Ruins of Empire: Blood on the Stars III

by Jay Allan

  He winced as the tech jabbed the syringe into his arm. He’d given thousands of injections, of course, and cut bodies in ways he could hardly describe. He’d performed gruesome rituals, covered in the blood of horribly wounded men and women. But he hated getting shots himself.

  “Thank you, Lieutenant.”

  “Of course, Doctor.” He could see the tech still disapproved, but he didn’t care. Rules, procedures…they only took you so far. Then people started dying unless someone went rogue. And for Dauntless’s battered, burned and broken crew, that someone was him.

  He took one last look at Stockton, and felt a passing gratitude for the red alert. At least Stara Sinclair was on duty. The officer, whom Weldon had never known as anything but a pillar of strength, had spent every off-duty second sitting next to Stockton’s med pod, her hand resting on the cool glass, a cold, glassy look in her eyes. It was better that she didn’t see him right now. Even a few hours would make a difference in how he looked, as the new skin began to grow, making him look at least marginally less like a full-sized anatomy lesson. Assuming he lived.

  Weldon shook his head. There was no time to worry about that now. He’d done all he could…for Stockton, at least. Now there were others who needed him.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Inside Abandoned Spacecraft

  System Z-111 (Chrysallis)

  Deep Inside the Quarantined Zone (“The Badlands”)

  309 AC

  “Pull it back, Fergus. We’re trying to draw them forward into the main compartment.” Rogan was standing just behind his Marines’ forward positions. The gunfire had been intense, the fighting fierce. Rogan had gotten his wish, more or less. The FRs had come right at the Marines. The Union battleship had blasted the Confederation assault shuttles, and then their own craft landed right next to the twisted wreckage of the Marines’ ships.

  “Fergus is dead, sir. So is Swanson.”

  “Orrin? Can you get your survivors back?” Rogan tried not to think about how many of his people were down if Corporal Orrin was in command.

  “I don’t know, sir. They’ve got the flanking corridor. We’re pinned down here. I might lose the rest of the platoon if we make a push to get down that hallway.”

  Fuck.

  Rogan looked behind him. There were two squads lined up against the wall. They were full strength and ready to go, but they were the only reserve he had left. The enemy was pushing in from two directions. Plunkett’s people had them stopped, at least for now, but he was still reluctant to commit his last fresh troops.

  What passes for fresh, at least…

  His Marines had been at it for days now, not full-scale combat save for the past few hours, but hunting rogue FRs and doing what they could to secure the station. He’d rotated them on sleep periods, but tossing aside the bulkiest pieces of body armor and crashing on the floor for a few hours wasn’t exactly resting up for combat. Every man and woman in his command was sleep-deprived, and none of them had eaten a meal beyond cold combat rations in days now.

  None of that matters…they’re Marines…

  The thought was reflexive, but he knew it was bullshit. Marines were big on sayings like that, and there were few in their ranks as Marine as Bryan Rogan. But pretending his people were as effective tired and hungry as they were rested and well-fed was just stupid. That didn’t mean they wouldn’t fight like hell…they would. That particular piece of Marine lore was spot on. But it did mean they could lose.

  “Let’s go,” he yelled, turning to face the reserves. “We’re moving up.” He’d considered every possibility. He’d done the math, calculated the probabilities. It was safer to leave Orrin’s people on their own. There couldn’t be more than a dozen of them left up there, and there were twenty Marines in the reserve squads. He could hit the enemy harder advancing from here than ordering Orrin’s people to fall back.

  Twenty-one.

  Rogan was in command. His place was in the rear, directing the fight. He knew the rationale behind that, he even agreed with it. He was well aware that more men and women were relying on his command ability, that getting himself killed now would only hurt the overall defense. But none of that mattered. Those were his people up there, and by God, he was going to go get them.

  The day I abandon my Marines to the bottomfeeding FRs is the day I need a fucking bullet in my head.

  “Let’s move,” he shouted, pulling the assault rifle from his back. “We’re gonna go up there and get our comrades…and we’re going to send every shit kicking FR we see to hell!”

  He heard a lusty cheer behind him as he ran forward, his rifle at the ready in front of him. Then the sounds of hard boots on the metallic deck—twenty Confederation Marines, moving forward like the incarnation of death from a forgotten myth.

  “With me, Marines,” he yelled, fanning the rage of his small force. “With me…”

  * * *

  “Maintain full thrust, Commander.” Barron sat in his chair, and despite the tension, the heart-pounding danger of the moment, it felt like home. This was where he belonged, on his ship, surrounded by his people, and if his skills were to fail him, if luck were to abandon him at last to death and destruction, then this is where he should die too.

  “Captain, we’ve been blasting at full for two hours. The engines…” Barron put his hand up, and Travis let her words trail off. He knew she wanted to remind him about the thrust, but the last thing he needed was a lecture on engine stress factors. Not now.

  “I’m aware of that, Commander,” he said unemotionally. “Maintain maximum acceleration.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Barron could almost hear the other reminder, the one Travis had caught before it had escaped her lips. Commander Fritz was still on the artifact…and that meant Lieutenant Billings and the skeleton engineering team remaining onboard were all that stood between the overworked engines and a catastrophic failure. Blowing out the engines and ending up on a fixed course, unable to conduct evasive maneuvers, would be the end. The Union ships chasing Dauntless would finish the job quickly…and all chance of preserving the artifact for the Confederation would be lost.

  Barron had considered all of that, but in the end, he’d decided he would rather depend on faith in his people than any other factor. He’d always liked Billings, and for all the engineer sometimes came off as less than a serious person, Barron was well aware that the lieutenant knew his shit.

  He watched the display. The Union ships had lost ground, falling behind as they’d cut thrust to rest their engines. Confederation technology was the superior between the powers, and Dauntless could at least attempt to maintain maximum thrust for extended periods. Any Union vessel that tried was almost certain to end up with burnt out engines.

  Barron looked back down at his screen, scrolling through the pages of calculations he’d been running. He’d done it all himself, though he’d had the AI check his math. It should work. It would work, he’d told himself, with something less than total assurance. It was a maneuver that required precise calculations, but if it was successful…

  “Adjust thrust vector to 221.002.115, Commander. Maintain full output.” He spoke calmly, his words soft, almost as though he was chatting with a friend instead of commanding his ship in battle.

  “Adjusting course, Captain.” Travis sounded crisp, broadcasting to all who were listening that she understood exactly what the captain was planning. But Barron knew his first officer well, and the slightly robotic tone to her words told him she hadn’t figured it out yet. “We’re going to go just by the transit point on this heading, sir, close enough for the gravity well to interfere with our bearing.”

  “I’m aware of that, Commander. Maintain course and thrust.” He was sure it was just a welcome break from the fear and stress, but he was enjoying watching Travis try to figure out what he had in mind.

  He leaned back in his chair, trying to hide his own stress. He’d done the calculations, but reading the gravitation from a transwarp link wa
s, at best, an estimate. The faster-than-light connection points were vastly beyond any technology understood in the Confederation, and what scientists didn’t know about the amazing constructions could have filled a vastly larger database than what they did know. Barron understood that the points gave off waves of gravitation, and that there were generally patterns to the intensity…but he knew he was still guessing.

  Dauntless shook as it approached the portal. It was off-course for entering the tube, but far closer than a ship not transiting would normally come. He knew Travis wasn’t the only one confused…hopefully the pursuing Union ships had no idea what he was doing. That would be helpful…if his scheme worked, the enemy would have to react quickly, or he would gain the jump on them he wanted.

  The ship was rocking hard now as it blasted through the gravity waves at close to one-half percent the speed of light. Barron was counting in his head, his eyes whipping back and forth from the main display to his small workstation screen and the list of calculations scrolling down the page. He hit a small button on his control panel, sending a data file to Travis.

  “Lock this nav plan in to the computer, Commander,” he said softly. “Prepare to execute on my command.”

  “Yes, sir.” Barron wasn’t sure, but he thought he caught the hints of preliminary understanding in her voice. He wasn’t surprised. He didn’t think he had a chance of fooling her for long. However crazy his plan might be, he knew she’d catch on.

  Barron took a deep breath, struggling to fill his lungs. The force of acceleration was hard enough to endure for short bursts, but now every muscle in his body ached. He knew he’d be covered with bruises, as would everyone on the ship. He was also aware that all work on Dauntless—the engineers making repairs, the medical personnel down in sickbay, and everywhere else on the massive ship his crew was performing its duties—was proceeding at a glacial pace. There were ways to deal with high g forces, powered exoskeletons and other tools, but it was still difficult to operate under such conditions for so long.

  “Execute nav plan,” he said.

  “Executing, sir.”

  Dauntless shook again, and Barron could see the ship’s vector change on the display as the engine fired at a revised angle and the gravity well of the transwarp point exerted its own force, modifying the continuing thrust from the engines. He squinted, trying to see the new vector as it was recalculated and rendered in the display. His vision was spotty and narrow around the edges—the effect of sustained g forces. But he stared until the image solidified.

  Perfect. The course was exactly what he wanted. Directly toward the system’s primary…and at the current velocity and acceleration, Dauntless would reach the star in less than twenty minutes.

  * * *

  “Any progress?” Hargraves’s words had softened somewhat, his earlier suspicious tone toward the engineer moderated considerably. Even a veteran Marine could mellow. And whatever else Lex Righter was, the man had been working his ass off trying to get Hargraves and his people off the Union frigate.

  “Some. It’s not a total wreck, like the main engines. But it’s not in good shape either. It took a lot of damage in the fighting. Worse, I think it must have been hooked into the main power lines when the reactor scragged. There are blown circuits everywhere.”

  “I’d ask you if you think you can fix it, but I have a feeling you just answered me.”

  “I can fix it,” the engineer said, his pride jumping ahead of his judgment. “I’m pretty sure I can fix it, at least. But it’s going to take some time.”

  “Well, time we’ve got. We’re moving away from the fight, so there’s no immediate danger.” Hargraves exhaled heavily.

  “You want to get back to your comrades, don’t you Sergeant? It’s killing you to be here while they’re fighting.”

  The old Marine just nodded at first, looking uncomfortable about the entire conversation. But then he said, “I’ve seen a lot of men and women die over the years, good Marines—and good spacers too. Most of the faces are still with me. I see them at night sometimes.” He paused. “I’m not sure what’s worse, the ones I remember…or the ones I don’t. But nothing cuts deeper than the Marines I knew who died when I wasn’t there.”

  “Are the FRs really as bad as they say?”

  Hargraves looked back at the engineer. “Depends on how you mean. In a fight? Yeah, they’re tough. But I never met the FR who could take on a veteran Marine. It’s more than just combat skill, though. There’s something about them…they’re not quite human. Being around them gets to you…it wears you down. And they always fight to the death. Always.” He paused. “People don’t stop to think what war is like when the other side keeps going until the last one is dead. There’s no fight against them that doesn’t turn into a massacre.”

  “Do we have a chance, Sergeant?”

  “Who? Us here? That’s more in your hands than anything. Or the Marines back on the station? If only one ship lands FRs, yes, our people could win. It will cost…I don’t even want to think about what it will cost. But we have a chance.”

  “No, in the whole system. Dauntless, the enemy ships, everything. I don’t see how we make it out of here.”

  Hargraves was silent for a moment. Then he said, “I can’t tell you about space combat and battleships fighting each other—and I know nothing at all about that artifact over there—but I can tell you one thing. It’s not logic, it’s not military science…but I believe it to my core.” The Marine looked directly at Righter, his eyes boring into the engineer’s. “Don’t ever count Captain Barron out. Ever. As long as we have him, we have a chance.”

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Command Center

  Fleet Base Grimaldi

  Orbiting Krakus II

  “Admiral, you need to transfer your flag…now! I can get a company up there to escort you to one of the launch bays, but I can’t guarantee we can hold that route open for much longer. If you don’t go now, you could be trapped up there.” Ramsay’s voice was raw, and Striker could hear the sounds of fighting not far from the Marine general.

  “General Ramsay, I will not abandon this station. Not under any circumstances.” Striker had made his choice. He’d declared that the battle in the Krakus system would be to the finish, and now he’d drawn a line across his control center. He would not be forced back. He would not retreat, leaving the Marines and spacers to fight in his absence.

  “Admiral…”

  “That’s my final word, General. See to your Marines and your battle lines. We are all expendable in the pursuit of victory here, and that includes me.”

  “Yes, sir.” The Marine didn’t sound very happy. But he didn’t argue either.

  “Fleet status, Commander?” He looked over at Jarravick. It seemed strange to see his people wearing helmets and light body armor, but he’d ordered everyone so equipped. The FRs had landed in more than a dozen places. They were all over the station, the battle for control of Grimaldi taking place in hundreds of scattered actions. Anybody on the fortress could end up in a fight with the enemy, and Marines or spacers, engineers or stewards…Striker expected every one of his people to fight to the last.

  “All fleet units have fully disengaged. The lead units are approaching the transwarp point.”

  “Enemy pursuit?”

  “Minimal, sir. A line of screening frigates, but it appears all enemy capital ships have taken position around the base.”

  “Very well.” Striker tightened his fists, a passing expression of his satisfaction. The enemy was doing exactly what he’d hoped they would. Now, if we can just hold out long enough…

  He knew that was a big “if.” The enemy had hit Grimaldi hard. There were thousands of FRs moving through the corridors and compartments of the vast station, and Striker was far from certain his Marines could hold off such an overpowering invasion. They would fight, he knew…and if they failed, few would survive. But the end result was most certainly still in doubt.

  Time…I need time.<
br />
  He needed time to get the fleet in position. He couldn’t move too quickly. The enemy had to be fully convinced the Confederation navy was broken, fleeing. Then, when he sprang his trap, they would be too committed to respond effectively.

  “Status in sectors Epsilon seven and eight?”

  “Still under our control, Admiral. But enemy forces are getting dangerously close.” A short pause. “The same with Gamma two and three.”

  Striker nodded. “Acknowledged.” The enemy thought Grimaldi was disarmed, that all the station’s weapons were destroyed or offline. Exactly what Striker wanted them to think.

  The truth was somewhat different. Two large banks of heavy x-ray laser turrets were still operational, along with the reactors to power them. And at the point-blank range of the enemy vessels, they would rip through the Union battleships like an axe through half-melted butter.

  Assuming we can hold on to those sections.

  Hold on to anything…

  Striker knew every part of his plan was a gamble. If the enemy took the station and discovered the functional batteries, he could find the weapons so integral to his plan turned against his own ships, just as they arrived to spring the trap. His scheme to snatch a victory from this carnage in the system could backfire. Success depended on many things now. The officers and spacers in those ships, their morale battered by the losses they had suffered, by the apparent orders to retreat. His people in the control center, focusing on managing the battle, even as enemy soldiers pressed every closer. And the Marines, fighting and dying for meters of corridor, for possession of each war-torn compartment.

  It was a nightmare, a horror worse than any he’d seen in fiction or even in the sweat-soaked ravages of his deepest, darkest dreams. It was his creation, and these men and women fought by his order. They would not fail; their sacrifices would not be in vain. He believed that. He had to believe it.