Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  West had urged him to wait, not to risk the shuttle ride while the battle was still going on. She’d practically put him under guard when he’d first suggested leaving during the thick of the fighting. He’d almost argued, but he decided she was right…he was being reckless, foolish. He felt the urge to be on Midway’s flag bridge, even if he had no job there, but he decided that was a pretty stupid reason to get himself killed.

  He’d waited, not until the battle was over, exactly, but at least until the fighting had died down to a few residual combats. The First Imperium force hadn’t been large enough to defeat the fleet, just another of the suicidal attack squadrons the Regent had sent at them.

  And it’s working, he thought, as he pulled himself to the end of the tube. Every attack destroys a couple more ships, kills another few hundred of our people. And the survivors take more damage, expend more ordnance. Before we can even repair the wrecked systems, another squadron pours through a warp gate and hits us again.

  The fact that he was crawling through the narrow access tube was further evidence of the fruits of the enemy’s strategy. Both of Midway’s launch bays were closed, too badly damaged to allow any landings. And that had compelled Harmon to dock his shuttle at an emergency ingress/egress port…and crawl his way back into the flagship.

  He pulled himself through the open hatch and dropped down about a meter to the deck. As soon as he emerged from the tube, he knew Midway was in trouble. The air was heavy with the smell of burnt machinery, and he could see a faint haze of smoke floating over the corridor. The battlestations lamps were still on, casting a red glow over everything, and there were damage control techs everywhere, running back and forth in a barely-controlled frenzy.

  He turned and walked toward the central lift, wondering as he did if it was even operative. It was a long climb to the bridge if not. He stopped at an intersection and looked both ways. The main transverse cut across Midway, from the port side to the starboard…from one launch bay to the other. He paused for a moment staring down toward beta bay, the home of the Gold Dragons. He’d been trying not to think of Mariko, but now he felt a surge of worry. He’d never been romantically involved with a shipmate before, at least nothing more than a friendly fling. But the tiny fireball of a fighter commander was like no one he’d ever met before. They’d both insisted theirs was a casual romance, but he knew that was bullshit, and he suspected she did too.

  He’d ended up spending a lot of time trying to convince himself he didn’t really know the casualty rate the fighter corps had suffered over the last eighteen months. But he did know. And it was a horrifying figure, one that made his stomach hurt every time Mariko launched.

  He shook his head and refocused on matters at hand. The admiral would bring him up to speed on Midway’s condition. And then he would see what he could do to help the damage control effort.

  He walked up to the lift, considering it a minor miracle it was still working. He stepped into the car and said, “Flag bridge.” The doors slid shut, and he felt the car rising rapidly. The flag bridge was ten decks up. Then he felt lateral motion, as the car moved forward for a few hundred meters before stopping.

  Flag bridge,” the AI said, the voice a bit staticky. A cracked speaker most likely.

  Harmon stepped out onto Midway’s flag bridge. He paused just off the lift, shocked at what he saw. And smelled. The air was acrid with the stench of burnt circuits and machinery, and the bridge itself looked almost like a wreck. There were two downed supports, lying across the walkway around the outer perimeter. And worse, there were two bridge officers lying on the deck, wounded, with a single medic attending to them…and one casualty already zipped into a bodybag.

  “Max, you’re back.”

  Harmon felt a wave of relief at Compton’s voice. He thought of the admiral like a father, and he was one of many who believed the fleet didn’t have a chance without its brilliant commander at the helm. But his excitement quickly faded. Something was wrong. He could hear it in Compton’s voice. Not just the damage, the casualties. It was something else.

  “Admiral…” He turned and when he saw Compton’s eyes he was sure. “…what is it, sir?”

  “Max…it’s Mariko…”

  Harmon felt as if a massive iron fist had slammed into his stomach. Mariko…dead? No…

  “She’s…” He couldn’t bring himself to finish, and he just stood and stared at the admiral, his eyes pleading for any other answer.

  “No…not dead…I don’t know.” Compton was as veteran an officer who had ever served in any navy, the survivor of countless wars. But he looked now like he was barely holding it together. He was very fond of Mariko Fujin…and he returned Max’s feelings, regarding the young officer as a son. “The Gold Dragons were about to launch, Max. Then we took a hit, a bad one. There were explosions in the bay, fires. I’ve got a team down there now, searching for survivors. But…I just don’t know.”

  Harmon felt a wave of relief, but only for an instant. A chance she was still alive was better than none, but Compton’s tone had said as much as his words. “Sir, request permission to…”

  “Granted.”

  Harmon spun around and ran back to the lift, on his way down to the launch bay.

  * * *

  “Mariko…stay with me.” Wainwright was leaning over Fujin, tapping the side of her face with his hand. It was hot, unbearably hot, and he struggled to stay focused. “Come on, Mariko, wake up.”

  Wainwright was a pilot, whose medical skills extended no farther than bandaging up a cut hand, but he suspected Fujin was better off awake than unconscious. He had to keep it together. Fujin was hurt, badly hurt…he knew that. And the others had passed out from the heat. But Grant Wainwright was from the Louisiana bayou back on Earth, and he damned sure knew how to handle the heat. Still, even he was having trouble staying sharp, focused.

  “Max…” Fujin’s voice was soft, dreamy. Her eyes were tiny slits, but they were open. Sort of. Her breath was shallow, raspy. Wainwright knew the air was stale, thin…they were losing oxygen for sure. The fighter’s emergency life support system was working, but there was still a problem. He tried to imagine the fire raging outside…and its unquenchable hunger for oxygen. There wasn’t a doubt in his mind…there was a leak somewhere. It probably started as an almost microscopic crack…but the pressure from the fire was relentless. At least the conduit hadn’t blown yet. They’d know that immediately. The last bits of breathable air would be gone in an instant, and they would all suffocate.

  “Max…” Fujin’s eyes opened a little wider, and she looked up at him. He almost told her no, it wasn’t Max. He suspected Fujin considered her affair with Max Harmon to be a secret, but if so it was one of the worst-kept ones on the fleet. As far as Wainwright was concerned, everybody knew. Certainly the entire crew of her fighter, and indeed, all of Gold Dragon squadron. And every last one of them wished her the best. Fujin was tough, relentless on those who served under her. But she was one of those people who inspired respect, even affection in those she pushed hard. Not one of her people doubted her sole motivation was to keep as many of them as possible alive, and they paid her back with intense loyalty.

  “Yes, Mariko…it’s Max.” He felt strange as he said it, guilty. But she was incoherent, and unless someone got to them very soon, these were the last words she was going to hear.

  “Love you…” Her voice was weak, sad. “Should have told you…”

  Wainwright took a deep breath, his mind racing for what to say. He had no idea how to help her, what to do but wait and hope for rescue. But at least he could keep her calm, content.

  “I love you too, Mariko.” The words felt strange, wrong. But he had to keep her awake, and he couldn’t think of anything else. “Stay with me, Mariko…”

  She turned her head slightly and then back the other way, shaking it. He could see tears sliding down her face. “Miss you…” she said softly. She gasped for a breath and then her head rolled back and her eyes closed.
>
  “Mariko!” Wainwright reached down and shook her shoulders. “Mariko!”

  But she just lay there, unmoving.

  “Mariko!”

  * * *

  Santiago leaned against the wall, pulling the head covering from her fire suit. A crewman handed her a bottle of water. She nodded her thanks and put it to her lips, draining it three-quarters of the way in an instant. She was covered in sweat, as wet as if she’d just stepped out of the shower. Her face was coated with grime. Her people had been in the launch bay for almost four hours. They’d managed to hold the fires back, but nothing more. They hadn’t found any survivors yet, but they hadn’t been able to get over to the launch tubes either. And she knew that was the likeliest place to find anyone still alive. Unfortunately, it was also on the other side of the hottest part of the blaze.

  She’d ignored protocol, skipping three mandated breaks. She’d sent her people out every hour as required, though most of them had put up a fight before leaving. But she’d stayed on the fire line, hour after hour, grabbing one of the hoses herself when she sent the operators out.

  “Give it to me, crewman.” She glared at the young spacer, who stared back uncomfortably for a few seconds. He looked for an instant as though he might refuse her, but he wilted almost immediately under her withering gaze and handed her the small injection unit. She’d already had twice the allowable dose of stims, but she grabbed the device and jabbed it in her thigh, feeling the rush of energy almost immediately.

  She scooped up her head gear and leaned forward to put it back on, but she heard a commotion from down the hall and she hesitated.

  “Get out of my way, Crewman. Now.” The voice was angry, threatening. But it was also familiar.

  She turned and looked around the corner. It was Max Harmon, jogging down the corridor, having shoved the guard aside.

  “Captain Harmon,” she said stepping out into the corridor in front of him. She forgot the courtesy promotion, the old naval tradition that maintained a ship could have only one captain and granted others of the rank a courtesy promotion to commodore.

  “Out of my way, Ensign. I’m going to landing bay beta, and no one’s going to stop me.”

  She held her ground, despite the desire to jump out of his way as ordered. Max Harmon was one of the most famous officers in the fleet, a genuine hero, and Admiral Compton’s closest friend to boot.

  “Sir, you can’t go in there…” She could see the angry response building inside him. “Not like that, sir,” she said, altering her original meaning a bit. “The fire’s consumed most of the oxygen in there, and we’re trying like hell not to feed it more. You go through that emergency airlock without a suit on, you’ll suffocate almost immediately.”

  She could see the tension in Harmon’s body fade a bit. “I’m sorry, Ensign,” he said, his tone still edgy, but now less hostile. “I need to get in there…I need a suit.”

  Santiago hesitated. She didn’t like it, not one bit. The bay was a dangerous place right now, and there were a hundred ways Harmon could get himself killed. She didn’t want the responsibility. But she knew there was no way to refuse. Not to an officer who towered above her in rank. Not to Admiral Compton’s right hand man. “Of course, sir. Crewman Deetz here will get you a suit. I’ll wait here, and when you’re ready, I’ll take you in.”

  “Thank you, Ensign.” He turned and followed the spacer into a compartment across the corridor.

  She watched him go, and as soon as the door slid shut behind him she let out a sigh.

  And now I have to watch out for you as well as search for survivors…

  * * *

  “Thanks, Ensign. I can’t believe how quickly you got here.” Sara Iverson stood in front of the docking ring, watching as Snow Leopard’s crew hauled the last of the crates the freighter’s crew had brought aboard.

  “No problem, sir.” The junior officer snapped her a sharp salute. “We just happened to be nearby when the quartermaster got your requisition. Our priority is to resupply ships low on weapons first, especially since the enemy started hitting us so frequently.”

  “Low?” She smiled, almost letting a short laugh escape. “How about completely out? We didn’t have a weapon left hot enough to boil a pot of water. Even the defensive laser batteries…most of them have blown cores.”

  “Well, you should be pretty close to fully provisioned now. The factory ships are really starting to produce. This is the first time we’ve been distributing full reloads.”

  Iverson nodded. “Yes, it’s nice not to have to beg for torpedoes.”

  The ensign held out a small ’pad. “I just need you to confirm receipt, Lieutenant, and then we’ll be on our way.”

  She grabbed the small ’pad and pressed her thumb against it. Then she handed it back. “Thank you again, Ensign.”

  “My pleasure, Lieutenant.” The officer saluted again, and Iverson returned it. Then she stood and watched as he walked back through the docking ring. A few seconds later, the airlock slammed shut, and she turned toward the half dozen members of Snow Leopard’s crew who were moving the crates.

  “Get the plasma torpedoes down to the bomb bay first,” she said, gesturing to the large crates she knew held reloads for Snow Leopard’s primary weapons system. “And advise maintenance that we’ve got new cores for the point defense batteries. Replacing all blown units is priority number one for them.”

  “Yes, Lieutenant.” The warrant officer in charge of the detachment snapped off a salute. Then he turned and began directing his people.

  Iverson turned and walked down the corridor toward Snow Leopard’s bridge. She’d begun her service on Cromwell, an old battleship, and for all her time on Snow Leopard, it still seemed strange that she could walk from the cargo hold to the bridge in less than a minute. On Cromwell it had been a three minute journey on the intraship car. On one of the Yorktowns, it felt like an expedition. But service on a fast attack ship was a cozy affair.

  She climbed the ladder one level and she moved her hand toward the sensor plate to open the door to the bridge. But then she stopped. She felt funny, and her stomach did a flop. She froze, stood perfectly still, waiting for the nausea to pass, and in a minute it did. But she was dizzy too, and she had to reach her hand out to the wall to steady herself. She was clammy, sweaty, and she could feel a headache coming on.

  Overwork, she thought. Stress. She stood for another minute, taking a few deep breaths, and then she started to feel better. Whatever it was had passed. She waved her hand over the sensor and walked through the open door.

  “The resupply is finished, Captain. The teams are stowing it all as we speak.”

  “Very good, Lieutenant.” Ving had been leaning back in his chair, his head resting in one of his hands. She thought he looked a little pale, but then she scolded herself. Don’t try to include everybody in your foolish little episode. You’re all just exhausted.

  She walked over to her workstation. Then she turned back toward the captain. “Sir, has the AI come up with anything on that new enemy weapon?” The general opinion on Snow Leopard was that the First Imperium vessel had fired some kind of cluster bomb system at them, designed to target and destroy external systems like scanners and communications arrays…and perhaps to breach hull integrity and compromise surface compartments. The prevailing theory held that the warheads fired at Snow Leopard had been defective, and most had failed to detonate. A few had penetrated the hull, but there was nothing much left of them once they’d made it through.

  It all sounded good, at least for a half-assed attempt to explain something away, but Iverson didn’t believe a word of it. The ship hadn’t suffered any significant damage—even the units that bored through the hull were small enough that the auto-repair systems sealed the breaches before any meaningful depressurization. Her first thought had been some kind of tracking system, a way to enhance First Imperium targeting against the ship. But there was no detectable energy from the projectiles, at least as far as human techn
ology could tell. None of it made any sense, and it was nagging at her.

  She felt another rush of nausea. She almost threw up right there, but she managed to keep it down, as much because she didn’t want to make a fool of herself on the bridge as anything else. She turned around, slowing down as the dizziness came back too. “Sir, I am not feeling well. Request permission to leave the bridge for a few minutes.”

  “Not feeling well?” Ving looked back at his tactical officer. “You’ve been on duty for thirty straight hours. Go down to your quarters and get some rest. You’re officially off duty for the next eight hours…or until the enemy shows up again.”

  “Sir, there’s too much to do. I just need…”

  “Lieutenant, follow your orders. We’re off general quarters, down to yellow alert now. I want you to grab a few hours of sleep while you can. I’m sure the enemy will be back before long, and I’ll want my tactical officer sharp and ready.”

  “Yes, sir.” She almost objected again, but then her stomach rolled and she retched a little, barely catching it this time. “Thank you, sir,” she said, as she stood up and walked toward the door. The captain was right, they were only on yellow alert right now…and it had been over a month since the fleet’s battle condition had been any lower than that. Not with the enemy coming at them every couple days.

  She walked through the door and climbed down the stairs. About halfway to her quarters she picked up the pace…and ten meters from her door she broke into a dead run, both hands over her mouth.

  Chapter Six

  AS Cornwall

  Y9 System

  The Fleet: 98 ships (+7 Leviathans), 2394 crew

  “Scanners clear, Captain. No sign of any enemy activity.” Inkerman turned and looked over at Skarn. “We’re halfway back to where we broke off, and so far we’re in the clear.”