by Jay Allan
An instant later, his finger hit the firing stud, and his ship shuddered as the first missile detached and blasted toward the chosen target, accelerating at almost 80g. It streaked across space toward the advancing enemy fighters, directly on target, but Trent wasn’t watching anymore. He had already changed his thrust vector, and he was searching for another victim. He’d pushed aside the doubt and hesitation about the nature of the fight, about who he was facing. He was in battle now, as he’d been many times before…and he didn’t let himself think about anything but survival and victory. There was no time to worry about the pilots in the ships firing on his own.
The pilots he was killing. Even as his eyes locked on his next victim, his AI updated his display. His first missile had found its target. A direct hit. Nothing left of the ship at all…and no chance the pilot had ejected.
One comrade dead. One pilot wearing the same uniform as you…
He held his focus as he closed on his next prey, and he glanced over at the wide scanning screen, checking on his wings. He’d been meticulous in laying out the attack plan, determined to leave a little as possible to the judgment of his green pilots. They were following his instructions better than he’d expected, even though five had already been hit. At least three of those were dead, their ships blasted to dust, and he felt every one of them like a knife through his ribs.
His wings had taken down nine of their adversaries, though, an almost two to one kill ratio, and cause for celebration…in any other battle. But this time, he felt each kill his own people scored like the same blade plunging into him.
He launched his second missile, and as soon as it left its mounting, he drove his ship forward, hard, lasers armed and ready. There were three enemy fighters heading toward him. When he dropped below ten thousand kilometers, he slacked off on his attack, slamming the throttle hard to the port side, and then down into a series of evasive maneuvers that shook all three of his pursuers.
He looked back up at the display, watching as the scanner update came in. His second missile had hit as well, another kill in the young battle. He was looking around for his next target when he saw a flash on the edge of the display…something coming through the transit point.
His comm crackled to life.
“Commander Trent…all squadrons. Cease fire at once and disengage. Do not attack any ships that do not pursue or attack. You are to allow any opposing fighters to withdraw from the combat zone without attempting to intercept.”
Trent was staring at his comm speaker, stunned at the order he’d just heard. His people were already engaged…there was no way to cleanly break off. We waited, let them shoot first. What the hell is Barron thinking?
He understood Barron’s hesitation about killing Confederation pilots, even those who had sided against him. But things had gone past that. They were in the fight, and Trent wasn’t sure he could follow that last order. If he called off his rookie pilots and the enemy pursued them aggressively, he could lose a hundred of them. More, even.
Trent had rallied to Barron, sworn to do what had to be done to restore order in the Confederation…but there were limits. He was still trying to decide what to do when the comm came to life again. For an instant, he thought it would be Barron again.
But it wasn’t.
* * *
“Attention all Confederation vessels, this is CFS Ranger, with a Priority One communique from Admiral Clint Winters.” The words echoed loudly on Dauntless’s bridge and, as he listened, Barron realized the same thing was happening on every one of the ships in the system that were now faced off against each other, about to engage in combat.
The message was direct and to the point, and it hit Barron like a punch to the gut. Clint Winters had never been a man to mince words, and it appeared he hadn’t decided to start anytime soon. The words echoed in Barron’s ears, his mind playing them over again and again. “The fleet formerly stationed at Dannith has been forced to withdraw with heavy casualties in the face of an overwhelming Hegemony invasion. The Ventica system has been abandoned, along with Dannith, and the fleet is moving back in full retreat, seeking a defensible position to make a stand against the enemy. My requests for reinforcements from the Core area forces have gone unanswered, and I beseech all Confederation personnel to respond at once, to send reserves to the front before it is too late.”
Barron sat silently in his chair, his attention riveted, as it was for every officer on Dauntless’s bridge. The words hit him hard. Barron, of all people, had thought he’d be the last one to underestimate the Hegemony threat, but as his eyes locked to the display, watching the data Ranger was transmitting as it scrolled down his screen, he was frozen in utter, horrified shock.
The Hegemony forces displayed on the screen was impossibly large, and despite his complete trust in Clint Winters, he simply couldn’t make himself believe what he saw. No nation could possess a force so large. He couldn’t imagine the amount of time it would take to build an armada so immense, or how many worlds had labored ceaselessly to produce the steel, the electronics, the radioactives. It defied the scope of his imaginings.
Worse, the Confederation was utterly unprepared to face the new threat. He’d left his people deep in the Badlands, raced back to the Confederation to bring the warning, only to be arrested, and forced to take the nation to the brink of civil war. He hadn’t thought things could get any worse.
They just had.
He turned and looked over at Atara, her eyes meeting his for a few seconds of silent communication. They had both seen the Hegemony up close, experienced battle against the enemy’s forces. He could see that she was struggling as he was, trying to stop herself from sinking into a pit of hopelessness and despair.
Then Barron remembered his comm was still open on a wide channel. Ranger’s news was dire, but it might have come at a good time. Maybe he could make some use of it.
He grabbed the unit, checking first to make sure Dauntless was, in fact, broadcasting wide. He wanted every spacer in the system to hear what he was going to say. “Are you watching this, Torrance? Are all of you out there? This is what I have warned about, what I have been trying to say, though no one on Megara would listen. It is why I have rallied the forces I now lead, why I was—and am—prepared to do whatever is necessary to reunite the Confederation. We have no time for internal disputes now. Doom is almost upon us all, a conflict that will make our four desperate wars against the Union seem like snowball fights. Do we continue on the course we’ve been on, see our spacers killed by their brethren? Or do we heed Admiral Winters’s warning? Before it’s too late.”
He paused, turning his head, catching the stares of his own people on Dauntless’s bridge. They were looking at him, their eyes fixed, unmoving. He had them, he was sure of that. But he needed the entire fleet…both fleets. He needed the Confederation navy united, together as one force, ready to confront its greatest challenge.
“This is what we face,” he said, his fists clenched at his sides as he continued. “This is our reality…and if we leave Clint Winters and his people out there alone, if we fail to aid our comrades in arms, we sacrifice all we have, all we are. We have to put our disputes aside, remember that we are all the Confederation navy. We must stand together, side by side, and face the terrible nightmare coming to engulf us all.”
He listened to silence for a brief moment, and then the sound of clapping on the bridge. He never saw who had started it, but within seconds, every officer and spacer in the room was applauding him. Barron appreciated the show of support, and he drew some strength from it…but he needed more than Dauntless, more even that those thousands in the ships pledged to him.
He sat still as his bridge crew continued to cheer, and then to chant his name. Atara turned and looked over, nodding with a smile as acknowledgements poured in, first from the ships he’d commanded, and then, slowly, one by one, from those that had faced off against him.
Finally, a message came through on the comm. “Admiral Barron…this is C
aptain Fitzsimmons aboard Exemplary. I have placed Admiral Whitten under arrest, sir. I am taking command of the fleet, and I hereby order all vessels to power down their weapons systems and await further instructions.” A pause. “We are with you, Admiral. Whatever it takes.”
Barron felt the tension fade away, and he gave himself a few passing seconds to enjoy the satisfaction…as Dauntless’s bridge erupted in a cacophony of almost deafening cheers.
Chapter Twenty-Two
CFS Constitution
Miramar System
Five Transits from Dannith
Year 317 AC
“Frigate Flotilla Two is to position itself in the dust clouds between planets five and six. I want them in place and powered down in two hours.” Winters turned toward his aide. “And I mean two hours…not two hours and one minute. Not two hours and one second. Make sure they understand that, Davis…and also that they’re going to be in there running silent until the enemy gets here, however long that is.” The “silent running” protocol pinned his ships to their positions and restricted energy output to bare minimums…but his spacers could scream and bang on drums they wanted, and it wouldn’t give away their presence or position in space.
Conditions of that sort weren’t a big deal for a short time, but it could wear a crew down if the condition persisted for days or weeks. Everything from dim lighting to reduced heating and cold food could wear on a ship’s complement already edgy about the approaching battle.
“Yes, sir.” Davis Harrington answered crisply. The officer had only been with the fleet a few days, but Winters had placed him at the main tactical station immediately. Harrington had come with a new round of reinforcements from Grimaldi—a final detachment that left the Confederation’s main fortress on the Union border stripped of almost all its fleet units and fighter squadrons. The base still mounted a daunting array of heavy guns, but it was just as well the Confederation wasn’t fighting the Union any time soon, because a fixed fortification, even one as massive as Grimaldi, didn’t stand much of a chance without some sort of fleet support.
Harrington had served with Winters for a long time. He’d been one of the admiral’s main aides through the last years of the war, and he’d continued in the role when Winters took up the command of Grimaldi. The admiral had left his trusted aide behind when he’d first gone to Dannith, but he’d since called in just about everything spaceworthy stationed at the great fortress, and along with the last of the Grimaldi ship reserves, he’d ordered the best of his staff to come along as well. The threat was worse than he’d thought when Barron’s first message had arrived. Worse, even, than he’d believed just after his forces had barely survived the initial enemy invasion, with the help of the White Fleet. The sheer size of the enemy forces was an almost impossible reality to fully grasp, and, for all his combat experience, Winters had no idea what he was going to do. He still hadn’t received word from Megara, nor any reinforcements from the Confederation’s central regions…and he needed everything he could get.
“Check on Flotilla One, as well. They should be in the asteroid belt by now, but it looks to me like they’re lagging.” They weren’t exactly lagging, not really, but they weren’t in place yet either…and the last thing Winters could afford now was to get anything less than the best his people had to offer. He had a reputation for being demanding—a hothead, many said—and those who whispered such things about him were right. He was damned sure going to use that reputation for all it was worth.
He had no intention of letting up on the intensity, not for a second. He wouldn’t have anyway, but the latest scouting reports showed enemy fleet units right on his tail. He’d hoped the enemy would stop, consolidate…give him a couple months to get his defenses in place. But he’d barely managed to get to Miramar without the Hegemony forces catching him on the way, and he doubted he had more than twelve hours—if he had that—before they would be streaming through the transit point to hit his fleet again.
He’d been trying to piece together a series of hurried, half-assed scouting reports, but his best guess was the enemy had not sent its entire force after his fleet. No doubt, they were refitting their damaged and depleted vessels, and also mounting a ground attack on Dannith. But by any measure, there were enough ships heading toward Miramar to blast his fleet to atoms.
He’d convinced himself, for a short while, at least, that he could make a stand in the system, that he could draw a line and say, “no farther.” But without any reinforcements from the Admiralty, there was no chance. He could make the Hegemony fleet fight in Miramar, force them to expend ordnance, inflict damage on them…but he couldn’t hold them, couldn’t turn them back. Not if they wanted to push forward badly enough.
But he did have a plan of sorts. He could draw them farther into Confederation space, stretch out their supply lines. Winters had analyzed every aspect of the enemy advance, and he’d come to a single, overriding conclusion. They had to be close to the breaking point in their supply and support operations. He couldn’t imagine they could go much farther into the Confederation without a lengthy pause to bring up supplies and establish bases. Certainly, no Confederation force would be able to—and any break he could get, any way to buy time, would be its own victory of a sort. Even if it was bought at the price of abandoning Confederation worlds to the enemy.
Winters closed his eyes for a moment, and in his thoughts, he saw the oncoming enemy formation he knew was heading toward his fleet, line after line of heavy warships streaming through the transit point and forming up for battle. He’d suspected from the start that the Hegemony forces would pursue his retreating fleet, and that they would manage to put forward a significant force…but he couldn’t imagine how they could have refit and resupplied their forces yet. He expected to have another week, at least, and probably more…but he wasn’t taking chances. Having his people deployed on alert and waiting for an attack would wear them down, he knew that. But there was no other way to proceed.
The battle was almost on him again, on all his people…and he was afraid it would come far sooner than anyone expected.
He turned as he heard the lift doors open, and he saw Sara Eaton step out onto the bridge. He leapt up from his chair and gestured toward the corridor at the back of Constitution’s bridge. “Commodore Eaton, thank you for shuttling over so quickly,” he said, as he quickened his pace, leading the new arrival off the bridge, and toward his office. There was nothing secret about their meeting, but he intended to be coldly honest with his deputy commander…perhaps more honest than his staff and crews were ready to handle on the eve of battle.
“I’m sure you are aware of the apparent strength the enemy is likely to deploy against us.” In truth, neither of them knew for sure. The Hegemony’s ability to keep its fleets moving and supplied was still a question mark. But Eaton knew better than anyone. Her White Fleet had led a pursuing enemy force across more than a dozen transits, and there had been no pause, no break in the chase.
“Yes, Admiral. I reviewed the latest analysis while I was shuttling over. Once we detect them, we will have at least twelve hours before they can close to range. That’s our window. And we have no solid data on their scanning capability. So, anything we don’t want them to see, and anything that takes more than twelve hours, we have to have it in place before they get here.”
Winters nodded as she finished. He had positioned his defenses as far as he could from the transit point…and as close as possible to the system’s only other one. The fleet’s escape route. As determined as he was to put up the toughest fight he could, he didn’t have a doubt he’d be retreating again. He simply couldn’t afford to lose his fleet, not this far forward. Not in Miramar, with the whole Iron Belt and Core behind him.
“I can’t speak for you, Sara, but I’m hoping for at least a week before they get here. We were beaten in the Ventica system, but we put up what I thought was a hell of a fight. We hit a lot of their ships hard, and the others had to have burned a good portion of their f
uel and ordnance. How could they follow up any quicker than that? We’re falling back on interior lines, deep in our own space, and no more than half our forces are truly combat ready right now. I don’t even know how they’ve come as far as they have in such a short time.” His last few words betrayed his deepest concern. The enemy’s arrival on the Confederation border so quickly after Barron’s return was already a puzzle in terms of logistics, and that fact left a heavy doubt in the back of Winters’s mind. Extending the enemy’s supply lines to the breaking point was the only real strategy he had available, at least until the fools on Megara got their act together and rallied the entire fleet.
“I don’t know, sir.” Eaton shook her head. “My only guess is they had freighters and tankers with their fleet, waiting to transfer into Ventica when the battle was over.” A pause. “They could have more of such craft than one of our battle fleets typically would. We did something similar with the White Fleet, after all.”
Winters nodded. “Yes, but the White Fleet wasn’t intended as a combat formation. It was an exploratory mission. Assembling the supply train for that expedition stretched Confederation resources to the breaking point…” He hesitated. Sara Eaton had led the White Fleet on an epic retreat, an ultimately failed attempt to direct the Hegemony forces away from Confederation space. “By the book,” what she’d done had been impossible…but she’d somehow made her supplies last and kept her forces in the fight as she moved from system to system. “You’re probably our top authority on extending supplies, and keeping ships in the fight without proper logistics. What are your thoughts?”
She paused for a few seconds. “I wouldn’t say we managed to keep the fleet exactly combat-ready, Admiral. But what choice did we have? We weren’t invading enemy space, though, and most of the fighting was done by the fighter squadrons. We didn’t have any ground assaults to worry about either.” Another pause. “And, don’t forget, they weren’t really trying to catch us. They were following us. If they’d really wanted to finish us, they could have…and not a ship would have come back from that final battle.”
