by Jay Allan
“Fritzie, this is a bad time…”
“I’m on it, Captain.” Barron could hear the frustration in her voice. She’d been saying for the last two weeks that something was off in the reactor, but she hadn’t been able to find anything, no matter how many tests she’d run. He’d hoped she was just imagining things, but he knew her too well to really believe that. The thing couldn’t have picked a worse time to finally fail.
Dauntless shook hard, as the Union battleship it was facing moved into the range of its own heavy guns and opened fire. Then again. The Confederation primaries were more powerful than the Union guns, and longer ranged. But the enemy ships had more of the x-ray lasers, and they packed a potent punch.
“Forward thrust, Commander…whatever we can manage.” He had to get into secondary range, whatever it took. But with one reactor down, he knew his engines couldn’t give him much. Reactor B was powering the entire ship, and it was chewed up pretty badly itself.
“Engine room reports maximum thrust 1.8g, Captain.” Travis looked down at her screens for a moment, running calculations. “That will be eight minutes until secondary range.”
Too much. Dauntless can’t take eight minutes of that pounding. But our vector’s already in that direction. It would take even longer to pull back out of range.
He moved his hand to the comm controls, but then he stopped. Fritzie would do everything humanly possible…all he could do was distract her.
The ship shook again, and the lights flickered.
If they knock out Reactor B, we’re done…
He’d known all along that getting his people home was a long shot, but dying within sight of the fleet…it was just too much…
“We’ve got fighters coming in, Captain. It’s Commander Jamison and Lieutenant Timmons.”
Barron’s interceptors had escorted Dauntless’s and Intrepid’s bombers toward the enemy line—and he’d watched as they’d fought a sharp battle with a small group of Union ships that had hit the strike force hard. Now they were coming back in, and Jamison was leading them against the enemy battleship.
Barron felt a rush of excitement watching his squadrons, but he knew they weren’t going to be enough. If Fritzie couldn’t get Reactor A back online—and she’d been trying to find the problem for days now—his ship was in trouble. The rest of the fleet was on the other side of the enemy forces, too far away to intervene…”
“Captain, Intrepid is moving up on our port.” A wave of excitement slipped into his first officer’s voice. “She’s firing, sir.”
His eyes darted to the scanner, just as the readings updated. Eaton’s people had scored a direct hit.
Well done, Sara!
The incoming fire from the enemy vessel slowed considerably, perhaps half as many guns firing as before. Then his comm buzzed.
“Captain, I’m going to restart the reactor. I still don’t know what’s wrong with it, but I think I can get it back online.”
“Do it Fritzie.”
“There is some risk, sir. I’ve covered every…”
“Do it.”
“Yes, Captain. Restart in ten seconds.”
Barron just nodded, waiting. Ten seconds wasn’t a long time, but it seemed like it sitting there on the bridge. His officers had heard Fritz, they knew what was happening, and there wasn’t a word spoken, not a sound save the occasional buzz or ring from a workstation.
Then, there was a high-pitched whining sound, and the lights brightened. Fritz’s voice blared through the comm. “Back online, sir, at eighty-nine percent. I think it’s going to need a total replacement, but for now I’ve got it working.”
“You’re a genius, Fritzie!” He spun around toward Travis. “Cut engine thrust…charge primaries now.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Barron felt the g force pressure disappear as the engine shut down. A few seconds later, Intrepid fired again…another hit.
The enemy fire lessened again, down to two or three batteries. Then it stopped entirely.
Barron didn’t understand. The enemy battleship hadn’t taken another hit. Why had it stopped firing its primaries?
“Gunnery reports ready to fire, Captain.”
Barron put the thoughts out of his mind. It didn’t matter. There was only one thing on his mind now.
“Fire.”
Chapter Forty-Nine
CFS Victoire
Ultara System
Union Year 212 (308 AC)
D’Alvert sat in the center of Victoire’s flag bridge, watching the chaos unfolding around him. He still outnumbered the Confeds, and his forces had inflicted heavy losses on their foes. Another six enemy battleships had been destroyed, and there wasn’t one out there that wasn’t badly battered.
His own vessels had suffered as well, his losses even greater. But he’d started with more. He knew the war could end right here in the Ultara system. The enemy commander—almost certainly not Winston anymore, he’d decided—seemed committed to a fight to the finish. It was tailor made for his purposes…save for the fact that he didn’t have the fuel and supplies to see it through.
He knew he had to order a withdrawal. If he didn’t, his ships were going to begin to run out of fuel. Half his line had already gone through all the cartridges for their primaries, and the rest were down to their final few shots. The battle was lost…lost for lack of the ordnance and fuel to fight through to victory. If he didn’t retreat now, if his ships ran out of fuel in the face of the enemy, he’d lose the entire fleet. At least if he pulled back, the war would go on. But his dreams of a quick victory, of smashing through to the Confederation’s Core worlds, of bombarding the Iron Belt factories before they could churn out an endless stream of new ships and weapons…they were gone.
He had no idea what had happened to his carefully-designed supply line. The two enemy ships that transited from Gamalon…could they possibly have destroyed all his convoys and their escorting battleships? Could they have taken out Supply One? It seemed impossible. Yet, what else could have happened?
No, that was inconceivable…this had to be more than the work of bad luck or enemy effort. It had to be betrayal. They were plotting against him, all of them. He looked over at Renault. The officer was hunched over her workstation, seemingly focused, as always. But she had betrayed him. He knew it. His enemies had found his weak spot, the one person he hadn’t suspected. It had to be. It was the only way they could have gotten to him.
He’d lost everything. A lifetime’s work, the backstabbing, the brutality, the careful planning…it had brought him within reach of absolute power, and now he was watching it slip away.
“Admiral, the task force commanders are all calling. They are reporting critical fuel supply levels and requesting permission to withdraw to Gamalon.”
D’Alvert heard the words, but it wasn’t Renault’s voice. It was a shrieking, evil hiss, the very sound of betrayal. How could she have done this to me? How could she have helped my enemies destroy me?
He stared at her, at the back of her head, her neatly-cropped brown hair extending just below her collar. She had been his mistake. Such an innocuous misstep, to trust someone, to seek a friend, a protégé. He felt his hand moving toward his waist, gripping the sidearm and pulling it from his holster.
His eyes bored into the back of Renault’s head, hatred welling up from deep within him. She turned and looked over at him. “Sir, what do you want…”
He aimed the pistol at her head. “Why, Sabine? Why did you betray me?”
The flag bridge was silent, save for the sound of Renault’s increasingly frantic breaths. “Admiral, I don’t under…”
“Don’t lie, Sabine. It’s far too late for that. You could have risen with me. I would have ruled the Union…and you could have been there, at the very seat of power. What did they give you? What was the price of your betrayal?”
She stared back, her face a mask of terror and confusion. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, sir, but…”
“It’s time to pay the price for your betrayal, Sabine…”
“Admiral, no…please…”
A loud crack echoed across the bridge, and Sabine Renault slipped from her chair to the floor, a single bullet hole in her forehead.
D’Alvert leapt up from his chair. “Who else?” he shouted. “Who else was plotting against me?” He panned his vision around the bridge, pointing the pistol at each officer in turn. “You, Girard? You, Nicolas?” There was naked insanity in his voice, in his crazed stare.
“I should just kill you all,” he shouted. He turned and aimed the pistol toward the closest officer, just as the lift opened on the far wall. D’Alvert turned abruptly, in time to face Ricard Lille, Gregoire Suchet to him. The operative stepped onto the bridge, a small pistol in his hand.
“Suchet, what are you…”
Lille fired, and the admiral snapped back, falling over his chair to the deck below. The assassin’s shot had been perfect, precise. Hugo D’Alvert was dead.
“I’m from Sector Nine,” he snapped quickly. “Ricard Lille, senior operative. Charged with the termination of Admiral Hugo D’Alvert.” He knew his words were no proof of who he was, but he was also aware of the fear the mere mention of the Union’s spy agency could cause. And he just needed to control the situation, to forestall some officer or guard from shooting the man who had just killed the admiral.
He turned to an officer at the communications station. “Contact Admiral Beaufort, Lieutenant. Advise him Admiral D’Alvert is dead, and inform him he is in command. He is to extricate the fleet from this fight at once and retreat.”
The officer stared back, a look of stark terror on his face.
“Do it,” Lille roared. “Now!”
The officer spun around and carried out the command.
Lille just stood where he was. D’Alvert had come close to achieving his goal…but he’d fallen short. The dream of a quick war was gone, and the reality of a brutal, sustained conflict was slowly taking its place. The Union fleet had to fall back now, probably several systems, to reestablish its supply lines. They’d be hampered by lack of fuel, and they’d have to move slowly. Fortunately, the Confederation forces seemed to be in no condition to pursue.
There would be a lull, he knew, an extended period while both sides licked their wounds and reorganized…but the war was far from over.
He looked down at D’Alvert’s body, eyes still wide open staring back at him.
It was far from over.
* * *
Lefebrve sat quietly in the shuttle, her hands shackled in front of her. She’d been resigned to death, floating in space on the edge of the battle. When the Union fleet withdrew, it had taken her last hope with it, leaving her with nothing but a final few moments before the end came. She’d been shocked when the Confederation rescue shuttle locked on her transponder. Nothing she’d ever heard of the enemy suggested they would save an enemy pilot.
She’d almost killed herself then and there. There could be only one reason the Confeds would rescue a Union pilot. And she far preferred solitary death to Confederation torture chambers and interrogation. But there was something in her that intervened, that almost physically constrained her from harming herself. She knew she’d be better off dead, but she just wasn’t capable of giving up. She would die if need be, but she would be defiant to the end…and her enemies would have to kill her. She wouldn’t do it for them.
She glanced down at the bandage on her hand, recalling her surprise when the medic treated her wound. What kind of sadistic joy do they get out of healing me so they can torture and kill me?
She’d heard all about the Confeds, and while she didn’t believe all the propaganda she’d heard as a Union officer, she had no reason to expect anything better from her captors. She had killed dozens of their people, gunned down their pilots without mercy.
“Dauntless is closest…our orders are to dock and drop everybody off. Then we’re to refuel and head out to make another run.” She could hear the pilots talking the cockpit.
“Estimated time to docking, six minutes.” A pause. “We’re getting an advisory…Dauntless’s flight decks are in marginal condition. Exert caution on landing.”
Lefebrve listened, taking a deep breath, realizing she was just moments from the enemy battleship. She had always been considered calm, cold. She was a warrior, through and through…it had been her life. But now she was something else, something new.
She was afraid.
* * *
Stockton brought his fighter around slowly, carefully. He remembered the wreckage of Dauntless’s bays when he’d left, and he doubted the fights she’d been through since had done anything to improve the situation. Admiral Striker had offered him an assignment as Fortitude’s strike force commander. It was a big step up to the command of every fighter on one of the fleet flagships, but he’d politely declined. He’d had nothing but good things to say about the pilots he’d commanded in the battle, and he’d stayed long enough for the traditional sendoff for those who hadn’t come back. But, as he’d explained to the admiral, Dauntless was more to him than an assignment. She was his home. And as welcome as he’d been made to feel on Fortitude, he was anxious to get back. Blue squadron was waiting, and Kyle Jamison…and Stara.
Dauntless was only taking select traffic into its bays while repair operations continued, but Striker had been only too willing to give the needed authorization, showing there were no hard feelings for Stockton’s refusal of his offer.
The pilot liked Striker, he liked him a lot. He found he respected the admiral in a way he never had Winston. The fleet commander was a lofty officer, lord and master of the entire combined fleet, but in many ways, he seemed like the next guy in the wardroom. He lacked the formality of someone like Winston, and he seemed willing to find time for any of his people, from senior officers to the lowest-ranked spacers working in the recesses of engineering.
Stockton had always been a warrior who focused on his immediate world, his ship, his squadron. Now he realized he had a new optimism about the war, about the Confederation’s prospects. The fleet was a wreck, but the enemy had also been roughly handled, and Dauntless’s destruction of their supply line had compelled them to fall back half a dozen systems. The Confederation still faced a dangerous and damaging war, but it was no longer staring over the brink. And Stockton felt good about his part in that.
He shifted his throttle slightly, lining up with the entry to Dauntless’s alpha bay. He was anxious to see his friends. Still, he found himself trying not to think about it. Dauntless had been through hell, and for all Stockton knew, Kyle, Rick…even Stara…could have been lost. He’d tried to check on the fleet database from Fortitude, but the information was spotty, and Dauntless and Intrepid hadn’t even connected to the fleet network yet.
His fighter slid into the bay, and he brought it down gently in the open space that had been cleared amidst the debris. He felt a pit in his stomach, tightening with every second. It was one thing to think about friends and loved ones, to worry about them. But he was back now, after what seemed like months. In a few minutes he would know how they all had fared. He would know if they had lived…or if they hadn’t.
He popped the cockpit and scrambled out, handing his helmet to the tech instead of tossing it as he usually did. He climbed down the ladder and hopped onto the deck, his boots clacking loudly on the smooth steel surface.
“By the eleven hells, look who decided to grace us with his presence.”
Stockton turned around, a wide smile bursting out on his face. “Kyle,” he shouted, lunging forward and hugging his friend. “It’s so good to be back.”
“It’s good to have you back, my friend. I’m not afraid to tell you, I was worried about you. Hell, worried? I was scared to death.”
“Me too. About both of us.”
The two men laughed. “Seriously, Kyle, it sounds like you’ve all been through one murderous fight after another.”
“It’s been a
rough couple of weeks, that’s for sure, though I suspected hardest of all on you.” He paused. “Jake, there’s something I need to talk to you about.”
A cold feeling went through Stockton. “Stara?” he asked, barely gasping out her name.
“No…no. Stara is fine, Jake. She got bruised up a bit when a support gave way in launch control, but she’s fine. Rick too, though we did take our share of losses.”
Stockton felt an onrush of relief. “What is it you want to…”
“Jake!”
Stockton heard the voice behind him, and he knew instantly who it was. He spun around, extending his arms as Stara Sinclair raced across the debris-strewn deck and threw her own arms around him. All thoughts of discretion, of keeping their relationship a secret, were gone, and the two of them, a senior launch control officer and the fleet’s reigning celebrity pilot, created quite the scandal by kissing in the middle of the battleship’s crowded alpha bay.
“I was so worried about you,” she said as she pulled back and looked up at him.
“I told you I’d be back, didn’t I? I could never stay away from you, no matter what it took to get back.”
He turned around, looking over toward where Jamison had stood. “Sorry about that, Kyle, you wanted to…” But Jamison was gone, and Stockton realized just how good of a friend he had in Dauntless’s strike force commander. “I guess it was something that could wait,” he said softly. Then he added, “Good.”
He pulled Stara closer to him and said, “Let’s go find someplace to talk. There’s something I have to tell you, something I should have told you a long time ago, and I don’t want to wait any longer.” And he led her off the launch bay and into one of the lifts.
Chapter Fifty
CFS Dauntless
Ultara System
308 AC
Stockton walked down the corridor toward the officers club. He was anxious to see his Blue squadron comrades, or at least those who had survived. He’d had a chance to check the roster, so he knew who was still there, and who hadn’t made it. The ship’s data net had told him something else too, and he didn’t know how he felt about it. He knew how he would have reacted before, but things had changed over the past few weeks, and he was different as well.
