by Jay Allan
He sighed, trying to ignore the clock in his head counting down the minutes until enough radiation would penetrate his suit to build up a lethal dose. He was thankful he didn’t have an exact figure on how long he could survive.
Maybe I’m dead already…
There was a small access ladder next to the tower. It was an easy enough climb…for a man who wasn’t wearing a baggy, ill-fitting rad suit. But there was no choice.
He reached up, grabbed the highest rung he could reach, stepping up with one foot, then the other. His sweaty hands slid around inside of his gloves, making his grip tenuous as he moved slowly upward. His injured hand ached terribly, and he tried to put most of his weight on the other hand, and his legs.
It felt like hours were passing, but he knew it had just been seconds. Still, he didn’t have even seconds to waste, and he pushed harder, climbed more quickly.
Then his eyes locked on one of the panels. He could see the blackened steel around it, and he knew immediately he’d found it. Anya Fritz was the most gifted engineer he’d ever known, and she had scanned and searched every system in Dauntless’s reactor. Carson and his comrades had fixed and replaced dozens of components, and Fritz had declared with all the confidence she’d been able to muster that the problem he was now staring at was the last one.
Carson knew that had been a guess when she’d made it, and Dauntless had been pounded repeatedly since then. He could repair the severed connection and the reactor could still remain dead, damaged in a five other places, ten. But he couldn’t do anything about that.
He pulled the panel off, fumbling with it in the heavy gloves. It finally came free, and slipped from his grasp, clattering loudly on the deck below.
“Damn.”
He reached inside the small opening, struggling to pull out the burnt sections of the connection. He had replacement parts with him. They weren’t going to be a perfect fit, but they would do the job. Assuming he could get them in place.
He worked feverishly, the tension and fear making it hard to concentrate. He was rushing, moving too quickly for such fine work. But somehow he was getting it done. The replacement part didn’t fit, but he managed to come up with a workaround. It wasn’t pretty. In fact, it looked like some mad scientist’s wild creation. But it should work…
He pushed the final connection in place, and he tapped the com controls on the side of his suit’s headcover. “Commander, I think it’s in place. The reactor should be good to go.”
“Well done, Sam…now get the hell out of there.”
Carson started to scrambled down the ladder, letting the toolkit drop. It hit the deck below with a crash. He felt a burst of hope. He was going to get out…and maybe, just maybe, his fix would do the trick. Captain Barron would have his power…and a chance to win the fight. A chance for all of them to survive.
Then the ship shook. Another hit.
Carson felt himself jerked hard, and he tightened his grip, struggling to hold onto the ladder. He held firm, for a few seconds. Then Dauntless shook again, and he felt his hand slip off the rung. He held for a second, perhaps two or three, nothing but his injured hand gripping the ladder. The pain was intense, fire shooting up from his arm, through his chest.
He felt the shattered arm giving way, his body slipping off the ladder. Then falling…and landing on the deck, hard, his face mask slamming into the solid metal floor.
His body was wracked with pain, his arm, his chest. He’d broken several ribs, he could feel that for sure. And the clear inside of his mask was splattered with blood.
The cracked, shattered mask, with a gaping hole in the center…
There was a strange sensation, a tingling feeling he’d never experienced before. He remembered his training, the classes at the Academy. Radiation was a silent killer, unnoticeable, invisible.
Except at massive levels…when it could actually be felt.
He felt himself beginning to lose consciousness.
“Lise, I’m sorry…”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
CFS Dauntless
Krillus Asteroid Belt
40, 500,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
Year 58 (307 AC)
“Commander, we’re picking up energy readings from the enemy vessel.” There was surprise in Wentus’s voice. And confusion.
Kat didn’t answer. She looked down at her screen, staring at the numbers. The scanners were imperfect, inexact. But the power spike was massive. This was no set of batteries kicking in, no emergency power source. It was the enemy’s main reactor. It couldn’t be anything else.
And that means…
She felt a coldness inside her, a realization.
“All engines, reverse thrust.” But even as she gave the command she knew it was too late.
“Commander…”
“Now! Full power, reverse thrust.”
“Yes, Commander.”
Her eyes were on her own screen, reading the incoming scanner data. The numbers didn’t lie—the enemy had managed to restart their reactors. Was it a desperate repair job, an attempt to ward off imminent destruction? Or…
Or was I lured in? Was their reactor failure feigned?
She tried to imagine the raw courage and grit it would take to willingly shut down a ship’s reactors, to sit and endure a pounding without answer, all to lure your enemy forward. It seemed too fantastic to believe…but then she thought about the enemy commander, about the concern she had felt all through this encounter. If this was deliberate, he’d have to have a plan to make it work, to make the risk worthwhile…and that could only mean one thing.
Those primaries…
Is it possible? That a captain would take that kind of chance to gain surprise?
“Evasive maneuvers…now!” Kat shouted out the orders, even as she realized it was too late. Invictus was less than sixty-thousand kilometers from the Confed ship, and even decelerating at maximum thrust, the existing momentum would take her ship to within fifty thousand kilometers before it halted.
“Yes, Commander…initiating evasive maneuvers.” She could tell from the confusion in Wentus’s voice her first officer hadn’t yet come to the conclusion she had. She hoped he was right, that her fears were ungrounded. But she didn’t believe that, not for a second.
She stared at the symbol on her display representing the enemy ship, and she wondered who was in command, what kind of man or woman she had faced in this death match over the past ten days.
Who are you?
* * *
“Maximum power to the primaries. I want those guns charged now!” Barron was leaning forward in his chair. He hadn’t heard anything from engineering. Then the bridge lights came on, and the main display rebooted. One glance down at the power monitors told him Fritzie had gotten it done. Dauntless’s reactors were back online.
“Yes, Captain.” Darrow’s voice was haggard, the pressure and strain clearly beginning to take its toll. But there was excitement too, crackling in his words as it was all across Dauntless’s bridge. They weren’t out of the fight yet. They still had a chance.
“Captain…” Travis’s voice came through on his headset. She sounded exhausted, and there was something wrong, he could tell. But her words were music to his ears. “Both reactors restarted and operating. Power flow to primaries operating on full.”
“Well done, Atara. My congratulations to everyone down there.” He paused, then asked: “Fritzie?”
“She’s wounded, sir, but I think she’ll make it. There are a lot of casualties down here…” It sounded like she was going to add something, but she remained silent.
Barron swung his head toward Darrow. “Time until full charge?”
“Forty-five seconds, sir.”
“Captain, there’s no way I can get to a firing station, not in less than a minute.” Travis’s words were loud in his ears.
“Call gunnery, Atara. You would know who’s…”
“There’s no one there, sir. The gun crews have suffer
ed heavy losses, and all reserves are in the outer turrets. There’s nobody in main fire control now.”
Barron felt his stomach clench. His wild gamble, the heroism of his people in pulling it off…and now there was no one available to fire the guns.
The ship’s AI…
“Captain…the enemy is decelerating. And they are beginning evasive maneuvers.”
How could they have reacted so quickly? What kind of mind reader am I up against here?
Barron opened his mouth to order the ship’s AI to fire the primaries. The computer did most of the work on any shot, but the touch of an experienced gunner often made the difference between a near miss and a devastating hit, especially when the target was trying to evade. Barron wasn’t sure if he believed completely in intuition, but the stats backed him up. Gunner-assisted shots had a much higher hit probability than unaided computer targeting. It defied explanation, but it was a documented fact.
But I don’t have anybody to fire…
“Captain, you have to do it.” Travis’s words floated in the air around him, seeming unreal at first. But then he realized she was serious.
“I’m not the gunner you are, Atara.”
“You learned gunnery at the Academy, just as I did…and there’s no one I’d rather have at the controls than you.”
Barron was about to argue again, but Darrow’s voice interrupted him. “Fifteen seconds to full charge, sir.”
As if to emphasize the point, Dauntless shook again, another hit slamming into her. Barron took a deep breath. There was no choice.
He jumped up from his seat, rushing toward Travis’s station, waving Darrow away as he did. He landed hard in the chair, his hands on the controls, bringing up the targeting screen. The AI was already calculating firing solutions, displaying them on the scanner.
He was tense, his muscles twisted into rigid knots. He knew he needed to relax, to watch the target’s attempts to evade, to let his mind run free, to sync with the enemy.
What will you do? Which way will you go?
The enemy’s positioning jets could only minimally affect its vector…but even a move of a ship length was enough to evade a shot.
“Primaries charged, sir.”
Barron stared right at the screen, shutting out the world. He pushed aside his thoughts—memories of his grandfather, concerns about his crew, his own fears—banishing them all. There was nothing, nothing save the enemy ship, and Dauntless’s deadly primaries.
He reached out, stretched his fingers, and closed them on the firing control. He moved the lever, too much at first and then back, more gently. His gaze was focused, his hand tight, ready.
He moved his wrist again, just a small tap. And he pressed his finger, firing.
His eyes darted up to the display, watching for a scanning report. And then it came. He’d missed clean.
He felt despair rising up from inside. He’d let them down, all of them. His people would die, and the Confederation would face a two front war…all because his aim had been off.
“Captain.” It was Travis. “The primaries are still online. We’re recharging them now for another shot.”
Barron felt his spirits rise again, and the tension in his gut worsen. He stared at the targeting display, waiting. Thirty seconds to full charge.
Dauntless gyrated again, yet another hit. The enemy was targeting the savaged launch bay. It was an unexpected benefit of Barron’s ruse. He’d wanted the enemy to believe his ship was crippled…but it hadn’t occurred to him they would target the area they believed was vulnerable.
They weren’t wrong—the bay was destroyed, and the inner compartments exposed, unprotected. But there was nothing there, nothing important, at least. Just Bulkhead Eight, the entrance to the quarters of the fighter wing. And his pilots weren’t there. They were floating around the system in their exhausted craft, waiting to be picked up. Or they were dead. Either way, their quarters were about the least vital spot on Dauntless right now.
He was impressed with the enemy captain’s insight and attention to detail. But this time it had served his purposes instead, bought him time. Time for a second shot.
He stared intently at the scope, tapping one way, then the other. He could see the countdown clock…five…four…
He gripped the firing control and sucked in a deep breath.
Two…one…
He tapped the control again. Then once more, just a tiny adjustment. The bridge was silent, and he knew his officers were staring at him, watching to see if he would hit the enemy, and do enough damage to give them a chance in the fight. Or if their hopes would vanish with another missed shot.
Barron closed everything out of his mind. There was nothing but the enemy ship, and his guns. He felt his finger moving, slowly, deliberately. Almost there. Then, at the last instant, he moved the controls over, adjusting the shot one last time and firing. He felt the vibration under his feet as the big guns fired, and his eyes caught the flashing red light, the overload warning. He’d gotten two shots from his tortured main guns, but there wouldn’t be a third. Not this side of a space dock.
He leaned back, his body aching, exhausted, drained. And then he heard the cheers.
His turned and looked back at the main display. The enemy ship’s icon was flashing. He’d scored a direct hit with both primaries. It was too early for significant damage assessments, but he could see the enemy power levels dropping. Hard. Their fire stopped too—much of it, at least. There were three batteries left firing. All the rest were silent now.
He felt a rush of excitement, but he bit down on it. The battle wasn’t over. Not yet.
“I want full thrust toward the enemy, Lieutenant. Immediately. All functional secondaries…open fire.”
It was time to end this.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CFS Dauntless
Krillus Asteroid Belt
40, 500,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
Barron stared at the main display, at the woman standing amid the smoke and wreckage of her ship’s shattered bridge. She wore a uniform that looked as if it had once been spotless and perfectly-tailored. But it was torn now, half a dozen rips cutting across at different spots. It was filthy too, covered with all sorts of soot and debris…and if Barron wasn’t mistaken, some blood too.
He’d called off his gunners when the scanning reports showed the enemy’s reactors were down, the last of its guns silenced. Confederation ships did not destroy helpless opponents. The navy adhered to a strict code of honor, the precepts of which had been laid down by none other than his grandfather. And apart from honor, he felt something for this mysterious enemy captain. Anger, of course, rage at the losses his people had suffered. But more than that. Respect.
“This is Captain Tyler Barron, commanding CFS Dauntless. Identify yourself.”
The woman stood at something that resembled attention, though Barron could see that her leg was badly injured.
“I am Commander-Princeps Katrine Rigellus. I am…I am acting under my own authority as commander of my ship, Invictus.”
Barron frowned. She was hiding something…or, more accurately, she was holding back.
“We know your ship is an Alliance vessel, Captain. Why attempt subterfuge?” He could see that she was uncomfortable, and she paused before answering.
“It is not subterfuge, Captain. We all obey our orders, do we not?”
“Then you do not deny that you are from the Alliance?”
“I neither confirm nor deny anything, Captain, save to say duty compels me to remain silent.”
“Then why did you attack Santis, why did you attack my ship?”
“I accepted your communication request because I have come to respect your ability, Captain. But duty is my master, as I suspect it is yours. And mine now demands silence.”
“There is no reason for hostilities between our people, Commander. Your attack was without cause or provocation. We have both paid a great price for this
pointless conflict.”
“You know little about us, Captain. And we know just as little of your Confederation. My superiors’ analysis of your people was inaccurate. I am afraid they allowed themselves to be misled by others, and they have done your people a disservice.” Katrine paused for a few seconds. “You are clearly a strong warrior, Captain, a capable leader. Your people are fortunate to have you.”
Barron stared at the image on the screen, finding himself strangely affected by this enemy officer. Her actions had killed his people, almost killed him. The attack had been unwarranted. Still, he could sense a nobility in the woman on the screen in front of him. “As are you, Commander. But the battle is over, your ship disabled. If you surrender now…”
“That is not our way, Captain.” Barron could see the sadness in her eyes, but also determination. He felt a coldness in his stomach, a fear for what this officer intended to do.
“There is no need for more of your people to die, Commander. I am sure that after appropriate diplomatic contacts are initiated, we will be able to allow you to return home.”
She smiled. It was weak, tentative, but it was a smile nevertheless. “We are different, Captain, your people and mine. Our ways are not yours. Yet, you would be a fitting ally, and I regret that we met as enemies and not friends. Still, there is hope that some good may come from all of this. My people value strength above all things. When Invictus fails to return, the Council will suspend all planned operations against the Confederation. Your victory has proven your people to be warriors, to be respected. You will be spared the burdens of a two-front war.” She paused, clearly in pain, shifting her weight. “Perhaps all is for the best here, for my victory could only have brought war and death down upon both my people and yours. Now, perhaps mine can enjoy peace, at least for a time. And yours can concentrate on defeating your longtime enemy.” She paused. “If my death offers a future as neighbors, perhaps even as allies, then it will not have been in vain.”