by Jay Allan
* * *
“Alright, tactical force omega…we’re going in now, and we’re gonna go right down that thing’s throat.” Jake Stockton took a deep breath and tightened his grip around his ship’s controls. He was used to flying an interceptor, and he found the bloated and clumsy bombing kit to be a major drag on maneuverability. He sympathized with bomber pilots in a way he wasn’t sure he had before, especially when they had to go up against more maneuverable interceptors. At least that’s not a concern here…
“Mustang six and eight, you’re drifting out of position. Tighten up and get in line. Red six, kick up your thrust a notch…you’re lagging.” He had a force of nineteen bombers, one that was made up of parts of five different squadrons, from three different battleships. It was, in technical military terms, a complete mess. But, it was what he had, and if he had to tell every one of them where to fly and how, then that’s what he would do…but, whatever it took, that big bastard of a ship up ahead was going to get a good pounding.
Stockton had scanned the entire Hegemony fleet…and he’d come to one giant assumption that was really not much more than a guess. The ship in front of his small force of bombers was the enemy flagship, and it was also one of the Hegemony ships that had suffered the least damage so far. He had almost two hundred fighters back in space now, all that the battered ships of the fleet had been able to refit and launch. He figured a few more might trickle out, but most of those still absent were trapped in damaged bays or stuck aboard crippled ships unable to rearm and refuel them.
The battle was close…he could see that. But, he could also see the fleet was losing, or at least that it seemed likely to lose. Unless his people could make a difference.
His squadrons had been launched piecemeal, each ship getting out into space as soon as its flight crews finished prepping it. Stockton had done his best to create a reasonable formation of attack groups, but there was no escaping the fact that most them were cobbled together from clusters of pilots who’d never flown together.
He’d done the best he could to organize the disordered attacks…and then he’d picked out the premier target, the largest battleship in the enemy’s line, and, now, he was personally leading in the assault.
“Form up on me…and, whatever happens, go off my lead.” He pulled back on the throttle, feeling the thrust slam him back into his seat. His fighters were close to the target already, well within plasma torpedo range. But, Stockton and his people were going to take their weapons in a damned sight closer before launching.
He could see the big ship on his scanner, the size of the icon increasing as the range dropped below twenty thousand and continued down. His velocity was over five hundred kilometers per second, and he was still accelerating.
He began mixing up his straight-line thrust with evasive maneuvers, and he tapped the comm again as he saw the enemy battleship open up with its light guns. “Remember, they may not have dedicated point defense arrays, but they’ve got weapons…and one hell of an AI targeting suite. Keep moving, remember your evasion patterns. Anybody who gets blown away on this run is going to be in deep trouble with me, so watch yourselves.”
He angled his vector a few degrees, and then back again, bouncing around without actually seriously altering his course toward the target ship. He could see his pilots emulating his actions, weaving all over the display…but, one of them was hit nevertheless, and the symbol disappeared from his scanner as he was watching.
The range was under ten thousand now, and the fire was thicker, heavier. He saw a pulse go by, perhaps five hundred meters from his fighter. That was far enough to be well out of the danger zone…but close enough in terms of space battle to add to the sweat soaking the inside of his flight suit.
“Pay attention, all of you. We’re in the kill zone here, and that works both ways. Stay focused…and let’s get this done.”
Six thousand kilometers.
His eyes glanced quickly to the long-range scanner, a quick check on his other groups, and on the battle as a whole. The two lines were locked in a deadly slugging match, and all along the front, small forces of bombers were slipping in, trying to make a difference with their runs.
The numbers on his screen continued to drop, slipping under five thousand. It was beyond point-blank range, closer than he’d ever led and attack in…but he still held his fire. He was going to go closer…close enough to slam his torpedo right into that thing’s hull, without giving the bastards a chance to even think about evading.
He angled his thrust again, his ship bouncing around so wildly, it challenged even his cast iron veteran’s stomach. Still, he drove forward, even as his velocity increased. He was on a course directly for the hulking ship, and at less than four thousand meters now, he had about seven seconds before his bombing run became a suicide attack.
Even then, he held, his hand gripping the throttle so tightly, his fingers were white. He could feel the sweat on his palms, and he gripped even harder, struggling to keep his hand from sliding around. His torpedo was ready, armed…and just as the range counted down to twenty-five hundred, he squeezed the firing stud.
He’d pre-programmed the torpedo to fire up the reaction and convert to energy the instant it cleared his fighter, so now, he had nothing to worry about except pulling his bird up, and clearing the enemy ship. He hit full power, blasting hard to change his vector to a clear heading. He had to drop the evasive maneuvers for a few seconds, and he could almost feel the enemy batteries targeting his suddenly predictable ship, but nothing happened. His fighter zipped right by the massive Hegemony vessel…and he watched as the torpedo slammed into its target, dead on amidships.
He let out a loud howl, grateful that his comm was off, and none of his people heard it. For all his wildness, the unrestrained fury of the young Jake Stockton, he’d come to understand, and mostly to embrace, his new command role. His people needed more out of him than a reckless role model teaching them to laugh at death. They needed a leader…and he’d promised himself that was just what they would get.
He looked at the screen and smiled as his bombers, one by one, followed his course in, holding their torpedoes to the last second, and then sending them right into the enemy vessel, so close in, the Hegemony ship only managed to evade a few. His attack force lost two more ships, though it looked like one of the pilots, at least, had managed to eject…and, when it was all over, they had scored no less than ten hits.
Stockton punched at the keys on his control panel, pulling up the damage assessments. The reports were a combination of scanning data and educated guesses by his ship’s AI. But he didn’t need any of that now, not after the energy readings suddenly spiked right off the scale, and the giant ship vanished in an explosion so furious, for a few seconds, it seemed like the system had acquired a second star.
* * *
“All ships, full thrust directly ahead. Now.” Cilian Globus stood in the middle of Fortiter’s bridge, holding onto one of the structural supports and somehow managing to appear unaffected by the feeling of 4g that remained after the ship’s dampeners absorbed as much thrust as they could.
He’d been watching the bombing runs all along the line, groups of fighters, as few as three or four in some spots, and decently organized makeshift squadrons in others. But whatever the size or the composition, they all surged forward like the wrath of God, striking at the enemy with all the deadly force they possessed. Not one small cluster of the small ships, not even a single fighter, held back or failed to attack with a vigor that left even the veteran Palatian commander with nothing but silent respect. No words would have sufficed to praise the heroism and determination he was witnessing.
And that he would follow.
“We’re going in, and by that, I mean I want us close enough to these bastards to hit them with a club.” Even as he spoke, Fortiter shook again, another hit. He shrugged it off. None of it mattered, not anymore. The fight had come down to the end, and now it would be for warriors to finish it. The battle
wouldn’t be won now by lasers or particle accelerators, or even super-advanced railguns. It was the hearts of men and women that mattered now…at least that was how Globus saw it. He stood firm where he was, his Palatian blood boiling.
His four battleships were all damaged, two of them badly. But every one still had at least some thrust capacity, and they were all blasting at full now, weapons firing ceaselessly as the distance slipped with each passing second.
Ten thousand kilometers…unheard of for capital ships. But still he kept his force moving in. Nine thousand.
He could see Fortiter’s batteries’ hit ratios increasing. Even the enemy’s superior thrust and AI capabilities were of limited value at so close a range.
Globus was scared, of course, though as a Palatian Patrician, he’d never admit it, not even to himself. But, he was exhilarated, too, and he could feel the tide turning. The victory was there for the taking, thanks to the work of the fighter squadrons, he was sure of it, and he wouldn’t let up, not until the enemy was crushed, until their ships turned tail and ran back where they’d come from.
He looked at the display again. Seven thousand kilometers.
Fortiter’s batteries fired again, and he could see the hits slamming into the target vessel…and great geysers erupting from the gaping wounds they created, the long streams of gases and fluids flash freezing in the frigid cold of space.
Six thousand kilometers.
He smiled and whispered to himself, a phrase he’d spoken since childhood…and one that said all that mattered.
“The way is the way…”
Chapter Forty-Four
PUV Carcajou
Approaching Barroux
Rhian System
Union Year 219 (315 AC)
Denisov sat quietly on Carcajou’s bridge, watching the cataclysmic destruction he’d unleased. He’d always considered himself a professional naval officer and not some kind of sadist or mass murderer. He’d silently detested Sector Nine, and the brutal and totalitarian aspects of the Union’s government, as so many long-term professionals in the navy did, but now he realized he’d crossed a line, one that would brand him forever. One that made him what he’d always despised.
He suspected the specific definition of a mass murderer varied with different factors—situation, provocation…but, mostly, the number of dead. Denisov was pretty sure the death toll on Barroux would be in the millions—if not the billions—and he was pretty sure that guaranteed him a spot on anyone’s list.
He watched as the massive chunks of rock slipped into Barroux’s orbital track. A few struck stations, obliterating them in an instant before continuing down toward the atmosphere. The surviving fortresses were frantically firing at the closest asteroids, an utterly ineffectual attempt to save the planet from the unstoppable nightmare about to engulf it. Their shots did nothing but chip away at the giant hunks of rock and fill the space around the laser buoys with great clouds of dust, effectively blocking their laser fire.
And, right behind the wave of destruction came Denisov’s fleet. His ships closed on the distracted and damaged fortresses, destroying those the asteroids had spared. The dust and other interference affected their fire, too, but the stations’ focus on trying to stop the asteroids allowed his ships to close to stunningly close range.
He leaned back in his chair, pushing away the feelings of guilt for what he had done. He’d had no choice…he told himself that again and again, and, in a sense, he knew it was true. He could have gone back to Montmirail and faced Gaston Villieneuve’s wrath…and possibly the brutal rage that could have consumed many of his officers as well as himself, and even their families. But, for all the truth in his internal defense, he wondered if it could justify the millions who were about to die. History’s greatest tyrants, its most infamous killers, all had their own justifications.
He shrugged, pushing the thoughts away. There would be time later for self-recrimination. Now, he had a job to do. He’d defeated Barroux’s previously impregnable orbital defenses. Now, it was time to secure the planet.
Barroux’s people would die by the millions as the asteroids came down from the sky, blasting the surface like some enraged deity’s wrath unchained. But, there would be survivors, probably many millions of them. Planetary populations were extremely difficult to exterminate entirely. And, that population, whatever remained of it, had to be brought under Union control.
“Lieutenant…the transports are to advance and enter orbit.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was time. Barroux had escaped the grasp of the Union for nearly three years, set an example to other worlds that the iron grip of Montmirail’s government could be broken…but all that was over now. Those planets that had looked on, encouraged by Barroux’s rebellion, would now learn a new lesson from that planet’s agony. Denisov was ashamed at his central role in bringing that about, but he knew Gaston Villieneuve would approve whole-heartedly.
“All units are to prepare for landing operations. The ground assault will commence immediately after the last impacts.”
* * *
Hoover stumbled toward the door, struggling as he carried Breen’s unconscious form hunched over his shoulders. He’d been surprised when Bernard’s resistance fighters had saved his life, but then, he had just done the same for the rebel commander, so perhaps it had been payback of a sort. Whatever it was, he knew he had to get the hell out of the building. It looked like Bernard’s decapitation strike had succeeded, but that didn’t change the fact that Delacorte had already sent for help. No doubt, hundreds, if not thousands, of soldiers loyal to Caron were on the way, even as he made his way across the room.
He knew there was another concern, one even deadlier than Caron’s people. Union forces. The information he’d gleaned in the moments before the strike had been far from conclusive…but they were profoundly disturbing. If the Union fleet was doing what he thought they were, it was going to be hard to find a safe refuge anywhere on Barroux.
He was about to duck through the doorway, or, more accurately, the massive gaping hole where the door had been moments before…and then he saw Caron.
Several of Bernard’s people had cornered the ‘First Protector’ of Barroux, and it looked like Caron’s murderous regime was about to end in a rather final way. One of the resistance fighters shoved the butt of his rifle into Caron’s gut, and he doubled over and dropped to his knees, coughing up blood.
Hoover knew Caron deserved what he was about to get. He couldn’t even imagine the amount of blood on the man’s hands. But if Bernard’s people just murdered the captive Caron, they would be going down the same road as the last regime. He turned and walked back into the room.
“Stop,” he said, moving toward the fighters who were still beating Caron. “Stop that.”
“Who the hell are you?” One of the soldiers turned to face him, holding a pistol in one hand, and a long, notched blade in the other, covered with a bright sheen of blood.
Hoover stopped, leaning down and putting Breen gently on the floor, making sure to do it slowly, in a way that made it clear he wasn’t reaching for a weapon. “I am Mike Hoover…Confederation Intelligence. Congratulations on the success of your strike, but you can’t just murder that man.”
“Says you.” The man glared at him, and Hoover could see his fingers tightening around the knife. “This bastard had my brother killed…and his wife and children, too. He’s a piece of pigshit, and it’s way past time he got what’s coming to him. So, why don’t you just get lost now…while you still can?”
Hoover could hear the rage in the man’s words, feel his need for vengeance. But he stayed where he was, held his ground. “I’m not saying he doesn’t deserve to die…but you have to do it right. You can’t just beat him to death right here.”
“I can do whatever the hell I want, asshole…and then I can do the same to…”
“Raines…stand down. You will not threaten Agent Hoover.” Hoover recognized Bernard’s voice.
“Yes, sir.” The fighter backed down immediately. His expression was sullen, but he obeyed Bernard without question.
Hoover turned to face the resistance leader, just as Bernard said, “I understood why you turned me down earlier, Agent Hoover, but I am somewhat at a loss as to why you feel you must defend our good First Protector here. All of these men and women have lost friends and relatives to Caron’s death squads. So, tell me, why should I order them to spare him?”
Hoover suddenly felt uncomfortable, and he wondered how he would react if those dear to him had been slain by Caron’s people. I’d probably be cutting his heart out right now…
“I didn’t say you should spare him. I said you shouldn’t murder him here. Bring him somewhere, conduct some kind of trial. You spoke earlier of the Confederation as an inspiration. Well, no matter how terrible the crime, in the Confederation, the accused gets a trial before punishment is inflicted.”
Hoover knew he was painting an optimistic image, one that was far too often untrue. He was well aware that many people were denied fair trials in the Confederation, that corruption and abuse were nearly as endemic as they were in the Union. It was the ‘nearly’ that made all the difference, though.
“We’re not exactly in a position to conduct a trial, Agent Hoover. Until a few hours ago, we were all in hiding, being hunted night and day. I don’t even know the status of things right now. I sent teams to secure crucial installations, but our communications are out. Delacorte’s people are probably jamming us.”
Hoover thought about the scanner reports that came in just before the assault. “I know why your comm is out…and it has nothing to do with the late Ami Delacorte or her enforcers. The Union forces are back, and this time they are bombarding Barroux with asteroids.”
