Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  She was lying against a large bulkhead, silent, motionless. Connor Frasier was there already, his massive armored figure crouched over her.

  Cutter stumbled across the deck, dropping to his knees next to her. “Ana,” he said urgently. “Ana?” But there was no response.

  “She is alive, Doctor, but I’m afraid she’s badly hurt.” He gestured toward the side of her head. Her hair was matted with blood.

  “Ana…”

  “She needs help right away, Doctor. Or she’s going to die.”

  Cutter stared down helplessly, reaching out and putting his hand gently on her shoulder. A few seconds later, he saw movement in his peripheral vision, and he turned to see Frasier lying down on the deck. And instant after that he heard a loud popping sound.

  The gargantuan suit of armor popped open like a clamshell, and all 190 centimeters and 110 kilograms of Connor Frasier climbed out, stark naked. He turned quickly toward Ana.

  “We have to get her in my armor. My med system can save her.” Marine armor was equipped with extensive trauma control mechanisms designed to save grievously wounded warriors on the battlefield.

  “But it’s so big…and how will we get her out of here in that?”

  “It doesn’t have to fit her for this…we just need to get her into it. And the suit’s AI can control the suit enough to walk with her inside.”

  Cutter nodded, sliding over and grabbing Ana’s legs. Frasier slipped his hands under shoulders and the two lifted her gently, carrying her over to the suit. They set her down as well as they could inside.

  “Frasier hesitated for a few seconds then he popped her helmet and began unzipping her survival suit. He glanced up at Cutter, who was looking at him with a confused expression on his face. “We need to get her clothes off. The med sensors work on touch.”

  Cutter nodded and leaned over Ana, helping Frasier strip off her suit. He was annoyed at his own hesitancy. They were trying to save her life, not sneak a look at her in the shower. But still, he felt strange about it.

  What juvenile idiots we all are…

  They finally managed to get her inside the suit, and Frasier commanded the AI to seal it. A few seconds later, she was closed up inside.

  “She’ll be okay. I’ve been worse off and it’s saved me.” Frasier turned and looked at the suit. “Get up…we’ve got to get out of here.”

  The suit obeyed his command, rising quickly. Frasier glanced over at Cutter. “Let’s go…I doubt we have much time. Lead on, Doc.”

  Cutter nodded, and he walked out into the hallway, following the course the AI had highlighted.

  Frasier looked around the room briefly, and then he directed the AI to follow. “At least we know the air is breathable…though I suppose I could have sucked in a lungful of some epic plague and not know it yet.”

  Cutter stopped dead in his tracks. “How are we going to get you out of here?” he said, suddenly realizing that Frasier would be stuck on the Colossus without his suit.”

  “I guess we’re not going to, Doc,” the Marine said calmly. “But we’re getting the two of you off, that’s for sure. I’ll be damned if I’m going to fail my last mission.”

  * * *

  “All units, fire everything you have left.” Compton sat on Midway’s flag bridge, staring out over the battle ravaged scene before him. He moved his hand up to scratch an itch on his face, and he smacked it into the clear helmet for the third time. The flag bridge hadn’t lost life support yet, but much of Midway had, and he’d ordered his staff to put the helmets on about ten minutes before. His flagship had given all she had to the fight, and he knew she didn’t have much left. Her hull was riddled with breaches, and at least a quarter of the crew had been killed.

  He knew Jim Horace was still at his position down in Midway’s command center. He also knew the officer should have been in sickbay. Internal video com was down, so all he knew was what he’d been told. But he had a good idea that Horace’s left leg had been damn near crushed by a falling chunk of Midway’s structure. The doctor had told Compton his flag captain was in rough shape and belonged in a hospital bed, but he also acknowledged he had stabilized the stubborn officer and stopped the bleeding…and if Horace could stand the pain, he’d probably survive remaining at his post. If any of them survived, that is.

  Compton’s eyes dropped to his screen, watching the scene unfolding around the Colossus. The giant ship was almost finished, less than a quarter of its weapons still firing. It was bleeding fluids and gasses through dozens of rents in its hull.

  C’mon, hang in there…we need a little more time…

  The Colossus had already done its job in savaging the First Imperium fleet. Compton’s ships were blasting right at the enemy flank, taking full advantage of the chaos the Colossus had created. But he needed more time…Greta Hurley needed more time. His three people still on that ship needed more time.

  Midway shook hard, and she went into a vicious spin. Everyone on the flag bridge has strapped into their harnesses, but it was still unsettling. Compton figured more than one of his officers had partially filled his helmet with vomit.

  People glamorize space battles, telling and retelling the stories of great victories. But there is no glory up close. Just men and women, covered in sweat and blood…and vomit.

  “Alright, all ships…increase thrust to 6g.” That would be damned uncomfortable, but he needed to keep up the pressure now. Every second he bought that Colossus was more time Hurley had to rescue Cutter and Ana. And Connor Frasier too.

  “Increasing thrust, sir.” Cortez’ reply was almost instantaneous. He understood exactly what was happening.

  “All ships…I want continuous fire. Whatever it takes. I don’t want a gun silent.”

  C’mon you bastards…forget about that Colossus. We’re coming right up your ass…

  * * *

  “Go, Doc. The fleet needs you…and Dr. Zhukov. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  Cutter stared at the giant Marine, and he could feel his heart pounding in his chest. He knew what he had to do, what Frasier was telling him to do, but it was too much to bear. In a few seconds he and Ana would step into the airlock…and they would leave Connor Frasier behind. To die.

  “Go,” the Marine repeated. “Now.” His voice was commanding, insistent. “You getting yourselves scragged won’t make me less dead.”

  Cutter took a deep breath and moved toward the hatch. Then he paused, turning back toward Frasier. He’d never been very good with people, but now he knew he couldn’t just walk away, not without a fitting farewell. He extended his hand. “Thank you, Major…Connor. You are the bravest man I’ve ever met.”

  The big Scot allowed a little smile onto his lips as he reached out and grasped Cutter’s hand. “Thank you, Doctor. Keep up your work. Save our people.” An instant later: “Now, go!”

  Cutter felt the emotions building up inside him, and he just nodded. Then he turned and stepped into the airlock, Frasier’s suit—with Ana inside—following along. He hadn’t been sure what to expect in the way of controls, but the system was agreeably simple. A large button to close the inner doors and another right below it. The outer doors, he supposed. There was another set off to the side, with what looked vaguely like up and down arrows. Pressurize, depressurize, he thought.

  He pushed the first button, and the door slammed shut. So far so good. He took another breath and pressed the control with the down arrow. He could hear and feel the whoosh of air, as the small chamber was evacuated. An instant later, the second door button glowed blue.

  He paused again. This was it. Either Hurley’s shuttles would find them…or he would die in space as his suit’s oxygen and power ran out.

  He reached out and pushed the button. The outer door zipped open, and Hieronymus Cutter stared out into the blackness of space. He turned back toward the massive suit of armor with Ana Zhukov inside and he nodded. It was meaningless. Frasier had already instructed his AI to follow.

  He stoo
d still for another thirty seconds, perhaps a minute. Then he bent his knees and shoved off.

  * * *

  “We’ve picked up Doctors Cutter and Zhukov, Admiral. Apparently, Major Frasier is still on the First Imperium vessel.”

  “Why the hell is he there?” she roared back, angry at the partial rescue. She’d lost three fighters already, and after paying that price she had no intention of leaving anyone behind.

  “Admiral, this is Dr. Cutter. Ana Zhukov was badly injured, and Major Frasier put her in his suit so the med system could save her.” A pause. “Of course, that left him with no survival gear…”

  Fuck.

  Hurley sat for a few seconds, completely silent. “Dr. Cutter, can you tell us exactly where you exited the enemy ship?”

  “Yes, Admiral, I think so. But what…”

  “Sorry, Doctor…we don’t have a lot of time. Please show the shuttle commander the exact location of that airlock.”

  “Certainly, Admiral,” came the confused reply.

  “John, how long can a man survive unprotected in space?”

  “Not long…that’s why we’ve got these survival suits on.”

  “But some time. A minute? Half a minute?”

  Wilder turned toward her, a stunned look on his face. “Are you suggesting…”

  “I’m not suggesting anything. I’m saying we’re not going to leave Connor Frasier behind without doing everything we can to get him off that ship.” A pause. “Can you get this thing within a few meters of that airlock? And hold it steady?”

  Wilder took a deep breath and stared back at her silently for a good half a minute. “I don’t know,” he finally said.

  “Well, we’re going to find out. Get the location data from the shuttle pilot, and get us over there as quickly as possible. And let’s hope Major Frasier has some sort of com with him.”

  * * *

  Frasier stood inside the airlock slowly shaking his head. He was resigned to his fate, scared but also content with the choice he’d made. Ana Zhukov…there was no question she was more valuable to the fleet than he was. And his duty had been to protect her. It was a no-brainer. Marines didn’t run from their fates. But there was more to it than just that. He didn’t know her well, but the thought of her dying affected him in a way that went beyond mere duty. He wasn’t accustomed to becoming emotionally attached to civilians he was ordered to protect, but then he’d never met anyone like Ana Zhukov either.

  At least she’ll be safe…that’s what he’d been telling himself. And though he feared death as any man would, the thought that he’d saved Ana had put him more or less at peace with his impending doom. Marines never gave up, but they also faced their ends as…well, Marines.

  Then he’d gotten the transmission from Admiral Hurley. She hadn’t minced words, and what she’d said seemed like the craziest scheme he’d ever imagined. He didn’t suspect dying in space was a pleasant way to go, but Hurley had been insistent. And in the end, only one thing mattered. She was Admiral Hurley. Connor Frasier would be damned if his last action would be to disobey a superior officer.

  “I’m in position, Admiral.” He held the small com unit in his hand as he pressed the button to close the inner door.

  “Okay, Major. Here is what you’re going to do. You will hit the button to begin depressurization, but you will not wait until it is complete. You will estimate the halfway point, and then you will open the hatch. You will be pulled out by the force of the remaining atmosphere, but it is important that you also push yourself forward…straight out of the airlock. We’ll be hovering a few meters in front of you with the bomb bay doors open. It’s a big area, over three meters square. But if you miss…”

  “Understood, Admiral.” He took a deep breath. “I’m ready when you are…”

  * * *

  Greta Hurley stood in the bomb bay of her fighter, with Kip Janz at her side. This wasn’t the kind of duty one often found an admiral doing, but even rarer was someone with the stones to tell Greta Hurley what she could and couldn’t do.

  “Okay, John,” she said slowly, methodically. “Depressurize.”

  She could hear the sounds as the pumps pulled the air out of the bay. The entire process took about thirty seconds before Wilder’s voice blared into her headset. “Depressurization complete, Admiral.”

  “Open bay doors.”

  She watched as the hatch slid slowly open, revealing the blackness of space. And beyond she could see it…the dark gray of the Colossus’ hull. Somehow, Wilder had managed to get within four meters…she almost felt like she could reach out and touch it.

  The whole thing had been her plan, yet now she found herself staring in wonder at what her pilot had managed to do. The ship was angled with its bottom facing the Colossus. The bomb bay doors were the biggest opening on the Lightning, the largest target she could give Connor Frasier.

  It was time.

  “Okay, Major. We’re in position. You may proceed when ready. Just let us know when you hit the depressurization control.”

  A few seconds passed. “I’m ready, Admiral.” Another pause. “Hitting the button now.”

  Hurley felt a burst of adrenalin. In a few seconds, Frasier would come out of the airlock. He would float across the frigid vacuum of space, with no suit, no protection at all. If his aim was true, if he landed in the fighter’s bay, he might be injured…but he would probably survive. Space, as deadly an environment as it was, didn’t kill instantly. And it would only take Frasier five seconds to reach the fighter. If his trajectory was true. And if it wasn’t…well, then he would die.

  Hurley pushed that out of her mind, along with the morbid question of what would kill him first in that scenario. There was nothing she could do but watch and wait…and wonder at how long a few seconds could seem to last.

  When it happened, it happened quickly. She saw the doors slide open, and Frasier’s body was pushed out with the force of the remaining pressure in the airlock. She saw his feet pushing off the floor, aiming his body toward the waiting fighter.

  She watched as he moved closer. He was on target…or close to it. But a near miss would be as fatal as any. Each second went by in slow motion, and Frasier’s body moved achingly slowly toward the bay.

  He’s going to…

  She was going to think ‘make it,’ but then she wasn’t so sure…

  It happened suddenly. He slammed hard into the edge of the opening, and she could see his arm bent back at a sickening angle. There was no sound in the vacuum of the bay, but she had no doubt he was hurt. His body seemed to pause, and her eyes were fixed, waiting to see if he would slip into the bay, or roll out into the emptiness outside.

  Finally, she saw the movement, as he rolled over and fell into the bay. “Close the doors,” she snapped, letting out her anchor line a bit to move toward him.

  “Pressurize!” she shouted into her com the instant the doors slammed shut. Frasier had been exposed to the vacuum and the frigid cold for almost twenty seconds. Every instant counted. “Get the heaters on!”

  She made her way over to him. At first she thought he was unconscious, but then he opened his eyes. He stared at her for a few seconds as the pressure rose, and then he gasped for breath. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were bloodshot and streak with red. But he was alive. And after he sucked in a second breath, he looked up at her and gasped out five words.

  “Permission to come aboard, Admiral?”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Command Unit Gamma 9736

  The latest attack has failed. The calculations had been clear in their result. The enemy fleet would be destroyed; they had no chance of survival. Yet they have prevailed. Again.

  Even more inexplicably, the reports from the system suggest that the enemy was aided by one of our own vessels, a main line battleship. Yet no such craft responded to the sector-wide call to arms. If a battleship remained functional, why did it not answer the summons? I must analyze this in greater detail, develop a hypothesis to
explain what occurred.

  I must also call for more vessels, seek aid from neighboring sectors. Losses have been extremely high, and yet all efforts to destroy the enemy have failed. The next fleet to intercept the humans must be overpowering. The Regent’s orders are clear. There can be no further failure.

  AS Midway

  X18 System

  The Fleet: 160 ships, 34,203 crew

  Compton coughed hard, his lungs rebelling against the noxious fumes in the air. Midway’s life support systems were functional, but they were still catching up, trying to deal with the smoke and the chemical leaks throughout the ship. The fleet’s flagship had survived the battle, but no one wandering its battered corridors or rubbing eyes stinging from the noxious vapors thought it had come through by more than the slimmest of margins.

  “I want all ships ready to move out in one hour. Any vessels that can’t be ready are to be abandoned, their crews transferred immediately to the nearest functional ships.”

  Compton felt his people had fought enough First Imperium forces in this accursed system, and he was determined to get them out now. They’d only survived the last battle through the miracle of Dr. Cutter gaining control over the First Imperium Colossus and bringing it back to turn the tide. The final stages of the battle had been ferocious beyond reckoning. The super-battleship had fought with astonishing power, destroying a dozen enemy Leviathans, and fifty other vessels, before it was finally beaten down and its antimatter containment was breached. Compton had never seen an explosion like that, and he hesitated to guess at the gigatons of energy that had been released.

  His ships had begun their second pass just as the Colossus slipped into its death agony. The enemy ships were out of position, deployed to face what they had perceived as the greatest threat. Compton’s task forces ripped through their formations, blazing away with every weapon the exhausted damage control parties could keep functional.