by Jay Allan
Bourbonne would serve well enough as a scapegoat, though Villieneuve suspected he was on very thin ice with the Presidium himself and would have a much harder time manipulating his way out of this situation. He had eyes on them all, of course, as he’d had for years, but he was way out at the Bottleneck, beyond easy reach of his various intelligence assets. If his colleagues met and decided to turn on him, it would almost certainly be too late by the time he found out.
I’ll have to do something about them too. But first things first.
“The detached battleships are to get to the pulsar at maximum velocity…and the rest of the fleet will hold the enemy back however long it must to ensure the weapon’s escape.” A pause, then he continued ominously, “Command this operation now, Admiral, as though your very life depended on it. Hold back that Confederation fleet.”
Villieneuve suspected his words, and the grimness of this tone, would get the very best Bourbonne had to offer.
Still, Villieneuve seriously doubted he would spare the fool, no matter how well he did in the hours to come. Bourbonne was expendable, and his death for the failure in the Bottleneck would only help Villieneuve’s own efforts to save himself.
* * *
Barron stared at the display, hesitant to believe what his eyes were telling him. It had been nearly five minutes since the pulsar had fired, at least three or four times the largest interval he’d seen before. It wasn’t a guarantee, certainly, and he had Travis continuing Dauntless’s wild evasive maneuvers, but he was beginning to believe Stockton’s people had done it. That they had taken out the pulsar’s power source.
He looked around the bridge, seeing, even feeling, the relief of his officers. Dauntless’s crew were veterans all, but that didn’t make them immune to fear. They’d stared at imminent death, feeling it mere seconds away. He’d never know just how close the pulsar came to firing that last, killing shot. No more than a few seconds, he guessed.
His relief was short-lived. There might be hope that Dauntless would escape the pulsar’s deadly fire now, but there was still an enemy battleship bearing down, and Barron’s ship didn’t have a single operational weapon.
“Fritzie, what’s the status on those batteries?” Barron leaned over the comm, feeling the tension return in full force as he did. The Union battleship was only moments from range, and if Dauntless couldn’t fire back, it would be a one-sided battle…and a very short one. His people would be no less dead if Dauntless was picked apart by enemy laser cannon than if she’d been vaporized by the pulsar.
“Captain, this is Lieutenant Billings, sir. Commander Fritz is up on the catwalk. She’s trying to connect the powerline bypass, and get some juice to the starboard aft batteries.”
Barron could hear a voice in the distance. He could barely make out the words. “…tell him we’re restoring…now.”
“Very well, Lieutenant,” Barron said. “Tell Commander Frit…”
His words were interrupted by a sound in the distance…not an explosion, exactly, but something similar. Barron’s gut tensed as he heard screams now, and then a shout for a medic.
“Lieutenant, what is happening?”
Nothing. No response.
“Lieutenant Billings, are you still on the line?” Barron almost jumped up from his seat, a pointless gesture, since it would take him at least fifteen minutes to get to Dauntless’s aft section, assuming all the lifts and cars were working. Which they weren’t.
He clenched his fists, staring down at the comm unit. It was still functional. He could hear sounds in the distance, and shouts. Then, finally, Billings’s voice returned.
“Captain, we’ve had a problem down here. Commander Fritz was trying to reroute the main power line, and something went wrong. The whole thing shorted out.” He paused, and Barron’s insides tensed. He could tell what was coming from the engineer’s tone. “She took a heavy shock, sir…and she fell over the side of the catwalk. It’s a four-meter drop, Captain. We’re trying to get to her now. I don’t know if she’s…”
Barron sat still as Billings’s voice tailed off. The engineer couldn’t say what he was thinking, but it was crystal clear to Barron…and everyone else on Dauntless’s bridge.
Barron paused, just for a second, wondering if his longtime engineer—his friend—was dead or alive. But there wasn’t time for that now. “Let the medics deal with Commander Fritz, Lieutenant. I need you to take her place. We still need those guns.” He hated himself for the words coming out of his mouth, but he also knew it wouldn’t matter if Anya Fritz was alive or not if Dauntless got blasted to atoms in ten or fifteen minutes.
“Captain, I’m almost…”
“Now, Billings. That’s an order.” Barron cut the line. Let Walt Billings hate him, let him see a cold, heartless monster in Dauntless’s captain. None of that was important. The only thing that mattered now was getting those guns back online.
And Barron knew one thing for sure. Anya Fritz would have been the first one to tell him that.
* * *
“Here they come…” Vian Tulus sat bolt upright, the very image of the Palatian Patrician going into battle. He’d fought many times, led warriors into countless desperate struggles, but now his people would fight farther from home than any force in the history of the Alliance. Until moments before, he’d been worried his fleet would do nothing save advance and be destroyed by the fire of the enemy pulsar. While there was nobility in the service to an ally, regardless of outcome, Tulus had been grim pondering the virtual certainty of being obliterated before his ship could fire a weapon.
He considered Tyler Barron his friend…more than his friend, a true brother in arms. Barron’s courage and fortitude had shamed Tulus for his earlier prejudices against the Confederation’s warriors, and he knew there would not even be an Alliance now, at least not one as he knew it, without Barron’s skill at war. But despite his feelings, the immeasurable respect he felt for his Confed colleague, he realized only now, with the enemy pulsar apparently out of action, just how little faith he’d had that Barron and his people could succeed on their almost crazy mission.
More shame on me, Tyler…this time for having too little faith in a friend.
There was relief, of course. Even a Palatian Patrician disliked the idea of advancing directly toward certain death. But it didn’t last. The pulsar may have been disabled—and that wasn’t certainty, not yet—but there was still a Union fleet to face, and as Tulus stared at the display, he felt his blood begin to boil. It was Union treachery that had plunged his people into civil war, that had cost the lives of the Imperatrix and thousands upon thousands of noble Palatians. It would be years, a decade perhaps, before the Alliance could regain the strength that was lost, and now, those responsible were before him, drawn up for battle.
He knew what to do now. It was deep in his blood.
“Put me on the intership comm, Optiomagis,” he said softly.
“You are connected, sir.”
“Palatians of the fleet, this is Commander-Maximus Tulus. We are far from home, fighting at the side of our allies. Some may look at this as the Confederation’s war, yet these vermin before us are those responsible for all the sorrows that have befallen us of late. The Gray and Red dead in the civil war are victims of Union treachery. We are indeed here to aid our friends, who rallied to us in our time of need. But this fight is more than that, far more. It is our chance to avenge our own, our time to wash away the shame of Palatian killing Palatian. The Union is our enemy, as much as the Confederation’s. Fight now, all of you, and do not cease until the enemy is destroyed.”
He cut the line, and turned toward the display. His ships would be in range in seconds.
He stared straight ahead, counting the seconds silently.
“Optiomagis, all ships are to open fire…now.”
* * *
Barron stared at the display. His eyes had been fixed on the approaching enemy battleship, the one Dauntless was trying to evade. But now he was looking at the
pulsar, and as he did, his heart sank.
There were tugs moving all around the superweapon, and massive portable engines. The mobile system the enemy had worked so hard to create, the one that had necessitated the entire desperate mission to the Bottleneck, was in motion. Stockton’s attack had cut off the pulsar’s power supply, rendering the weapon harmless. At least for now. But if the Union could withdraw the artifact, the danger would still be there. They could move it, redeploy it…even succeed in copying it and building more of the terrifying guns.
He turned toward the other side of the display. The fleet was coming in range of the Union line. The battle was heating up, with Eaton’s and Tulus’s forces already heavily engaged, and the rest of the ships just opening fire. Barron managed a fleeting smile through his growing gloom, a silent salute to Vian Tulus, for the intensity with which his warriors were fighting the Union ships. The Alliance fleet had already destroyed two Union battleships, and they were cutting deeply into the overall formation.
Sara Eaton’s flotilla was fighting no less furiously, but her ships had taken heavier damage during the earlier engagement, and many of her vessels had only partial broadsides. Still, they were moving relentlessly forward, taking everything the Union line could throw at them and giving it back in full measure.
Barron knew the fight would be a brutal one. He’d been surprised at the size of the forces the Union had managed to assemble to defend the system. Still, as he saw the allied Confederation and Alliance forces moving forward, he was confident they could prevail. They would pay a heavy price, but they would win. They would take the Bottleneck.
It’s a strategic piece of real estate, no doubt, but if the pulsar escapes, the war will go on. The fleet would have to refit and resupply before it could advance…and that would take months, and give the Union time to gather together another array of reactors to put the ancient weapon back into action.
He couldn’t let that thing get away. Whatever it took.
He looked over at Travis. “Any status on those batteries…or on Commander Fritz?”
“No, sir. All weapons systems remain offline. The med teams just reported they were able to reach Commander Fritz. She is critical, but still alive. They’re transporting her to sickbay now, Captain.”
Barron exhaled hard. He was glad to hear that Fritz had been rescued. Of course, she might still die…and she certainly would if Dauntless was destroyed.
“What’s our maximum thrust?” A short pause. “I mean maximum, Atara…every hundredth of a g we can push through the engines, regardless of risk.”
Travis hesitated, but only for a few seconds. “I think we can get 8g, Captain, maybe even 9. But I don’t know how long we can keep it up. It could fail at any moment…possibly badly.”
Barron nodded. He knew just what “badly” meant. “Can we outrun that ship on our tail?” Barron already knew the answer, but he was hoping his own quick calculation was wrong.
“Outrun to where, Captain?”
He stared right at the display, his eyes fixed on the symbol in the center, surrounded now by tiny circles and triangles representing tugs and mobile superstructures.
“To the pulsar, Atara.” His voice was cold, emotionless.
“To the…” Her voice stopped suddenly, as she realized his meaning. “You want to ram the pulsar.” It wasn’t a question, but even Travis usual control was shaken as she uttered the words.
“Yes, that is exactly what I want to do.” He didn’t turn his head at all, but he could feel every pair of eyes on the bridge burning into him. “We can’t let that thing escape. If we do, thousands more will die attacking it again…and if the enemy can replicate it, the Confederation is doomed.” He finally turned and looked over at Travis. “We have to destroy it.”
She nodded, slightly, a barely perceptible communication to him alone. She was with him. Completely.
“But we’re not going to ram anything if that ship on our tail can blow Dauntless apart without us getting so much as a shot in return. Unless we can stay far enough ahead.”
He was still staring over at Travis as she looked back and answered. “There’s no way to be sure, sir.” Her tone was heavy with doubt.
“Well, we have to try. Meanwhile, let’s get all shuttles, escape pods—anything that will provide life support—ready to go. I want all non-essential personnel to begin evacuation procedures immediately. Only engine crew and damage control teams will remain until the last minute.” He looked around at his people, every one of them staring at him. “All non-essential bridge personnel are to evacuate as well.”
The bridge was silent.
“That means now…all of you except gunnery and engine control. Get moving.” He stood up and pointed toward the lifts. He wasn’t sure the elevators were working, but the emergency ladders were right next to them.
“Go,” he roared, as the entire bridge crew still remained in place, staring at him. “If you waste time, you’ll just get in the way of the rest of us when we follow. No one’s committing suicide here. The AI will handle the final approach. Let’s keep our shit together. So, get going!”
A riot of activity broke out on the bridge, all but the five officers in the positions Barron had specified to remain moving toward the exits in a moderately disordered retreat. There was no fear, no panic. In fact, Barron could still feel the hesitancy of his people to leave without all of their fellows. Without him. Even though he’d just told them he had every intention of following.
He shook his head, his thoughts repeating what he had just said. No one is committing suicide.
No one but you, old girl…
He looked around, but this time his gaze went past the officers moving toward the ladders…and there was moistness in his eyes. He looked at the walls, at the equipment and the armored bulkheads, at the steel and plastic and…something else…that was Dauntless.
She’d had been his now for seven years, and he’d served her as faithfully as she’d served him. He fought back a wave of doubts, an urge to cancel his last order, to think again, to try to find a way to get his ship out of the fire one more time. But there was no choice. Dauntless had made it this far, but she wouldn’t see the end of the war. There wouldn’t be an end of the war, at least not a tolerable one, unless she could complete this final mission.
“I’m so sorry,” he whispered, almost inaudibly, fighting to hold back the tears, to spare his retreating crew—and the few officers remaining at their posts—the spectacle of their captain crying on the bridge.
“I’m so sorry…”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
CFS Vanguard
Formara System
“The Bottleneck”
313 AC
“Get me more thrust, Commander.” Turenne was leaning forward, his fists clenched tightly as he watched his ship on the display, closing with the Confederation vessel.
“We’re at maximum now, sir.” Maramont’s voice was frayed. The officer had risen to the challenge, embraced serving a commander of Turenne’s ability, but now, the exhaustion and fear—and the constant need to do the impossible—had worn him down.
“I said more.” Turenne had also lost his professional demeanor, and he sounded like a man crazed, almost possessed. He was focused, nearly to the level of obsession. He’d been determined to catch the enemy ship, the ship he’d found…when no one off of Temeraire would believe him or would even listen to his arguments. He was frustrated, angry that his wounded ship and battered crew had to take on the enemy alone…solely because Admiral Bourbonne hadn’t taken his warnings seriously. Minister Villieneuve had finally detached a huge force, but it wouldn’t get there in time.
Not before that ship destroys the pulsar…
Turenne had been chasing the enemy for hours now, tracking slight variations in dust clouds for most of that time. But this was the conclusion, the moments that would decide if the Confeds were able to destroy the pulsar, or if the weapon was withdrawn to be deployed yet again.
The pulsar was inoperable now, a victim of the Confed vessel’s squadrons, of their attack on the power stations. But Villieneuve had ordered the weapon’s withdrawal, and even now, the tugs were connecting, preparing to move the ancient artifact before the Confed fleet could reach it. They would succeed in that mission. Admiral Striker’s line was still too far away.
But one Confed ship was close enough to attack.
“Captain, engineering says if we crank the engines up any higher, they could blow at any moment.”
“Give me something, anything. An extra g.” Temeraire was going to get into range before the Confed could get to the pulsar, he was pretty sure of that. The enemy ship was already in primary range of both Temeraire and the ancient weapon. The fact that they hadn’t fired pretty much confirmed Turenne’s suspicions. The pulsar’s shot had knocked out the enemy’s long-range guns.
That was a break, a big one, not just because the Confed couldn’t fire the primaries at Turenne’s ship, but also because they’d have to get closer to attack the pulsar. And that gave Turenne time.
Temeraire was damaged too, many of its systems down or functioning at partial power. Still, he didn’t think his vessel was hurt as badly as the Confed ship. A few blasts from Confederation primaries, and his battleship would have been a floating hulk, but if those fearsome weapons were inoperable, he was confident he could take his enemy.
“The engine room is increasing power slowly, sir. They’re going to try to up acceleration by 1g.”
“See that they do better than try, Commander.” He’d been close on the enemy’s heels, almost in range, but then the Confederation ship had managed to increase its own thrust. And its vector left no doubt it was heading toward the pulsar.
“Increasing thrust now, sir. One-quarter g…” Maramont sounded nervous, but Turenne ignored it. There was no time now for doubt, for fear.
