Nightfall

by Jay Allan

  The threat of the vastly outgunned Confeds forcing a fight, as unlikely as it seemed, struck him hard, and he realized just how difficult what he proposed was going to be. The Confed Senate had made the peace after the last war, but he couldn’t imagine that had gone down well with the naval types. The Confeds had suffered terrible losses in the war, as had the Union. They were on the brink of pushing their advantage, of invading a Union that was prostrate and unable to resist…when their own war weary politicians stopped them. Denisov knew the resentment he would have felt, and he didn’t guess that Tyler Barron and his compatriots would feel much different.

  And, you’re not even here as the Union. Hell, if you go back to the Union, you’ll be lucky if you just get shot. There are far worse ways to go in the cells down in those Sector Nine cellars.

  Denisov had the fleet, at least at the moment. They had seen the Hegemony forces, as he had, and such things tended to make an impression. Still, he had no idea how long he could sustain his position, or how his people would react to allying with their longtime enemies. Assuming he was even able to find the main Confederation force, and somehow convince them he’d brought his fleet deep into their space not as enemies, but to join them as allies.

  He looked around the bridge. His officers were busy at their posts, edgy of course, about being in Confederation space, but otherwise with him. Still, he knew that wasn’t the case for all. With thousands of spacers on the fleet, some of them were bound to oppose what he had done. Most would remain silent and do nothing, but perhaps not all.

  He’d rounded up all the political officers he could find, and anyone he’d suspected of ties to Sector Nine or any other intelligence gathering operation. But, there were almost certainly some conspirators out there, who would try to stop what he was trying to do.

  The question was, how many? And, how capable were they?

  And, how far would they go to try to stop him?

  * * *

  Regina Descortes swore under her breath, as she twisted her body through the narrow conduits, and pulled herself up, a few centimeters at a time. She was sore, bruised, tired. Her knowledge of Illustre’s layout, not just the corridors snaking through her decks, but the tubes and pipes and passageways that wound through the ship’s innards, had proven invaluable. She’d studied the schematics Gaston Villieneuve had provided her, the details of every out of view way to get around the giant battleship. It had taken her some time to decide exactly how to proceed, and in the end, she’d waited until Denisov had actually crossed the border and entered Confederation space. There had been no doubt left at that point, at least none in her mind.

  Denisov was a traitor, and there was only one thing she could do.

  She wriggled her way up, and then climbed to the side, pressing her face against the ventilation duct and looking cautiously out into the room. It was semi-dark, only a single light on and, at least as far as she could see from her difficult vantage point, there was no one there. She’d been pretty sure the room would be empty. She’d managed to confirm that Admiral Denisov was out on the bridge. He’d been spending a lot of time there, no doubt focusing on interactions with the Confeds. That gave her time.

  She pulled a small wrench from the kit she carried at her side, and she carefully removed the covering screen. It almost slipped out of her grasp—a crashing sound she didn’t need just then—but she managed to hold onto it. She angled her body, pulled her legs out of the conduit, and then, with a deep breath, she dropped down to the floor.

  She spun around, pulling the small pistol from its place in the waistband of her pants. She’d managed to stay fairly quiet, but she’d been trained not to take chances. If anyone heard her, or even happened to be coming through the door, she had to be ready.

  Her eyes darted around the room, checking every dark space and potential hiding spot. She was alone.

  Good. She’d expected to come into an empty space, to have time to set up and prepare for what she had to do. But, she was standing in Admiral Denisov’s private office, and it wouldn’t have been all that shocking to find him at his desk.

  She reached up and put the grate back into place. When Denisov came into that office, whether in five minutes, or five hours, she didn’t want a thing to look out of place. Descortes was a highly effective killer, trained by none other than Ricard Lille, and she wouldn’t need long. Denisov was no fool. Doubtless, he suspected there were undercover agents in the fleet beyond those he’d already rounded up. He would be edgy, watching out for anything suspicious.

  She walked over to the control panel and entered her overrides. A screen appeared, a black background with light blue text, a view no one in Illustre’s crew had ever seen.

  It was a routine Sector Nine had placed in the battleship’s AI programming when the vessel was still in the shipyard. She punched in a series of codes, and then even the small light that had been on winked out.

  Then, she turned and walked over to the desk, feeling her way through the darkness. When she reached her destination, she crouched down behind heavy desk, and looked out toward the room’s only entrance, save of course for the unorthodox one she had just used.

  She would wait now, for as long as it took.

  Wait for Andrei Denisov to come into his office.

  Then, she would kill him.

  * * *

  Denisov walked slowly down the corridor. He’d been on the bridge for hours. Twelve, fourteen…he couldn’t remember, but he knew he needed a break. Sleep was out of the question, of course, the soft cot in his quarters no more than a distant dream. But he needed to close his eyes for a moment, and take something for the raging headache that felt as though it might shatter his skull like an egg at any moment.

  He walked down the familiar corridor, and as he reached the door to his office, he stopped and froze.

  He heard something. Footsteps. Coming up behind him.

  He spun around, his hand dropping to the sidearm he’d always carried at his side, but that he’d now checked and rechecked a dozen times. He was about to pull the pistol out when he saw the shocked face of one of his aides.

  “Apologies, Admiral, if I startled you.” The man looked scared, his eyes locked on Denisov’s hand resting over the pistol’s handle.

  Denisov’s hand loosened almost immediately. The aide was one of his, a spacer he trusted completely. “What is it, Lieutenant?” He was annoyed at the needless tension, but he tried to hide it as well as he could.

  “We have received a communique from the Confederation forces. They are demanding we stop and power down, and wait while they signal to their fleet command for instructions.”

  Denisov was relieved the Confeds were at least talking to what had to seem an invasion force to them. Though, what real choice do they have? If we were here to attack them, they’d all be dust clouds already.

  Denisov stood in the corridor, silent for a moment, thinking. If he ran past the small defense force, more than likely they’d just let him go. Even if they opened fire, he might just be able to ignore them. They might damage a ship or two as the fleet passed by, but they couldn’t do much more than that.

  Still, if they kill any of my people…that’s going to make it that much harder for us to find a way to cooperate. My people are scared of the Hegemony, but they hate the Confeds, too. If we have any fatalities, will I be able to maintain control?

  There was logic to all of that…but he just couldn’t sit there on the border and wait. He had to get to someone of a high rank, and he had to speak to them himself. Directly, in the same system and not by days or weeks long communication trails.

  No. He couldn’t stop.

  But, he didn’t want to ignore the attempt at communication, at peaceful resolution. He didn’t know how persuasive he could be to some border defense officer, but he had to try.

  “Come with me, Lieutenant. I want to respond to the Confed communique.” He turned and pressed his hand down over the locking plate, and stood to the side as the door
slid open.

  He gestured for the lieutenant to step inside, and then he turned to follow. “Lights.” It seemed odd. The AI was programmed to put the lights on as he entered.

  And, I’m sure I left the desk light on…

  A panic gripped him almost instantly, and he swung his body to the side, pulling his pistol out, just as he heard a loud crack…and then, he felt warmth, wetness on his face. The aide dropped hard to the floor right in front of him, and he realized the officer’s blood, and a good bit of his brains, were all over him.

  He cursed himself for his carelessness, even as he reached out his arm and fired his pistol. He got off one shot, two.

  Then, he felt an impact on his chest, hard, and his legs slipped out from under him. He was falling, and then he was on the ground. He could hear sounds from outside now, heavy boots, either his Marine guards rushing to save him…or more assassins coming to finish the job.

  Not that the one who’d been waiting for him couldn’t do that all alone.

  You’re a damned fool.

  It was all he could think, the only thought that would stay in his mind.

  You’re a damned fool…

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  CFS Dauntless

  140,000 Kilometers from Megara, Olyus III

  Year 318 AC

  The Battle of Megara – “Barron’s Breakout – Part Two”

  Tyler Barron sank deep into his chair’s cushioning, struggling to endure the g forces bearing down on him. He could feel the pressure pushing on his face, on the folds of skin on his arms, and deep inside his body. Everywhere the scars of an old combat wound remained, healed breaks and patched up cuts radiated with new pain. He almost yelled out. He wanted to scream, but he knew he had to set the example for his people.

  Besides, he wasn’t sure he could suck enough air into his tortured lungs to manage it.

  The fleet was on the move, a desperate, insane effort to accelerate past the approaching Hegemony fleet. The highest g force reading he’d heard from the AI was 83. He had no idea how much of that the overloaded dampeners were absorbing and how much was slamming into him and the rest of his crew—all his crews, on every ship—but he was pretty sure it was the heaviest he had endured in his career.

  All of his ships were blasting through the enemy fleet, save two battleships and six smaller craft that had suffered catastrophic failures in their reactor systems when they’d implemented the plan. Fritzie had told him the procedure was dangerous and untested, that there would be losses if he attempted it. But, Barron would still have done it, even if he’d known over three thousand of his people would be killed in a matter of seconds. The breakout wasn’t about whether he lost any spacers, but about whether any survived. And, at that moment, most of his people were still alive.

  He knew there were, that there had to be, casualties from the acceleration on the surviving ships. Broken bones, internal bleeding, and, very possibly, some fatalities, but, again, the alternative was for all of them to die…or, unthinkably, to surrender to the Hegemony. That was an order that he would never have given, nor one he could imagine coming from Nguyen’s mouth, but more than likely some of the last vessels remaining, after the flagships were gone, would have chosen such a route. The idea appalled Barron, who would choose death for himself a hundred times before yielding, but he couldn’t fault anyone who might have sought to survive once the fight was clearly over. The Barron legacy weighed heavily on him, and sometimes he remembered just how much feelings of obligation to the family name guided his actions. He didn’t want to die, to sacrifice all he might live to do and see…but disgracing the Barron legacy, being a disappointment in his perception of his grandfather’s judgment, was unthinkable.

  Dauntless was last in the line. He’d held his flagship back, waited to pick up lifeboats from the shattered hulk that had been Republic. Endangering a thousand of Dauntless’s crew to save one hundred three didn’t make mathematical sense, notwithstanding also risking himself, the second-in-command of the fleet. But, he’d done it anyway.

  His own worth, and how it greatly exceeded that of an average spacer, was something he’d never been able to evaluate objectively. Besides, it wasn’t about math. It was about the bond between the men and women who’d followed him into battle, who’d fought with everything they had. He knew he would leave thousands behind, dead, captured. But, there wouldn’t be a single spacer in that total that he could have done something to save.

  Dauntless shook from a hit, her luck finally running out as she raced past the gauntlet. Barron felt an instant of panic, an image in his mind of the engines or reactors giving out, stranding his fleet in the middle of the enemy forces. But, the thrust didn’t slack off, not at all, as far as he could tell.

  The Hegemony ships had been taken completely by surprise by the unorthodox move. Not only had there been no sign of a breakout attempt before it actually happened, but as far as they could know, Confederation and Alliance ships were simply not capable of the thrust levels they were currently employing.

  The Hegemony probably had extensive files on Confederation systems and capabilities, but Barron smiled, or as close as he could manage to such a thing, thinking to himself, what they really needed was a file on Anya Fritz.

  He tried to turn his head enough to look over at the display, but he gave up after perhaps ten seconds of fruitless effort. The discomfort and pain were getting worse, and he felt as though his ribs were going to burst through his chest. All he could do was lay back in his chair, wondering how the enemy was reacting, waiting to see if Dauntless was hit again as it tried to flee…and hearing the moans and muffled shouts of pain from his officers and bridge crew.

  Seconds went by, and the pressure continued. Somehow, and Barron wasn’t sure how, Dauntless’s engines endured under the stress of twice the thrust they were designed to produce. He imagined fractures in the superhard metals, cracks in the fuel pressure pumps, waiting to split, with tragic consequences. No doubt, some of his ships had given out, their overtaxed engines and reactors failing, leaving them at the mercy of the enemy.

  Or simply going supercritical in spectacular explosions that killed all concerned.

  Barron wanted to give the order to cut the thrust, to reduce the reactor output and make the relentless force go away. He felt as though he and his people were pushing their luck, almost asking for the worst to happen. But, he’d done the calculations himself, and he knew how long the thrust had to continue if his people were going to have any real chance of escaping the system. If each added minute, ten minutes, thirty minutes, increased the death toll from out of control g forces, then so be it. If none of his ships escaped, the entire enterprise, and all the suffering it had caused, would have been for nothing.

  He shoved his head to the side, slightly, enough to get a look at the chronometer. The AI would warn him when they were down to the ten-minute mark, but he’d begun to believe the system had failed to notify him, that there couldn’t possibly be more than ten minutes left of the hell he and his people were enduring.

  His mind was reeling, and around the periphery of his vision, hallucinations began to gather. He told himself what he’d seen on the clock was wrong, that his eyes were failing. Then, he realized he’d read the thing right.

  Almost twenty minutes remained at full thrust. A third of an hour of pain, of hellish torment.

  And, a third of an hour where, each second, any of his ships could fail. If engines stopped, a ship’s crew would die. If reactors redlined, a ship’s crew would die.

  If the dampeners overloaded, a ship’s crew would die.

  And, if everything went exactly right, his people had, maybe, a fifty percent chance of getting to the transit point in time, and making the jump.

  But, those were better odds than they’d had formed up around Megara, waiting for certain death.

  * * *

  “Pull those throttles all the way back, all of you. We’re not worried about formations now, were not worried about
enemy fire, we’re not even worried about getting to the right ships. Just catch up to any battleship you can that has a berth, and land…before it’s too late.” Jake Stockton was in the rear of the giant formation, literally the last fighter to break off and make a mad dash for a landing slot before the fleet transited. He’d seen to every one of his squadrons, every lost pilot, and only then had he set his own course and blasted at full, chasing after the fleet.

  He could see the flashes on his screen, fighters in his wings being picked off by enemy fire as they zipped away from the pursuing Hegemony formations. He felt a passing regret at his choice of words, of not worrying about the fire killing his people even as they raced after their fleeing motherships. But, he’d meant it, every word. Reality gave no alternative. His people had a much better chance running the enemy guns that they did if they watched their mother ships transit without them.

  Taking a fighter through a transit point jump was a difficult maneuver, and for those in ships with damage or whose shielding had been worn or battered, it could be fatal. He’d done it himself, many times, and he knew better than perhaps any other living person, just how many of his people would die in the attempt, especially since most would be running out of fuel just as they reached the transit point.

  He also knew just how little most of the survivors would stand to gain for their success as they emerged with dry fuel tanks, just through the point, only to watch the fleeing battleships continue their flight before the Hegemony fleet could reform and pursue. That would save them from dying at the hands of the enemy, of course, but Stockton wasn’t sure suffocating or freezing to death were better options.

  Catching the fleet, while it was still in the Olyus system, was the best chance any of them had to survive.

  That was going to be a close race for most of them. Closer still, because he’d kept his squadrons on the attack after they’d launched their torpedoes, conducting strafing runs and doing everything else possible to delay the enemy pursuit of the fleet. That had been successful, as a way to aid the retreating battleships at least, but it had left his fighters far behind and struggling to catch up.