by Jay Allan
‘Lynx’ Federov wasn’t about to sit out the rest of the battle.
She wasn’t about to wait ten minutes before she launched again…at least she wasn’t if she could commandeer a ship that was ready to launch.
* * *
“Bring us in…closer.” Sonya Eaton practically screamed the order, but the words came out of her raspy, hoarse throat as barely more than a whisper. The battle between Colossus and its counterpart had redefined the term, ‘brutal.’ A quarter of her crew were dead or wounded, and she would have bet things were at least as bad on the enemy ship. Her vessel, a scrap of imperial glory reinvented, was practically gutted, half its reactors shut down, the others working at some fraction of normal output. The engines were down to less than twenty percent, and at least three-quarters of the vessel’s vast array of weapons were offline. And for many of them, ‘offline’ meant blasted into twisted, molten wrecks.
But Colossus was still in the fight, and so was her opponent. Sonya Eaton wouldn’t stop—couldn’t stop—until one of the great combatants was utterly defeated.
“Commodore, the engine room reports more damage. Internal fires in the adjoining sections are still out of control. Less than ten percent thrust is available.”
“Then ten percent will have to do, Commander. Bring us in…closer.” Sonya’s eyes glowed with a magnificent combination of raw courage and madness. Colossus had seemed indestructible to her when she’d first taken command, a war machine so large and powerful, she hadn’t been able to conceive it being defeated, much less destroyed. But as she looked around the debris-strewn bridge, and at the monitors filled with damage reports, it became far easier to imagine.
She felt the thrust kick in. The dampeners were among the systems that had been reduced to charred wreckage, and the 2.5g that Colossus’s once mighty engines managed to generate slammed into her like more than twice her body weight.
She looked up at the screen, counting the enemy weapons still firing. Her enemy had one main gun still in the fight, and seven or eight secondary turrets. That was a fraction of the ship’s total armament, but it was enough to finish Colossus. Her own vessel had lost its entire main array, but she had fourteen of the ship’s secondaries still operational, also a fraction of its initial strength…and also enough to take down its crippled adversary.
She watched as the range between the two ships began to shrink, dipping below twenty thousand kilometers. Closing benefited Colossus. Without any of the longer-ranged main guns, each thousand meters closer increased the power of the great laser cannons the ship still had in the fight.
Sonya watched as a series of laser blasts slammed into her target, even as Colossus shook as it received a pair of hits in return. She could hear klaxons in the distance, and other signs of damage to her tortured ship, but she kept her eyes from the screen. She didn’t need details…she didn’t want them. The battle was almost over, and there wasn’t time to complete any repairs. There wasn’t time to change her battle plan. She was going to bring Colossus right down the enemy’s throat, blasting with everything she had left. One of the ships in the desperate duel was going to die…and soon.
“Range fifteen thousand kilometers and closing.”
Sonya nodded, but she didn’t look over at her aide’s station, didn’t move her head at all. Her eyes were focused, locked on the growing image of her enemy on the main screen.
She muttered softly under her breath. “You’re going to hell, you son of a bitch…if I have to grab you and jump into the pit myself…”
Colossus shook again, just a few seconds later, and a massive series of explosions erupted inside. Sonya finally turned as the rumbling sound moved steadily toward the bridge…and then the far wall erupted into a furious maelstrom, sending bursts of flame and a storm of metal shards and debris flying all across the massive room.
* * *
“We’ve got to pull back, General. That’ll buy us some time, at least.”
“How much time, Captain? The control center has vital systems all around…and key personnel. If the enemy troops get there, we’re one small step from losing the whole station.” And one shot away from losing Admiral Barron…
“We’re going to lose it here no matter what we do. If we pull back, we can drop some obstacles, set up some kill zones, delay the enemy’s pursuit. And we can link up with the forces already deployed in the control center. That’s twenty Marines, right? Can you honestly say we don’t need that extra force?”
Rogan heard his subordinate’s words, and he knew they were all correct. His mind swirled around, wondering how, with more than fifteen thousand Marines on the vast station, a mere twenty reinforcements had become so vital. You don’t have fifteen thousand Marines anymore…
He had no idea how many of his people were dead, or how many were wounded, either in one of the sickbays or aid stations…or by themselves somewhere, lying in some corridor, groaning in pain. His gut told him half his people, at least, were casualties, and thousands more were cut off in smaller groups, fighting in a hundred different sections of the great fortress.
Rogan leaned out, around the end of the corridor, and he raised his rifle. He fired five or six bursts across the room, before he pulled back under a hail of return fire. He told himself he’d scored a hit, taken one of the enemy down. But he knew that was a wild guess at best, and even more likely, just wishful thinking.
He knew he had to answer the officer. He had to make a decision. But he didn’t know what to do.
Then he heard a shout from across the room, a Highborn officer yelling out to his troops. He knew immediately what was happening. “Prepare to repel!” he shouted, and even as the words left his lips, a wave of enemy troops came rushing across, moving toward his position, firing as they came. He knelt down and brought his rifle to bear again, opening fire at full auto, along with the Marines positioned along the end of the room and in the three corridors.
The fire was withering, and Thrall soldiers began falling, dropping in clusters in some spots, two and three at a time. But they ignored their losses and kept coming. Rogan was trying to keep track of his Marines, but he knew his primary role just then was as another rifleman. If his people could pour enough fire into the attackers, they could beat back the assault…and, if not, the enemy would burst through to the control room almost immediately. The Marines already there would put up a fight, of course, but they didn’t have the strength to stop the enemy.
Rogan was pumping his finger, aiming and firing controlled bursts. He dropped two of the attackers in rapid succession, but the Thralls kept coming, firing as they did. His own people were exposing themselves somewhat as they aimed their own fire, and he could see he’d lost at least four or five so far. The enemy casualties were triple that, at least, but still, they surged forward.
Rogan could feel his heart pounding, and for an instant, he lost hope. His people weren’t going to stop the attack. They were going to be overrun…and the enemy would press on to the control center. The admiral was going to be killed or captured.
No!
A wave of fury took Rogan, an unwillingness to allow things to come to such a pass. He lunged forward, into the room, crouching behind a pile of debris next to the bodies of two of his Marines. He opened fire again, using his vantage point to cut a swath through the advancing soldiers. Three of the enemy dropped, then a fourth.
He could see shadowy movements off to the side, more of his Marines following his lead, pushing forward, pouring fire into the attackers almost in enfilade. For a few seconds, Rogan wondered if any amount of punishment would push the attackers back. Then, he saw it, an almost visible ripple in the ragged Thrall line…and a few seconds later, it was over. The enemy slipped back to their own cover, and the struggle reverted back to the sustained firefight it had been moments before.
Rogan could only guess how many enemy troopers had been killed, but he knew with certainty that repelling the assault had been costly to his own Marines, as well. There were at l
east a dozen casualties, and that didn’t count walking wounded.
The enemy attack had done something else as well. It had convinced him his people couldn’t hold their position. There was no choice but to pull back and join up with the forces in the control room for one last desperate defense…a fight to the finish.
He turned to tell the captain his decision…but the man wasn’t next to him anymore. Rogan looked around and behind him…and his eyes settled on the officer. The man was down, lying on his back and the floor all around was covered in blood.
Rogan slid back, careful to keep his head down, and he reached out, his hands moving toward the buckles to remove the stricken Marine’s armor. But he stopped almost immediately as he realized the captain was dead.
He shook his head, drawing in a deep breath and holding it for a few seconds. The battle on Striker had been costly and blood soaked, but staring down at the officer he’d been talking to just moments before bore down on Rogan’s will like some irresistible torrent. Even Marines had their breaking points. But Rogan had one thing still holding him up. One mission that rose above all, that transcended any pain or loss.
He had to defend Tyler Barron. The enemy wanted to kill or capture the Pact’s great admiral, and Bryan Rogan had only one thing to say to that.
Not on my watch…
“We’re pulling back,” she shouted. “Fighting withdrawal to the control room. Evens…go! Odds, covering fire for thirty seconds.”
It was time for the final stand. Time for Bryan Rogan to show his comrades and his enemies just what a Marine was.
* * *
Captain Givens stared out the small porthole on the shuttle, shaking his head as his eyes scanned the exterior of Fortress Striker. The station was been blasted hard in the fight, and whole sections were torn open, reduced to scrap. But the truly bizarre sight was the mass of troopships, at least two hundred of them, docked all across the vast construction’s hull.
That’s why we’re here…
Givens winced slightly as he moved his arm. He’d taken a light wound in the fighting on Dauntless. It was irritating, but nothing that was going to keep him out of the coming battle.
Admiral Travis had been brutally clear. The situation on Striker was unknown…but very likely critical. His Marines, and the others then in route—Marines, Kriegeri, and Palatian stormtroopers alike, all survivors from the contingents on more than forty of the fleet’s line vessels—were to land wherever they could and join in the fight. She hadn’t said, ‘save Striker and Admiral Barron or don’t come back,’ but the brutal reality of the situation had been clear anyway.
Givens wasn’t in overall command of the relief effort. No one was. There was almost no coordination. The shuttles coming in had been dispatched from all across the fleet, and they were approaching in a ragged line stretching at least twenty thousand kilometers. It was no invasion, no coordinated strike…it was a few dozen small forces all hitting at different times and in different spots. But the approaching forces, Givens’s people and all the others, were the only reserves available, the only help the defenders on Striker could hope to receive. Reports suggested the fight there was going badly…and that meant there wasn’t time to hold back, to organize a coordinated assault. The battle would be won, if it was won, by every hundred Marines pouring into the melee from a shuttle, fighting, breaking through, bolstering a defensive position…or being wiped out if they landed in the wrong spot.
Givens knew he should be scared. His people had already fought a nasty battle against the enemy forces that had boarded Dauntless. Now they were stuffed into a shuttle, racing into the unknown. But his blood was up. Admiral Barron was on Striker. The Corps worshipped the admiral, and Givens would sacrifice himself and all his Marines if need be to save the Confederation’s hero. And General Rogan was on the fortress as well. Rogan was the most beloved commandant in the hundred twenty-year history of the Confederation Marines. There was no risk too great, no sacrifice too profound…not when the call of duty cried out so loudly.
Givens looked out again. The gray steel surface of the fortress’s hull filled almost his entire field of view. The shuttle would be docking within just a minute or two. Then his people would begin the fight…and they wouldn’t stop until Striker was secure, or every one of them was dead.
Chapter Thirty-Five
CFS Dauntless
Vasa Denaris System
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
Dammit, those things are tough…
Dirk Timmons looked out as the enemy squadrons opened fire. His people had done well enough in the exchange of ship to ship missiles, but now that the formations had closed, the real dogfight had begun. And the enemy ships weren’t responding only with their lasers. They had another weapon system, a barrage of tiny bits of superheavy metals launched at high speeds—a high tech shotgun—and the weapons were tearing whole swaths in his ranks.
“Crank up those evasive routines…double the rates!” It was all he could think of, but even as he gave the order, he knew it would do little good. It was already clear the enemy weapon had been designed specifically to counter the Pact squadrons’ maneuvers. A laser struck a specific target, in one exact location. But the enemy scatterguns were sending out a cloud of projectiles covering several hundred meters or more…and a single hit struck with enough force to obliterate a fighter.
Timmons poked at his scanners, trying to get some kind of read on the density of those projectile clouds. Some of his ships passed through them unscathed, which meant the projectiles were scattered out with large spaces between them. But it was also clear that any ship caught in the cone of the enemy weapon had about a twenty-five percent chance of being blasted to oblivion…in spite of their evasive maneuvers.
Timmons angled his throttle, moving his thrust vector to starboard, and he held it there for perhaps ten seconds. Then he swung it back to port, holding it almost as long there. Extending the duration of the evasive maneuvers would help upset the scattergun targeting, but it would reduce the effectiveness of the defensive routines against enemy lasers. It also made it more difficult to maintain a constant overall course.
His eyes moved between the three small screens in front of him, and he winced each time, as small dots winked out in groups…every one of them a Pact fighter damaged or destroyed.
“Full thrust…all units. Close until you can see their eyes…and then blow them out of space.” It wasn’t an elegant plan, but it was all he had. The enemy weapon had an effective range, a point past which even the dense cloud of projectiles became too spread out to pose a major danger to incoming ships. But it had a minimum range, too, at least in a way.
The projectiles tore out from the launchers in a conical shape…and close enough to the firing ship, the area of effectiveness was small and much easier to avoid.
“Watch your scanners…those things come out in a cone. Track the dispersal patterns, and you can figure out the danger zones. Get in close enough, and you can avoid them entirely.” Timmons knew that fit securely in the ‘easier said than done’ category, but he also knew if his people couldn’t avoid those scatterguns, his casualty levels were going to make what they had done to the enemy in the first engagement look like a calm stroll on a beach somewhere.
He came around, moving toward a pair of enemy fighters, and as he did, he realized another advantage of getting in close. The enemy weapons were unusable when other Highborn fighters were also in the area of effect.
Or at least, they’ll have to take out their own to get us…
So far, the enemy had not been that desperate.
Timmons didn’t much like relying on the Highborns’ unwillingness to sacrifice their own Thralls to destroy Pact craft…but he wasn’t exactly swimming in options just then.
He pressed his fingers, and his lasers lanced out, taking down one of the fighters in front of him. The enemy had changed their evasive routines as expected, but at less than a hundred kilometers, blasting them was like
shooting fish in a barrel.
Don’t forget…that goes both ways…
Timmons focused on his own flying, doing all he could to remain a difficult target. But he had to take down enemy fighters, too…as many as possible.
Before those scatterguns gutted his strike force.
* * *
“Admiral…please. Stay down behind the barricade.” Bryan Rogan was staring at Barron, his eyes pleading with the admiral.
Barron looked back at his comrade, his friend. He stood a meter from his command chair, grasping an assault rifle. “This is our fight, Bryan, all of ours.” Barron was scared, but he was determined not to admit it. He’d faced countless dangers in his long career, stared into the eyes of death more than once. But his nerve had been steeled facing threats to the ships and bases he’d commanded. There was something raw and primal about the kind of fight that was heading his way. He’d always respect the Marines, and the kind of elemental courage that allowed them to push forward into enemy fire.
“Admiral…this is my job, not yours. You’ve got a fleet out there that needs you. Let me do what I’ve trained to do, so you can do the same.” Rogan’s voice had an edge. Barron knew it was born of anxiety, of the Marine’s desperate need to keep him safe. Still, it was the harshest tone Rogan had ever directed at him, and he was surprised.
“Okay, Bryan…to a point. Set up your defenses, and I’ll keep the most vital officers at the stations behind the barricade. But I want everybody fully armed and ready to fight. Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral.” Rogan looked as though he was about to say something else, but then a pair of Marines came bursting into the control room.
“The enemy, General…they’re coming.”
Rogan looked back at Barron, for just a second, and then he raced to the center of the room, shouting out orders to the Marines present. Rogan had the twenty he’d left in the room, plus thirty-one more he’d brought back from the previous position. Akella had ordered her own Kriegeri bodyguards to join the Marines and follow Rogan’s orders.