Crimson Worlds Refugees: The First Trilogy

by Jay Allan

  He looked up, staring at the main display but not seeing anything. His mind was deep in thought, hazy images of Terrance Compton floating around. Where are you, sir? Are you really dead?

  Harmon found it hard to believe that anything could defeat Compton, but the admiral had been gone for over two months. He could only guess how many battles, how many desperate escapes the rearguard had faced. He had more faith in Compton than in any human he’d ever known, but as time passed he found himself less able to believe.

  He remembered his mother coming into his room. He hadn’t seen her in over six months…he lived with his grandparents when his mother was out with the fleet. Active duty had been an occasional inconvenience when he’d been younger, but with the Third Frontier War raging, his mother was on the front line almost constantly.

  She’d come this time not for leave or to spend time with her son. She’d come with news. Terrible news. His father was dead, killed leading a regiment of Marines in the disastrous battle on Tau Ceti III.

  His mother loved him, he’d never doubted that, but she was one hundred percent navy, a warrior through and through. She gave him one day to mourn, and then she demanded he go back to his normal routine. He remembered resenting her, angry that she didn’t seem to care. It was only years later, as an adult, a warrior himself, that he’d come to understand just how devastated his mother had been.

  He felt now some of that same grief, and he realized he was giving up on Compton, on the chance the admiral was alive somewhere. He had lost another father…and the pain was just as great.

  Are you out there somewhere, Admiral? Have you managed to cheat death once again…somehow?

  But he didn’t believe it anymore.

  * * *

  “Again!” Connor Frasier stood in Cadogan’s small gym, watching a squad of his Marines going through their workouts. He’d had to cancel the last training session when Captain Harmon had shut down the engines, eliminating the pseudo-gravity created by the ship’s normal acceleration and deceleration. Zero grav workouts were their own thing, but his people were going into action on the ground…on a world that by all accounts was very Earthlike. And they needed to acclimate to that condition, to working under one gee of gravity.

  He watched as the Marines went back to their routine, climbing the wall with only their bare hands. It was a relatively pointless exercise…his people would be fully armored when they hit the ground in search of the Regent’s lair. But it was brutal physical training, and he was determined that his Marines would be in top condition when they landed. Spending months aboard ship was hard on Marine readiness, and Frasier knew just what was riding on this mission. His people might fail…but it wouldn’t be for lack of preparation.

  His Marines were the inheritors of an ancient and proud tradition, and from the first day of training they were taught to respect those who had come before, not just in the Alliance, but the U.S. and Royal Marines who had preceded them. But modern Marines faced a host of problems their courageous forefathers had never had to address. Fighting in different gravities, for example, or dealing with toxic atmospheres or planets hot enough to melt lead…or cold enough to freeze blood. It made training far more complicated, and it was one reason why Alliance Marines had a six year training program…at least they had, before twenty years of almost non-stop war had forced the Corps to expedite its production of new recruits.

  But his Marines were not preparing to attack a poisonous hellworld. They were about to infiltrate the home world of the deadliest intelligence mankind had ever encountered. The Regent had its blindspots—humanity would be extinct by now if it hadn’t—but Frasier didn’t think leaving itself exposed to an attack was one of them. With any luck, the landing party would get down to the surface undetected. They would employ as much stealth as possible, get as far as they could without alerting the enemy to their presence. But he didn’t try to fool himself into thinking they’d get all the way to the Regent unchallenged. His people would have a hell of a fight on their hands…there was no question in his mind. And by God, they would be ready for it.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  AS Saratoga

  System X108

  The Fleet: 78 ships (+2 Leviathans), 18843 crew

  “You’ve got a break, Captain…maybe twenty minutes before the next wave comes in. You’d better use that time well, because if we haven’t got at least half the laser cannons back online by then, it’s not even going to be a fight. It’s going to be an execution.” West sat on the flag bridge, half choking on the heavy, smoke-filled air. Saratoga wasn’t in good shape. Bluntly put, her flagship had gotten the shit kicked out of it. It was a miracle she was still in space, that by whatever tiny measure the reactors had held, that a breach had been averted. She knew it had been close, that the next hit might very well have turned her battleship into a miniature sun.

  No, not a miracle. Just more help from the past, from Hieronymus Cutter down on the surface. But we’ve almost drained that well…

  “I’ll do everything I can, Admiral.” There was a pause, and West thought her flag captain was going to remind her how many hits his ship had taken in the last two hours of sustained combat. But he didn’t. He just added, “I will update you in ten minutes.”

  Davis Black defined stoicism, at least in his dealings with her. The situation was crap, worse than crap. But she wouldn’t hear a complaint. Not a peep. For all his steadfast loyalty to her, she knew he tended to be hard on his own crew, but she also realized that was the only way to draw excellence from people…and it had helped to keep them alive. They all had friends and comrades who’d been trapped in X2 with them…and who had died along the way, ships lost in the many battles the fleet had fought. But Saratoga was still there.

  At least for twenty minutes more…

  “Admiral, I’ve got Dr. Cutter on the line.”

  West slapped her hand down on the com unit. “Hieronymus.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I just wanted to give you an update. I’ve got seven shots left for the megalasers. The mines are gone. There were some other weapons systems, but it looks like they’ve decayed beyond use. I’m afraid after those seven shots, you’re on your own.”

  “You’ve done your part, Hieronymus. No one can say otherwise.” She paused. “Your people down there should lay low if things…go bad up here.” She doubted the Regent’s forces would fail to check the planet for survivors, but there was always a possibility. And she had to tell him that now. By the time it was relevant, she’d be gone…along with Saratoga and the rest of the fleet.

  “The battle isn’t over yet, Admiral.” Cutter was clearly trying to sound confident, but she could see right through it. They weren’t going to get through this one.

  “No, it’s not over. Not yet. And my thanks to you…and I know Admiral Compton would have felt the same. We’d have never gotten here without all you’ve done.”

  “Thank you, Admiral,” the scientist replied. “That means a lot. Good luck to you.”

  “And to you, Hieronymus.” She cut the line and looked around the flag bridge. Her people were focused, professional. She felt pride in all of them. West had always believed you could see the true nature of someone when they were staring death in the face. And her people were passing that test with flying colors.

  Her eyes dropped to the chronometer. Nine minutes since she’d spoken to Black. Despite the specter of imminent death, she couldn’t help but smile when the number changed, nine minutes becoming ten…and the com unit began buzzing right on schedule.

  She waved Krantz off from answering and put her hand down on the com. “Davis, talk to me. How are the repairs going? Are my laser cannons going to be ready on time?”

  * * *

  “The fleet is in great danger. The Regent’s forces appear to be winning. Perhaps our purpose is not necessary.” Don Rames sat across the small table from Sasha. Saratoga was at battlestations, which meant her entire crew was on duty. But Rames and Debornan weren’t part of the ship�
��s regular complement. As far as the humans knew, they were survivors of a disastrous expedition, the only two to return alive. And that assessment served their purposes well.

  “Perhaps.” Sasha had an odd expression on her face, her tone robotic. The nano entity was having greater difficultly controlling the body’s outward signs of emotion since the essence of the biological entity had been purged. That was an error. The remnants of the human’s personality would have been useful. These humans are less logical creatures than those we destroyed so many centuries ago. It was a miscalculation to assume we could maintain control without the preserving the essence of the creatures.

  “If that is the case,” Sasha continued, “we need take no action at all. Our hosts will, of course, be destroyed with this vessel, but that is of no account.”

  “Agreed. Nevertheless, I propose that we prepare an alternate strategy, in case the humans escape destruction. There is a strong likelihood that the splinter fleet with Admiral Compton at its head has been eliminated. That would leave Admiral West as the primary target. We should move against her is she is successful in this battle.”

  “Yes. However I propose we exercise more patience. If the fleet survives this battle, we can afford to wait, to allow more time for Compton to return. Each week that passes increases the probability that his force has been destroyed by 2.27% by my calculation, rising from a base of 64% currently. I propose we allow two months to pass, at which time we act against Admiral West, assuming the Regent’s fleets have not eliminated the humans by then.”

  “I agree. I have an additional proposal in the event that Admiral Compton does return. I believe that little is accomplished by having two of us undertake that mission. If Compton comes back, I think you should arrange transit to Midway, while I remain on Saratoga. We will strike simultaneously. You will kill Admiral Compton…and I will kill Admiral West. With both leaders eliminated, the human fleet will fall into disorder…and they will be easily destroyed by the next attack force the Regent sends.”

  “I concur with your logic. We will wait…and if Admiral Compton does return we will kill them both.”

  * * *

  “All ships forward, Commander. Five gee acceleration. Let’s take this battle to the enemy.” West’s voice was pure defiance. She’d done the math. It was over. Her ships were simply too few. They were too damaged, too low on ordnance. They would fight…they would destroy enemy ships. But this time they were going to lose. And if she was going to die, by God, Erika West intended to decide how she would meet her end. And it wasn’t sitting there waiting for the enemy to come to her.

  “Yes, Admiral.”

  She could hear the pride in Krantz’ voice, the determination. They’d been fighting for over a year and a half, one battle after another, always against overwhelming odds. There was no shame in defeat here, only in dying with less dignity than they had lived. The First Imperium fleet would finally achieve its goals…it would eradicate the men and women it had pursued so relentlessly for the past eighteen months. But it would pay a price, West would make sure of that.

  She felt the impact of five gees of thrust slam into her, the weight in her chest as she slowly, painfully drew each breath. She thought about Admiral Compton, about how he’d managed against all odds to rescue his people again and again…to keep them alive in the face of certain death. But the last time he’d sacrificed himself to buy the fleet’s escape. And West had been forced to try to fill his shoes, as best she could.

  She hoped Compton would have approved of her decisions, of the way she’d led the fleet for the short time she had. West played the role of someone immune to outside influence, but she had looked up to Compton her entire career. She wondered if the admiral had ever realized the power he’d had over her, how his slightest word of encouragement filled her with determination…and how even a small word of criticism cut her deeply. Few people who knew her would have believed it, but Erika West had drawn much of her strength from Compton. She’d never thought herself the kind to practice hero worship, but even she had needed someone to look up to. She shuddered at the thought of the pressure Compton had lived with since X2, and it only increased her admiration for the man.

  “Admiral, Commander Fujin’s fighters are attacking.”

  West stared at the display. Die well, Mariko.

  She knew Fujin’s thirty-six fighters were charging into their own valley of death, attacking alone, a desperate attempt to win a few extra minutes for the fleet’s damage control crews to work their magic. West felt cold. She deplored the idea of sending those fighters in, using the lives of those crews to buy a little time. But there was no choice.

  Besides…they’d die anyway, even if I kept them in the launch bays. When the ships go, so will they. At least this way they die in battle, fighting to the last…

  She stared ahead, watching the rows of tiny dots move forward, their formation perfect. She knew the display was a sanitized representation, that each of those small blue lights was actually five of her people. Five loyal members of the fleet. Five veteran spacers about to die…

  * * *

  “I’m not going to sugarcoat this for any of you. We’re outnumbered, surrounded…our desperate struggle is almost at an end.” Fujin sat at the fighter’s controls, holding the throttle as she addressed her squadrons. It felt odd to be on another ship, with another crew. But for the second time, she was the sole survivor of the Gold Dragons. The rest of her fighter’s crew—and those of the other birds too—had died in Midway’s launch bay. All except Grant Wainwright. The pilot had survived, for a few weeks anyway. He’d died in his bed, in sickbay.

  “You deserve more than empty boasts, pointless claims that victory awaits us. It does not. Destiny has come for us, but we still control one thing. We control how we die. And for me, I would die in arms, fighting our enemy with the last of my strength. If the First Imperium wants me, they will have to come and get me…and endure all I can dish out as they do.”

  It felt oddly comfortable to be back in the pilot’s seat, despite the circumstances. She’d been promoted out of that role…but now casualties had left her with more fighters than pilots. She hadn’t even had to make up an excuse to put herself at the throttle. It was a simple matter of launching the maximum number of birds. This was how she’d begun, fresh from the Academy and piloting a fighter. And this was how it would end.

  “You have seen the damage Saratoga has sustained, the number of fleet vessels crippled and destroyed. We were barely able to launch with the damage to our bays. By the time we finish our attack run, there won’t be a place left to land in the fleet. So there is no going back, not this time. After we launch our torpedoes, we will make strafing runs…we will keep at these bastards, striking them with whatever we have left.”

  She swallowed hard, forcing back her own doubts and fears. She’d always been alone, but now her mind was on Max. Having him in her life made her sadder at her own impending death, sorry for the life that might have been but wouldn’t. But she knew this final battle would be a relief too, an escape. She didn’t believe Max Harmon would return. His mission was one of utter desperation, and she didn’t expect it to succeed. And even if it did through some miracle, she couldn’t imagine a way he’d escape to come back to Shangri la. No, eighteen months of constant struggle to survive and now it was almost over. For all of them.

  “Okay, boys,” she said softly. “Let’s do this.”

  She pushed the throttle forward, feeling the gee forces increase as she fed power to the engine. She’d picked out a Leviathan, one that had taken significant damage already. If this was going to be her last fight, she was determined to score a kill.

  She jerked the controls, zigzagging wildly to avoid the enemy’s point defense. “Arm the torpedo,” she said, her voice distant, distracted. She was putting every bit of focus she had into flying the fighter. She could see four of her birds were gone already. The defensive fire was brutal, and she doubted half her people would make it close en
ough to launch their weapons.

  The fighter shook hard, a hit. Her eyes dropped to her screen, frantically checking the readouts, trying to ascertain the damage. She still had full thrust, and that was a good sign. She punched at the keys in front of her, beginning a diagnostic check of the ship’s systems. A few seconds later, she breathed a sigh of relief. The engines were good, the torpedo and firing controls full functional. There was some minor damage, but nothing that would stop her from sending that wounded Leviathan to hell. And that was all she cared about at the moment.

  She was getting close, well within maximum firing range. Fujin was as aggressive as they came, and she usually closed to extreme point blank range. But the defensive fire was just too heavy. She knew they’d never make it. She’d have to launch from 18,000 kilometers, 16,000 at the closest.

  There was a large hull breach in the Leviathan, an ideal spot for her to plant the torpedo. But from this range it would take a perfect shot. Absolutely perfect.

  She stared at the display, her eyes locked on the target. Her fingers moved over the screen, adjusting the weapon’s trajectory. She closed her eyes for an instant, centered herself. This would require more than pinpoint calculation. It would take all the intuition a veteran fighter jock could manage. She tried to go with her feelings, her instincts. Her finger moved, barely, slowly, refining the shot. Then she could feel it…everything was right. Somehow she just knew. And she pulled the trigger on the throttle, releasing the torpedo.

  The fighter jerked hard as the weapon launched, and Fujin pulled the controls forward and to the side, blasting full and changing the ship’s vector, pulling it away from the target, toward a section of clear space where she’d have the room and time to decelerate and bring the fighter back around. To pick out a new target for a strafing run.