by Jay Allan
She looked up, trying to decide if the stream of crumbling bits seemed heavier to her. She didn’t like the answer she came up with, so she ignored it.
“Over there, Vig. Let’s try over there.”
She was running out of time. She knew that…but she couldn’t give up. Not on her friends. Not ever.
Chapter Thirty
CFS Dauntless
Alantra Vega System
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“We’re picking up more energy readings, Admiral. It looks like additional enemy forces are about to transit in.” Atara sat at her station, rigid, unshakable, as she had been for so many years before she’d come so close to death. Barron felt more certain than ever that his right hand was back, and none too soon. The knots in his stomach suggested he was going to need her help as he never had before.
“Full alert, all ships.” He turned, reaching down and flipping the controls on his comm. “Stara…I need a status report on wing readiness.” His voice was soft, calm, nothing like it had been moments before as he’d issued various commands on the bridge. It had become almost a subconscious act for Barron to treat Stara Sinclair gently, even as he relied on her to do her job. Jake Stockton’s death had hit him hard, and it had almost destroyed morale in the squadrons. But Stara and Stockton had been lovers for years, and Barron could only guess at the pain she’d felt at his loss.
Whatever grief she’d endured, though, it had done little to reduce her efficiency. On the contrary, her apparent need to work around the clock had turned her almost into a machine, one apparently devoid of emotion, and barely dependent on sleep and food. On one level—one shameful level—Barron was almost grateful. Her total dedication to her duties had been crucial in helping Reg Griffin reforge the squadrons into the weapon he needed. He did his best to deflect the guilt, telling himself her cold devotion to duty was something that she needed. That might have been true, but it didn’t change the fact that Barron had to have those wings as ready as they could possibly be…and he would have done almost anything to ensure they stayed that way.
“Admiral Griffin’s wings are being refit now, sir. They should be ready to launch in roughly thirty minutes. The rest of the fleet squadrons are on full alert and ready to launch on your command. I can scramble them in less than five minutes.”
Barron nodded, a pointless gesture since he wasn’t on a video connection with Sinclair. “Very well, Stara. Good work.” He wondered if praise even mattered to her anymore. She was the closest thing he’d ever seen to the hollowed out husk of a human being, turned almost into an unstoppable robot. Whether that was her way of escaping from the pain, or a driving need for vengeance—or both—Barron didn’t know. He knew a thing or two about grief, himself, but it had been four years. He wondered if Stara should have gotten over it by then, returned to something of her old self.
Would you get over losing Andi? Ever?
The thought had been an instinctive one, and it allowed fears and emotions he’d kept bottled up to escape for a few seconds, worries about Andi, about what was happening to her…out there. He indulged them for a few seconds, and then he managed to slam the door shut again. He didn’t have the luxury of such things. To many lives depended on him being at his best.
“Get the pilots in their ships, Stara. I’ll be issuing the launch command shortly.” Barron wasn’t about the send thousands of fighters out, not until he actually saw what came through the point. But his gut rarely lied to him, and it was telling him he was going to need all he had…and soon. The enemy resistance had been light so far, far lighter than expected, and many of his officers had dared to hope the Highborn production capacity was far lower than had been feared. Barron himself did not subscribe at all to that theory, though he knew he would find no satisfaction in being proven right.
“Yes, Admiral. We’ll be ready.”
Barron held his hand over the comm, feeling like he should say something else to her, as he often did when the two spoke. But he knew Stara was holding her emotions in check, even as he was, and he respected her efforts. He tapped the comm, shutting down the line without another word, and then he looked up, just as a line of Highborn ships began pouring through the transit point.
Large Highborn ships, a new class almost as big as the heavy battleships his fleet had fought four years before at Calpharon. And the battlewagons were each followed by a trio of smaller, now-familiar vessels.
Carriers…
He took a deep breath. He’d wondered where the enemy had been, why they hadn’t put up a stronger fight. Now he knew.
They’d been waiting, holding back, likely trying to draw him farther from his supply lines and from any possible reinforcements. That wouldn’t matter if his people managed to win the fight…but it was going to be one hell of a long and dangerous retreat if they lost.
And the fact that he felt like a damned fool who had fallen right into a trap wasn’t making it easier to focus on the battle at hand.
“All available squadrons…launch when ready.” He directed the command to Atara, but first his hand wavered over the comm unit. He might have given the order to Stara directly, but he found it difficult to speak with her, depressing on multiple levels. He wasn’t proud he felt that way, but he couldn’t deny it either, and he took the chance to avoid another exchange so soon after the first.
“Yes, Admiral…issuing fleet launch order now.” He could hear as Atara relayed the command, to Stara, and to every flight deck in the fleet.
He stared at the screen, watching as more and more ships poured through. His squadrons would be launched and formed up within ten minutes. Then it would be time to advance behind them, and to close with the Hegemony forces. Barron was worried, fighting off a feeling that his fleet faced grave danger. But he couldn’t withdraw without even engaging the enemy, trying to sustain the offensive…and the faster his people advanced, the more chance they had of catching the Highborn while they were still transiting.
He found himself looking around the bridge, his eyes moving from one veteran officer to another. His people were among the best he’d served with, a match for any group he’d led before. He didn’t know what lay ahead, what they were about to face. But he was sure of one thing.
Whatever the Highborn sent through that transit point was going to get one hell of a fight.
* * *
Reg Griffin felt the g forces slamming into her as her fighter barreled down the launch tube. The miniature dampeners on the new Lightnings were highly effective, but they couldn’t handle the massive acceleration imparted by Dauntless’s launch catapults. Her eyes were closed, but she opened them just as her ship slipped out of the tube and into the deep blackness of space. Thousands of fighters were launching, all around the fleet, beginning to move into the formations she’d prescribed. She was about to face her greatest test, a massive struggle against the largest Highborn fleet yet encountered in the current advance. She had no real idea what the new large enemy ship class was, or what weapons it mounted, but with the mass of those vessels, they were almost certainly battleships of some kind. She had no idea if they carried fighters, as the Rim capital ships did, or if the Highborn restricted their squadrons to the smaller purpose-built carriers. She didn’t know which would be worse, either. The last thing she wanted was to face even more enemy squadrons…but the thought of the weaponry those ships could carry if they were dedicated battlewagons terrified her.
“Alright, wing commanders…you all know what to do. Form up your squadrons, and get ready to go in. We’re going to hit those bastards before they can get more ships through the point or launch more fighters. So, full thrust, all the way in, and then we fight it out until it’s over.” She’d trained her people again and again for just the scenario unfolding in front of her. Now, she would see how well she had done…if she had given them the tools to survive the crucible they were about to enter, or if she had failed them, and was about to lead them as sheep to the slaughter.
Sh
e could see the enemy fighters launching from their own platforms. She would have the edge, for a while at least, as enemy vessels continued to transit into the system. It was hard to estimate just how many Highborn fighters the ships in position carried, but she had some idea of the capacity of the small carriers. If the battleships didn’t have any squadrons of their own—and she hadn’t seen any launching from the big ships yet—she would have at least a two to one advantage in the initial stages of the battle.
That advantage hadn’t resulted from any tactical brilliance of hers, only from the inherent advantages of the defender against a transit point assault, benefits bestowed largely by the limited lateral size of the points. But whatever the cause of her edge, she intended to take full advantage of it. She had all of her available fighters in space, or still launching. Two thousand bombers sat in the fleet’s launch bays, waiting for the orders to follow. She’d almost brought them out right away…the fleet could certainly use the help against the forward Highborn vessels. But the line ships would have their own numerical edge at first, and Reg didn’t want to worry about protecting bombers, not yet. Her interceptor wings were pure predators just then, with one mission, and one mission only.
To destroy the Highborn squadrons.
She could see the enemy ships falling into their formations, once again with a precision that unnerved her and defied explanation. She’d seen the first Hegemony fighters going into action during the previous war, looking more like a confused mob than any kind of polished military unit. But Highborn squadrons had flown almost like veteran formations from the start.
The Highborn had enjoyed the same respite the Pact had, of course, several years to hone their skills before plunging into battle. But it wasn’t so much time a new fighter corps needed as experience, and leaders with the battle hours to teach the new pilots. That was something the Highborn simply couldn’t have…and yet their wings were almost a match for hers.
Almost. She was still willing to give her people the edge, though she wasn’t sure if that was entirely objective analysis, or something colored by loyalty. It didn’t matter just then. All that was left was for every pilot to fight hard…and to prevail, somehow. If the Highborn kept feeding ships through the point, she was looking at the largest fighter battle in known history.
She was ready, as much as she could be. And she was damned sure not ready, too.
Not to mention scared out of her wits.
None of that mattered, either. There was only one important fact. It was time to go in.
Her hand moved the throttle, feeding power to her engines, and she felt as though a wall slammed into her as she blasted toward the Highborn formations at maximum thrust.
* * *
“All ships…forward at full thrust. To battle!” Vian Tulus sat in the center of Fulgur’s bridge. He’d transferred his flag to the Alliance’s newest ship, as much as anything, a nod to the efforts the industry back home had poured into feeding new vessels and weapons to the front. Palatian production couldn’t match the astonishing efficiency of Confederation industry, nor could his new flagship stand up to a vessel like Dauntless, much less the rumored new superbattleship class led by a vessel called Excalibur. Tulus had never seen the first of the new Confederation behemoths, but Tyler Barron had shown him the specs, and he didn’t doubt all he had heard—and more—was true.
None of that mattered, of course, not to Palatians. He would have led his people forward in lifeboats armed with plasma torches if that had been the only way into the fight, the only way to stand beside his blood brother in the glory of battle.
Vian Tulus was a Palatian to his core, and he felt the call of battle…but he was also an analytical man, far more so than most who’d previously occupied his position. He owed some of that to Tyler Barron, no doubt, but he fancied at least part of it had come from his own sources. That bit of his brain, and the thoughts if produced, were extremely valuable to him…most of the time. They were a hindrance just then, however, when there was nothing to analyze, no option before him save to fight to the end. Any distractions that wore away at his simple Palatian warrior’s code were counterproductive at that moment. He knew just how dangerous the enemy was, and how remote the chances of victory for the fleet truly were. A Palatian wasn’t supposed to have such thoughts, nor imagine that courage and the skill of warriors could be overcome by tonnage and ordnance.
And yet there was a darkness woven deep in his race’s creed.
The Palatians had been enslaved for a century, before they had rallied and driven away the offworlders. The war that had freed his planet had begun with simple slaves carrying farm implements, even sticks and stones. Tulus was well aware of the legends, and the actual history, that had helped to form the warrior’s code, but as he watched the Highborn ships streaming through the transit point, he understood the realities of technology and numbers, too. The Highborn were far more advanced than the Confeds and the Hegemony, and even farther ahead of the Alliance. The enemy’s science nearly matched that of the old empire, and their weapons and defensive systems were still only partially understood.
Tulus fixed his eyes on the display, and he struggled to center himself, to drive away all thoughts save those of battle. If his association with Tyler Barron had caused him to lose something of a Palatian’s simple and relentless drive to fight whatever the odds, he knew he had gained much more, and that the warrior he had become was a far more formidable adversary than the one he had been.
I thank you, my brother, for all you have given me. I am here, at your side, as we go into the fight, together, as one…
* * *
Stockton looked at the screen, the part of him that was still the man he’d been deep in hopeless misery. He had killed Confederation pilots already, gunned down warriors who’d served him, who’d idolized him. He hadn’t been able to control himself, but such testaments and protestations stood in his mind as frail and shadowy excuses. The men and women he’d attacked were still dead…and he was about to kill even more, and lead the Highborn squadrons into a battle that would likely see thousands of his old comrades massacred before it ended.
He tried, yet again, to gain control of himself, of any part of him, just for a few seconds, to overload his reactor, or pop open his canopy, anything at all that might kill him and end his pain. But he failed, just as he had a thousand times over the past four years. He was imprisoned as securely as ever, helpless, even as he heard his own voice snapping out commands to the Highborn wings.
The attack was a powerful one, not strong enough, perhaps, to entirely defeat Tyler Barron’s fleet, but strong enough, almost certainly, to deter the admiral, to send him heading back the way he had come.
Which was just what Tesserax wanted him to do.
Stockton desperately wanted to warn Barron. Even a few scant seconds on the comm would give his old friend a chance to adapt, to at least know what he was facing. To know he was already deep into a trap. But it was impossible. Stockton had to sit and watch the Highborn attack unfold. No, worse, he had to help it succeed.
His eyes moved over the small screen in front of him, checking his formations…and the incoming Confederation forces. There were Palatian and Hegemony squadrons out there, too, but Stockton knew the heart of the wave of ships coming in consisted of his old wings. There were a lot of new pilots out there, the number of squadrons alone told him that. He wished them all well, even as he knew he would do everything possible to defeat them, to destroy them.
Perhaps one of them will kill me, and end this nightmare. He tried to believe that, but he knew how unlikely it was. That was ego, perhaps, but it was also stone cold analysis. He was the best pilot the Confederation had—at least when they’d still had him—and the odds of anyone in the force heading his way taking him down seemed remote. There were good pilots out there, certainly, and a few top aces, too…and it was always possible a group could swarm him, bring him down. But he’d been flying for more than twenty years, and he could count t
he opponents who’d truly challenged him on one hand.
And not one of them had ever truly beaten him.
His eyes focused on a small dot on the screen. It was a pilot, at the leading edge of the approaching assault. The flying style, the skill…it was excellent. The pilot was clearly a master.
And familiar as well.
He’d fought a skilled pilot before, a battle that had ended inconclusively. He could feel his mind, the part controlled by the Collar, focusing on the target, identifying the threat, hands moving, adjusting his vectors. He was going after that pilot.
He cringed, screamed silently in the lost part of himself that was still his. He railed against the conclusion forming in his mind, denied it even as he became more and more convinced it was true. Stockton knew he was good, but even he didn’t think he could pick out a specific pilot by watching his flying.
Or her flying.
But as he continued to watch—and as he involuntarily began to close on the contact—he became more and more convinced.
That was Reg Griffin out there, his protégé, the pilot he’d left behind as his successor. She was leading the wings, standing in his shoes.
And he was going to kill her.
Chapter Thirty-One
Beneath Ruins of Pintarus City (Former Imperial Capital)
Planet Number Four (Pintarus)
Undesignated Imperial System 12
Year 327 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Sy? Is that you?” Andi had heard a voice, but it was distant, soft, behind too much rubble for her to be sure.
“Andi?” Still faint, but the speaker was clearly shouting. “Yes…it’s Sy. We’re back here. Everybody is okay, but we can’t get out.”
Andi felt a rush of relief that almost took her off her feet. For a few miserable, fateful moments, she’d been sure her friends were dead. “Stay put, Sy…we’re coming to you.” She almost turned up the power level on the drill, but she stopped herself. Sy and the others were still alive, but they wouldn’t be for long if her impulsiveness brought the building down.
