by Jay Allan
He was staring at the screen, watching his death approach when the energy output from the missile dropped off. It was still heading straight for his fighter, only seconds away now. But the thrust was dead.
He gripped the throttle, angling it to the side, blasting his engines again. It didn’t matter where…any change in his vector would do now. The missile was zipping through space at better than 0.01c, but its course was fixed now, its engines silent. He watched as the tiny symbol went by, less than a kilometer away. That was “sweating range” in space combat, and he had the drenched flight suit to prove it. But a miss was a miss.
Pull your shit together, Raptor…and don’t underestimate these people again.
The Alliance pilots were flying better than he’d ever seen them, and deep down he knew what had changed. His thoughts drifted to the phantom pilot, the one he’d dueled with so intensely. The Red Alliance fighter corps clearly had more than just a new ace.
“Watch your asses out there, Blues.” And you too, Blue Leader. “These are some sharp pilots we’ve got here.”
They have a new leader…and they’re fired up.
Chapter Twelve
AS Viribus
Pergara System
Inbound from the Capria Transwarp Link
Year 62 (311 AC)
“We’ve got more ships transiting, Commander. They’re demanding we surrender at once.”
Mellus sat in her chair, fighting off the shock that had begun with the first vessel emerging into the system. She’d known then, almost immediately, without scanner reports, without any communication, that her effort to defect had failed. Calavius knew all about it…and he’d sent ships to stop her. Enough ships to wipe out her whole fleet.
She sighed softly as she saw more and more symbols emerge from the transit point. There was no way her fleet could escape, and no way it could win either. Whatever she did now, she was dead.
She felt the urge to fight to the end, to go down as she had lived, as an Alliance warrior. She had made her gambit, and now it was time to face the consequences. But thousands of her people would die too, all of them innocent, unaware even that they’d been in the act of switching sides. If she ordered the fleet to stand down, if she took full blame for what she had done…maybe Calavius would pardon her officers and crews.
The pain in her gut told her how little she believed those hopeful thoughts. Calavius might believe some of the crews didn’t know…but he’d never believe she’d managed to keep it as much a secret as she had. Her senior officers would find themselves under arrest, disgraced, and very likely executed. Even her crews would suffer. Calavius might not shoot or imprison the entire fleet’s complement, but he would reassign them, replacing them with less tainted personnel as quickly as he could. The men and women of her fleet would find themselves manning remote stations, or discharged entirely. For the common spacers, men and women of no wealth or resources, they’d end up little better than Plebs, working the rest of their lives for whatever scant wage anyone would pay them.
And Calavius will regain these six battleships…
No, I can’t let that happen. I can’t let him get these ships back. I erred once…I was weak. I supported the wrong side. Never again.
“Commander, get me a fleetwide line.”
A few seconds passed. “You’re live, Commander.”
She took a deep breath, suddenly at a loss of what to say. How could she explain the situation she’d put her people in? She’d had the best intentions, but how could she explain now why she hadn’t told them, without saying as much as she didn’t trust them?
“Officers and spacers of the fleet, this is Commander Mellus. As many of you no doubt see on your scanners, there are ships emerging from the transwarp point. Alliance ships, sworn to the Red faction, as we…were.”
She took a breath, suddenly feeling the stares of Viribus’s bridge crew boring into her. She knew it would be especially painful for them that she hadn’t included them. They would see it as a lack of faith, which was far from the truth. “Some weeks ago, I received a communication from Commander Vennius…Imperator Tarkus I. He sent me evidence…of Calavius’s plot to seize power, of his attack on the Imperatrix. Of the Imperatrix’s death…from wounds inflicted by Calavius’s forces when they attacked the palace.”
She struggled to keep her voice firm, but she could hear the cracks despite her efforts. “I was wrong to swear fealty to Calavius. I was wrong to lead all of you down that road. I believed what I was told, to my everlasting shame. And, worse perhaps, when I decided to repent, to support the rightful ruler of the Alliance, I didn’t tell all of you. I took it as my mistake to correct, my obligation, and I tried to shield you. But in my efforts to protect, I did every man and women in this fleet a terrible disservice. I denied you the right to choose your allegiance. And I failed to show you the trust you deserve, that each of you has earned, through long service and shared sacrifice.”
She turned her head, pushing herself to look at the faces of the officers surrounding her. She felt a fear more terrible than any she’d ever known, not of death and defeat, but of what she’d see in those stares, in the eyes of the men and women who had served her.
But it wasn’t the hatred she’d expected. There was pain, certainly, hurt at what she had said and done. But there was defiance too, and support. Loyalty.
“I am with you, Commander.” A lone voice, from the far side of the bridge. Optio Bellus, she realized, a tactical officer.
“And I, Commander. I understand what you did.”
“Yes…you have my trust, now and always.”
“We’re with you, Commander.”
She was stunned, and she felt a wave of emotion stirring inside. There wasn’t a dissenting voice, not on her bridge at least. And then she saw the comm board all lit up, officers and spacers from every station of the ship, checking in…all with her. She had Viribus, at least.
“Ships of the fleet, hear me now. I believe Imperator Vennius is our rightful ruler, and for me to ignore his call would be the blackest of treasons. But you must make your choices now, either to follow me, to declare at this moment for Vennius and the Grays, or to reaffirm your loyalty to the Red cause. Known now, all of you, that following me, joining the Grays, is likely to end in your deaths here in this system, for I fear we are trapped, soon to be surrounded. I will fight, Viribus will fight, to the last if need be. But each ship’s commander and crew must make their own decision. Whatever course you choose, you all have my deepest respect and admiration. And my gratitude for the service each of you has given.”
She turned and made a gesture across her throat, the signal to Sasca to cut the line. She’d done all she could. She didn’t even know what she was hoping for them to do. To join her now, and die here? Or to crawl back to Calavius, hoping for his dubious clemency?
“Commander Sasca, bring Viribus to battlestations.”
“Yes, Commander.” Her aide’s voice was firm, almost eager. Whatever fear and uncertainty he felt was well-hidden.
She paused a second, her eyes on Sasca. A model of the Alliance warrior. Fare thee well, Ilius Sasca, wherever this dark fight leads us.
“Commander! We’re getting messages from the ships of the fleet. They’re with us!” A short pause. “They’re all with us!”
Mellus turned and looked at the main display. All six battleships remained in formation, and all but two of the escorts. She was transfixed, watching a single pair of frigates blasting their engines, moving away from the fleet. The rest of her force stood, resolute. She was almost overcome by her peoples’ loyalty.
And now you will reward that faithfulness by leading them to their deaths…
Her eyes moved up, toward the screen displaying the newly-arrived fleet. Nineteen battleships, the lead units already launching fighters. And on the flanks, more than thirty-five frigates. Her fleet was doomed. They would never reach Sentinel-2. Their only service to the Grays would be here, now, causing as much damage to the R
ed fleet as they could before they were destroyed.
She looked around the bridge again, at the men and women who had so recently shouted out their support for her. She still felt shards of gratification, but the guilt and sadness had mostly taken over. If she could have saved them all, she would have given herself up, yielded to death and disgrace. But she knew that would serve no purpose. And they could do some good, at least, for the side they now all served. There were worse fates for an Alliance warrior than to die in battle, serving a just and true cause.
“Scramble all fighters.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“And full power to all batteries. All personnel to combat stations. Fleet order…prepare for battle!”
If she couldn’t save her people, she would see that they died as they had lived. As Alliance warriors.
The way is the way.
* * *
“Commander Tulus…”
“Yes, Ingus, I see.” Tulus had seen that something was wrong the instant Ferox’s scanners had cleared the usual interference from the jump insystem. He’d expected to find Mellus’s fleet waiting, but there was more happening in the Pergara system. Much more. There was a battle going on, a big one.
And fierce, from the look of it.
It took a bit longer, perhaps a minute, before he confirmed what he’d guessed from the start. Commander Mellus’s fleet was under attack. And they were outnumbered, almost surrounded.
“Battlestations, Ingus. All ships, prepare to launch fighters.” He hesitated for an instant, almost taking back that last order. His eyes were moving all across the display, getting a good idea just how large the Red fleet was. Understanding dawned quickly. Mellus’s people were doomed without help, that had been obvious from the first seconds after his scanners reactivated, but now he could see the true extent of the trap. Even with his fleet, the situation was just about hopeless.
“Get me a line to Commander Mellus.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later. “On your line, Commander. Transmission time one minute, twenty seconds.” Tulus nodded, holding back a sigh. He’d known Mellus’s forces were significantly farther in-system, but even though he’d expected it, a nearly three minute lag between round trip communications wasn’t going to do anything to help the two forces coordinate against a superior enemy.
“This is Commander-Altum Vian Tulus, calling Commander-Altum Mellus. We are moving into the system toward your position. Please advise on the status of your force and prepare a plan to fall back on the Tarantum transit point. We will form up and attempt to provide cover as you withdraw.” Tulus said the words, but even as he spoke, he felt the leaden feeling growing inside him. The attackers were too close, coming along a vector that would put them almost right between the two Gray forces.
“All ships report battlestations, sir. Our fighters are ready to launch, Commander. Mico also reports ready to launch.”
“All fighters launch.” He looked back to the screen, at his four battleships. Even with his forces added to Mellus’s, the enemy still had almost two to one odds.
Where the hell is Barron with those two ships of his?
Tulus did not count himself among the small number of officers who had come to embrace Confederation assistance. The strategist inside him knew the Gray cause needed the help, indeed, he might even acknowledge the possibility that they would have met total defeat already without the Confeds. But the old line warrior in there still stood on pride, resenting these new allies. And considering them inferior, despite the distinction they’d shown in battle.
Confeds or not, those ships are big…especially the newer one. If they were here now…
Tulus had sent Barron to investigate the Porea transit point, but now he was wondering where the hell the Confed and his people were. They should have scouted things out by now and rejoined the fleet. Especially with their higher thrust levels.
He felt anger, frustration…a growing sense that his allies were letting him down. Were they cowering in the Tarantum system? Or was it worse? Were they in on the treachery?
There was nothing he could do about it now. Perhaps Barron and his people were just slow, inefficient. He was measuring their expected performance by Alliance standards. But whatever it was, he’d have to fight without them, at least at first.
“Bring us forward twenty light seconds, and then cut thrust.” He couldn’t leave Mellus’s forces without trying to save them. He would not suffer the dishonor of abandoning allies without even fighting. But he wasn’t about to get his own force too deep into the system. If he let the Reds get around his flank, interpose between his ships and the transit point back to Tarantum, none of his people would make it back to Sentinel-2.
“Commander Tulus, greetings.” Mellus’s delayed response was loud in his headset. “Your aid is appreciated, but I warn you. We are likely trapped here and outnumbered. We will fight, but you must seek to preserve your force. Imperator Vennius cannot lose more ships this day than can be avoided.”
Tulus heard the strength in Mellus’s voice, but also the acceptance. She’d given up on escaping herself—Viribus was on the far side of her formation, the most distant from the Tarantum transit point—but perhaps she clung to hope that some of her people might escape.
“I urge you, Commander Tulus, to assist my people, those closest to your force, to escape. Victory is not an option here, only survival. For some, at least.”
It filled Tulus with rage to hear such a valiant officer broken, resolved to her death even as she fought on. For an instant, he felt a flush of determination, an urge to find a way to save her. But even as he indulged it for a passing moment, his eyes drew in the reality the scanners were showing him. Viribus was already almost cut off, waves of Red fighters moving in, slicing toward the battleship and its two nearby companions. Mellus was trapped. But half her fleet had a chance. At least a small chance.
“All ships continue to launch as squadrons are ready.”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Then power up main batteries…and bring us right toward the right flank of Mellus’s position.”
With any luck, we’ll bracket the attackers between Mellus’s three closer in battleships and ours. Maybe we can give the Reds enough of a bloody nose to pull out.
Maybe.
He looked to the side, toward the long-range screens covering the transit point.
Where the hell are you, Barron?
Chapter Thirteen
CFS Dauntless
Tarantum System
Near the Porea Transit Point
Year 62 (311 AC)
“Commander, we’ve got another wave coming in. Red squadron’s on combat space patrol, and Blue squadron is coming in behind the bombers.” Travis looked around, back toward Barron. “Lieutenant Timmons’s Eagles are engaging the second wave of interceptors coming in behind the assault squadrons.” A pause. “They’re outnumbered more than three to one.”
Barron just nodded. He knew exactly what Stockton and Timmons were doing. His two elite squadrons should have joined forces and held back the Red interceptors together. But Federov’s Reds weren’t going to turn back this assault wave alone. They’d lost too many of their people repelling the first one. More than half of Federov’s people were back in the landing bays now, standing around as the flight crews struggled to get their damaged and depleted craft repaired and refueled enough to launch. Or they’d ditched, and they were floating in the space around Dauntless, waiting and hoping there would be enough time for the rescue boats to recover them before they ran out of life support.
And three of her pilots were dead. At least, Dauntless’s scanners had failed to pick out any lifepods after their ships had been destroyed.
Stockton’s Blues would cut down on the number of bombers getting through—if they made it in time—but even with his top ace leading his people into the fray, Barron knew the strike wave was likely to draw blood. Not to mention the losses the Eagles would suffer as the forlorn hope, fig
hting to buy the few moments the others needed.
His eyes darted to the side, to the screen displaying the space around Illustrious. The new battleship wasn’t quite the shiny beauty she’d been when Sara Eaton had first arrived at Sentinel-2. Eaton had fought at his side three years before, when Dauntless had returned from the Rim to find the Confederation fleet beaten and retreating…and his own vessel trapped behind enemy lines. She’d been Intrepid’s commander then, and the two battleships had pulled off a desperate mission to destroy the Union’s supply base, a victory that halted the enemy invasion in its tracks. Eaton was back at Sentinel-2 now, in charge of the other two ships of the expeditionary force.
Illustrious had been in several fights out here now, and gone through the all too familiar routine of battle damage followed by hasty repairs. Still, she was bigger, newer, and more powerful than Dauntless.
But the pilots defending her were raw, and the Alliance flyers were cutting through them with far greater ease than they were against Dauntless’s veteran squadrons. The big ship had already taken two hits, once of which looked quite serious. And she had her own second wave of enemy bombers coming at her.
Barron had to keep reminding himself he was responsible for both ships. James Reardon was an experienced captain, one who’d been at the helm of a battleship before Barron had ever set eyes on Dauntless. But that did nothing to lessen the responsibility.
He felt the urge to reassign one of his more experienced squadrons, but a quick look at his screens told him he didn’t have a ship to spare. Illustrious already fielded a larger complement than Dauntless, which meant they could lose more and still maintain a defensive line. Barron didn’t like the idea of throwing numbers at a problem, of making his people cannon fodder, even when it was the only choice…but right now, it was the only choice. At least for Illustrious.
And Reardon knows that. Which is why he hasn’t asked for support.
Barron’s hand moved down the armrest of his chair, toward the comm controls. He flipped on the intraship line, switching to the main engineering channel. “Fritzie?”
