by Jay Allan
The morale of the fleet is surprisingly good, though much of that is based on a lie. The initial euphoria over escaping what appeared to be certain death has been replaced by a new hope, a false one. I hear it in conversations, and I can see it in the attitudes and behaviors around me…the hope that we will find a way back home, that we might blaze a trail through successive warp gates until we emerge in some previously undiscovered portal in a human-settled system.
I have no doubt they are right, at least about the fact that a trail home exists other than through the now-blocked X1:X2 warp gate. But seeking such a course is the last thing we can attempt and, indeed, I will do whatever I must to prevent it. Humanity was saved by the barest margin through the discovery of the enemy’s great bomb and its successful detonation in the single known warp gate leading to human space. We cannot know where our enemy is…or whether they can track us, detect our path. But I cannot take the slightest chance of leading them back with us, for that would mean the death of every human being who now lives.
No, we are lost men and women, fated never to see loved ones, never to walk on familiar shores or gaze upon our homes. We were sacrificed so that mankind could survive, to buy centuries for men to prepare to once again face the First Imperium, and now we must accept that burden…and do nothing to bring doom upon humanity.
But I fear not all will understand and agree. I have officers and personnel from nine superpowers on this fleet—different languages, cultures, philosophies. I will face resistance, perhaps sooner rather than later. I will try to diffuse any disputes, to maintain control with diplomacy whenever possible. But I will not allow any vessels of this fleet to try to find their way back to Earth…whatever I must to do prevent it. I will see this fleet destroyed, all its crew dead, before I will risk the future of the human race.
We are lost now…and lost we will always be.
AS Midway
System X16
The Fleet: 226 ships, 47,918 crew
Terrance Compton was lying on his bunk, his head and shoulders propped up on a pillow. He’d tossed aside his uniform jacket, and it lay crumpled on the floor below the chair he’d been aiming for. He was just grateful to feel the gentle normalcy of one gee of thrust after weeks of being buttoned up in the tanks almost 24/7. The coffin-like structures were designed to allow fleets to engage in high-g maneuvers in battle, not to be used for weeks on end. But with over a thousand First Imperium warships are chasing them, none of that mattered. Compton had squeezed more out of his ships and crews than anyone—including himself—would have believed possible a few months before.
His ships, however, had been pushed as hard as they were going to be—at least until his people did some serious maintenance. No vessels, not even the toughest warships mankind had ever produced, could withstand weeks of nearly endless operation at maximum thrust. There wasn’t a ship in the fleet that didn’t need some kind of repairs, and a significant number required major work.
He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the lack of crushing pressure on his body. A man could actually get a good night’s sleep like this. That is, if a man didn’t have more than physical discomfort keeping him up.
He was halfway through a generously-poured glass of Scotch, a luxury he felt he was due after extricating his fleet from almost certain destruction and finally eluding the relentless pursuit of the enemy. For now, he thought. They’ll find us again. But before they do, we need to do some repairs—and find some supplies.
He reached over and took the glass in hand, raising it slowly to his lips and taking a sip. He relished the taste of the expensive whisky, savoring it as it slipped down his throat. This won’t last long. And when it’s gone, I’ll never see its like again.
He had half a dozen bottles of the 18-year old Scotch, the remainder of a case Augustus Garret had given him on his last birthday. He sighed softly. Of course, the Scotch wasn’t the only thing he’d never see again. It had been almost three months now, and he was still coming to terms with the fact that they were stuck out far beyond the bounds of human-occupied space. Friends, family, home…all were lost to him. To every man and woman on the fleet. They were alive, and that alone was a miracle, but they faced a cold and lonely future—and a very uncertain one too. By any measure, their long-term survival prospects were poor.
Compton had been reading reports, most of them grim, detailing the increasingly dire logistical situation facing the fleet. Thanks to stores on the freighters of the supply task force, he had enough food for his people, for a while, at least. He had ammunition too, though the stocks there had been significantly depleted by the protracted combats of the Sigma-4/X2 campaign. Another big fight would push things into the critical zone, or worse.
But it was reaction mass his ships needed most. They were dangerously low on the tritium/helium-3 fuel they used to power virtually everything, from thrust to weapons—to the nightlight over the fleet admiral’s bed. And if they ran out they would have two choices. Come to a halt and wait until the First Imperium forces found them…or accelerate with the last of their fuel and become a ghost fleet, ripping through deep space until the last of the reserve power ran out…when his vessels would become tombs for their frozen crews.
Fortunately, tritium for his ships’ reactors was something he could find. All he needed was a suitable gas giant, and enough time to build and operate a temporary refining facility in orbit. He’d already sent scouts to the adjacent systems, searching for the hydrogen source he needed. It’s going to be a lot harder to find food…or replace missiles and damaged components. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.
But now he let the small ‘pad he’d been working on slide down the side of his leg, and he picked up an even tinier screen, this one bearing the image of a woman. She looked about 35, but that was only because of the rejuv treatments she’d been receiving since her Academy days.
Elizabeth Arlington was 48 years old, and an admiral in the Alliance Navy. She was known as a fighting officer, and she had performed brilliantly in the desperate battles against the First Imperium. She had been Compton’s flag captain before she got the promotion to flag rank and her own fleet command. Arlington was a rising star in the navy and one of the best in the service. She and Camille Harmon were the likeliest among the next generation to rise to the top command, to succeed to the role Compton had so long filled alongside his closest friend, Augustus Garret.
Compton stared at the small image, the only one he had of her that wasn’t an official navy photo. She was sitting on the couch in the admiral’s quarters on Midway. She was wearing the pants from her off-duty uniform and a gray regulation t-shirt. She’d discarded her boots, and she was leaning back with her knees bent and arms wrapped around her legs, her light brown hair tied back in a long ponytail. The image captured a rare moment of happiness and relaxation amid the almost constant crises of recent years. She had a big smile on her face. Compton remembered the moment well. She had been smiling at him.
Arlington had been more to him than a loyal commander, more than a trustworthy comrade. In truth, he’d loved her—he still loved her. Only now, lying in those same quarters and realizing he would never see her again, did he realize just how strong his feelings were. Just how heartbroken he was to leave her, to know she was gone to him forever.
He regretted not only her loss, but how he’d wasted the time they’d had together. She’d known he cared for her deeply. He was certain of that, just as he was sure of her feelings for him. But he’d never told her how he truly felt, never told her he loved her. It hadn’t ever been the time or the place. And now that time would never come.
She’d been under his direct command for most of the years he’d known her, and Terrance Compton was an honorable man, an officer devoted to duty above all things. He wouldn’t allow his personal desires to interfere with his responsibilities. The Alliance had been fighting the First Imperium, and Compton had refused to endanger either the efficiency of his command or
Arlington’s career by having her pegged as the fleet admiral’s lover. There would be time, he always told himself. One day, they would have time.
But he had been wrong, tragically wrong. Now he knew they would never be together. She was lightyears away, beyond a warp gate that would be scrambled and impassible for centuries. Compton had never been one to fool himself, to salve his pain with lies and false hopes. He would never see her again, he knew. She was lost to him forever, and all he had left of her was one tiny image.
He could feel the moisture in his eyes, and he shook himself out of his reminiscences. “Old fool,” he cursed himself. “Don’t you have enough to do without whimpering like a lovesick boy?”
He slid his legs around abruptly, knocking the ‘pad off the edge of the bunk. It hit the ground with a loud crash. He sighed and stood up, bending down to pick up the now damaged device. So much for supply reports, he thought, staring at the cracked screen, now blank.
He tossed it aside, wondering suddenly how many more were in the cargo holds of the fleet. Almost since the instant his people had eluded their pursuers he’d been thinking of little except but how to obtain supplies, or ways to stretch what his force had, but now the magnitude of the problem truly sunk in. His people had to learn how to find or make everything they needed. Everything. They didn’t have access to factories, to laboratories except those on one of ships—not even a farm to supply basic foodstuffs. A simple device like an infopad would become irreplaceable…unless his people managed to somehow create a facility to manufacture more. And building high tech items meant starting with mining operations to secure the basic silicon and other raw materials. It was beyond daunting, especially with the constant danger of being discovered and attacked by their pursuers.
He stood up slowly, achingly. The weeks in the tank had been hard on him. The rejuv treatments were a biological miracle, slowing the aging process and extending a human lifespan to 130 years or longer. Still, it wasn’t a panacea. Compton was almost 70 years old, a man who had spent most of his life at war, who’d been seriously wounded half a dozen times, who’d spent untold hours in the tanks. He looked like a healthy 45 year old, and in many ways he had the physiology of man that age. But he still had 69 years of hard use on his body, and sometimes he felt every day of his true age.
He took one last look at Elizabeth’s image, and then he walked across the room and carefully put the small viewer away in one of his desk drawers. There would be time later to mourn lost love. Now he had work to do. More work than he’d ever faced before.
* * *
“Admiral, we’re receiving a transmission from Captain Duke.”
Compton nodded. “Very well commander. Put it on speaker.” Jack Cortez was working out well as Max Harmon’s replacement. Compton had been hesitant to let his longtime tactical officer go, but he finally realized he needed Harmon elsewhere, keeping an eye on things on the other ships. His longtime aide was still assigned to Midway, but he spent a lot of his time now shuttling around the fleet. Ostensibly, his job was to inspect ships for damage and supply status and to create a priority system for repairs. In reality, he was spying for Compton, listening for signs of discontent among the various crews.
Compton was well aware his fleet was not an Alliance force, but a conglomeration made up of vessels from nine different Superpowers. Many of the spacers and soldiers under his command had been enemies for years, and they’d been thrown together only by the threat of annihilation at the hands of the First Imperium. It had been a difficult situation even under the auspices of the Grand Pact, humanity’s alliance against the enemy. But now, lost in the depths of space, he knew it was only a matter of time before he faced dissent and challenges to his authority. His success in saving the fleet from certain destruction had bought him some time, but he knew enough about people to understand that wouldn’t last long. The threat of the enemy stifled dissent and solidified his power, but with each system they passed without pursuit, he knew the other voices would grow bolder…and more would listen to them.
“Admiral Compton, I have good news.” The sound of John Duke’s deep voice blasted from the bridge speakers.
“Well we could sure use some, John,” Compton replied. “So let’s hear it.”
Compton had sent Duke’s fast attack ships out to scout the systems around the fleet, looking for a gas giant with large tritium resources. It had been a matter of economy as well as caution to send the small ships out while the main force waited. The fleet was already dangerously low on fuel—stopping and looking for resupply hadn’t seemed a priority when the First Imperium forces were still on their tail. But now Compton’s ships had barely enough reserves for a last fight if one came upon them. He wasn’t about to burn that up dragging 226 ships all over uncharted space looking for a tritium source when Duke’s ships could do the job.
“The fifth planet in X18 looks like a great prospect. The probe readings were phenomenal for tritium concentrations…and there’s plenty of helium-3 too. And planet four looks like a paradise. I’d say it might be a place to check out for any potential foodstuffs.”
Compton nodded, more to himself than anything. We’ve got to come up with something better than numbering these new systems X-whatever. “That is good news, John. We need that tritium.” He paused then added, with somewhat lesser enthusiasm, “And we’ll check out planet four too. Maybe we’ll get lucky.”
He wasn’t optimistic about finding naturally-occurring edibles in any significant quantity. When man had first burst out into space, he found that habitable worlds were far more common than anyone had expected. Many of these were teeming with plant life, and a fair percentage had a considerable range of animal species as well. But few of these proved viable as human food sources, and most colony worlds produced the bulk of their sustenance from transplanted Earth species. The fleet had the seed stores to plant over a large area, but that meant remaining in one place for a planet’s growing season, and that was out of the question right now.
“Transmitting probe data to Midway now, sir,” Duke said.
“That’s fine, John. Excellent job. Let’s wait until the rest of your scouts return. If they haven’t found anything more promising—and it seems unlikely they can top this—I want you to take your whole task force back to X18, along with enough support ships to start constructing a refinery to harvest that tritium. You can scout the system more closely while the engineering teams complete their work. Also, I want you to send scouts into X18’s warp gates. Make sure the neighboring systems are clear before I bring the rest of the fleet through.
“Yes, Admiral.”
“And once again, John, you did a tremendous job. Please pass my gratitude along to your people. Compton out.” He turned toward Cortez. “Commander, send a message to Commander Davies. Advise him we have found what appears to be a suitable tritium source. He is to be ready to move out with his team in two days.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez answered.
“And let’s take the fleet off a battle footing, at least for a while. This system looks clear, and we’ve got scouts in the adjacent ones.” He paused, letting out a long exhale. “And it’s high time our people got a chance to relax…even if it’s only a few hours.”
The fleet’s battle status had essentially restricted the crews to duty, eating, and sleeping. But he knew his people needed to have some downtime or they’d go crazy. If there was one thing a lifetime of war had taught Compton, it was to take whatever chances he could to let his people recover. Otherwise they became more and more frazzled, and their combat readiness began to decline.
With any luck, he figured, he could top off the fleet’s fuel supplies and move on before the enemy found them. But he had to make sure that when they continued, they’d all be together, that no dissension pulled them apart. Because when they set out again, the direction was going to away from home, and deeper into the vastness of unexplored space…into the darkness.
* * *
“I want to thank y
ou all for coming here. I apologize about the cloak and dagger feel of it, but you are all officers I trust completely.” Compton sat behind his desk, looking out over the group crowded together in his quarters. “For a variety of reasons I did not want to conduct this meeting over the fleet’s normal com systems…or even in the conference room.”
He could see the confusion on most of their faces, though it looked like a few of them had an idea of what was on his mind. At least some of it. He doubted anyone else had reached the same level of concern he had.
“Speak your mind, Terrance. There’s nobody here who thinks your caution is unwarranted.” Barret Dumont’s voice was deep and gravelly. Everyone present knew he was likely to cut through the nonsense and come right to the point. He had another distinction—he was the only person in the fleet who had once outranked Terrance Compton.
“Thank you, Barret. I intend to.” Compton looked around the room. “I doubt that surprises anyone here.”
A wave of subdued laugher rippled through the room, but everyone was too nervous to sustain it. They’d been expecting Compton to address longer term plans for weeks now, and the fact that he sought to do it among his closest supporters suggested he suspected trouble of some kind.
“I’m not sure how many of you know that Admiral Dumont was my CO back in the day.” Compton smiled and glanced around again at the group he had assembled. “For you youngsters out there, back in the day means during the Second Frontier War—and the admiral here was in command of both Augustus Garret and me. And I can tell you, he used to scare the hell out of us.”
Another round of laughter, stronger this time. Compton suspected few of the officers in the room could imagine Admiral Garret cringing before anyone.