by Jay Allan
Those primaries…
Is it possible? That a captain would take that kind of chance to gain surprise?
“Evasive maneuvers…now!” Kat shouted out the orders, even as she realized it was too late. Invictus was less than sixty-thousand kilometers from the Confed ship, and even decelerating at maximum thrust, the existing momentum would take her ship to within fifty thousand kilometers before it halted.
“Yes, Commander…initiating evasive maneuvers.” She could tell from the confusion in Wentus’s voice her first officer hadn’t yet come to the conclusion she had. She hoped he was right, that her fears were ungrounded. But she didn’t believe that, not for a second.
She stared at the symbol on her display representing the enemy ship, and she wondered who was in command, what kind of man or woman she had faced in this death match over the past ten days.
Who are you?
* * *
“Maximum power to the primaries. I want those guns charged now!” Barron was leaning forward in his chair. He hadn’t heard anything from engineering. Then the bridge lights came on, and the main display rebooted. One glance down at the power monitors told him Fritzie had gotten it done. Dauntless’s reactors were back online.
“Yes, Captain.” Darrow’s voice was haggard, the pressure and strain clearly beginning to take its toll. But there was excitement too, crackling in his words as it was all across Dauntless’s bridge. They weren’t out of the fight yet. They still had a chance.
“Captain…” Travis’s voice came through on his headset. She sounded exhausted, and there was something wrong, he could tell. But her words were music to his ears. “Both reactors restarted and operating. Power flow to primaries operating on full.”
“Well done, Atara. My congratulations to everyone down there.” He paused, then asked: “Fritzie?”
“She’s wounded, sir, but I think she’ll make it. There are a lot of casualties down here…” It sounded like she was going to add something, but she remained silent.
Barron swung his head toward Darrow. “Time until full charge?”
“Forty-five seconds, sir.”
“Captain, there’s no way I can get to a firing station, not in less than a minute.” Travis’s words were loud in his ears.
“Call gunnery, Atara. You would know who’s…”
“There’s no one there, sir. The gun crews have suffered heavy losses, and all reserves are in the outer turrets. There’s nobody in main fire control now.”
Barron felt his stomach clench. His wild gamble, the heroism of his people in pulling it off…and now there was no one available to fire the guns.
The ship’s AI…
“Captain…the enemy is decelerating. And they are beginning evasive maneuvers.”
How could they have reacted so quickly? What kind of mind reader am I up against here?
Barron opened his mouth to order the ship’s AI to fire the primaries. The computer did most of the work on any shot, but the touch of an experienced gunner often made the difference between a near miss and a devastating hit, especially when the target was trying to evade. Barron wasn’t sure if he believed completely in intuition, but the stats backed him up. Gunner-assisted shots had a much higher hit probability than unaided computer targeting. It defied explanation, but it was a documented fact.
But I don’t have anybody to fire…
“Captain, you have to do it.” Travis’s words floated in the air around him, seeming unreal at first. But then he realized she was serious.
“I’m not the gunner you are, Atara.”
“You learned gunnery at the Academy, just as I did…and there’s no one I’d rather have at the controls than you.”
Barron was about to argue again, but Darrow’s voice interrupted him. “Fifteen seconds to full charge, sir.”
As if to emphasize the point, Dauntless shook again, another hit slamming into her. Barron took a deep breath. There was no choice.
He jumped up from his seat, rushing toward Travis’s station, waving Darrow away as he did. He landed hard in the chair, his hands on the controls, bringing up the targeting screen. The AI was already calculating firing solutions, displaying them on the scanner.
He was tense, his muscles twisted into rigid knots. He knew he needed to relax, to watch the target’s attempts to evade, to let his mind run free, to sync with the enemy.
What will you do? Which way will you go?
The enemy’s positioning jets could only minimally affect its vector…but even a move of a ship length was enough to evade a shot.
“Primaries charged, sir.”
Barron stared right at the screen, shutting out the world. He pushed aside his thoughts—memories of his grandfather, concerns about his crew, his own fears—banishing them all. There was nothing, nothing save the enemy ship, and Dauntless’s deadly primaries.
He reached out, stretched his fingers, and closed them on the firing control. He moved the lever, too much at first and then back, more gently. His gaze was focused, his hand tight, ready.
He moved his wrist again, just a small tap. And he pressed his finger, firing.
His eyes darted up to the display, watching for a scanning report. And then it came. He’d missed clean.
He felt despair rising up from inside. He’d let them down, all of them. His people would die, and the Confederation would face a two front war…all because his aim had been off.
“Captain.” It was Travis. “The primaries are still online. We’re recharging them now for another shot.”
Barron felt his spirits rise again, and the tension in his gut worsen. He stared at the targeting display, waiting. Thirty seconds to full charge.
Dauntless gyrated again, yet another hit. The enemy was targeting the savaged launch bay. It was an unexpected benefit of Barron’s ruse. He’d wanted the enemy to believe his ship was crippled…but it hadn’t occurred to him they would target the area they believed was vulnerable.
They weren’t wrong—the bay was destroyed, and the inner compartments exposed, unprotected. But there was nothing there, nothing important, at least. Just Bulkhead Eight, the entrance to the quarters of the fighter wing. And his pilots weren’t there. They were floating around the system in their exhausted craft, waiting to be picked up. Or they were dead. Either way, their quarters were about the least vital spot on Dauntless right now.
He was impressed with the enemy captain’s insight and attention to detail. But this time it had served his purposes instead, bought him time. Time for a second shot.
He stared intently at the scope, tapping one way, then the other. He could see the countdown clock…five…four…
He gripped the firing control and sucked in a deep breath.
Two…one…
He tapped the control again. Then once more, just a tiny adjustment. The bridge was silent, and he knew his officers were staring at him, watching to see if he would hit the enemy, and do enough damage to give them a chance in the fight. Or if their hopes would vanish with another missed shot.
Barron closed everything out of his mind. There was nothing but the enemy ship, and his guns. He felt his finger moving, slowly, deliberately. Almost there. Then, at the last instant, he moved the controls over, adjusting the shot one last time and firing. He felt the vibration under his feet as the big guns fired, and his eyes caught the flashing red light, the overload warning. He’d gotten two shots from his tortured main guns, but there wouldn’t be a third. Not this side of a space dock.
He leaned back, his body aching, exhausted, drained. And then he heard the cheers.
He turned and looked back at the main display. The enemy ship’s icon was flashing. He’d scored a direct hit with both primaries. It was too early for significant damage assessments, but he could see the enemy power levels dropping. Hard. Their fire stopped too—much of it, at least. There were three batteries left firing. All the rest were silent now.
He felt a rush of excitement, but he bit down on it. The battle wasn’
t over. Not yet.
“I want full thrust toward the enemy, Lieutenant. Immediately. All functional secondaries…open fire.”
It was time to end this.
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CFS Dauntless
Krillus Asteroid Belt
40, 500,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
Barron stared at the main display, at the woman standing amid the smoke and wreckage of her ship’s shattered bridge. She wore a uniform that looked as if it had once been spotless and perfectly-tailored. But it was torn now, half a dozen rips cutting across at different spots. It was filthy too, covered with all sorts of soot and debris…and if Barron wasn’t mistaken, some blood too.
He’d called off his gunners when the scanning reports showed the enemy’s reactors were down, the last of its guns silenced. Confederation ships did not destroy helpless opponents. The navy adhered to a strict code of honor, the precepts of which had been laid down by none other than his grandfather. And apart from honor, he felt something for this mysterious enemy captain. Anger, of course, rage at the losses his people had suffered. But more than that. Respect.
“This is Captain Tyler Barron, commanding CFS Dauntless. Identify yourself.”
The woman stood at something that resembled attention, though Barron could see that her leg was badly injured.
“I am Commander-Princeps Katrine Rigellus. I am…I am acting under my own authority as commander of my ship, Invictus.”
Barron frowned. She was hiding something…or, more accurately, she was holding back.
“We know your ship is an Alliance vessel, Captain. Why attempt subterfuge?” He could see that she was uncomfortable, and she paused before answering.
“It is not subterfuge, Captain. We all obey our orders, do we not?”
“Then you do not deny that you are from the Alliance?”
“I neither confirm nor deny anything, Captain, save to say duty compels me to remain silent.”
“Then why did you attack Santis, why did you attack my ship?”
“I accepted your communication request because I have come to respect your ability, Captain. But duty is my master, as I suspect it is yours. And mine now demands silence.”
“There is no reason for hostilities between our people, Commander. Your attack was without cause or provocation. We have both paid a great price for this pointless conflict.”
“You know little about us, Captain. And we know just as little of your Confederation. My superiors’ analysis of your people was inaccurate. I am afraid they allowed themselves to be misled by others, and they have done your people a disservice.” Katrine paused for a few seconds. “You are clearly a strong warrior, Captain, a capable leader. Your people are fortunate to have you.”
Barron stared at the image on the screen, finding himself strangely affected by this enemy officer. Her actions had killed his people, almost killed him. The attack had been unwarranted. Still, he could sense a nobility in the woman on the screen in front of him. “As are you, Commander. But the battle is over, your ship disabled. If you surrender now…”
“That is not our way, Captain.” Barron could see the sadness in her eyes, but also determination. He felt a coldness in his stomach, a fear for what this officer intended to do.
“There is no need for more of your people to die, Commander. I am sure that after appropriate diplomatic contacts are initiated, we will be able to allow you to return home.”
She smiled. It was weak, tentative, but it was a smile nevertheless. “We are different, Captain, your people and mine. Our ways are not yours. Yet, you would be a fitting ally, and I regret that we met as enemies and not friends. Still, there is hope that some good may come from all of this. My people value strength above all things. When Invictus fails to return, the Council will suspend all planned operations against the Confederation. Your victory has proven your people to be warriors, to be respected. You will be spared the burdens of a two-front war.” She paused, clearly in pain, shifting her weight. “Perhaps all is for the best here, for my victory could only have brought war and death down upon both my people and yours. Now, perhaps mine can enjoy peace, at least for a time. And yours can concentrate on defeating your longtime enemy.” She paused. “If my death offers a future as neighbors, perhaps even as allies, then it will not have been in vain.”
“I say again, Commander, there is no reason for you to die. The Union no doubt deceived your people. I will stand with you, urge for your survivors to be released as quickly as possible.”
“No. I thank you for your words, and I know you speak from your conception of honor. But there is no route back for us. We have a saying among my people, Captain. The way is the way. We do not surrender. We do not return home in defeat. For us, there is only one alternative to victory. And one last duty for me to perform.”
Barron stood in front of his chair, watching the woman on the screen, so recently his enemy…and now, what? He didn’t know her, but for reasons he couldn’t fully explain, he felt himself mourning her imminent death. He blamed her for the losses he’d suffered, but now all he could feel was regret that he’d been compelled to destroy her.
He’d felt rage during the battle, but as he listened to her words, he began to understand. She had been created even as he had, destined from birth to fill a role. The culture that had molded her was different from the one that had formed his views. But he suspected they had much in common. She’d never had a choice. In her own way, she was doing her duty, even as he had been. He could think of a hundred reasons to hate her, but in spite of them all, he realized he respected her. Given time, he even believed he could even grow to like her. To call her friend.
“Commander…” He’d intended to try one last time to persuade her, but even as he’d begun, she started to shake her head, and he realized she was as bound to what she was as much as he.
“Farewell, Captain Tyler Barron. My regards, and my respect to a fellow warrior. Join your people, and fight the war that is like to come upon you. I ask but one thing of you. If, in the fullness of time, our people do become allies…know that my spirit rides to battle with you. For it would be an honor to serve at your side and not against you. Good fortune to you, and to all who serve you.”
With that the screen went dark, and Tyler Barron sat long, staring at the blackness where his enemy had been moments before.
* * *
Kat had stood while she addressed Captain Barron. He’d been a worthy adversary, an opponent a true warrior could only respect, and she had treated him as such. But now she sat down. Invictus’s bridge was a smoke-filled wreck, most of her officers dead. Wentus was still alive, though he was mortally wounded and barely conscious. She wasn’t sure how many of her people were still alive in other sections of the ship. A significant number, no doubt, though she was sure hundreds were already dead.
Now that she’d cut the com line, she sat down. It was odd that amid the destruction and defeat, the disgrace and the shadow of death upon her, she should still have a fleeting thought once again about how comfortable her chair was. She almost laughed.
She reached down and pulled up the mini tablet she kept in the compartment next to her seat. She flicked her finger across it, and it lit up, displaying a photo. A young boy and girl. Her children. She ran her fingers over their images, and she felt strange, her eyes moist, wet with tears.
Alliance warriors don’t cry…
But for all the forcefulness of her thought, all the decades of training and indoctrination, the discipline bred into her soul, she could feel the tears streaming down her cheeks. She didn’t cry over her imminent death, nor even the realization that she would never see her children again, though that tore at her like knives slicing through her heart.
No, it was none of those things that had broken her. It was the realization that her children would follow her example. They would be raised as the next generation of the Regulli, as heirs to the family tradition of service and unswe
rving devotion to duty. They would be just as she had been. Even if they had questions, doubts, they would bury them and follow their orders. They would fight…and they would likely win glory. Until one day each came to the pass she had, the final defeat. The thought of her children staring into the same abyss yawning before her was the final blow.
She heard the com unit buzz. Captain Barron again, she knew, probably intent on making one more appeal for her to surrender. She knew the enemy commander meant well…but all the buzzing did was torment her, to tease her with glimpses of survival she knew could never be.
The children were still there in her mind, amid scenes of darkness. She tried to push the bleak thoughts aside, but they were there, clear and resolute despite all her attempts to ignore them. Each of her children, years from now, grown, blood-covered and battered, driven on by rage, by the thought of their mother, dead so many years before. They would fight, and they would find their end, death’s bitter harvest in some battle years from now.
Just as I at this moment…
She felt sadness for her crew, and guilt at having failed them. Yet there was a spark of light too, gladness that at least the deaths of her people might avert war with the Confeds. Indeed, it almost certainly would. Her fall, at the hands of a single enemy vessel, shameful as it was to her legacy, would force the high command to rethink Confederation capabilities. She had no doubt they would cancel the proposed invasion, and that would save thousands of lives. Millions.
She stared back at the image of her children, seeing them now, for just a moment, not as they would look in the future, but as they appeared in the image. The Ordeal, their lives as warriors…all of it was far away from today, in the future. There would be good years at Litora Montis…hunts and fishing expeditions, and long hikes in the mountains. They would be well cared for, she knew, as the inheritors of the Rigellus estates and wealth. And Tarkus would protect them, care for them. They would be happy, she hoped, at least for many years, though she felt a twinge of pain to think of them joyous without her.
Live well, my children. Enjoy the days and the nights before duty claims you…and remember, your mother loves you always…
