by Jay Allan
“Of course, Admiral. The Marines are always here for you…you know that. I’ve got close to a hundred thousand total in the fleet. About ten thousand of those are here on Striker, and the rest are in troop transports or in small detachments on the warships. I could transfer the units on the troopships, allocate them to bolster the contingents on the various ships. Like you said, an extra hundred sets of hands on a battleship might just keep the thing in the line a little longer.”
“That’s perfect, Bryan. Do it. Transfer as many as you can…” Barron had been about to add, “And prepare any troopships with Marines still aboard to leave the system.” He didn’t want his ground troops sitting helplessly in lightly armed and armored transports when they could serve no purpose.
But maybe the ships can…
“Get them all off the transports, Bryan. Cram more of them on Striker if you have to. Speak to Commander Cavelton. She’ll find billets for the Marines you bring aboard.”
Rogan stood up, and he saluted. “I’ll see it done, Admiral. If the Marines don’t have any place fighting for you, we’ll help fix things.” Barron could hear conflicting tones in Rogan’s voice, the Marine’s unyielding loyalty and commitment to duty struggling with his sense that carrying around tools and equipment for a bunch of engineers was far from an ideal posting for the Confederation’s grim and dedicated ground forces.
Barron was going to say something, try to reassure Rogan there was no dishonor in the duty that lay ahead for his people. But he just remained silent. Nothing he said would make his old comrade feel better…and nothing was exactly all he had to say to ensure that General Bryan Rogan followed his orders to the letter.
Barron waited until Rogan was gone, and then he reached down to the small comm unit on the table and tapped at its controls. “Atara…Bryan Rogan is going to reassign the Marines on the transport flotilla and put them all on Striker and the ships of the fleet to back up Anya Fritz’s people. Once he’s got that done, I want you to reassign the naval crews as well. I want those ships empty. Completely empty.”
“Understood, Admiral.” Barron wasn’t sure whether Atara had already figured out just what he had in mind, or if she was just being herself and acting like she did. Either way, she sounded damned confident.
“Very well. And, Atara…one more thing. Find Anya Fritz and send her down here as quickly as you can.” Barron did have a plan for the transports, but it was going to take Anya Fritz’s wizardry to put it into action.
Chapter Ten
CFS Constellation
225,000 Kilometers from Fleet Base Grimaldi
Krakus System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Launch all squadrons.” Sam Taggart looked around Constellation’s bridge, trying to see through the bravado, to get a read on the true state of her crew’s morale. She was fortunate to have some veterans on the newly launched superbattleship, but she had plenty of freshly minted officers as well, newbs who’d never faced any enemy in battle, much less the dreaded Highborn.
“Yes, Captain. Launch operations underway.” Isaac Johnson at least sounded resolute. Her tactical officer was still a lieutenant, which seemed odd to her at a time when promotions were flying wildly around any spacers with combat experience against the Hegemony. Johnson’s billet rated a commander, and his experience did too. Taggart had no idea why the insignia hadn’t come with the assignment—things like that sometimes just fell between the cracks—but if Constellation made it through the current fight, she was damned sure going to see the oversight was corrected.
“Very well, Lieutenant. Maintain evasive maneuvers, but hold baseline velocity until the wings are launched.” Constellation was gyrating wildly, its vector and thrust changing every half second to ten seconds in a sequence that lay somewhere between exquisitely complex mathematics and pure randomness. The superbattleship was still out of range, at least outside what she believed was the extent of the Highborn targeting envelope, but she wasn’t taking any chances. Other than the base itself, she commanded the strongest ship in the fleet, and she knew whatever chance there was to hold Grimaldi, it would require one hell of a performance from Constellation, and from the giant battlewagon’s mix of veterans and raw spacers.
“Yes, Captain.”
Taggart didn’t like the idea of holding back on acceleration, not until her own guns were in range. Constellation mounted some powerful weaponry, and again, aside from the fortress itself, she outranged everything the Confederation had.
But that still left at least a thirty-thousand-kilometer belt where her ship would be a target before she was able to open fire.
“Flight control estimates four more minutes to complete launch.”
Taggart almost ordered maximum acceleration again, but once more, she held back. Unleashing the engines would complicate the actual launch operations to an extent, but it was the state of the deployed fighter wings that concerned her the most. Launching from an accelerating base ship was problematic. The differing intrinsic velocities of the fighters greatly complicated the process of getting the strike force into formation. Taggart was taking a wild enough chance, assuming the Highborn had no fighters of their own in the battle. All her ships were outfitted as bombers, and she knew if she was wrong, if enemy interceptors appeared and tore her squadrons to bits, she would blame herself…even though Commodore Simpson had given the same orders to the entire fleet.
She watched the chronometer, counting down silently to herself. If she’d timed everything correctly, she’d have the fighters launched and the engines back at full about three minutes before she entered the enemy’s range. Then, depending on the exact evasive maneuvers Constellation engaged—and to a certain extent, that was a choice the AI would make—her vessel would endure approximately four minutes of unanswered fire. That would be worse than usual. Constellation was clearly a choice target, one that could expect a lot of attention from the enemy.
Four minutes…then, if we can get through in any kind of shape, at least it will be a two-sided affair.
Sam Taggart stared coldly at the main display.
Then we’ll get this show started…and we’ll see who really has the stones to fight to the end…
* * *
“Grimaldi has opened fire, Commodore.”
Vandengraf shook hard, the old battleship shuddering from the Highborn beam. The hit hadn’t been dead on, but it had been close enough. Simpson was already reviewing damage reports. They were extensive enough, but he let out a loud sigh of relief when he confirmed that both the reactor and the primaries were still functional. His flagship was about a minute from entering its own firing range, and whatever lay ahead in the battle that had raged already for several hours, it was going to feel good at least to be able to strike back.
For his battleship to strike. The bomber squadrons had already done their part. Simpson had watched, breathless for close to an hour as the neatly ordered formations moved forward. He’d waited the entire time for Highborn interceptors to launch. The ships his fleet faced didn’t match the known specs for enemy carriers—they were too small—but that was far from a guarantee. The Union ships allied to the Highborn had launched a patchwork group of interceptors, but he’d relied on Andrei Denisov’s outnumbered squadrons to take them on. Even if a few got past Denisov’s people, the Union craft were outdated, their designs changed little since the last Union-Confederation war. They weren’t a serious threat, not in small numbers. But if he spotted Highborn interceptors, his bombers, including over five hundred from the squadrons that had still remained based at Grimaldi, were as good as finished.
He’d thought about holding back a fighter reserve, but he’d decided against it. Aside from Grimaldi’s main guns and the magnificent Constellation, the fighters were the heart of his force. And they’d repaid his confidence, and they had hit the enemy hard.
The attack force had paid a heavy price for that success. Even without their own fighters, Highborn ships carried sophisticated poi
nt defense systems, and launching a bombing run against them was never without cost. But his squadrons had dealt out more than they had taken. Four Highborn ships had been destroyed outright, and a dozen more had suffered varying degrees of damage.
Now, it was time for his battleline—or what passed for it—to advance and finish things. He’d timed his advance well, and his heavy ships were coming into range just at the point the enemy was entering Grimaldi’s secondary fire zone.
Simpson had studied tactics at the Academy. He had served under Tyler Barron’s command, witnessed the subtlety of the master’s strategies. But he knew a dirty, bare-knuckled brawl when he saw one…and that’s what lay before his people. There were no fancy maneuvers, no trickery or ruses. His people would just fight. They would kill their enemies—and be killed by them—and the battle would continue until one side had suffered enough.
Or was wiped out.
Simpson’s eyes darted to the end of the display. Constellation had opened fire. The superbattleship had the longest range of any ship in the fleet, and she carried the heaviest armament. Simpson knew Holsten had diverted the behemoth from a planned deployment to the coreward front, and he was grateful. He wasn’t sure his people had a real chance to hold Grimaldi, but he was pretty damned certain that likelihood would be zero without Constellation.
Another Highborn ship exploded, the victim of Constellation’s repeated volleys. The superbattleship not only carried heavier, longer-ranged weaponry, but her antimatter-powered reactors allowed her batteries to recharge quickly and fire again.
The great vessel’s power carried its dangers, too, and he could see half a dozen Highborn ships targeting Constellation, bracketing the massive ship with fire. Sam Taggart was a damned skilled captain, and her evasive maneuvers made her ship a difficult target. But mathematics was ultimately invincible in battle, whether as an ally or an enemy. If the enemy fired enough shots, they would score hits…and if they struck the great ship enough times, they would destroy it.
The black speckled blue Highborn beams lanced all around the Confederation’s newest mobile fortress…and finally one struck home, followed almost immediately by another.
Simpson stared, waiting for Taggart to send him her damage report. He couldn’t tell from the display how badly the two hits had hurt Constellation, but a few seconds later, the big ship fired again. Its railgun was silent, and only twelve of the sixteen primary beams lanced out. Simpson winced, but then he saw that those shots found one of the superbattleship’s tormentors. The Highborn ship shuddered, and its guns went silent.
Simpson could feel his hands clenched in fists, as he simultaneously congratulated Taggart and worried about her and her ship. He’d only been able to watch, to hope for the best, but now he saw the range display drop, and the numbers turned from red to green.
Vandengraf was in range.
He stared across the bridge, his eyes boring into the tactical station with almost physical force.
“All batteries…open fire.”
* * *
“Let’s go…I want every bit of thrust we can get. We’ve got old ships, and damaged ones…but we’re a match for Villieneuve’s forces.” Denisov almost added “one on one,” but he’d held it back at the last minute. Villieneuve’s fleet had been decimated in the civil war, and he owed his victory in every way that mattered to the Highborn. But after the disastrous fight at Montmirail, Denisov’s once stronger force was weaker even than the tattered remnants of Villieneuve’s Union fleet, and his people faced a mismatch of something like three to one.
“All units confirm, Admiral.” The aide’s voice was stern, almost harsh with its defiance. Denisov was stunned at the endurance of his people, at their steadfast commitment. They didn’t have a choice, of course, little but a death sentence awaited them back home…but human beings could only take so much, and his people had been to hell and back.
Now, he was going to take them into fires of hell once again.
He could see his fighters returning, and he had every intention of rearming the battered formations and sending them out again immediately. There was no gain in holding anything back. If the Confederation could hold, his people would have the hope of sanctuary, even of an ally that might one day help them reclaim their homes. But if the enemy broke through Grimaldi…
“Advise returning wings they will have to land while we are engaged. All ships are to link with their platforms’ nav computers before coming in for final approach.” Denisov had never been a fighter pilot, but he’d commanded them long enough to understand just how difficult it was to approach a ship moving under heavy acceleration, one sustaining enemy fire and weaving every which way as its thrust vectors jerked around randomly, trying to foil the enemy targeting computers. Such landings would be utterly impossible without a solid link to the platform’s nav system, but even then, this one was going to be difficult. His squadrons, already savaged in their desperate attack on the enemy, would take more losses landing…and if luck truly ran against Denisov and his tattered force, one or more of the crashing fighters would take out a landing bay, even damage one of his precious few battleships, just as they were in the thick of combat.
“All wings acknowledge, Admiral.”
They acknowledge…but how many of them will get back and land safely…
He didn’t have an answer, not even a reasonable guess. And he didn’t have time to try and come up with one.
He stared straight ahead, doing all he could to put the fighters out of his mind. It was almost time. His ships had endured some Highborn fire, but those deadly vessels were focusing mostly on Grimaldi and the Confed ships approaching them. Villieneuve’s ships were dead ahead, and they would open fire soon…but they wouldn’t be in range a second sooner than Denisov’s ships. The killing would begin in just a moment, but at least it would be a two-sided affair.
Denisov had spent some portion of his time comparing the prospect of torture at Gaston Villieneuve’s hands to slavery under the Highborn. It was a pointless analysis, if only because he would never allow himself to come to either pass. Death in battle, even in defeat, was far preferable. He’d made his choice…and he suspected his spacers had as well. He didn’t like the idea of diminishing the morale of his men and women, but he wondered how steadfast they would be if surrender had been a realistic alternative.
The fighter wings had done well enough, though they’d suffered for it, but the ships of his fleet were grossly inferior to those of their allies, and certainly the Highborn contingent of their enemies. Denisov hadn’t even considered joining Commodore Simpson’s tactic of focusing all fire on the Highborn ships. His old and battered vessels simply didn’t have the firepower to contribute in any meaningful way to that desperate fight. What they could do, could try at least, was to tear into Gaston Villieneuve’s Union ships, to keep them occupied so they couldn’t move against Grimaldi or Simpson’s heavily engaged fleet.
His people couldn’t win, not as outnumbered as they were, but just maybe they could hold Villieneuve long enough for the Confeds to push back the Highborn. He had no idea if that was even possible, or what the chances were…but he knew it was the only possible road to victory. And his people would play their part, do all they could.
There was one other advantage as well, one that struck Denisov at his core. He’d destroyed Gaston Villieneuve’s flagship once before, but the crafty dictator had escaped destruction. The current battle offered a rematch of sorts, another chance to strike, to reach Villieneuve’s ship and to kill the bastard once and for all.
Denisov would face his death with a smile, if he could send Gaston Villieneuve to hell ahead of him.
Chapter Eleven
Free Trader Pegasus
Hexarus Veti System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Lex, how do the engines and the reactor look?” Andi had almost gone down to engineering herself, but something controlled her pointless impulsiveness. She wasn’t sure if it was age, e
xperience, a clear view of just how capable her people were—or a combination of all those things—but a little voice inside told her she could add absolutely nothing to Lex’s read on the system statuses by standing next to him and staring at the reactor shell or the metal tubes of the engine casing. She’d been a decent amateur engineer when she’d had no choice, but Lex was one of the best out there. Not quite an Anya Fritz, perhaps, but just about the closest thing any ragtag crew of Badlands prospectors had ever managed to add to the team.
“Everything looks good, Andi. I’d say we could push a little harder, but there’s always risk to that. Maybe we should stay where we are and hold something back in case we run into an emergency.”
Andi heard Lex’s words, and she agreed with them. Save for one fact.
They were already in an emergency. Not the usual kind Pegasus had faced, enemies chasing the small vessel, or desperate attempts to flee from some cataclysm. No, Andi’s ship had left the emergency behind this time, and as her mind drifted across the lightyears back to Striker, she imagined what might be happening at the base even then. Had the Highborn attacked yet? Was there a terrible battle underway even as she sat on Pegasus’s bridge? Had the fight ended already?