Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  * * *

  “Let’s get this thing powered up…the admiral’s out there with half a strike force, and we’ve got to go.” Mariko Fujin dropped hard into the fighter’s command chair, her eyes snapping back and forth as her crew followed suit. Fujin was barely a meter and a half tall and a bit shy of forty kilograms, but she’d acquired a reputation not much short of Hurley’s for tough as nails tenacity. In the last year and a half she’d cut a swath through the fighter corps, rising from a junior lieutenant to one of Admiral Hurley’s top officers, and the crews were half scared to death of her, especially the newer recruits. The old sweats had been in the same cataclysmic battles where she had distinguished herself, and where they had all seen hundreds of friends and comrades killed. But the personnel recruited from other fleet positions to replace losses saw her as a tiny copy of Hurley, and they cowered at the sight of her.

  “We’re bringing the reactor up at 100%, Commander.” Grant Wainwright sat in the pilot’s chair—her chair!—and his hands moved over the controls like a blur. She still resented the young pilot a bit, thought she knew it was unfair. It wasn’t Wainwright’s fault that her advancing rank and expanding responsibilities had forced her out of the pilot’s seat. And she knew she was fortunate to have as skilled a fighter jock at the controls of her bird…it vastly increased her chances of coming back from missions. But she was a pilot at heart, and she missed the feel of flying the ship.

  “All ships, power up reactors to 110%,” she said firmly. “Half our people are out there, and they’re counting on us covering them.”

  Wainwright turned, a concerned look on his face. But one glance at Fujin’s expression was enough to quell any complaint he might have been considering. “Yes, Commander,” he said simply.

  Fujin knew there was a safety margin built into the power up procedures, and she didn’t have time for them now. Besides, going to 110% didn’t increase the chances of a major problem…not much, at least.

  She flipped on her com unit. “Control, this is Commander Fujin requesting final launch approval. My squadrons should be ready in…” She glanced down at the chronometer. “…three minutes.”

  “You are cleared to launch when ready, Commander.” Jack Cortez’ voice was deliberative, meticulous. Fujin knew the admiral’s tactical officer wasn’t used to managing the various aspects of Midway’s combat operations, and he was compensating heavily. But with most of the regular bridge crew dead or in sickbay, he’d managed to handle things well, even if he’d been a little edgier than usual. “Good luck, Commander,” he added.

  “Thank you, control.” Fujin closed the line and turned back toward Wainwright. “Status?”

  “Gold Dragons report ready for launch, Commander.”

  Fujin nodded. The Gold Dragons had been one of the best—and luckiest—squadrons in the fleet, and it had come through a series of horrendous battles without a single casualty. Until its luck finally ran out, and Fujin came back the only survivor. She’d fought like hell to preserve the squadron, to convince Greta Hurley not to strike it from the OB and send her as a replacement for losses in another unit. Now Fujin commanded two full wings, but she still ran the squadron too. It was her way of keeping her old comrades alive, at least in spirit.

  “Alright…get us in the catapult, Lieutenant. The Dragons will launch first. Then the Wildcats and the Lightnings. The Second Wing is to launch as soon as possible. We will reform once in space.”

  “Yes, Commander.”

  The Second Wing was on Saratoga. Admiral West’s ship was less than a hundred thousand kilometers from Midway, which meant it would only take a few minutes for Hurley to form up her entire force. She had twenty-eight fighter-bombers, all that was left from two wings that had launched thirty-six birds ten hours before. They had lost four vessels destroyed in the last sortie and had four more too badly damaged to return to action without extensive repairs. She’d consoled herself with the fact that over half the crews of the destroyed ships had managed to eject. Most of them had been recovered, and the rescue shuttles were gathering the rest, even as their comrades prepared to go back into the fray.

  Fujin leaned back and closed her eyes for a moment. She felt the fighter moving, upward at first and then to the side. She knew the launch bay crane was carrying the fighter-bomber from the refit area over to the catapult. She’d taken the ride hundreds of times, but this time it felt a little rougher than usual. Fujin knew Midway had been hard hit in the fighting, and she had a sense that the engineering equivalent of tape and chewing gum was holding the crane together.

  She felt the ship shake as it came down…and then the two loud clanks as the vessel slipped into the catapult’s tracks. She was tense, as she always was before battle. But there was something different this time. She had a sense something was wrong.

  Don’t be a fool, she thought. You’re just tired.

  She was tired…exhausted even. She had just returned from a scouting run when the enemy fleet attacked…and then she went right into sustained combat for close to seven hours. When she got back she sent her crews to grab some food and a couple hours’ sleep, but she stayed in the launch bay with Admiral Hurley, making sure the birds got refit as quickly as possible. They’d been told there wouldn’t be another sortie, but both officers knew better than to count on that. They had seen what the fleet was facing, and the two had simply exchanged doubtful glances…and then went looking for Chief McGraw. In the end, Fujin had managed to wolf down a sandwich and a liter of water, but she’d gotten no rest at all. It had been two full days since she’d even closed her eyes for more than a blink.

  Her hand moved to her neck, her fingers playing with a small lump of metal on a chain. Max Compton had given it to her, and he’d extracted a promise from her that she’d wear it on every mission. It was old, something that had been in his family for a very long time. His mother had given it to him when he graduated from the Academy, and now he had given it to her. It was a religious symbol of some kind, but it had long been regarded as more of a good luck charm in the Harmon family.

  Fujin had been spending a lot of time with Harmon, too much she knew. She loved him…she’d admitted that to herself if not to him yet. But she also knew the reality of their situation. The fleet had found a new hope of sorts, a promised cache of technology and information left behind by humanity’s ancestors. Assuming they could get to it. But even if they managed it, if some portion of the fleet escaped pursuit and reached the planet they’d been calling Shangri la, she wouldn’t let herself believe both she and Harmon would be among the survivors.

  She was one of the leaders of a rapidly dwindling force of fighter-bombers, repeatedly used as forlorn hopes and sent on almost-suicidal missions. The fleet had suffered terrible losses since it had been cut off from human space, but nothing remotely compared to the casualty rates of the fighter corps. And Harmon was effectively Admiral Compton’s troubleshooter, his eyes and ears in the most dangerous places they encountered. They’d both had narrow escapes in the short time they’d been together, and she saw only pain in letting her true feelings out. They were a comfort to each other, support in a difficult and lonely time…that’s how she saw it. At least that’s what she told herself. And she was determined to keep it that way.

  “All systems ready, Commander.”

  Wainwright’s voice shook Fujin from her distraction. She let go of the pendant and shook herself back to the present. “Very well, Lieutenant. Laun…”

  The ship shook suddenly. Hard. Gyrating wildly. Then she heard explosions, from outside in the launch bay. The fighter’s alarm system began blaring, and then she heard it. A crash, loud, almost deafening. And then more shaking.

  Her hand slapped down toward the com unit, flipping to the flag bridge channel. Nothing. She punched at the controls, switching from one frequency to another, but the unit was dead. “Anybody have com,” she asked, unhooking her harness and climbing out of her chair.

  “Nothing, Comm
ander.”

  “Mine’s dead.”

  “Mine too.”

  She stumbled forward toward the pilot’s seat, leaning down over Wainwright’s shoulder, punching out at the controls. “Fuck,” she muttered under her breath. “Power?”

  “We’ve got some power, Commander, but we’re off the launch track. I’ve got redlines across the readiness indicators. We’re not going anywhere.”

  “Keep trying to get through, Lieutenant.” She turned her head. “Singh, Buto, with me. Let’s get the hatch open and see what’s going on out in the bay.”

  The two gunners pulled off their harnesses and leapt out of their chairs, following Fujin as she walked toward the back of the ship. She pressed the button to open the large door, but there was no response. “Unlock, authorization Fujin 3632 , Lieutenant Commander.” The AI was silent, and the door didn’t budge.

  She reached out and pulled off a large panel next to the hatch, revealing a circular hand crank. “Alright, guys, looks like we’re going to have to do this old school.” She stepped back and gestured toward the metal wheel. Fujin wasn’t one to step aside when there was work to be done, regardless of rank. But Singh and Buto each had forty kilos on her, and the idea of her trying to turn the crank while the two of them stood by watching was too ridiculous to seriously contemplate.

  Singh stepped up first and grabbed the wheel, twisting as hard as he could. He grunted and heaved, but the crank didn’t move a millimeter. Then Buto stepped up and grabbed hold as well. But even with the two of them there was no movement. They struggled again for another few seconds, and then they gave up, letting go with a loud yell.

  “Sorry, Commander. It’s jammed somehow. The ship’s frame must have gotten racked when we got thrown from the catapult.”

  Fujin nodded. “I guess we’ll have to wait for help from outside. I think we better…”

  The ship shook again, even harder this time, and she could hear the sounds of explosions out in the launch bay. She had just turned to head back toward the front of the fighter to see if she could get one of the displays working and get a look at what was going on in the bay. She’d taken one step, perhaps two…and then something hit the top of the fighter. There was a deafening crash, and then the structural support over her head came crashing down. She felt the impact, something hitting her. Then she was down, lying on the floor. She could feel wetness beneath her.

  Blood, she thought.

  She tried to move but there was pain, wave after wave of pain. She felt herself drifting in and out of consciousness. She was vaguely aware of something over her, a shadowy presence, and she could hear her name, faintly, far away. She heard a shout, loud, tense. It said, “Fire!” Then she slipped into the blackness.

  * * *

  “All squadrons, we’re going to do a strafing run before we head back.” Greta Hurley could hear the groans of her battered crews. They’d completed their second attack run in twelve hours, endured gee forces that had pushed them to the edge of unconsciousness…and they had scored hit after hit. They’d taken down four of the enemy ships, but another four were still there. Barely hanging on, Hurley thought.

  “I know you all want to go back to base, but those ships are almost done…now we’ve got to push them over the edge.” Finishing off the enemy ships had been Mariko Fujin’s job. But she and half her birds were still on Midway, stranded by two closed launch bays. And Fujin herself, along with several other crews, was trapped in Bay B, cut off from rescue by out of control fires.

  “Form up on me,” she said, her voice icy. “Let’s finish these bastards and then go home.” The closest thing to home we’ve got, at least.

  “Let’s go, John. Take us in.” Hurley watched as Commander Wilder gripped the throttle and began accelerating. Wilder was an enormously capable pilot, one who’d been flying her around ever since Admiral Augustus Garret had assigned him to her, with secret instructions to keep Hurley away from the worst of the fighting. That mission hadn’t worked out so well…Hurley had corrupted Wilder, and the two had been at the forefront of every assault since.

  Hurley missed flying her own ship, but it had been a long time since she’d occupied the pilot’s seat, and she’d made her peace with it. She’d tried to help Mariko Fujin do the same, but she knew it would take her protégé time to adapt, as it had her. And until then, she knew Fujin would continue shooting daggers at her pilot’s back.

  If she’s even still alive.

  Hurley had become quite fond of Fujin, and she saw in the diminutive officer much of herself when she was younger. She hated the thought of losing Fujin, and even more the idea of her friend dying in the launch bay, crushed under rubble or killed by the fires. Fujin was a fighter jock through and through. If she had to die so young at war, Hurley knew it should be in her bomber fighting with the enemy.

  “I’m heading for that Leviathan, Admiral.” Wilder’s voice was angry, feral. He’d been soft spoken, the true personification of the gentlemen officer, when Hurley had first gotten her hands on him. But now he was a hunter, and he fed off the kill, as she herself did. “It’s ready to go, I can feel it.”

  “Take us in, John. Let’s blow the fucker to hell.”

  She leaned back in her chair as the gee forces increased. Wilder was zigzagging, blasting first along one vector then along another, making the fighter as difficult a target for whatever weapons the enemy ship had left. It made for an uncomfortable and stomach-churning ride, but it was better than getting blown to bits by an enemy laser battery.

  Hurley sat back, her eyes on the scanner, trying to focus on the attack run and not on Fujin. The display updated the image of the enemy vessel, and Hurley could see she was right. The ship was a floating wreck, its hull ripped open from bow to stern. She could see flickering lights inside the great rents, internal explosions ripping through the wounded vessel. But First Imperium ships were tough, and they fought to the bitter end. There were at least two batteries still active on the behemoth, and they were firing at her people. But she saw almost immediately that the enemy targeting systems weren’t functioning properly…and that meant her squadrons might get in and out without losing anyone else, especially if the other enemy ships were as battered.

  “Preparing for firing run, Admiral. I’m going to try to hit near the reactor.” The antimatter power systems of the First Imperium ships were well-protected, but extremely volatile. Any breach of containment, even for a nanosecond, could release enough antimatter to vaporize any ship. And Wilder knew exactly where to hit the enemy vessel.

  The early battles against the First Imperium had been struggles against the unknown. The enemy ships had been total mysteries, vessels of great power and technology that dwarfed anything mankind possessed. But Hurley’s people had been fighting the First Imperium for years now, and they had learned a considerable amount about the layouts of the enemy ships, especially of the Leviathans in the two months since the enemy’s rogue command unit had given them eight of the battleships for their own use. The great vessels had served well in battle, but they’d proven just as useful in aiding research, as Hieronymus Cutter and his teams of engineers examined every centimeter and every system. Cutter’s teams provided preliminary schematics to the gunners and pilots of the fleet, showing them exactly where to direct their fire for maximum effect. Then the eccentric but brilliant scientist and his assistants buried themselves in research, trying to adapt the technology of the First Imperium to the mankind’s own purposes.

  “Final approach.” Wilder’s voice was distracted. He was focused on his upcoming attack. He knew where to strike the enemy ship, but he didn’t have a plasma torpedo, only laser cannons, and that meant his shots had to be dead on, or they’d just impact harmlessly on the Leviathan’s heavy armor plating.

  Hurley watched as her pilot worked. Wilder was one of the very best, she’d seen him in action enough times to know that. But she knew the shot was a difficult one, even for one of the fleet’s great a
ces.

  The fighter was moving directly toward the enemy ship. Hurley’s eyes dropped to her workstation screen, to the distance readings. Under eight thousands kilometers and closing fast. She knew Wilder well enough to know he would take it to the very edge.

  She leaned back, her hand dropping to her harness, checking to make sure it was tightly fastened. She knew it would be a rough ride when Wilder pulled the ship away from the target. She was used to wild maneuvers—fighter ops had been her life. But there was a fatigue growing in her, one she suspected had to do somewhat with age, and also with losing so many of her people. The fighter corps was a tattered remnant of what she had led when the fleet initially set out against the First Imperium. She waxed with pride when she saw her crews driving their ships right down the throats of the deadly enemy vessels…but then there was the guilt of the survivor. Why was she alive when ninety percent of her people were dead? She knew there had been no choices, that without the herculean sacrifices of her squadrons, the entire fleet would have been destroyed, that no one would have survived. But she still felt the ghostly presence of the dead crews, watching…and she felt she owed them nothing less than everything she had to give. They had died to buy the fleet a chance…and she had to see that preserved, whatever the cost.

  Five thousand kilometers. Close, too close. Wilder was a stone cold pilot, as Hurley herself had been. But this was tight, even for him.

  Four thousand kilometers. She felt the sweat trickling down her neck, and she wondered where the mathematical point of no return was. Even with perfect piloting, there was a distance at which it would become impossible to avoid a collision with the enemy ship.

  Three thousand kilometers. John…this is too close…

  She heard the whining sound as the ship’s laser cannons fired. Three blasts, and then the ship whipped hard to the side, the gee forces slamming into her like a sledgehammer. She’d spent enough time in fighter-bombers to know it was over 10g, and that meant Wilder was redlining the engines, pushing them over one hundred percent capacity. One burnout, one small malfunction and the fighter would slam into the First Imperium ship. But the engines withstood the abuse, and the fighter’s vector was altered just enough to zip by the enemy ship, clearing it by less than seven hundred meters. That distance was nothing in space combat, as close as Hurley had ever seen two ships come to each other outside a suicide ramming run.