Ruins of Empire: Blood on the Stars III

by Jay Allan

  You’ve got to cut this nonsense. Now. Heinrich was a friend, and a magnificent officer, but he’s dead. And you are better than this. You’re Intrepid’s captain. Act like it.

  “Advise the engine room I may want full thrust on short notice.” Intrepid was under Commodore Flynn, one of the nine ships attempting to move around the enemy flank. Striker had ordered the fleet’s main fighter assault to hit the enemy center, along with another of the task forces. Eaton saw the plan, and she understood what Striker was trying to achieve. She liked it…but she knew it was dangerous too, a calculated gamble. Still, what she thought didn’t matter. It wasn’t her place to critique the fleet admiral’s tactics, merely to execute them.

  “Yes, Captain.” A few seconds later: “Engine room reports ready. Commander Merton advises fifty percent power is the best he can provide.”

  “Very well, Commander.” She struggled to keep her voice a bit softer, friendlier. She’d have liked a moment with Johns, a chance to explain why she’d treated him as she had…but that wasn’t an option now. Hopefully, he’d pick up on her change of demeanor. It was the best she could do at the moment.

  She was frustrated with Merton too. Her engineer would end up getting her more than fifty percent thrust, she’d have bet on it. Merton was a skilled engineer, one she was grateful to have, but he tended to hold back on his projections, doing his best to ensure he always met or beat what he’d promised. It was a bit of career management, she suspected, and she understood it. But in the heat of battle, she had to know what her engineer might be able to do as much as what he knew he could do.

  “Tell him I want seventy percent, at least for a short burst.”

  Johns looked a little surprised. He wasn’t experienced yet with the game Eaton and the engineer played. But he would get used to it. If any of them survived long enough.

  “Yes, Captain.”

  Intrepid had no place in this fight. Eaton’s ship was badly wounded, and the fact that they were still in the battle line spoke volumes about how desperate a struggle the Confederation fleet faced. Admiral Striker was determined to hold, she was sure of that…but Union ships were still coming through the transwarp link, and with each new battleship emerging, victory slipped further out of reach.

  She tapped her hand down on the comm unit, connecting directly to Merton. “Commander,” she said, her voice deadly serious, “we’re going to need everything we can throw at the enemy. I need you to overpower the secondaries…and no holding back on this one. How much power can you give me on the remaining batteries? I need this straight.”

  The engineer didn’t reply quickly, and she knew he was thinking, taking her command seriously. “I can give you one hundred ten percent, Captain.” A pause. “Maybe one hundred fifteen.”

  Eaton was surprised. She’d expected Merton to be his usual cautious self…but it seemed her engineer was as aware as she was what a desperate fight they faced. One hundred fifteen was more than aggressive, it was downright reckless, and it put the gunnery crews at a terrible risk with each shot.

  But Intrepid is already a terrible risk, and if we don’t get through this fight, none of us will survive…

  “Give me one hundred fifteen, Doug.” She spoke softly, calmly.

  “Yes, Captain…I’ll make it work.”

  She cut the line.

  “Captain, we’re entering primary range.”

  “Very well, Commander.” Johns was right to report the range—and Eaton knew the other ships would be opening up, bombarding the enemy vessel before they could return fire—but Intrepid was a bystander in this initial barrage. Her primaries might have some residual value as scrap metal and scavenged parts, but the two big guns would never fire again, and replacing them meant stripping her ship down to its skeleton—a year in port at least.

  “Superb and Vanguard are opening fire, Captain…Colossus and Conqueror also.”

  “Very well.” Eaton didn’t like sitting out the opening exchanges, but there was nothing she could do but wait until her lighter weapons were in range.

  “Commander Douglas reports the fighters are about to engage. It looks like they caught the enemy squadrons before they could full organize themselves.”

  “Advise Commander Douglas he is authorized to attack.”

  The waiting, the cat and mouse game they’d been playing for days now, was over.

  * * *

  “Keep it tight…their formations are loose, and we’re here to blow a hole through for the bombers.” Angus Douglas knew his people had a chance to hit the enemy interceptors hard, all along the line…but his primary duty was to get the bombers through to attack the Union battleships. He was a pilot, and though he hated to admit it, he knew every fighter in the system was expendable. The Confederation battle line, most of what was left of it, was here, ready to fight to the last. The Union force was larger and stronger, and that meant his people had to hurt those lead ships as badly as they could. No matter what the cost.

  “Don’t worry, Commander. We’ll give you that hole.” Lieutenant Jess Korne was one of his best. She was cocky, like so many of his pilots, but she had the chops to back it up.

  “Let’s make sure we do, Lieutenant.” Douglas was a lot more concerned than Korne appeared to be. The Black Helms were the only fighters from Intrepid outfitted as interceptors. Both of the other squadrons configured as bombers. The Longswords and the Gold Shields were each around half strength, and Captain Eaton had wanted to hit the enemy battleships as hard as possible. Douglas understood, but that didn’t change the fact that he had only nine fighters—including his own—to hold off the interceptors pouring out of three Union vessels.

  His eyes dropped to the scanner. Parts of three enemy squadrons were approaching, reacting as quickly as they could to the approach of the Confederation strike force. Their line was ragged, half their fighters lagging well behind. It was far from an ideal formation for facing attacking interceptors, especially a group as good as Intrepid’s Black Helms.

  “All bombers, stay in right behind us. You’re to continue forward no matter what happens. Intrepid is counting on you to hurt these battleships. The fleet is counting on you.”

  He paused, listening to a few replies on the comm, far fewer than usual. His people understood, he was sure of that, and they were grimly focused. It was disconcerting to listen to focused silence from a group as normally boisterous as Intrepid’s fighter wing.

  “All right, Helms…let’s do this.” He tightened his hand around the throttle. “Break.”

  His eyes were fixed on a pair of fighters near the leading edge of the Union attack force. His hand moved to the side, the thrust from his engines adjusting his vector, leading him toward the two interceptors. Taking on two ships at once was tricky, but he was willing to bet he was facing green pilots. He reached down and armed his first missile, his finger poised over the firing stud. He adjusted his targeting, combining his AI’s analysis with his own gut feel…then he pressed hard, feeling the ship lurch as the missile launched.

  He brought his bird around hard, gambling that his missile would take out the first enemy fighter. It was the kind of cocky assumption he usually tried to beat out of new pilots, but right now he didn’t have any choice. There were just too many of the enemy.

  His eyes narrowed, focused on the second ship. He had another missile, but he wasn’t going to use it, not yet. Normal doctrine called for firing the heavy ordnance immediately. He knew his fighter would handle better with no missiles, and worst of all with just one remaining in place, but he still hung on to the weapon.

  He fired his lasers…then again, just missing his target. He felt a rush—and a bit of relief—when he saw the first Union ship vanish from his screen. His missile had found its mark. But he missed the second ship again with his lasers. He was almost ready to launch the last missile, but he took one more shot. This time his lasers were dead on. The enemy fighter vanished.

  That’s two…

  His eyes darted to t
he long-range display, looking for new targets and checking on his people. The Helms were fighting savagely, but more and more Union ships were blasting into them from all around. The squadrons from Vanguard and Colossus were covering their flanks, but there were gaps between both, and Union fighters were swinging around, threatening to engulf his tiny force. He’d lost one ship already, and several of his people had their hands full, dealing with multiple bogeys.

  He grabbed his throttle, bringing his ship around toward another Union fighter. The enemy ship was coming right at him. He held his hand on the laser, firing as soon as his enemy entered range. But the Union bird evaded, its vector changing wildly as it approached.

  This is no rookie…

  He fired again, his lasers not even coming close. Then he saw the enemy launch a missile at him.

  He was out of time…he had to conduct evasive maneuvers, shake that warhead. But he wasn’t about to let his enemy escape, or get on his tail as he fled the missile chasing him. He flipped his weapons control, arming his second warhead. He stared intently, feeling the sweat pool around his neck. He didn’t have time to waste…but he couldn’t just loose the missile. He had to get a good shot.

  He pulled the trigger, relying rather more on his guts than he liked…and then he yanked the throttle hard to the side, pulling it back as the maximum thrust of his straining engines slammed him into his chair.

  He’d waited a long time, almost too long…but he was confident, sure he could break free of the enemy missile. He was sure as he banked hard again, putting everything his ship had into its escape. And he was sure a few seconds later…right until the instant the Union warhead slammed into his fighter, blasting it into plasma and dust.

  He never knew if his own missile had hit, if he’d gotten the enemy who had killed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Inside Abandoned Spacecraft

  System Z-111 (Chrysallis)

  Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)

  309 AC

  “Any idea what these canisters contain, Fritzie? They are containers of some kind, aren’t they?” Barron stood behind his chief engineer, watching as she inspected the cylinders. The room was active now, the hard-soled boots of the Marines rapping loudly against the metal deck. Rogan had taken Barron’s close call as a personal failure, a dereliction of his people’s sacred duty to protect their commander. In truth, the Marines were driving him crazy now. They’d searched the room…repeatedly. Not so much as an ancient insect could have escaped their notice…but they were still stomping around, checking the same things over and over again.

  “If I had to make a guess without further study, I’d say they’re magnetic bottles…really advanced ones. They’re a lot smaller than anything we’ve been able to develop…and I’m at a loss for what could be powering them. No battery technology I know of could have lasted centuries, even just to energize these lights on the exterior. And if they’re magnetic bottles, it takes considerable energy just to keep them functioning.”

  “Magnetic bottles? Like in our fusion reactors?”

  “Yes. Our reactions take place at temperatures of millions of degrees. No physical structure could hold something like that. We all know what happens when a reactor loses containment and doesn’t scrag in time.”

  “But there can’t be active fusion reactions going on inside each of these canisters. That’s not possible, is it?”

  “Who’s to say what is possible, Captain? But no, my best guess is there aren’t reactions going on. Again, I don’t see any way the limited amount of reaction mass each of these canisters could hold could have lasted centuries…and if the reaction had been powering the readouts and the magnetic field, they would both have ceased functioning when the last of the fuel was gone.”

  She pulled a small scanning device from her belt and held it against the outside of the bottle. “This material really interferes with our scanners, sir…but I am detecting something that could be a magnetic field. That supports my theory.”

  “But if there isn’t a fusion reaction in there, what could be…”

  “No…” Fritz said, staring at the container, and then looking down at the vast rows of stored canisters. “It can’t be. It just can’t.”

  “Can’t be what, Fritzie?”

  The engineer was silent, clearly lost in her thoughts.

  “Commander Fritz,” Barron said loudly.

  “Sorry, sir…but I…well, I was just wondering if these bottles could contain…antimatter.”

  “Antimatter?”

  “Yes, sir…but it seems impossible.”

  “Why is it impossible? We’ve produced antimatter.”

  “Yes, sir…a few grams, perhaps two or three kilograms total in every research facility in the Confederation in a century. The energy requirements to produce it are enormous.” She looked out across the massive room again. “If this is antimatter, it’s a million times as much as the entire Confederation has ever been able to produce.”

  “That seems pretty far-fetched, Fritzie.” Barron wasn’t doubting his engineer, not quite. But the idea was hard to swallow.

  “Though, it makes sense in some ways too, sir.”

  “How?”

  “It explains what might have happened to many of the ships and installations of the old empire. One of the great questions about the Cataclysm is why we’ve found so little in the way of substantial artifacts like this one. The empire was vast…it must have had thousands of ships. Perhaps millions. How could this be the first one we’ve found?” Fritz looked down at the canister sitting on the deck at her feet.

  “You’re saying that we haven’t found more ships or bases because they were all destroyed in matter-anti-matter explosions?”

  “It is possible. Any level of breakdown in containment would be enough, any level at all…even to destroy a vessel this large. Especially from the inside.”

  “Any breakdown? You mean like one of these canisters ceasing to function?”

  “That certainly. Or even developing the slightest leakage. It wouldn’t take much antimatter hitting the regular matter of the outer casing to split the thing open and release the rest of the contents. And that would be the end, even of something as large as this vessel.”

  “One canister could destroy this ship?”

  “Captain, one gram of antimatter annihilating with a gram of ordinary matter releases more than forty kilotons of energy.”

  Barron stared back, a stunned look on his face. “One gram?” His eyes dropped to the canister. “And these hold…”

  “Guessing at the mass of the casing and the structure of the bottle, I’d estimate each of these holds fifty to one hundred kilograms of antimatter.”

  Barron didn’t answer. He just turned and looked at the rows and rows of canisters in the room. “But that means…”

  “If these containers are full of antimatter, and the more I think about it, the more I’m convinced that is highly likely, it offers us a glimpse at the power possessed by our ancestors. There’s more energy stored in this room than all the power generated on every world in the Confederation. In its entire history.” Fritz was as shocked as Barron, almost overcome by amazement, even as she described what surrounded her. “No, far more than that. Hundreds of times the energy ever produced in the Confederation, if not thousands. You said there was some conjecture that this vessel was called a planet killer. I can’t speak to actually blowing a world apart without far more analysis, but there is no doubt a weapon powered by such quantities of antimatter could destroy all life and every manmade structure on a planet. Easily.”

  Barron was looking back at her, his doubt slipping rapidly away. Fritz’s theory explained many things. “If they were blasting away at each other with things like this…that explains why so little remains, why we haven’t had any kind of contact from within the Badlands in over three centuries.”

  “Yes, sir. It certainly does. If they had this level of mastery with antimatter, the destr
uctiveness of their weaponry almost defies measurement. If they were fighting right up until the end, it is very possible they completely destroyed each other.”

  Barron shook his head. He’d known the ancient vessel was a valuable prize, technology that simply could not be allowed to fall into Union hands. But there had been a speculative element to that fear, and it was far from certain how quickly Union—or even Confederation—scientists could have made the vessel operational or learned enough from its technology to develop new weapons and systems. But hundreds of canisters of antimatter…that didn’t need to be researched. It didn’t need to be weaponized. Its very existence made it a weapon. He had to protect this ship. He had to get it back to Confederation space. Somehow.

  “Captain…” It was Rogan on his comm.

  “Yes, Captain Rogan,” Baron answered.

  “Sir, I just heard from Commander Travis. She tried to reach you but was unable. Apparently external communications can only penetrate so far through the hull.”

  “Yes, what did she have to say?”

  “A Union ship, Captain. It just transited into the system. Commander Travis has launched fighters and is moving to engage.”

  The news hit Barron hard. He’d been hoping for at least a few more days before enemy forces appeared. “Patch me through to Commander Travis, Captain. You can be our relay.”

  “Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “Captain…are you reading me?”

  “Yes, Atara. I’ve got Captain Rogan relaying the signal both ways.”

  “So far, we’ve got one Union battleship in the system, sir. No sign of further transits underway.” She paused. “I took it on myself to act, Captain…the squadrons are about to attack.”

  “You did the right thing, Commander. Dauntless is your ship while I’m stuck here…fight her as you think is best. You have my utmost confidence.” It was killing Barron to be trapped on the alien vessel while his ship went into battle. But Travis didn’t need that extra burden. She was a gifted commander, and he had no doubt she’d lead his ship into battle as well as he could.