Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  And if he didn’t swing it, the fleet would be strung out across the system in total disorder.

  He punched down with his finger, retoggling the switch and giving himself a double dose. He needed everything he could get to pull this off…

  * * *

  “Mariko, I want your whole wing to hit that Leviathan. The guns on that thing can tear apart even a Yorktown like Midway or Saratoga in a couple blasts. You’ve got to get in there first. It’s got to go…whatever it takes.”

  Fujin felt her lips forming into a feral smile, the predator inside her awakening. She’d bristled at her defensive duties in the last battle, hated every minute of flying around and hunting down missiles. She couldn’t help but see this as her peoples’ just due, payback for missing the previous fight chasing around enemy warheads. The fact that anti-missile duty was far safer, that her crews would face vastly greater danger going up against the enemy’s battleship seemed an alien concept. She understood, intellectually at least, knew that the Leviathan was more than capable of blowing all fourteen of her ships out of space. But somehow, it just didn’t matter. The fleet was fighting for its life…and she only knew one place to be when that was happening…right on the forefront of the action.

  “Yes, Admiral…understood.” A pause…then, “Don’t worry, we’ll take care of it.” It was an unnecessary addition, she knew…cocky. Arrogant. But it forced its way out anyway. She was determined to bury enough plasma torpedoes in that thing to take it out…however close her birds had to get to do it.

  “Good luck,” Hurley said, her voice as coldly focused as it always was just before a battle.

  Fujin heard the faint click, Hurley cutting the line. The admiral had other wings to command, more duties to address. But she'd just simplified Fujin’s job. It was dangerous, almost suicidal perhaps, but it had gotten much more straightforward.

  She leaned back in her chair. It felt odd, vaguely uncomfortable. The fighter was the same—exactly—as the one she’d been forced to ditch, but it just didn’t feel like home. Not yet. She’d flown her old bird since before the fleet was trapped at X2…a lifetime ago, it seemed. She was grateful Hurley had managed to find her a new ship without snatching one from another crew. She’d have taken someone else’s bird to get back into action, but she wouldn’t have felt good about it.

  “Okay, Lieutenant,” she said, staring over at Wainwright. She was impressed with the pilot’s performance, and she was making an effort to put aside her resentment at watching him sit in what she still thought of as her chair. “Put together a course toward the Leviathan.” She glanced down at the display. “See if you can make some use of this asteroid belt…there’s a lot of particulate matter over there that might degrade scanner performance. We might be able to get close before they can get good targeting on us.”

  “My thought exactly, Commander…,” he said, his tone cold, focused. He leaned over his workstation, his hands moving over the controls for perhaps a minute. Then he looked back up. “I think I’ve got it, Commander. It’s a longer route, about 400,000 kilometers…but it takes us around the heaviest of the enemy interdiction areas. If you think everybody can handle some 8g thrust, we can still make it to the target on time.”

  Mariko smiled, still staring down at the display. She’d found the same course he had—though she had to admit he’d done it a bit quicker. It would be uncomfortable…a wild ride that would be hard on the crews. But that wasn’t even a consideration in her mind.

  “Do it,” she said, her voice firm with certainty.

  * * *

  Terrance Compton watched the display in stunned silence. His eyes were focused on eleven small icons, symbols representing one of Admiral Hurley’s fighter wings. They’d taken a wildly irregular course, endured brutal high gee maneuvers for extended periods. But now they were moving in on the enemy’s single Leviathan. And they’d gotten close—damned close—before the thing had detected them and opened fire.

  The First Imperium battleships were larger than the Alliance Yorktowns, killing machines bristling with weapons across almost four kilometers of dark-matter-reinforced hull. They were the most fearsome warships Terrance Compton had ever set eyes on, even imagined…at least until he’d first seen the enemy Colossus’ at X2. He’d been focused on the Leviathan since his forces had moved to engage. He knew perfectly well its massive batteries could tear Midway to shreds. But now he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Greta Hurley had send one of her wings against the massive dreadnought…fourteen fighters and seventy crew going up alone against a ship he could only describe as a vision of hell.

  He stared down at the screen, poking at the icons, pulling up identification data.

  Mariko Fujin’s wing…

  He felt a small twist in his gut. Fujin was one of Hurley’s very best, he knew that. But he also knew she and Max Harmon had some kind of budding relationship…though he doubted either of them realized he knew. He wasn’t sure how serious it was, but he hated the idea of his top aide—and friend—losing someone he’d managed to find in the dark emptiness of the fleet’s isolation. It hurt him when any of his people were lost, but no one had struggled harder to help the fleet survive than Max Harmon, and the thought of him losing Fujin so soon tore at him.

  He sighed softly. There was nothing he could do about it now. He knew Hurley was fond of Fujin too, that she’d come to look over the young commander, who had so recently been a lieutenant and the pilot of a single fighter, as a mentor of sorts. Compton felt a touch of surprise that Hurley would have picked Fujin for such a dangerous mission, but it faded almost immediately. Greta Hurley, the woman was affable enough…smart, interesting, pleasant to be around. But Admiral Hurley, the fleet’s strike force commander, was stone cold, hard-driving, relentless. She didn’t let affection and friendship interfere with the performance of her duties. Indeed, when her forces were in battle, she was as cool a customer as Compton had ever known. If Mariko Fujin was there it was because Hurley thought the young commander could do the best job. And Compton knew he couldn’t interfere.

  His eyes shifted to the side, checking out the bank of monitors to the right. The fleet was getting close to missile range. He didn’t have a full barrage, not even close to one, but he intended to launch every homemade weapon he had in his ships’ magazines. And it was almost time.

  He had nothing to give Mariko but his best wishes. She was good, one of the best. No one could take care of her and her people better than she could herself. And he pushed thoughts of Harmon aside too, worries that took every chance to bubble out from the place he’d submerged them. There had still been no sign of Wolverine…and he was starting to get very worried. About Harmon, and about the entire expedition. The fleet was moving back toward X48…it was being driven back. But when they got there, what would they find? Would there be anything left? Was Max Harmon still alive? Sophie? The expedition? Anyone?

  He forced it all out of his mind. There was nothing he could do about it…and he had plenty to deal with right here, to see the fleet through this battle and press on back toward X48. If he managed that…if he got past this enemy force and through the next two systems…then he would know what had happened in X48.

  “Commander Cortez, all missile-armed vessels are to commence their barrages in one minute.”

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  Compton stared out across the flag bridge, his eyes blazing with grim determination. There was no time for pointless worries, no place now for personal emotions. He banished all thoughts save those of war. His fleet was going into battle.

  * * *

  “Stay on target.” Fujin’s voice was cold, hard, not a trace of fear discernible. Her wing had gotten close before it started to take serious fire, the heavy metal asteroids and particulate clouds giving her fourteen fighters a fair amount of cover against the enemy’s scanners. But then they’d emerged into open space, near to the Leviathan, but not close enough for their short-ranged plasma torpedoes, not yet. They still had
a gauntlet to run and, even accelerating at 8g, it would take at least ten minutes for her ships to make it to launch range…six hundred seconds when her fighters would be exposed to everything the enemy battleship could throw at them.

  The constant acceleration was wearing her down, as she knew it was doing to all her people. But she didn’t dare cut the thrust. Every extra second it took her fighters to reach the attack point could be the one an enemy laser struck its target, and more of her crews died. It was agony enduring the crushing force, but the alternative was worse.

  She’d lost three of her ships already, picked off by the Leviathan’s defensive fire in the short time since they’d come clear of the asteroid field. That was bad, and every one of them hurt, but she knew it could have been worse. Much worse. She’d jumped on the mission when Admiral Hurley had ordered it, driven by the predator instincts that made her such a natural combat pilot. But she also knew, in the back of her mind if not the forefront, that a lot of her people would die in the attack.

  The Leviathan was a deadly opponent, more powerful by far than any warship ever built by man. But its defense against Fujin’s attack was a ramshackle affair, far less efficient than that a human vessel of similar size and strength would be expected to mount. The First Imperium didn’t use small attack craft and, in the early campaigns of the war, the human fighters had benefited from the inefficiency of the enemy’s interdictive fire. But it didn’t take long for the intelligences that ran the First Imperium’s fleets to develop tactics to redeploy their anti-missile batteries to a fighter defense role. They still weren’t as effective as a purpose-built system would have been, and that was one of the reasons fighters had been such an effective weapon in the war. But they had learned to make the squadrons pay for their successes.

  “The fire is thick, Commander.” Wainwright didn’t sound scared, not quite…but the pilot’s cockiness had subsided to a great degree. Fujin doubted he’d ever flown through fire like this.

  “All ships, increase evasive maneuvers,” she rasped, struggling against the crushing pressure. “Frequency, 5.0.” Her fighters were still accelerating toward the enemy, their crews struggling to endure 8g of pressure pushing down on them. But they were also conducting evasive maneuvers, blasting out random bursts of thrust in various directions, creating something of a zigzag effect to their advance. It wasn’t enough to seriously upset their course, but it was helpful in shaking off the enemy targeting systems. It didn’t take much thrust to move a five-man fighter out of the hit zone of a laser turret…or shift a bird an extra kilometer or two from a missile’s blast radius.

  “All ships confirm, Commander. Evasive maneuvers at 5.0.”

  Fujin leaned back in the chair, focusing hard on her breathing. The eight gees were really getting to her. And the random bursts of thrust were shaking things up even more. Mariko Fujin had a cast iron constitution, one she’d long believed impervious to any kind of motion sickness. But now she was struggling to keep the bile from forcing its way up her throat.

  “Alright,” she said, struggling to put volume behind her words, “all ships, load torpedoes.”

  She could see the crew of her own fighter struggling under the crushing pressure. They looked sick, miserable, in pain…but they still manned their stations, still executed her orders. And she knew it was the same on the other ten ships still in the formation. She was proud of her people, and determined to somehow stay focused, to give them the best she could as their commander.

  “All fighters report torpedoes loaded, Commander.”

  She glanced at the display. They had just passed into firing range, long range at least. But Fujin had no intention of having her people fire from this far out. The Leviathan was a monstrous vessel, armored and powerful. If her people were going to do serious damage to it, they had to get close…and drop the torpedoes right down its throat.

  Each second moved by with agonizing slowness as she sat there and forced air into her lungs. Then she saw a flash on the screen…another of her ships hit. She reached over slowly and punched up the readout. It was Lightning Two. A glancing blow, enough to disable the fighter, but it looked like the crew might have survived. She felt a tightness in her gut as she realized they were as good as dead. There was no way the fleet would be able to stop and rescue a disabled fighter. Not with the forces that were pursuing them.

  “Arm all torpedoes.”

  Her eyes dropped down to the screen, watching as the status displays on her ten remaining ships turned from white to green. The torpedoes were ready.

  “Two minutes to launch,” she said into the master com unit. “Cut thrust in ninety seconds.”

  She wanted every last bit of acceleration, anything that would shave off seconds, get her fighters there faster. But her pilots needed to be able to focus to make their final runs…they had to have control over the thrust to execute their approaches. And she would give them thirty seconds. Half a minute to clear their heads and get their bearings…and bring the ships on a direct approach vector, one that would allow them to plant a plasma torpedo right in the guts of the Leviathan.

  “One minute to launch. Cutting thrust in thirty seconds. All pilots, you’re on as soon as the engines cut out.” It felt strange to be sitting idle, not to be hunched over her controls, taking her ship in for the final run. But she was getting used to command, embracing her responsibilities to her crews. She still longed to feel the throttle, to hold her finger, tense and rigid over the firing button. But she knew they needed her where she was.

  She looked over at Wainwright, watched the young pilot staring at the plotting screen, looking sharp, ready…despite the brutal gee forces. The kid was a gifted pilot, a natural. People had said the same thing about her when she’d first sat at that station, and now she recognized it in another.

  “Ten seconds to final attack run.” She sucked in one more torturous breath, imagining the impending relief of freefall.

  “Five seconds…”

  Her eyes darted over toward Wainwright one more time. He was leaning forward, his hands out in front of him. Ready.

  “Cut thrust,” she snapped. “Pilots, begin your attack runs.”

  She felt the wave of relief, the floating headiness of freefall replacing the crushing pressure in an instant. She twisted her head, closing her eyes for a second as she pulled herself back together, willed herself to focus, concentrate.

  She looked at her screens again, watching her ten ships move in toward the enemy. The formation was tight, crisp, each vessel less than fifty kilometers from the one adjacent. Fujin wanted more than just ten clean hits…she wanted them right on top of each other, pounding away at the same spot, driving through the great vessel’s armor, and she’d designed her attack plan accordingly.

  She felt a nudge of thrust, just for a few seconds. It was nothing like the crushing 8g…just a gentle 1.5g tap as Wainwright lined up for his shot. She glanced down at the display, watching the distance dropping steadily as the fighters closed. “Twenty seconds,” she said softly.

  She heard the clanging sounds, felt the vibrations as the bomb bay doors opened and Wainwright moved the torpedo into the final firing position. She opened her mouth, about to say ‘ten seconds’ when she saw a flash on the screen. Another of her ships gone, obliterated by a close in shot from one of the enemy’s laser turrets.

  She felt it like a punch in the stomach. She mourned any of her crews equally, but there was something about losing a ship a few seconds before it was able to strike that felt worse. Those five men and women had come all this way, evaded the incoming fire to bring their weapon within seconds of firing. It felt so wasteful, tragic in an even greater way than being killed a hundred thousand kilometers away.

  The ship shook again, a blast of thrust lasting a second, perhaps less. A final adjustment. Then she heard the snapping sound of the torpedo’s locking clasps releasing…and the familiar shudder as the ship disgorged its parcel of death.

  The fighter lurched hard, the mer
ciless 8g thrust back again, as Wainwright maneuvered to keep the fighter from slamming into the Leviathan. Fujin looked up at the display and, for a passing instant, she thought they weren’t going to make it, that the pilot had miscalculated, come too close. But then the fighter sailed by the enemy battleship…and off into the clear space beyond.

  She sucked in a deep breath as the engines again disengaged and the relief of weightlessness returned. Her eyes snapped back to her screen, zeroing in the on the launch readout. Wainwright had taken the fighter to 631 kilometers before he’d launched. That was the closest Fujin had ever heard of a fighter coming to a target, certainly moving at the velocity her ships were. She sat in stunned silence, staring across the cockpit as the back of the pilot’s head. Then she opened her mouth and said, simply, “Nice shot, Lieutenant.”

  “Thank you, sir,” came the reply. The cockiness was back in Wainwright’s voice.

  “Alright, people,” Fujin snapped, “let’s get some damage reports in here. How the hell did we do against this thing?”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Excerpt from the Screed of Almeerhan (translated)

  Alone. I have been so long alone. And yet longer must I endure, for I am the last of the Watchers. A hundred of us there were in the beginning, when we shed our mortal bodies to begin the long wait, to stand the vigil for the New Ones. We were of the warrior class, all of us, and we harkened back to the early days of our race, a time of vibrancy and honor. We swore to stand our long, silent guard…to wait for the seeds we had planted to bear fruit, to seek us out and find us that we might pass on that which had so long ago been prepared for them.