Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  The feeling of wetness between them, blood—though Blanth didn’t know whose—even as the sounds of the firefight grew ever closer.

  Chapter Sixteen

  1,450,000,000 Kilometers from CFS Dauntless

  Olyus System

  Year 318 AC

  The Battle of Megara – Enemy at the Gates

  “All ships, check systems one more time. Let’s make sure we’re ready.” Tyler Barron sat on Dauntless’s bridge, and he could feel the tension, thick in the air like a dense fog. His task force had pulled back from the line of asteroid bases, just in time to avoid engagement with the enemy battleships. But, that withdrawal had only delayed the inevitable.

  It had accomplished one thing beyond buying a few more hours until the final assault. It had made time for one more bomber strike, one last attack to weaken the enemy’s front line before the final stage of the battle began.

  The squadrons were battered, their losses heavy, some of their ships battered and flying with varying degrees of damage…but they were going in anyway. The pilots were exhausted now, without rest, worn down from watching friends die…but they hadn’t hesitated to man their ships and head out once again.

  The belief that the Confederation and Alliance forces could stop the Hegemony fleet, that they could turn back the assault and save the Olyus system and the capital at Megara was fraying under the relentless enemy attack…but that wasn’t going to stop the pilots.

  “All ships acknowledge, Admiral.” Atara turned and looked over at him, pausing for a moment. She’d fought at his side more times than he could easily count, and she was perhaps the most indomitable warrior he’d ever known. Now, though, he could see the cold, harsh truth. She didn’t expect any of them to survive the battle.

  He would have tried to encourage her, to convince her they were going to make it, but he didn’t think they were going to get through it either. And, after more than ten years as comrades, friends, almost as brother and sister, he wasn’t going to start lying to her now.

  “Very well, Commander.” He looked at the main display. Stockton’s wings were about to commence their third sortie. They’d be beginning their attack runs any minute.

  They just have time to finish before those big boys up front get into range. Then, we’ll see just what we’re up against.

  Barron knew his thoughts, his fraying hopes that the bombers would neutralize enough of the enemy’s heavy weapons, applied only to the first line. Hegemony forces had continued coming through the transit point for hours, almost a full day, and now, there was a full second line advancing behind the first, even as a third formed up far to the rear. That was the big problem. It was possible, just barely, that Barron’s forces and the orbital forts could turn back the initial attack. But, the second line would get there roughly six hours later, and that force would face exhausted pilots flying battered fighters, and in smaller numbers. They would not face the lost Stone Giants, as the first line had. They would close on a Megara surrounded by damaged and destroyed fortresses and the battered remnants of Barron’s momentarily victorious task force.

  It wouldn’t even be a fight. It would be a slaughter.

  Barron shook his head. There was nothing he could do about any of it. Nothing, save what he’d done.

  Andi will escape, at least…

  He was grateful, and on some level surprised, that she had agreed to follow his orders, request…whatever it was. She was a unique woman, unlike any he’d ever met, but she was as stubborn as the core of a neutron star. He suspected she’d done it for him, because she knew she couldn’t do anything to help him except go. And, perhaps just a bit, because she knew those scientists she was evacuating were just about the only remaining hope the Confederation had.

  “Admiral…” Atara was looking over again from her station. She could clearly see that he was lost in his thoughts.

  “Yes, Atara…”

  “All ships report systems rechecked and fully operational. The task force is ready for battle.”

  I always knew they’d be ready to fight. Are they ready to die?

  “Very well.” Barron managed a quick, passing smile. There was no one he wanted more at his side in a fight like the one he was in, but he’d have sent her away if he could have, even as he’d sent Andi. Atara Travis deserved better than to die in a hopeless fight.

  She returned the smile, and then she put her hand up to her headset and frowned. A few seconds later: “Admiral, Senator Hoover is on the line. He wishes to speak with you.”

  Barron’s face morphed into a disgusted scowl. “You can tell the Senator to fu…” He paused, feeling no less angry, but just a touch more controlled. “Tell the Senator I have no time to discuss anything right now.”

  Atara just nodded, and then she turned back to her station. Barron listened to her speaking with the Senator, and he could see the politician was giving her a hard time. He felt guilty for inflicting that on her, but he just didn’t have it in him just then to placate a scared politician. His people had been fighting—and dying—for days. What the hell more did Confederation’s corrupt puppet masters expect from men and women giving all they had to save their corrupt asses?

  Barron was grateful again for the presence of Admiral Nguyen. The commander-in-chief had fielded most of the frantic communications with the Senate and the other civil authorities down on the ground, all of them getting increasingly terrified about what might happen. He imagined that the old man had handled them with more care than he would have…and then he remembered the few times his grandfather had spoken of his old comrade, and he wasn’t so sure. He’d seen the calm and softened demeanor of an old man, but apparently, Dustin Nguyen had possessed quite a temper back in his day…and, if anyone could coax that out of him again, it would be Troyus City’s entitled political class. Honestly, what could disgruntled Senators do to a ninety-year-old admiral with no interest in a future career, even if the aged officer somehow managed to survive the nightmare that had brought him back to the colors.

  He had a flash in his mind, an image of Nguyen telling the Senators to fuck off, and through all the fear and misery around him, that made him smile broadly. At least for a few seconds.

  “We’re getting a communique via drone, Admiral.” A pause. “It’s from Admiral Winters, sir.” Another few seconds as she listened to the message. “His bombers are about to engage.”

  Barron nodded. That was good. The two halves of the fleet—and splitting the ships had been a huge risk, an audacious plan that somehow had secured the support of all three admirals in command—were too far apart for normal communications, at least with the enemy fleet between them, jamming all the space for hundreds of thousands of kilometers like crazy. That made drones the only way to communicate, and it also meant the fact that the two strike forces were about to hit the enemy at almost exactly the same time was either the most amazing display of joint operations imaginable, or one hell of a stroke of luck.

  Barron didn’t care which. He just watched the display, even as Stockton’s lead elements went in. This was likely to be the last segment of the battle where the advantage lay with his people. Once the fighters were done, whatever battleships still had operational railguns would close to firing range, and they would open up.

  Then, more than just Stockton’s pilots would die.

  * * *

  Alicia Covington was uncomfortable. She was leading her third sortie, with no more than an hour between each launch. She was covered with alternating layers of sweat, pouring down her back and sides over the dried crust of previous deluges. The cycle had turned her survival suit into a slippery mess, which congealed and dried into an itchy nightmare, before the whole thing started again.

  She would have killed for a shower, or even for sixty seconds with a warm, wet towel—or a cold one—though those things were as unattainable as a hot meal or the unfathomable dream of soft bedsheets and a good long sleep. But, she was a pro, and nothing was going to stop her. Not fear, not exhaustion�
��and certainly not the fact that her cockpit smelled a little too much like Alicia Covington.

  “Let’s go. We all know why we’re here, so I’m going to spare you the speeches. Whatever else you are, whatever you may think you are, right now, only one thing matters. You are killers. Remember that, whatever happens in the coming minutes and hours.”

  She cut the line. Perhaps she should have waxed more poetic, tried to stir the emotions within her pilots. But, she didn’t think they needed it, not just then. And, she wasn’t sure she had it in her. A little known tenet of leadership was that a botched speech was worse than none at all. If she accidently let them see the fear she was feeling, the uncertainty…well, better she said nothing at all. She was there to kill. They were all there to kill. So, best they just got on with it.

  Her ships were coming in on the enemy flank again. She was no grand tactician, but from what she’d seen, the attacks coming in from two sides had disordered the enemy advance. Whether that effect had been worth diverting more than a third of the available ships from the immediate defense of Megara remained to be seen. One thing was crystal clear, though. Dirk Timmons had visited hell on the Hegemony forces. Timmons wasn’t actually her commander, the two each officially led half of Admiral Winters’s wings…but one look at him in action, told her all the stories she’d heard were true. She decided she would take orders from him any day.

  She was a veteran herself, and a great pilot. She knew that. But, she’d never seen anyone fly like Timmons, except for Jake Stockton himself. She, and Johannes Trent, and a good number of the strike force’s aces and squadron leaders, were excellent pilots. But, Stockton and Timmons seemed almost as though they’d been born in their cockpits.

  “Okay…let’s pick up the thrust. We need to get in there, and get out.” Her eyes had caught the lead row of enemy battleships, and her guts clenched as she saw each of them almost englobed by anti-fighter escorts. Her people had benefitted from the devastation the minefield had inflicted on the forward escorts, but now she could see that the enemy had managed to rush up reserves from the second line, enough to surround their battleships, at least those closest to the approaching bombers.

  She’d always known the attack would be costly, as the other waves had been, but now her mental calculations shifted upward. More of her people were going to die, and as horrifying as that was, it didn’t matter. They had to go in, and they had to go immediately.

  “Cluster bomb-armed squadrons…increase thrust to maximum. No, override safeties and kick it up to one oh five.” She’d done some crazy things in her battles, but she’d never ordered an entire force of fighters to overload their reactors. It was a violation of regulations, certainly, and probably a court martial offense. At least back when such things mattered.

  Let them throw me in the stockade if they want. If I’m still here in an hour.

  If the stockade is still there…

  “She listened as the acknowledgements came in, every one of her ten squadrons armed with the last of the cluster munitions replying almost instantly, with no hint of the resentment she’d expected. One by one, she watched as the designated units surged forward, jumping out to the head of the formation. She knew they wouldn’t take out all of the escorts, but as she watched them approach, and then begin their attacks, she couldn’t take her eyes away.

  The one hundred sixteen Lightnings drove straight ahead, nothing but their own evasive maneuvers to protect them from the withering defensive fire. She saw the first ship hit, and destroyed in a fiery explosion. Then another. Before a single attacking ship had launched its bombs, more than fifteen of them had been destroyed or knocked out of action.

  Still, the others stayed on course, not a single ship faltering, nor even cutting its thrust. They came in, bouncing around, their vectors chaotic but still heading toward their targets. Then, she saw one squadron launch. Than another. Within forty seconds, every fighter still in action had sent its bombs toward the enemy escorts. The pilots were still blasting their engines on overload, but now they were flying for themselves, struggling to pull away and return to base to rearm.

  Even as the bombs began to move in on the escorts, the Hegemony vessels maintained their fire. Fighters still died, even as they were blasting at full to alter their vectors, to get away.

  We can do something about that to distract these bastards…

  “All squadrons…let’s follow their lead. Cut safeties and blast reactors at one hundred five, right behind me. Let’s get in there and blast some battleships.”

  She pushed her own ship forward, feeling the thrust slam into her, far above any level the dampeners could fully absorb. She didn’t care. Those lead squadrons had done heroic duty, and now the rest of the wings were going to give them a chance to escape.

  She stared straight ahead, watching as the cluster bombs began to impact the escorts, slamming into the waiting ships and tearing great holes in front of the battleships.

  Holes the rest of her fighters were heading toward even then.

  Her eyes darted down to her panel, checking the status of her torpedo. She’d picked a target already, a nice juicy battleship that had so far escaped with minimal damage. We’ll see about that…

  She angled her thrusters, her body slamming into the side of the cockpit as the force came down on her hard. She was uncomfortable, in pain, but she held it back, a wall in her mind protecting her focus, her concentration, repelling all distractions.

  She stared straight forward, her hand on the controls, her finger hovering over the firing stud, as the hulking battleship grew on her scanners. She stayed on target, every muscle in her body tight, aching. She saw the range drop, below five thousand. Then four thousand.

  She took a deep breath, and she glanced briefly at the area display. Three of her squadrons were with her, their ships screaming in just behind. There were four enemy battleships ahead, her target, and three others that now faced the deadly assault coming in.

  She pressed the controls, loosing her torpedo, almost entirely on instinct, and then she gritted her teeth as her ship blasted wildly, and nudged her vector just enough to clear the target ship.

  She’d scored a hit, she was sure of that, but the damage assessment would take a few more seconds. Meanwhile, she watched as the rest of her ships went in, the three squadrons just behind her launching one torpedo after another, and scoring more than a dozen hits.

  The battleships shook with the fury of the attacks, even as the remaining escorts gunned down bombers as they came in. It was a bloodbath, each side clawing at the other in an orgy of killing and devastation. Covington had fought against the Union, and she’d seen some terrible battles in that war, but she’d never witnessed anything like what she watched just then in the Olyus system.

  More of her people were still coming in, but she knew there was nothing she could do for them. Her duty was clear…get back to the mothership and rearm. The wings in Admiral Barron’s force in-system weren’t going to get out again, not before the battleships were engaged. But, Clint Winters squadrons, half of them under Covington’s command, just might manage it.

  She fought off the exhaustion, and the fear that kept trying to push its way in. She wanted rest, or even a few hours of quiet peace. But, she had her duty, as every warrior in the Olyus system did then, and she would see it done.

  Whatever it cost her.

  * * *

  “Get those shuttles docked, Commander, and I mean NOW!” Andi Lafarge stood on Hermes’s deck. She was far to agitated to sit. Every few minutes, she had to fight off an urge to order her ship—the one she’d been given to complete her task, at least…Pegasus would always be her ship—to rush into the center of the storm.

  To die with Tyler if she couldn’t help him.

  But, that would be giving up, and Andi Lafarge did not give up. Not ever.

  “Yes, Captain. Flight control says they’ll all be in place in thirty…”

  “Fifteen minutes, Commander. And not a damned seco
nd longer, unless everybody down there wants to float home.”

  A pause. Then: “Yes, Captain.”

  Andi had noticed some tension from her crew at first, or at least a tentative caution when they dealt with her. She understood. She didn’t imagine she’d much like the idea of some smuggler taking command if she’d been career navy her whole life. But, she was pretty sure she’d won them over, or at least shown them she was tough as nails, and no one they wanted to mess with. She wasn’t sure which of those was the stronger, but either would serve.

  She’d tried to keep her eyes away from the long-range display, from the drone-relayed images of the inferno surrounding Megara…and Barron’s task force. The scene looked like some kind of image from hell, and every time her control slipped, and she looked, she had to fight to hold back the tears. Barron had ‘Raptor’ Stockton with him, probably the deadliest weapon the Confederation had against the Hegemony, and he had Anya Fritz onboard to keep Dauntless going with her engineering skills that seemed almost like some kind of sorcery. He had Atara Travis, too, one of her closest friends, and probably the one person Barron needed most at his side in battle. Andi would have been jealous of Travis—and she’d have hated herself for allowing such an emotion to push its way into her mindset, too—but the relationship between Barron and his exec, and now flag captain, was so obviously akin to that among siblings, she’d put any petty concerns aside long before.

  Now, she wished with all her heart the only thing she had to worry about was the two of them in some sweaty romp in Tyler’s cabin. At least they’d both likely survive that.

  “Captain, flight command reports that fifteen minutes is not poss…”

  “Fifteen minutes better be possible, because in sixteen, somebody’s going out the airlock.” Her voice was hard, cold. She didn’t really care if her temporary crew liked her or not. She’d agreed to carry out one mission on Hermes, as a favor to Tyler. She wasn’t likely to actually space any of her crew if they missed the deadline—probably not, at least—but they didn’t know that. Why not make the most of the mysterious smuggler as new commander thing while she could? Especially since everybody seemed to know she’d killed Ricard Lille.