death, but if they’re right, we may be carrying the future of the Confederation in our hands, the difference between a chance at victory in the coming war…and total destruction.”
The intelligence report had been clear, and exceedingly blunt. Dauntless was to engage the enemy and destroy them. Whatever it took. There could be no retreats, no stalemates. Only complete victory could avert war with the Alliance. And war with the Alliance and the Union at the same time would doom the Confederation.
“Scanners report that the enemy ship is still progressing on its original vector. At least we have some time to prepare, and to get the crew some rest.” A pause, then: “Targeting their engines was a brilliant idea, Tyler.”
“Managing to hit dead on was pretty good too, Atara. Let’s just say we’ll share the credit. Assuming we survive to get out of this system.”
“We’ll survive, Tyler. I believe in you. The whole crew believes in you.”
Barron nodded. “That means a lot, Atara…but this is no ordinary commander we’re up against. If the Alliance sent one ship to test our defenses, it’s likely they sent their best.”
“Fortunately, we also have our best here.” The words seemed like an empty boast, but her tone made it otherwise, as though she was only expressing what she really believed. “We can take them, Ty…you know we can.”
Barron took a deep breath. “Maybe,” he said softly. “A lot of this is on Fritzie’s shoulders. And on how long it takes the enemy to repair their engines and get back here.”
“Assuming we stay here…”
Barron’s eyes widened. “What are you suggesting?”
“We have engines now, at least fifty percent strength. The enemy had the advantage when they positioned themselves behind planet five. Perhaps we can do something similar.”
“Withdraw to the fifth planet?”
“No, I was thinking somewhere else.” She looked down at the large screen on Barron’s desk, and she reached out, pointing to a spot on the map displayed there.
Barron stared down, his eyes focusing on her finger. “Yes,” he said. “That’s perfect.”
“We should have enough time to land the Marines, too.”
Barron frowned. “You know as well as I do, we could be sending them into a death trap. Probably would be.”
“It’s their way, Ty. They want to go. They feel they have to go. As long as they believe their comrades are alive down there.”
Barron exhaled hard. “Okay. Why not? We’re all in a fight to the death here. There’s no retreat for any of us, no way out save victory.” He looked across the desk at his first officer. “We’ll land the Marines. And then we’ll move out, prepare ourselves for the final fight.”
Travis nodded. “The final fight,” she said, with a feral smile.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
CFS Dauntless
300,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
“Fighters launched, Captain. Commander Jamison reports his pilots are en route and will be ready to begin in eight minutes.” Vin Darrow’s voice came as a surprise to Barron, even though he’d expected it. He’d tried to get Atara Travis to take a break and get some rest, but she’d fought him on it tooth and nail, refusing outright unless he also promised to take a nap. They’d finally compromised. He’d retreated to his office, where he hadn’t exactly slept, but had certainly closed his eyes for a few minutes. She had run down to her quarters for a quick meal and a shower, after which she’d headed to the damaged gunnery sections to check on the repairs underway. Travis had been a gunner, a troubleshooter, and any number of other things as she’d risen in the service. Her hardscrabble rise to rank contrasted sharply with his own virtual inheritance of his position. They couldn’t be more different in background, but they made an effective team. More than a team. Travis was like a sister to him now. He respected her ability to pull herself up from such difficult circumstances. And Travis had told him more than once, the first thing she’d noticed about him was that he wasn’t a smug, self-entitled asshole, like most of the other scions of navy families. It is of such stuff that great friendships are made.
“Very well, Lieutenant.”
Barron was edgy. His fighter squadrons were already badly damaged, and now he was risking his best pilots, the commanders of all of his squadrons plus a picked force drawn from the rest of the survivors.
Alpha bay was operational, barely. Ideally, he’d have launched a full strike force to deal with the laser buoys in orbit around Santis and its moons, but with the bays virtually wrecked and a large number of personnel reassigned to damage control duties, his people had only managed to get ten fighters repaired and refit. And if ten pilots were going to clear the laser platforms, it had to be his ten best.
He was still unsure how he felt about landing the Marines. He understood their attitudes, that the Marine code required them to come to their comrades’ aid. But he didn’t like sending his men and women into a totally blind situation. He had no idea how many ground troops the enemy ship carried, or if they had all been landed. And Dauntless’s contingent was at half strength, just one company where two would have been normal.
He didn’t have a choice, though. Not a real one. The fight his people were in would be decided in part by hardware, in part by the abilities of Fritzie and her crews to get as much of Dauntless’s weaponry and equipment back online in time. But he knew morale was just as important. The gunner who kept his shit together instead of panicking…and who scored that last vital hit. The pilot who ran down the enemy ship’s throat and planted a torpedo right in its guts instead of firing from long range and then breaking off. He couldn’t expect that kind of courage and effort from his people if he didn’t respect them. And that included the Marines.
He shook his head. He was never going to be comfortable about it, but his decision was already made. He leaned forward, tapping the com unit.
“Prepare assault shuttles for launch.”
“Shuttles report ready, Captain.” The response was quick. Darrow had clearly known already that the Marines were ready to go.
Barron nodded gently. He was thankful, at least, that the shuttles didn’t use the fighter bays. There was no way the bulkier ships could have managed their way through the debris and damage the agile fighters had struggled to avoid. The heavy landing craft docked directly against the ship’s hull, and it was a miracle that, with all the damage Dauntless had taken, none of the shuttles had been damaged.
Barron sat silently for a few seconds. Then he hit the com again.
“Launch the shuttles.”
* * *
Sam Carson was lying on his bunk, trying desperately to get to sleep. It seemed absurd, because he’d never been so tired in his life, but he had been there almost an hour, and he was still wide awake. He’d spied the same sma
ll scratch on the ceiling at least ten times.
It must be the stims. Your body is all strung out…
He’d been popping the stimulants like candy, along with the rest of Dauntless’s engineering team. The lull in the fight had given the battleship’s crew a chance to get some real rest, all save those charged with repairing the enormous damage the ship had taken. Carson and his team had been at it for forty straight hours. And they’d still have been working if Commander Fritz hadn’t expressly ordered them all to take a four hour sleep break.
Or, maybe you’re just scared shitless…
Carson had been grateful to be too busy to seriously think about the situation. He was a combat officer, just like all the others on Dauntless, but he’d been a child the last time the Confederation fought a real war. Even the edginess of the duty along the Union border had been theoretical, the worry about what might happen. But the last few days…that had been combat, real and unfiltered. He’d watched comrades die, seen massive explosions rip through the ship’s structure.
Now that a combat badge really means something…
He rolled over, slamming his fist into the pillow before putting his head back down. He thought about taking something to help him sleep, but the idea was so ridiculous it almost made him laugh. He had to be back on duty in just over three hours, and he’d probably need another hit of stims as it was. If he took a soporific now, he’d be a zombie when he woke up.
He sighed and sat up abruptly. He wasn’t going to get to sleep, that much seemed clear. It was bad…a few hours of real sleep would have done him some good. But worse, now he had to sit here for three hours with nothing to do but think. And thinking wasn’t something he wanted to do. Not right now.
His thoughts had a choice of methods to torture him right now. Fear of the enemy, of dying here in this forsaken place. Letting his comrades down, watching them die.
Lise…
Or he could think of his wife, of their last parting. She had sent him mail in the most recent com dump. It had been short, affectionate, but he still knew he’d hurt her when he’d left. He was glad they’d made up by the time he left, but even as he hugged her the last time, he knew she was still hurt. She’d tried to hide it, but he’d seen it in her eyes, heard it in her voice. To her, he had chosen Dauntless over her, his comrades of a few months’ service over his pregnant wife.
But there had been more to his choice than that. Archellia was his home now, and it was right in the path of whatever was brewing out on the Rim. Carson, in his own way, was here for Lise, for his new child. To protect them, to stand in the way of whatever might threaten Archellia, and the rest of the Confederation.
He could have stayed behind, left that duty to others. But that wasn’t who he was. He’d hated leaving her in tears, but he was far more terrified of the prospect of one day looking into her eyes and seeing that she was staring back at a stranger, a man utterly different from the one she’d fallen in love with. The man he’d have become if he’d been willing to turn his back on his own values.
He sighed softly. He’d done what he had to do, but he was still troubled. He understood why he had made his decision, but he wasn’t sure she did. And the thought of her believing he just didn’t care enough to do as she asked cut at him deeply.
He got up and walked across the tiny room, leaning over and flipping on the workstation screen at his desk. The letter was still there, in all its generic warmth and caring. He could tell that she’d struggled to send him a pleasant message, to avoid burdening him with any bad feelings while he was in action. But he saw right through the canned affection, and he felt as if he was back in his quarters on Archellia, having the same fight they’d had before he left.
I’m sorry, Lise. I hope I can make you understand why I had to go, when I get back…
Carson looked over at the small clock next to his bunk. Two hours fifty-three minutes to go. Duty would be a relief, an escape from the thoughts haunting him in his dark quarters.
He sat down in the chair, landing hard. He reached out to the screen, scrolling pages, bringing up Lise’s letter again. He read it, at least half of it, then he shook his head and flicked his finger, flipping back to the main screen. There was no point in brooding now, in stewing in guilt or sadness or whatever this was. He had a job to do, and for all the crushing fatigue bearing down on him, all he wanted was to be back at it.
He stood up, abruptly, and he walked toward the small closet, pulling out a clean uniform. Fritz had told him not to show his face for four hours, but he saw no reason to sit there, not sleeping, thinking about things he couldn’t do anything about. There was damage to repair, systems to get back online. If the chief engineer pushed back, he’d be honest with her, tell her he just couldn’t sleep, as incredible as that would sound.
He pulled on the uniform then he walked over to the table on the side of the room. He grabbed a small bottle, stims…and he dumped two into his palm. He paused for a moment, and then he shook the container, dropping a third pill into his hand. He picked up a bottle of water and threw the pills back, guzzling a deep drink to wash them down. Then he grabbed a large nutrition bar, and he walked toward the door…and then out into the hall.
Back to work. He felt better already.
* * *
“Raptor, ease up. I told you to be careful. These buoys aren’t designed for anti-fighter ops, but that doesn’t mean a lucky shot can’t blow your reckless ass away.”
Jamison’s voice was sharp, with a hint of scolding. Stockton and Jamison were as close as two friends could get, at least until they stepped into their fighters. Then the commander sometimes turned into the parent, lecturing Stockton about his recklessness. It was annoying, but Stockton understood. He was reckless, or at least something close to it. But he was that good too. His skill and his daring went hand in hand. They made him the pilot he was.
“C’mon, Thunder. Something out there’s got my number, I’m sure. But it isn’t one of these giant laser buoys. They…” He was about to say, “they couldn’t hit a gas giant,” or something equally cocky. But then he remembered that the Reds had lost a pilot to the buoys. And Lynx was on the mission. Stockton knew he was prone to arrogance, but he didn’t want to cause Fedorov pain. She was a good pilot and squadron leader, and he respected her abilities.
“I’ll be okay, Thunder…I’ll be careful.” He angled his craft as he spoke, his finger pressing down on the firing stud and watching as the nearest buoy vanished from his screen. He smiled, to himself as much as anything. He felt he’d made his point.
The rest of the fighters were zipping down into orbit, targeting the weapons platforms. The buoys had begun to fire back, but the fighters were too close, too maneuverable. There were a couple of close shots, but in the end the fighters cleared their targets quickly, without loss.
“Dauntless, this is Thunder. Santis orbit is clear. Repeat, Santis orbit is clear. No casualties. We’re heading toward the moons.”
Stockton listened as his friend made the report. He knew the assault shuttles were coming up now, that Dauntless’s hundred Marines would be landing within minutes. He saw faces in his mind, men and women he’d played cards with, and one or two he’d had altercations with. But now he wished them all well…even that snotty little corporal he was still sure had pulled that card from his sleeve…
“Okay, odds, follow me to Lyra. Raptor, you take the evens to Assul. Let’s clear away the rest of these things and get back to the ship.”
“Roger that, Thunder. Evens on me. Let’s go finish the job.”
* * *
“What the hell is that? Enemy reinforcements?” Joe Thoms was standing outside the cave staring up at the sky. It was almost dawn, and the dark still clung thick over the frozen hillsides. But the streaks in the sky were unmistakable, fiery trails that could only be one thing.
Clete Hargraves stepped out onto the ledge, holding a small foil bag in one hand. Wisps of steam escaped from the small package. The combat ration
s were heated through a small chemical reaction, one the Marines decided was too insignificant a heat source to be detected. After a month in the bone-chilling cold without so much as a campfire to keep warm, the eight survivors of Santis’s garrison almost didn’t care anymore. More than one Marine had broken down and tried to start a fire. But Hargraves had stood firm, preventing anyone from breaking discipline, with rousing words if they proved sufficient…and with iron fists if they didn’t.
“Those are landers alright, but they’re different from the ones the enemy used. I’d almost swear those are…”
“Sarge, we’re getting a transmission on Marine priority channel one.” Buck Miller came rushing out of the tent, a stunned look on his face. “We’ve got friendlies inbound, Sarge!”
Hargraves let out a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the glowing trails slashing across the sky. Could it be? After so long? It had been a rough time for the Marines, especially since the attack on the tritium facility. That raid had achieved some success, but nothing close to knocking the refinery offline. He had no question that production had been cut, but he was equally certain there was still tritium flowing into the almost full storage tanks. In the end, he doubted if the raid had been worth the lives it had cost. But that hadn’t stopped them from trying again, with even less success and greater loss the second time.
The civilians were all gone now, as were more than two-thirds of the Marines, victims of combat, of the elements—and in two cases, of slipping on the ice and falling off the rocky coastal cliffs. Hargraves had been trying not to think about the fact that they would have run out of the rations he held in his hand days before if so many of their number hadn’t died.
“Miller, get a fix on those ships. I want to know exactly where they land.”
“Yes, Sergeant,” the Marine said crisply.