Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  For all the effort and ceaseless labor involved in keeping the fleet functioning, my thoughts have been elsewhere, with Almeerhan, a being of the First Imperium who died, depending on your perspective, either two months or five hundred thousand years ago. His words haunt my dreams, my deepest thoughts, and I long to spend every hour deciphering the massive store of data he gave us. I have devoted what time I could—and Ana has worked almost around the clock, slowly unlocking the ancient mysteries contained in that silver cylinder.

  It is there, I know, in the data saved for us by the last of his race—and on the secret planet his people prepared for us so long ago—that our best hope for survival lies. For our future is inextricably intertwined with their past.

  AS Midway

  X78 System

  The Fleet: 99 ships (+7 Leviathans), 23995 crew

  “Let’s go, move it!” Maria Santiago stood at the entrance to the launch bay, just behind the bulkhead. Most of the systems in the bay were down, but she had managed to connect to a few of the cameras inside. It was an inferno, and for an instant she doubted anyone trapped in there could possibly be alive. But communications were out, and sixty members of Midway’s crew were trapped in the bay. Doubt was one thing, but Alliance spacers didn’t leave their comrades behind, not if there was any chance at all. Besides, if her people didn’t get those fires under control, they could endanger the entire ship. Right now the conflagration was contained to the bay, but she knew that wouldn’t last.

  She turned and looked back at her crew. They were carrying two heavy hoses, muscling them through the corridor. Midway was a Yorktown class battleship, the Alliance’s best, and her fire-suppression systems were leading edge. But, in the launch bay, at least, they were also blasted to so much scrap. So Santiago’s people had to fight this inferno old school, blasting the fire-retardant foam by hand, through the hoses. It was dangerous work, and a lot less effective than the automated systems, but it was the only choice. The only alternative to blowing the bay doors and letting the vacuum of space do the job. But that would kill anyone still alive in there. Santiago knew Admiral Compton would give the order if he had to, if the fires threatened to spread too far and put the ship itself in real danger. But she was determined not to let that happen. If everyone in there was dead, there was nothing she could do. But she wasn’t going to let them die at the hands of their comrades.

  “Alright, stand back…we’re gonna blow this bulkhead. Switch on your breathers.” She knew the fire was raging just behind the heavy, plastisteel portal. The fire was consuming the oxygen in the bay at a rapid rate…and if she took out the bulkhead with the corridor still at normal atmospheric concentrations, the fire would blast into the hallway, and probably kill her and her team in an instant. “Control,” she said into her com, glancing behind her to make sure everyone had followed her orders and activated their breathers, “cut oxygen to sector 93C.”

  “Acknowledged,” came the reply. Santiago heard a hissing sound. Then, a few seconds later, “Atmospheric adjustment completed, Ensign. Oxygen concentration less than one percent by air volume.”

  “Thanks, control.” She turned back toward her people, flipping the com to the unit channel as she did. “Alright, in five…four…”

  She ducked back down the corridor, away from the bulkhead. “Three…two…one…”

  There was a loud crack. Then another…over a dozen in rapid succession, as the hatch’s connections to the frame were blown apart. The heavy metal door fell outward, into the corridor, and a wave of heat blasted out from the landing bay beyond.

  Santiago moved forward, toward the now-open doorway and stared into the raging inferno within. She felt the heat from the fires, even through her heavy protective gear. There were walls of flame, reaching twenty meters high. She glanced back at the two hoses, shaking her head. She had no idea how her people were going to put these fires out, not with the automated system down. But they had to try…they had to try until they knew for sure no one was left alive in there.

  “Get those hoses up here, now! We don’t have any time to lose if we’re going to get this thing under control.”

  Her people pushed forward down the hall, pausing for an instant at the doorway. Then they switched on the hoses, and two jets of white foam poured out, almost disappearing into the wall of flame.

  She watched, at first doubtful their efforts were having any effect. But then she could see. The flames had been pushed back. A little. It was working, but it wasn’t working well enough to save anyone still alive in there.

  “Control, I need backup, another crew at least…and more hoses.”

  “Negative, Ensign. All damage control teams are assigned.” A pause. Then, another voice, Enzo Tolleri, the damage control chief. “Do what you can to see if there are any survivors in there.” His voice was soft, empathetic. Santiago couldn’t imagine the pile of crap on Tolleri’s plate right now. “We’re probably going to have to blow the outer doors, Maria, so just try to get as far in as you can and look for anyone trapped in there who’s still alive.” He sounded doubtful, but also determined. Tolleri was a hero in a field that didn’t produce many. He’d pulled dozens of casualties from the wreckage in his career, and he’d almost died four or five times doing it. Santiago knew he’d push it to the limit before he gave the orders to pull out and blow the doors. And she wouldn’t have it any other way.

  “Yes, sir…we’re moving forward now. Santiago out.” She moved up, right behind the hose teams. “We’re looking for survivors, boys, not trying to save the bay. So let’s see if we can get over to the launch tubes and see if any of those fighter crews are still alive.

  * * *

  “Right in the balls!” Captain Bill Ving tended to be a little ‘out of the book’ in his expressions, at least in the heat of combat. Snow Leopard’s skipper was almost a stereotype of the fast attack ship commander, a relentless, determined hunter who seemed to draw energy from the kill. The ‘suicide boats’ hadn’t earned their nickname for nothing, and the small but powerful attack ships tended to attract some of the most wildly aggressive officers and crews in the Alliance fleet. But even among his peers, Ving was somewhat of a folk hero, and Snow Leopard had the distinction of racking up the most kills since the fleet was stranded in system X2. And now he’d added yet another to his tally.

  “Nice shot, Lieutenant,” he continued. “Nice fucking shot.” Ving’s crew was accustomed to their captain’s tendency toward…blunt…speech. Ving usually managed to behave when he was on the com with superiors, and especially Admiral Compton, but his crew tended to get it raw.

  “Thank you, sir.” Sara Iverson had a big smile on her face. She was a bit more circumspect with her speech than her captain, but Snow Leopard’s tactical officer was every bit the relentless hunter he was. She’d always been aggressive, but the frigid blood that coursed through her veins now was something new, the result of the losses she’d suffered since the fleet had been cut off. Her fiancée had been killed at X2…not just killed, but blown apart right in front of her, his blood and guts splattered all over her. She’d had the mandatory counseling sessions, but she’d ignored most of it, declaring it ‘useless psychobabble.’ Dead was dead, and talking about it didn’t change a thing. She made a decision then and there. She didn’t need to talk about her emotions. She needed to kill First Imperium ships. As many as possible. So she’d traded in counseling for a transfer to the suicide boats, and in just over a year she’d become one of the best tactical officers in the service.

  “Okay, people, we’ve got another plasma torpedo, so let’s find a good home for it.” Ving’s bloodlust had been sated by the first kill, but that only lasted a few seconds. It was almost as if he could feel the deadly weapon down in Snow Leopard’s bomb bay, and he ached to bury it deep into a First Imperium vessel.

  “We’ve got a Gargoyle…about eighty thousand klicks out, Cap.” Iverson turned back toward Ving. “It’s our best target, sir…there’s nothi
ng bigger within 300,000 kilometers.”

  “Then let’s go get it, Lieutenant.” Ving would have preferred a Leviathan to the cruiser-equivalent Gargoyle, but he smiled as he glanced at the scanner readings. The new target vessel was damaged, but not critically, which meant it was still a threat to the ships of the fleet, but it was hurt enough that a direct hit could take it out. Ving wasn’t above ‘grave dancing,’ as the fighter pilots and suicide boat crews had come to call seeking out critically-damaged enemy ships and finishing them off. But taking something out of the battleline, a ship that was still firing at friendlies…that was a real high.

  But it was dangerous too. Snow Leopard would be closing to point blank range against a ship that still had a lot of striking power. And the attack ship’s design sacrificed armor for speed and hitting power. The run was no sure thing, far from it.

  “Okay, let’s not get careless. Chuck, I want full evasive maneuvers going in. Random thrust changes and zigzags.”

  “Yes, Captain. I’m on it.” Charles Moran was Snow Leopard’s pilot and navigator, and his maneuvers tended to seem as wild and reckless as anyone else in the attack ship corps. But Ving knew there was more to his pilot than met the eye, and he’d noticed that Moran paid close attention to the situation in battle, that he knew when to hold back. “It might be a little uncomfortable, so if anybody wants to grab an antiemetic, now is the time.”

  The ship shook, almost immediately…then it accelerated. Ving reached down and grabbed his harness, snapping it closed. “Let’s buckle in, people…I don’t want any stupid injuries because someone fell out of their seat.” He tilted his head down, punching at the com unit. “All personnel, we’re commencing an attack run. Things might get rough, so I want everybody strapped in.”

  He turned back toward the main display. The target was sixty thousand klicks out, and Snow Leopard was closing. Their course wasn’t right toward the enemy—and as he was looking, he felt the ship shake hard as Moran changed the acceleration vector yet again. Ving was about to say something about Moran’s wild maneuvers but then he saw the missiles approaching. It wasn’t a huge volley—probably the last few the Gargoyle had left, but that didn’t mean they could afford to be careless.

  “Sara, we’ve got missiles inb…”

  “Got ’em, Cap.”

  Ving just nodded. Iverson was one of the best, and he knew what he had to do. Shut up and let her do her job. Even if she’d gotten a little excited and interrupted her captain.

  “Missiles twenty thousand klicks out, Cap,” she said, her eyes focused on her workstation. “Firing anti-missile rockets now.” Snow Leopard shook…then again and again. Six times, as Iverson flushed the defensive magazines. Ving knew she was gambling, betting that the enemy ship had launched the last of its missiles. She was probably right, he knew. The ragged volley looked like the last dregs from the vessel’s magazines, and First Imperium intelligences weren’t known for complex and tricky strategies. But Ving knew it was still a gamble, that his vessel would have nothing left to counter another wave.

  He watched as the rockets appeared on the display, closing on the enemy missiles. The defensive weapons were nuclear warheads, just like the incoming missiles. Their yields were smaller, ten to fifty megatons compared to the gigaton plus antimatter bombs the First Imperium used. But they didn’t have to destroy armored ships, just take out fragile missiles…or even just interfere with their targeting.

  Snow Leopard shook again, harder this time, and Ving felt the contents of his stomach pressuring their way up. He’d almost taken a drug when Moran suggested it, but he felt it was beneath the dignity of a ship’s captain.

  Dignity, my ass…it’s ego and nothing but. And stupid. You’ll just be less effective if you’re sick, and that makes it less likely any of us will get back. And there’s not much dignity in a captain losing his lunch all over the bridge.

  He slipped his hand down to the armrest of his chair and punched half a dozen keys. Then he opened the small dispenser and took out a large, white pill. He swallowed it as nonchalantly as he could. Better a little ruffled pride than his ship go into battle with its captain on his hands and knees vomiting.

  His eyes shot back to the display. Half the enemy missiles were gone already, and as he was watching, another six vanished. “Nice shooting, Tac!” He sometimes called his people by their positions, and Sara Iverson was Snow Leopard’s tactical officer.

  “Thank you, sir,” she replied, her voice distracted, subdued.

  “What is it, Lieutenant?” Ving knew something was wrong, and he dropped the friendly banter in favor of more formal conduct.

  “It’s nothing, sir…at least I’m not sure. But the scanner readings…” Her voice trailed off.

  “What about the readings?” Ving was already punching at his workstation, bringing up the data on his own screen.

  “I don’t know, Captain. It’s just those antimatter figures.” She paused. “You see the larger concentration…that’s got to be the reactor. It’s in the right place. But there’s too much here. I was studying the new schematics Dr. Cutter sent out, and that’s definitely the magazine. That means they’ve got more missiles, Cap.” She paused and turned back toward Ving. “So why haven’t they launched them? We’re their biggest threat…there aren’t any other ships in the immediate area. Everything we know about First Imperium tactics tells us they should have launched a full volley at us if they had it. So why hold back and let us close? They know how dangerous the plasma torpedoes are. It’s almost like…”

  “Almost like what, Lieutenant?”

  “Almost like they want us to close, Captain.” She paused for a few seconds. “Could they have some new weapon, sir? Something we don’t know about…something short ranged?” Her voice was doubtful, even as she said it.

  “Why would they waste a new weapon on a suicide boat, even if they had one? They could take us out with a larger missile volley if they had enough…and we’d never get close enough to scratch them.” Ving looked around Snow Leopard’s cramped bridge for a few seconds, but then he just said, “We can’t know, Lieutenant, and in the absence of any real data we go on as planned. We’re under twenty thousand klicks…take control, Tac, and let’s take that thing down.”

  “Yes, Cap.”

  Ving could hear the concern in her tone. He felt it too, but he wasn’t about to go chasing after paper-thin speculations. No, he knew his duty…everyone on Snow Leopard did.

  “Get that sniper’s eye of yours ready, Tac. Let’s send that thing to hell.”

  * * *

  “Commander…”

  Fujin could hear…something. It was far away, soft.

  “Commander Fujin, can you hear me?”

  Louder, closer. A voice…familiar.

  Then feeling, shaking. Hands on her shoulder. Shapes over her. Leaning down.

  “Grant…” Her throat was dry. No, worse than dry. Parched.

  “Yes, Commander. It’s Grant Wainwright. Are you in pain?”

  Grant Wainwright…yes, I’m in the fighter. We were ready to launch…but…

  “Pain,” she said softly, her throat on fire. “Water…”

  “I’m sorry, Commander. You’re injured…you may need surgery.” He paused. “Here,” he said, leaning over her, putting a small canister to her mouth. “Just a sip, Mariko.”

  The water was cool on her lips, refreshing. She felt the liquid pour down her throat, soothing the painful rawness. She picked her head up slightly, trying to drink deeply, but Wainwright pulled the bottle away.

  “More,” she said, her voice a bit clearer, the pain in her throat lessened.

  “I’m sorry, Commander, but you can’t have any more. You’re pretty banged up, and we’ve got to get you to sickbay.”

  “We’re in the launch bay,” she said, coherency returning. “The ship took a hit.”

  “Yes,” Wainwright said. “It’s pretty bad. We’re still in the fighter. The hatches are
jammed. We’re waiting for the rescue crews.”

  Fujin turned her head slightly, looking right at Wainwright. He’s scared, she thought, shaking off a wave of fear. She’d never seen Grant Wainwright look afraid before. We’re in trouble…

  “Hot.” Her awareness continued to return, and she realized her body was covered in sweat. It was hot in the fighter’s cockpit. Hot as hell.

  “We think there are fires in the landing bay, Commander. We don’t have any comm or scanner functionality, but…we think it’s pretty close.”

  Fujin took a deep breath, the hot, dry air tearing at her throat, burning her lungs. “We have to get out of here.”

  “We tried.” Wainwright looked down at her. “The hatches are twisted in the tracks…no way to get out without a plasma torch. And the comm is completely dead.” He paused. “But they know we’re here, so a rescue team should be here any minute.

  Fujin nodded, at least she tried, though her head hardly moved.

  We’re fucked. Midway’s in bad shape, and if there are still out of control fires in the bay, they’re nowhere near rescuing us. And without comm, they probably think we’re all dead…

  She coughed. The air was thin…and there was smoke. Not a lot, but definitely some. “Life support?”

  “Seems to be working, Commander.” Wainwright took a raspy breath. “At least at some level.”

  “Need to increase oxygen flow…” She coughed again. The air was getting heavier…more smoke. “Now…”

  * * *

  “I’ve got readings coming in, Captain. Strange…” Sara Iverson had been prepping the plasma torpedo to fire, but now she was staring at her scanners.