by Jay Allan
She flipped on her comm unit, reconnecting to Hayes’s line. “Stanton…I need your people to push those reactors harder. Seconds count.”
“We’re pushing as hard as we dare.” A pause. “You’ve got to go now, Captain. We’re not going to make it on time.”
“Well then, fire up those reactors. Go to one twenty, even one twenty-five. How much worse can the risk be than being left behind and blasted to atoms by Hegemony ships?” She was pretty sure she’d made her point, but there was no time for confusion. “That’s an order, Commander. Every bomber to one twenty-five output now.”
“Yes, Captain.”
She turned and watched the display, seeing one by one as the small dots jerked forward, their reactors generating energy at a far higher rate than their design specs called for. As close as the ships were, it wasn’t going to make that much difference…but even a minute could be the line between life and death. She was cutting things close—probably too close—but she would blast the thrusters and leave the pilots behind at some point. She could risk the five hundred seven crew members on Tarsus, put them on the line to save their comrades, but she wouldn’t condemn them to certain death. At some point, she would cut bait and run.
“Get engineering on the comm, Commander.” She flashed a glance over at Tarleton. “I want them ready to get Tarsus’s reactors up to one twenty-five as well.” She’d fought next to some of the Confederation’s most celebrated officers, men and women not afraid to push themselves, and their ships and crews, to the limit. But she’d never witnessed Tyler Barron or Clint Winters or her sister push a ship the size of Tarsus up to one hundred twenty-five percent reactor output. Worse, her flagship wasn’t a new warship, designed to the highest standards. It was a freighter, an old one at that, hastily retrofitted to carry fighters. Pushing the old hunk of junk so hard was begging for problems. But it also bought her perhaps an extra two minutes, even two and a half.
She turned back to the display, and her eyes immediately fixed on one of the dots falling behind the others. She almost reached for the comm to call Hayes again, but there was no need. The bomber she was watching had no thrust at all. The push to one twenty had probably burned out its reactor, there was no other answer. It was better than a total meltdown, or the destruction of the ship in a thermonuclear blast, at least in theory. But in the current circumstances, it was just as deadly. Dying from radiation poisoning, being incinerated in an atomic blast, or getting shot by pursuing Hegemony ships…in the end, it didn’t matter much which shadow of death won the day. The result was the same.
“Captain, engineering acknowledges, but advises heavily against pushing the systems to that level.”
“Noted.” She leaned back and let out a deep breath. She’d risked her ship, her crew, herself, to try to save her pilots. She’d known it was a gamble all along, and it was far too late to prevaricate.
“One twenty-five on the reactor on my command…”
* * *
“Dammit!” Stanton Hayes saw another of his ships vanish from his screen, and he knew all too well just what that meant. Two of his birds had been vaporized by reactor explosions and, perhaps a worse fate, two more were lagging behind. Those pilots were sitting at their now useless controls, still breathing and watching their scanners. But he knew they were as dead as the two who’d disintegrated with their ships.
His own Lightning was shaking wildly, and he could feel heat behind him, the overloaded reactor overwhelming the shielding as it poured a huge flow of energy into the straining engines. He’d used the power first to increase his bird’s acceleration, but now he was decelerating just as hard. He was close to Tarsus, so close now that he couldn’t afford an instant’s loss of even a fraction of that power. If he couldn’t decelerate in time, he’d zip right by the carrier, and if he was sure of one thing, it was that there would be no time to come about and try again.
He felt a little lightheaded, but whether that was fear and fatigue—or radiation leaking through the shields and ravaging his body, he wasn’t sure. He’d know if the nausea hit him, of course, but so far, his stomach was quiet, save of course, for the tight feeling of barely restrained terror. He’d been concerned for his pilots, for Tarsus and her crew. Such commendable tenets of command leadership carried with them a more selfish benefit. It took his focus from himself, from the not inconsiderable likelihood that his life now, would be measured in minutes, if not seconds.
He let his gaze move, his eyes noting the large circles on the edge of the display. Two Hegemony battleships were chasing the fleeing remnants of his wing. Ten of the huge vessels in total had transited, along with a number of escorts and other ships, but the two chasing him were more than enough to take out every fighter he had, plus Tarsus, and, if they hadn’t already made good their escapes by now, every vessel in Captain Eaton’s fleet.
Alone among the almost dozen and a half pilots following him on the desperate race to salvation, he was the only one who’d faced Hegemony capital ships in battle, the only one who’d flown a Lightning into the maw of one of those giants, planted a plasma torpedo into the vast hull and then flown away, traveling once again past the ship’s defense grid on a wild ride back to his mother ship. He knew just what those ships could do, and at what almost inconceivable ranges they could fire.
And, they were damned close as he watched.
Damned close.
But so was Tarsus, finally.
“Alright, let’s get in approach formation. We’re going to land in range order.
Almost range order. Hayes was the closest, but he was landing last. There was no negotiating that, though he wasn’t sure what he’d do if Captain Eaton gave him a direct order.
“Blackwing seven, you’re first. Then Banshee four.” He’d considered trying to organize the landings by squadrons, but his formations were a hopeless morass.
He watched as his pilots, not quite rookies anymore, but still pretty wet behind the ears for so desperate of a landing operation, adjusted their vectors and came about to approach Tarsus. The first ship went in, decelerating all the way…and then slid right into the bay.
Perfect!
Then another, and another. The first six ships landed in textbook form.
Seven came in too quickly. Hayes could see it, and he grabbed the comm, shouting his commands in an almost brutal tone. “Red Streak eight, pull up…now! You’re coming in too fast. Break off and come around again.” The orders blurted out almost on instinct, a mercy of sorts, since he knew the order was almost certainly a death sentence for the pilot. There would be no time for second approaches, and he knew that well. But he just couldn’t take a chance on one hard landing closing the bay. That would kill nine of his people instead of one.
He watched as the pilot obeyed his command, and the tiny dot changed vector and whipped past Tarsus’s hull. He wondered if the pilot knew he’d been sacrificed, if he’d made the course change knowing it meant his own death. Or if he’d simply reflexively followed orders.
Then he wondered which would be worse.
The rest of his ships came in, a few of them sloppy in their approaches, but they all managed to land. Even as the last two made their final approaches, he brought his own ship around. He took one last look at the final remaining dot floating near Tarsus, the doomed Red Streak eight. He sighed, and he fought back a feeling of guilt at the prospect of his own survival while he stared for a few fleeting seconds at his doomed comrade.
Then, he locked in his final approach course, and slipped into the landing bay.
He’d made it. But Sonya Eaton had waited a long time for his people to land.
Very possibly too long. His people were back in the bay, but they were far from safe.
He sat back in his now-still bomber and sucked in a deep breath, trying to take a guess at the odds that he and everyone on Tarsus were as dead as Red Streak eight. Carlin, he thought to himself. If a man has to die, you can at least remember him by his real name.
No ma
tter how many times he tried to calculate those odds, he came up with the same thing.
Right around 50/50.
* * *
“They’re firing, Captain.” Tarleton’s tone was controlled, if a little less rigidly than was usually the case. The Hegemony ships were still pretty far back, at best in a gray area that just might be within firing range. Eaton knew her aide was well aware the odds of a hit at that distance were very low, but getting shot at, especially by something of that size, was disconcerting to say the least.
Still, she’d never met anybody, herself included, who didn’t feel something run up their spines at the sight of those immense Hegemony vessels and the almost incalculable energy their weapons put out.
“They’re still too far out, Commander. They’re just working out their frustrations because they know they’re not going to catch us.” It was a reply to Tarleton, but it was mostly directed at her bridge officers. They were all clearly scared, their eyes riveted to the display and their controls. Fear had already done its job, and more terror could only do further harm. Being on edge was a good thing. Hopelessness, however, was something entirely difficult.
And there was no cause for it. She was far from sure they’d make it out, but they had a damned good chance.
Tarsus was shaking hard, and Eaton could hear the strain in the old ship’s bones. It seemed like every structural support was screeching, about to snap and crush a section of the hull, killing large numbers of the crew in the process. And she didn’t dare imagine what was happening down in engineering, what kind of hell her people were enduring to keep the tortured power plant going.
There was a large white circle on the display, and it was getting closer. The Hegemony ships could follow her through the point, of course, but she doubted they would. They were at least an hour behind at their current velocity, and with no idea what course changes she might execute after the jump, or for that matter, with no scouting of what lay in the system beyond, she doubted the enemy would chase after Tarsus once it left the Osalon system.
She tried to ignore the flashes on the display, the almost constant fire from the pursuing battleships. They were still at extreme range, and even if they managed to score a hit, it would be at massively reduced power. But Tarsus was an old ship and poorly protected, and Eaton was driving her so hard, the vessel was on the verge of coming apart by itself. It wouldn’t take much of a hit to put an end to the escape attempt.
She looked down and realized she was gripped the sides of her chair. Her hands were clenched tightly, her fingers almost stark white as the blood was forced out of them. Tarsus was only two minutes from the jump, an insignificant time that somehow seemed to be stretching out to eternity.
She could almost feel each second pass, and as she sat in the center of the carrier’s small bridge, there was hardly a word spoken. She’d done all she could, issued every command possible. There was nothing for her bridge crew to do but wait.
Down in the lower levels, she knew her engineers were working feverishly. She felt sympathy for them, for the burdens and work she’d placed on them, but perhaps they were better off having something to do, feeling in their efforts a greater stake in their own survival.
At least they have something to do, save discovering just how long one hundred twenty seconds can be…
The enemy fire was heavier now. They were still at very long range, but they were out of the gray area. Tarsus’s evasive maneuvers were making the ship as difficult a target as possible, but every second brought the enemy battleships closer, and increased the chance of Tarsus taking a hit.
One hit is all it will take. Just about anything, even a glancing blow. The ship’s power grid is beyond maxed out, and she’d an old tub. Even when she was new, she wasn’t made from the stuff to face Hegemony rail guns…
She watched, taking her eyes from the countdown clock and focusing them instead on the enemy ships. They were closer now, but the range was still long.
She was counting softly to herself, down from the twenty-eight seconds the clock had displayed when she’d looked away. She was down to twelve.
A flash on the screen caught her eyes, and for an instant, she felt as though she’d been punched in the gut. She’d almost expected to feel her ship rock hard from the impact of the shot, but there was nothing. Nothing save the sweat pouring down her back.
That was close.
She looked down at her workstation, at the AI report coming through. The shot had passed within four hundred meters of the ship. In terms of space combat, things didn’t get much closer than that.
She could feel her heart pounding, even as her resumed countdown went from eight to seven…to six…
She could almost feel the ship shaking hard, hear the sickening sound of internal explosions, of savaged steel girders giving out. But it was all in her head.
Tarsus’s luck held out. Her luck held out.
The ship slid into the center of the transit point, and slipped from normal space into the strange and poorly understood dimension that allowed nearly instantaneous interstellar travel. She normally felt a little queasy during transits, but the strange sensations that gave her stomach flops felt like nothing this time more profoundly than they did relief.
Her people had made it out.
Now, it was time to get back to Craydon…and to let Admiral Barron know the enemy was moving serious reinforcements forward to Megara.
Chapter Eight
Hegemony Supreme Headquarters
Megara, Olyus III
Year of Renewal 265 (320 AC)
The massive docking bay was brightly lit, and along both sides of the wide and carpeted walkway Kriegeri soldiers stood, resplendent in their dress uniforms, their weapons held at their sides with parade ground perfection. The Hegemony’s soldier-class focused mostly on combat training, but they were more than capable of putting on a display of martial brilliance when welcoming a VIP.
Chronos stood at the front of the open path between the two groups of soldiers, staring at the still-closed hatch of the cutter. He wore his dress uniform as well, his chest filled with medals and decorations, many of which, he acknowledged, to himself at least, had been won by his rank and placement, and not by heroism in the field. He did, however, have a few that were genuine, and he drew pride from the fact that, among the ten individual who formed the supreme ruling council of the Hegemony, he had by far the most military experience.
Which is why you’re here, stuck in this morass, while rivals back home no doubt question your inability to crush ‘primitive barbarians.’
He continued to stare at the shuttle.
The reception was indeed suitable for a VIP, and the primary occupant of the shuttle fit that bill, perhaps more than any living human being.
He watched as the hatch slid open. Two soldiers came out, dressed in a familiar red livery. Then, a woman’s head appeared, and an instant later, she stepped into the bay. She was dressed simply, as she usually was, and she looked almost out of place among the finery on display.
Almost…because despite the simple tunic and pants she wore, there was a gravity to her presence. Akella was not only the supreme leader of the Hegemony…she was the most genetically perfect human being in all known space.
Chronos walked forward to greet her, his head awash with conflicting thoughts. She was his superior, of course, and he acted with the respect her position demanded. But he had personal feelings at work too, longstanding affection, something he was pretty sure she returned, at least to an extent. Resentment, too, however, at Akella’s decision to mate with Number Two, crushing—or at least delaying—a pairing he’d coveted himself.
Her decision hadn’t been based on emotion. He was pretty sure she found Number Two as boorish and unpleasant as he himself did, and he didn’t doubt she had acted only in strict accordance with genetic hierarchy. Thantor was the second highest rated human being in the Hegemony, and even if his genetic score only surpassed Chronos’s in the fifth decimal p
lace, it was still higher.
That was all logical enough, and Hegemony culture discouraged mixing emotions with decisions such as mating…but he still found the whole thing unpleasant, one reason he’d accepted the military command. He’d expected to push the unwelcome hurt from his psyche, to focus solely on subjects more fitting his own station, but watching her debark, he realized it was still there, reduced perhaps by time apart, but far from gone.
He wondered, as he had from time to time, if she didn’t share some of what he felt. Akella had been well behind her expected mating cycle when she’d finally had her first child, and she hadn’t had another in the several years since. That was easily explained by the rigors of the war, all the more because the conflict had been expected to be over by then. Still, he wondered, perhaps with a bit of self-serving prejudice, if at least some part of her had been waiting for his return.
He admonished himself for his weakness. There was no place for a council member, Number Eight, and the commander of the expeditionary forces, to spend time or brainpower on such foolishness. Akella was, of course a highly suitable mating partner, but only moderately more so than those he’d selected for his previous pairings.
“Number One, I am very pleased to see you. Welcome to Megara.” They weren’t actually on Megara yet, of course, only on one of the rebuilt orbital stations, but Chronos included the Confederation capital in his greeting anyway. Its capture was one of the few true accomplishments of the war. In every other way, the effort was behind where he—and everyone else—had thought it would be.
