by Jay Allan
The implications of that were unpleasant, certainly. Stockton had immense knowledge about the organization and training of the Highborn fighter corps. He was also, without question, the foremost pilot in or near the Rim. He would be a valuable asset to his old comrades…if he was able to return to his former role.
That was the question Tesserax couldn’t answer. Humans were by nature illogical. He could imagine the difficulty inherent in Stockton’s reintegration after all that had happened. The analytical argument was beyond question. He was an invaluable asset. But would his old pilots follow him as they once had? That was more a question of inferior species behavior than it was one of cold analysis.
There was another question in his mind. Was Stockton truly free of the Collar? Tesserax had no specific knowledge of a previous instance of Collar failure. Was the device implanted in Stockton dead…or was it simply damaged? Might it reassert control? Even a reasonable threat of such an instance would make it impossible for the Rimdwellers to place him back in command of their wings.
And what were the potential complications of Collar failure? The device was heavily integrated with the subject’s central nervous system. No Collar had ever been removed to Tesserax’s knowledge, not without killing the host. Could Stockton live for an extended period with the device inoperative but still attached to his spinal cord and brain? Or would it slowly kill him?
Tesserax didn’t have those answers…but he knew the surest route to solving the current problem was destroying Stockton’s ship immediately. The training the Confederation pilot had provided could be replicated, and his tactics could be used against his former comrades…with or without him at the head of the wings. The only important matter just then was to ensure the Confeds didn’t get Stockton back.
“Division Seventeen is to close at maximum possible thrust.”
Chapter Thirty-One
Forward Base Striker
Vasa Denaris System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Break off, Lynx. Get your people the hell out of here now.” Jake Stockton had fallen almost subconsciously into the use of the old call signs. The practice of assigning such designations to pilots had faded somewhat with the massive expansion of the fighter corps, but Stockton and Olya Federov were both old school.
Stockton’s hands were moving over his controls, almost in a blur. He was flying his ship in a wild pattern, struggling to evade the dozen ships on his tail. He’d just jerked his throttle hard to port, and he’d used the positioning thrusters to turn his ship almost one hundred eight degrees, opening up on the two closest pursuers and blasting both to atoms. He felt a rush, the usual satisfaction at the kill. The feeling was almost intoxicating, one he hadn’t experienced in five years. The Collar had controlled his actions, forced him to fight against his own people, but he’d never experienced pleasure in it.
That was one small mercy.
“It’s not happening, Raptor. We’ll figure out what happened, work through it…but if you don’t come back with me, all you’re going to achieve is getting half the pilots in this wing killed. Now, break off, and head back to Dauntless…before this new wave of enemy ships gets here.”
Stockton had seen the formation launch from the newly arrived carriers. He’d already known the Highborn were aware of his defection—that was why the ships around him were attacking—but seeing three hundred more fighters heading toward him told him just how furious Tesserax had to be.
He smiled as he thought of the Highborn commander, a twisted grin that, in every way except words themselves, said ‘eat shit.’
“Lynx, forget about me. You shouldn’t even know I’m out here. I did all I could…I don’t have anything left to offer. Just let me go…”
Stockton knew even as he spoke how futile his words were. Of all the pilots in the fleet, Federov was probably the least likely to give up on him. The last two Blue Squadron pilots have to stick together…
It was a pleasant thought, and for an instant he wanted to do as she said, to turn toward the fleet. But there was no way back. He had no right to expect his people to take him back, forgive him for all he had done. He’d never forgive himself. Worse, perhaps, the Collar was still implanted in his spine. It seemed to be deactivated, but he couldn’t be sure. If he was back on Dauntless, or anywhere in the fleet, what would happen if the device took control again? Would he sabotage a ship, shoot one of his comrades? No…he couldn’t take the chance.
But if he didn’t do as Federov asked, she wouldn’t leave. Neither would her pilots. They just might best the force currently chasing after him, though that was still a big question mark, but even if they managed it, they’d never be able to face the fresh wave of incoming ships.
He had to end the fight. He had to stop their rescue attempt. Words wouldn’t do it. Nothing he said would wear Federov down, he knew that. She would only leave if there was no longer a reason to stay.
He knew how to do that. All he had to do was loosen his grip on the throttle…and then close his eyes and wait. It wouldn’t take more than a few seconds, maybe a minute. Then, one of his pursuers would realize he was on a fixed course and blast his ship to plasma. His long nightmare would finally be over.
He looked down at his hand, still moving wildly. He’d planned this moment for years, longed for the release death would provide from the hell he’d endured. But Jake Stockton’s self-preservation instinct was like a force of nature. It was almost impossible for him to just give up.
His eyes moved to the screen, just in time to see two of Federov’s ships destroyed. His stubbornness, his inability to yield, was costing his old comrades dearly. He couldn’t let that happen. The immovable force of his will to fight met the irresistible force of saving his old comrades.
He sighed softly, and his hand loosened its grip, letting go of the throttle.
Letting go of everything.
* * *
Tyler Barron sat in the center of Striker’s vast control center. His eyes were fixed on the display, on the fleet formations, as his battleline moved forward to meet the enemy’s. His thoughts were on the lower decks of the great station, however, with Bryan Rogan and his Marines. The Highborn boarders had hit dozens of ships, but the force that attacked Striker was by far the largest. Rogan had almost fifteen thousand Marines on the station, many of them the accidental bounty of Barron’s plan to assign them to repair duties. That had been a lucky break, but it was becoming clear it wasn’t likely to be enough.
The Highborn troops outnumbered the Marines by a significant margin. Barron didn’t have any reliable numbers, but he’d pieced together reports from Rogan and Carruthers, and it added up to at least fifty thousand enemy shock troops. Barron had faith in his Marines, but he was far from sure they could hold against a force that size. Worst of all, perhaps, they had lost most of the inherent advantage of defending. There were dozens of locations on the base they had to hold—bays, weapons, reactors, the central data center—and the enemy could pick and choose their targets. Without knowing why they had come—to disrupt the station, as a suicide attack to destroy it, to assassinate key figures in the Pact command structure—it was impossible to predict where they would focus the greatest concentration of their forces.
“Admiral, we’re getting multiple reports from battleships on the line. Most have contained the boarding parties, and the others are close to doing so. Thirty-one ships in total have been boarded, but it appears Striker was the target of the vast majority of the enemy forces.”
Of course, cut off the head. They want to take out the command staff.
They want to kill me.
Barron wondered if he should be particularly afraid or angry, but the whole thing seemed coldly analytical to him. He would be no less dead if a Highborn soldier shot him in his chair than if an enemy beam ripped into the control center and fried him to ashes. He was not beyond fear, but he’d seen so many desperate fights, escaped so many close calls, he’d come to deal with it in a cold
and detached way. He didn’t want to die, but he’d learned to put concerns about it out of his mind. He would fight with all the skill and ability he had, and he and his spacers would prevail…or death would finally find him.
“Send a communique to Admiral Winters. He is to assume overall command if Striker is knocked off the fleetnet, or…disrupted in any other way.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And advise Admiral Travis to be prepared to assist Admiral Winters.”
He knew he should have made the call to Atara himself. But he couldn’t. It would sound too much like goodbye.
Barron looked down at the station maps on his small display. He could see where Bryan Rogan was planning the last stand. The Marine hadn’t called it quite that, of course, but Barron knew enough about combat to see it for what it was. If the enemy breached that line, scattered groups of Marines might stage a few running firefights, but they wouldn’t be able to keep the enemy from reaching the control center.
“Lieutenant…” Barron shouted out to one of the Marines on duty, standing at attention along the far wall.
“Admiral, sir!”
“Open the weapons lockers, Lieutenant. I want all control center personnel fully armed.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
Barron didn’t know if Rogan could hold back the enemy, and he didn’t know what would happen if the Highborn broke through and reached the control room. He just knew what damned sure wasn’t going to happen.
His command staff weren’t going to sit passively by while the enemy killed them. No, sir…if the Highborns’ Thralls wanted the control center, they were going to have to fight for every damned millimeter of it.
* * *
“Shift engineering team D to the deck fourteen junction. We need power to the forward weapons, and we’re down to one functioning feed.” Sonya Eaton was snapping out orders, surprising herself with her focus and the cold, demanding tone of her voice. She’d always been the quieter of the two Eaton sisters, the one who’d struggled a bit more with the responsibilities of command. But no more.
There are no Eaton sisters anymore…it’s just you, and you’ve got a job to do…
Sonya had expected a difficult battle, a bitter and costly fight. But the idea of fighting a twin of Colossus had never entered her mind. She’d come into the battle certain her own ship was the strongest unit on either side, save for Striker itself. Now, she was staring at a virtual reflection, and her people were locked in desperate battle with a ship that had everything they had.
And it’s all newer…
Colossus had never been 100% functional, at least not up to its old imperial standards. Hegemony and then Confederation technology had simply not been up to repairing every age-withered system. The Highborn ship appeared to be fully operational, a virtual clone of what Colossus had likely been, centuries before, right out of the shipyard. And Eaton’s ship still carried damage from the last fight, with hasty patches holding some systems together.
The duel between the two great ships appeared even at first glance, but Eaton knew her ship, and her crew, were outmatched. That was an inescapable fact, but it wasn’t one she was going to let defeat her. Colossus was going to win the fight. It was going to take down its enemy…whatever it took.
“Commodore, engineering reports fraying in reactor nine’s shielding.”
“More power to the magnetic field. Bring life support functions down to minimal sustenance levels in secondary areas of the ship. Reduce lighting ten percent shipwide.” Sonya didn’t have exact figures on power production and consumption, but with Colossus at battlestations, even the vast array of reactors powering the great vessel were overtaxed. She couldn’t lose any of the reactors…but thermonuclear reactions were dangerous things to handle. If the shielding continued to deteriorate, she’d lose the reactor entirely…and that would shut down a section of the weapons array. All she could do was cut back on non-essential power expenditures and hope her people down on the lower decks could keep things functioning.
A shout made its way around the bridge, as one of Colossus’s main batteries scored a hit. The enemy ship was as large and powerful as her own, but they two combatants had closed steadily on each other, and at short range, even the most immense vessels showed their wounds. The scanner displayed small, fizzy lines extending from the ship, eruptions of air and debris billowing out from the stricken areas. She felt her own burst of excitement, tempered somewhat by her realization that the battle was far from over. Her casualties had been light so far, but she knew that wouldn’t last.
Almost in answer, the ship lurched, and her screen flooded with preliminary damage reports. The Highborn had answered her hit with one of their own.
She stared at the data coming in, the list of newly battered systems. It looked bad enough, but maybe not quite as critical as she’d feared at first. At least the reactors were all still functional, and Colossus’s main weapons remained operational, minus a handful of battered turrets.
“I want reactor output pushed to the max…all but number nine. Let’s see if we can shave a few seconds off those recharging sequences…”
* * *
“They’re pushing toward the control center, Seb. I’m setting up a defensive line from sections C-3 to E-7, trying to keep them back. I need you to cover the engineering spaces. The fighters should be launching in twenty minutes or so…and then you can pull back from delta and gamma bays. We’ll have to figure out what to do when those ships get back, but right now we don’t have the strength to hold everywhere.”
“I’ve got it, General. You worry about the command center. I’ll start pulling out the second the last of those Lightnings takes off.” A pause. “If we shut down reactor six, I can shorten my line quite a bit, maybe even throw together some kind of fire brigade to serve as a reserve force.”
“I’ll check with the admiral, see if he can do without the power.”
“We probably can’t hold it anyway, at least not for more than an hour. If that. If we pull back now, we might be able to strengthen our positions at other threatened points.”
“Get your plan ready…but don’t start withdrawing until I get the admiral’s okay.” Rogan cut the line, and he turned to the small cluster of officers standing behind him. “You all have your assigned places. Get your Marines in position…and grab all the cover you can get. If the enemy gets past us here, we’ll be fighting in the control room. Now, go!”
Rogan tapped his comm until, activating his direct line to Barron.
“Bryan, what’s your status?”
“My people are pulling back, setting up a defensive position around the control center. The enemy seems to be targeting your position, sir. We’re going to try to hold them here, but…” Rogan paused. Failing Tyler Barron wasn’t in his lexicon, but lying to the admiral wasn’t either.
“But you don’t know if you can hold. Do your best, Bryan.”
“Admiral…I’d like to pull back from reactor six. It’s a bulge in our lines, and we can rationalize our positions better if we don’t have to defend it.” A short pause. “All our reserves are committed, sir. If I can at least pull a few units back, I’ll have something to plug any holes. Or Seb Carruthers will.” Rogan wasn’t moving from where he was until the control center was secure.
“Alright, Bryan. It’ll take ten minutes to shut the thing down and flush the antimatter, but then I’ll pull back the engineers. Maybe fifteen minutes total, and then you can withdraw and bring your Marines back to the new defense line.”
“Thank you, Admiral.”
Rogan turned and he looked behind him. There were about twenty Marines lined up, weapons ready. They were disheveled, and several had haphazardly dressed flesh wounds, but every one of them was grim and ready to get back into the fight.
He tapped his comm again. “Alright, Seb…you’ve got to hold reactor six for fifteen minutes. Once it’s down and the engineers have pulled out, you are to execute a fighting withdrawal back to Line Black
.” Rogan had been second guessing the designation since he’d first uttered the foreboding title, but he couldn’t argue it was damned appropriate. If the enemy pushed through his forces in any of those sectors, there was no place to mount another organized defense. The battle would move into the heart of the station, and his Marines would be split into a dozen divided factions, defending different vital locations.
He felt the urge to run down and join the forces there…but he was already in an even more important spot. If the enemy took the control center, they’d have the station…and they’d have Admiral Barron, too. And Bryan Rogan wasn’t going to allow that, whatever it took.
Whatever it took.
* * *
“The ship is secure, your Supremacy.” The warrior was disorderly, his hair a wild mess, his uniform torn and stained with blood in several places. But he beamed with pride as he faced his ruler. “My blade has even tasted blood this day. Palatian honor shines as the sun itself.”
Vian Tulus looked down at the officer. Intellectually, he knew the fact that his people were fighting aboard their own ships to maintain control was not a good thing. But like the soldier before him, he felt exhilarated. He regretted only that his position had not permitted him to race down to the lower decks and plunge into the battle himself.
“You have indeed brought honor up on yourself, Commander, along with all of your warriors. You will find me grateful when this great struggle has ended.”
The warrior bowed his head solemnly, holding it until Tulus spoke again.
“Go now, see to your warriors and your wounded…and bring them my words of praise and pride.”
The warrior stood, snapping to attention and pausing for a few seconds before he turned and left the bridge.