Revenge of the Ancients: Crimson Worlds Refugees III

by Jay Allan

  She had tried to renege, and she’d snuck back up to the bridge, intending to quietly go back to work. But Captain Ving had already spoken to the doctor, and he’d sent her back to her cot without so much as an instant of discussion. She’d had a brief urge to argue, but then she meekly obeyed. She was willing to spar with the doctor, but she didn’t have it in her to stand up to the captain. And she was tired, despite all the doctor had done. Flynn had given her a massive dose of antibiotics and antivirals, and she felt better. Not great, not even good. But better than she had.

  She was still sore though, the body aches she’d had before, but also new ones, the result of being poked and probed in more ways than she’d thought possible before she’d experienced it. Flynn had run every kind of test imaginable on her before he’d reluctantly released her from his custody. His early analysis suggested some variation of influenza, a virulent strain, but ultimately a treatable one. But he was still reviewing the samples.

  She put her hand on her forehead. She was hot again…she was pretty sure of that. And she had a headache coming on now. It had started only a few moments before as a dull discomfort, but it was getting worse. Rapidly.

  Her stomach felt funny too. Flynn had given her a heavy shot of antiemetics, and the queasiness had passed. But now she could feel it coming back. Sara had always prided herself on being tough, and she’d typically worked right through the very occasional minor illness. She was rarely sick, and she’d never had an affliction that a couple extra hours of sleep couldn’t heal. But she’d never felt like this before. The symptoms were sporadic. She’d get some rest and feel like she was getting over it…but then a few hours later everything would flare up again, worse than it had been before.

  She was just thinking about going back down to sickbay and seeing if Flynn would give her another shot for her stomach when the com buzzed.

  “Yes?” she said, her voice a barely audible croak.

  “Sara, it’s Chris Flynn…” She was a little out of it, but she still caught the concern in his voice. “…how are you feeling? I’d like you to come down to sickbay right away. Can you make it down yourself, or should I bring the gurney up there?”

  He really sounds concerned. My tests?

  “I can make it down. Be right there.”

  She tried to sit up, and she realized how weak she was. She pulled herself upright and paused, resting for a few seconds before throwing her legs over the side of the bed. She’d told Flynn she could make it down to sickbay, but now she was wondering.

  She stood up, stumbling a bit as she did. She was dizzy, the room spinning around her as she reached out and put her hand on the wall, trying to get her balance. She stood still for a moment, breathing deeply. The dizziness subsided, at least somewhat. She was still nauseous, but it was under control for the moment.

  She stepped forward, slowly, carefully, waving her hand in front of the scanner, opening the door. Then out into the corridor. The narrow hallway helped her, and she extended her hands out, touching the walls, using them for stability as she stumbled along.

  The ladder’s going to suck…

  She realized she was in worse shape than she’d thought lying in her bed a few minutes before. Worse even than before she’d gone to sickbay. But she’d be damned if she was going to make a spectacle of herself, calling for a gurney and being carried down to sickbay like an invalid.

  No fucking way…

  * * *

  “There it was again!” Max Harmon was pointing at the wreckage of the fighter. The twisted vessel was half off the launch track, laying almost on its side. He was covered from head to toe in a protective suit—otherwise he wouldn’t have survived for more than a few seconds where he was standing—and the sound was faint, distant to his covered ears. But he was sure he’d heard it.

  “Are you sure, Captain?” Santiago replied over the com. “It’s easy to hear what you want to hear, sir.”

  “Yes, I’m sure.” Harmon knew Santiago wanted to call off the rescue efforts. She’d been ready to give the order fifteen minutes ago. Even Admiral Compton agreed. The fires were still out of control, worse than before even, and they were threatening to move past the bay. The firefighting crews had struggled to cut off the sources of oxygen to the blaze, but there were just too many conduits…hundreds of pipes and hoses pumping life support throughout Midway’s guts. Harmon knew they didn’t have long. They had to blow the outer doors and use the vacuum of space to extinguish the fires…or the flames would put all of Midway at grave risk. But he’d begged Compton for a few more minutes, hoping beyond hope that Fujin was still alive somewhere in the hellish bay. And the commander who’d led the fleet from the brink of total destruction, who’d made the most desperate of decisions…he’d found himself unable to say no to man he thought of as a son. He’d given Harmon ten more minutes…and that had been five minutes ago.

  “Captain, the admiral’s orders…”

  “When Admiral Compton is on the com commanding us to stop, that is when we’ll stop. And not a second sooner.” Harmon knew that call was coming, any minute. And he was starting to doubt himself. Was he really hearing what he wanted to hear? Was it all in his head?

  Then he heard it again, louder, clearer. And so did Santiago.

  “I need the plasma torch up here,” she yelled to her crew. “Now!”

  Two of her people came running up a few seconds later, carrying the cumbersome device.

  “Cut open this section of hull.” She pointed right where she though the sound had come from. “There.”

  The crew moved the torch into position, and then they activated it. A shower of sparks flew all around as the plasma bit dug into the hull of the fighter. It took perhaps a minute to get through, and then there was a loud hissing sound. There had been oxygen inside the ship, some at least, and the fire had sucked it all out the instant the torch cut through the plating.

  “Faster,” Harmon said, hoping as he did that anyone alive inside the fighter had some oxygen left in a tank.

  “Yes,” Santiago said, “Increase to full power. We’re out of time, boys.”

  She stood next to Harmon and watched as the torch cut an opening in the hull, one big enough for a man to get through. As soon as they pulled back, he lunged forward, ducking down to crawl inside. There was no time. If Mariko was in there without a tank, she’d been without air for almost three minutes.

  “No!” Santiago yelled. “It’s too dangerous, Captain…let me…” But before she could even reach out and grab Harmon, he’d crawled through the opening. His leg touched a spot that was still half molten, and he felt the searing pain as it burned through his suit and into his leg. But he ignored it. Only one thing mattered.

  He stumbled inside, his head snapping back and forth, looking all around. The smoke was heavy now, and it was hard to see. There was someone on the ground, face down right next to him, a wrench lying on the floor, clearly dead. He stepped forward, but his leg gave out, and he crashed down to the deck. He could ignore the pain, at least for a while, but the injury was real.

  He saw shadowy images ahead of him, on the floor. More people…

  He moved forward. If he couldn’t walk, he’d crawl. And as he got closer he could feel something. Recognition. Mariko!

  She was lying motionless, next to the rest of her comrades. He crawled to her, and as he did he heard Santiago’s voice on the com calling for backup.

  “I need emergency med teams here, now!”

  Harmon stared down at Mariko, and he felt an instant of elation…followed by despair. She was a few centimeters away, right in front of him. But she wasn’t breathing…

  He felt a wave of panic, and then his discipline clamped down. He leaned forward, moving toward her. But then he felt something. Hands. On his shoulder, pulling him back, off to the side.

  It was Krems, the medic. And he was hunched down over her, his hands moving frantically over her still form.

  Harmon staye
d where he was, silent, his eyes fixed on Fujin.

  No, he thought. Please…no.

  * * *

  Compton leaned back in his chair. He was tired. More fatigued than he’d ever felt in his entire long life. The battle was over, at least for now. But his flagship was in trouble. The damage was extensive, and both landing bays were closed. He’d given orders for Saratoga and the other battleships to take Midway’s fighters, what few of them were returning, at least. It would be days before alpha bay was operative again. And beta bay was a total loss, the fires gutting it still raging out of control.

  He knew he needed to have the outer doors blown…a desperate action that would eradicate the fires, but also one that would eliminate all possibility of repairing the bay outside an Alliance space dock, a facility that didn’t exist this side of the Barrier. But it was the only way to save the ship. If the fires spread, if they got past the line of damage control crews struggling to hold them back, they would reach the reactors. And that would be the end of Midway.

  He’d given the orders to blow the doors already…and just as quickly rescinded them. Mariko Fujin was down there, and Max Harmon had begged him for more time to try and rescue her. The admiral inside had called on him to refuse the request, to put the safety of the ship over the miniscule chance that anyone had survived down there. But the part of him that made him the man he was intervened, and he had given a few more moments, sustained hope for just a bit longer. It wasn’t rational in terms of weighing risks and rewards…it wasn’t the right thing to do tactically. But Harmon was like a son to him…and Mariko was the young captain’s lover. And, he had to admit, he was quite fond of the diminutive pilot himself.

  He knew it wasn’t fair, that he was allowing his personal feelings to guide his actions. If it had been another member of the crew down there, some officer who was just a name on a roster, the doors would have been blown already. Compton had been a creature of duty his entire life, one who had sacrificed personal desires to needs of the service. But he was old now, and feeling every year of his age. He’d lost almost everyone and everything that had truly mattered to him, and he found himself clinging to what little he had left. He hadn’t really expected another ten or fifteen minutes to make a difference in the search for survivors in the bay…but he simply hadn’t been able to deny Harmon…or give up his own tenuous hopes that Mariko was still alive.

  His compassion had paid off. Harmon and the damage control team had made good use of the extra time. They’d found Fujin…and her pilot. Neither of them had been breathing when the team got to them, but the medics managed to revive them and get them to sickbay. They faced a tough fight for survival, but at least they had a chance. Compton, the man, had given them that, a rare victory for emotion over rationality. But now the admiral was back in control.

  “Blow the outer doors on my command.”

  “All ready, sir.” Jack Cortez sat at his workstation, his finger poised over a flashing red button. “Waiting for your orders, sir.”

  Compton took a breath. “Do it,” he said.

  Cortez depressed his finger…and Midway shook hard.

  “Report,” Compton snapped.

  “Coming sir.” There was a delay, perhaps half a minute. Then Cortez spun around toward Compton and said, “Damage control team reports all fires extinguished, sir.”

  Compton nodded. “Acknowledged.” His verbal reaction was controlled, unemotional, but inside he felt a wave of relief. The rest of Midway’s damage was bad, but with the fires out the ship was in no immediate danger. And the reactors and engines were still functional. “Give my congratulations to the teams down there.”

  His thoughts flashed back to Max…and Mariko. He almost commed sickbay for an update on the pilot’s condition, but he knew they wouldn’t know anything. And as fond as he was of Mariko, he had twenty thousand people depending on him. He’d just have to trust his medical staff. And he knew Max Harmon would keep an eye on her…that he wouldn’t leave her side.

  “Okay, Jack,” he said, his relief spilling out as a burst of informality. “Let’s get the rest of the fleet lined up and ready to transit.” About half the ships had already moved through the warp gate…and now it was past time to get the rest moving. He didn’t dare to hope they’d seen the last of the enemy, and every moment he lost only meant the next fight would come that much sooner.

  “Transmitting orders now, sir.” A pause. “Sir, Leviathan four reports no thrust.” Another hesitation, then: “No active weapons systems either.”

  Compton just nodded. He wasn’t surprised. Leviathan four had been attacked from two sides, by half a dozen ships. The Regent’s forces targeted the turncoat ships more aggressively than the human vessels, and Compton knew they had just claimed their second kill.

  “Send self-destruct order to Leviathan four, Commander. Destruct to occur in ten minutes.” That would be enough time to ensure none of his ships were close enough to take any damage. The robot ships obeyed any command he gave them, even one to shut down their magnetic bottles, setting off a chain reaction of annihilation. And a Leviathan had a lot of antimatter in its stores.

  “Understood, sir. Ten minutes.”

  Compton just looked at the main display, contemplating the unlikely series of events that had him mourning the loss of a First Imperium battleship.

  Chapter Eight

  AS Midway

  X78 System

  The Fleet: 98 ships (+6 Leviathans), 23761 crew

  Max Harmon stood against the wall of Midway’s sickbay, looking out at the almost-frantic action and feeling as useless as he ever had in his life. He’d found Mariko, gotten her out of the bay just before Admiral Compton had ordered it blown, but she’d been dead by the time he got there…or at least not breathing. The medic had managed to revive her, restore respiration and get her stabilized enough to move to sickbay, but Harmon knew she faced a difficult road. The medic had worn a grave expression on his face as they rushed her to the med center, and the chief surgeon’s wasn’t much better when he examined her. For all the effort, the danger, the pleading with Compton for more time, there was a good chance she would die anyway…right in front of his eyes.

  Midway’s medical staff was perhaps the best on any human ship anywhere. Mostly veterans of the Third Frontier War and the Rebellions, over the past eighteen months they’d experienced an intensity of combat beyond anything that had come before. The fleet had suffered grievous losses, more than half its ships and personnel lost. And many of those who survived had been wounded, some several times. The ship’s surgeons had performed wonders keeping Midway’s stricken spacers alive, working with an ever-dwindling stockpile of supplies. There was no place better for Mariko to be right now…but that didn’t mean she would make it.

  Harmon stared across the room at the cluster of white-clad medical staff gathered around the diminutive pilot. There was a similar cluster a few meters away, where Grant Wainwright lay unconscious. The two were the only survivors from the bay. Their shipmates were dead. The rescue team had tried desperately to revive them, but it had been too late. They hadn’t responded at all. And for all the herculean efforts of Maria Santiago and her people, the teams hadn’t found anyone else still alive. They hadn’t found most of the bay crews at all…their bodies had been incinerated in the fires.

  Harmon knew better than to push his way forward and interfere with the doctors. Mariko needed them now…and they needed to be left alone to do their jobs. He ached to rush forward, to take her hand and look down at her face. And he knew his rank and standing would prevent the med team from chasing him away. But he was disciplined enough to realize that would hurt her chances and not help them. So he stayed where he was, bolted to his spot. If Admiral Compton needed him, he knew where to find him. And otherwise, he had no intention of leaving sickbay. Not until he knew.

  * * *

  Compton felt the fatigue, like a wave coming over him. He’d always been able to get by on just
a few hours of sleep, but it had been days since he’d had even that. But it was more than just physical exhaustion. Deep inside, he could feel the strength that drove him waning, the indomitable will that had caused him to push forward when everyone else was ready to give up slipping away. Every man had his limit, and he had a feeling he was getting close to his.

  He almost rested his head in his hand, but he caught himself in time. He didn’t allow himself displays of weakness, not in public at least. That was a luxury he could not afford. Terrance Compton knew one thing for sure. His people had been through hell, multiple times over. They had seen friends and comrades die…they had faced grievous danger. And still they had pressed on through all of it. Compton understood his role in that, the image of the invincible, indestructible commander, and the part it played in extracting that last bit of effort and fortitude from the twenty thousand survivors manning the 98 remaining ships. The warriors of the fleet looked to him, they drew strength from him. And he had done all he could to be what they needed. However much a fiction his persona as the unbeatable commander truly was. Whatever it did to him, whatever cost he personally paid.

  But he was exhausted too, and scared just like his people. He had no version of himself to rely upon, no one to share his burdens, at least no one who could understand what the top command did to a man. Sophie Barcomme had become his lover, and a good friend too, but she was a scientist, not a warrior. She gave him warmth and comfort, and whatever brief escapes he’d enjoyed over the past few months, but not true understanding. She could comprehend pain and fear, but she could never fully understand what it felt like to give the orders that sent thousands to their deaths.

  Max Compton was the closest confidante he had, but even his trusted protégé, blooded combat officer that he was, couldn’t fully relate to Compton’s situation. Harmon was a brilliant officer, highly skilled and courageous to a fault, but he’d always served under Compton, following orders. He couldn’t know how much it cost to give some of those commands.