by Jay Allan
“Understood, sir. Fritz out.”
Barron felt a chill. He’d never heard his chief engineer sound so rattled.
“Bring us around, Commander. Reverse thrust now.”
“Yes, sir.”
Barron watched another spread of plasmas move by on the display…and then two more, the last two, coming right at Dauntless. He knew there was nothing he could do. The weapons were too close, but he had to try.
“Increase thrust to flank, Comm…” The ship shook hard, and the bridge spun around, the grav control system giving out. Barron was thrown forward hard, his chest slamming into the harness. He felt the breath ripped from his lungs, pain in his shoulder, his sternum. The bridge was plunged into darkness for a few seconds, only the red glow of the battlestations lamps remaining to light the way.
Then the emergency lights snapped on, a soft glow replacing the brightness of the main lighting panels.
“Captain, Commander Jamison reports he has multiple fighters coming in, fuel status critical.”
Baron stared down at his screen. He punched at the controls, pulling up schematics of Dauntless, each of them speckled with small, glowing dots…damaged areas. And both landing bays were lit up like holiday displays.
* * *
Sam Carson wiped his arm across his forehead, trying without much success to mop away the sweat that was pouring down into his eyes. He was crouched down, reaching inside one of the main panels, pulling out handfuls of fried circuitry. The plasma torpedoes had hit the outer sections hard, but internal explosions and burnouts spread the damage throughout the ship. There were radiation leaks in a dozen places, and burned out electronics in more spots than he could count.
“Sam, how does it look down there?” Commander Fritz sounded edgy. Carson couldn’t even imagine the number of problems she was juggling right now.
“It’s bad, Commander. I’m only on panel one, but I’d bet the whole system is fried.”
“Damn…” Fritz cursed softly. Carson suspected he wasn’t supposed to hear it, so he pretended he hadn’t. “All right, Sam…assign a squad of bots to replace it all. I need you up here. The primaries are down again, and we’ve got twenty-three minutes to get them back online.”
“Yes, Commander. On my way.”
He jumped up, wiping the black residue from his hands. He pulled the portable com from his belt, punching in the code for the engineering AI. “I need a squad of maintenance bots in sector F11. The entire central trunk needs replacement.
“Acknowledged. Dispatching bots now.”
Carson nodded, a pointless gesture, he knew. Then he turned and moved out into the corridor, heading toward weapons control. He took a breath, and then he went into a coughing fit. There was smoke in the air, chemical residues.
We’re going to have to deal with that too…
But the enemy battleship was coming…and that made the primary batteries the most important repair, even if half the crew was choking on toxic fumes.
Twenty minutes…
Carson was an engineer, not a tactical officer. But he knew how the ship would fare in the coming fight without its main guns. The Alliance battleship was fresh, undamaged. And Dauntless was already a patchwork of hurried repairs. Without the main guns…
He walked down to the end of the corridor, reaching up and grabbing a rung of a small ladder leading up. Half the turbo lifts were out, and he didn’t have time to look for one that was functioning, or worse, to get stuck in one. Not now.
He climbed up, not even thinking about it for the first few levels, but by the time he’d scrambled past seven decks and was heading for the eighth, he was feeling it. And weapons control was another three levels from there.
He was breathing hard by the time he got there, his shirt half soaked through with sweat. Something felt off, like he was heavier than normal.
Probably the grav control system is out of whack…
That wasn’t a priority. The main guns and the launch bays were all that really mattered now.
At least the reactor seems to be at one hundred percent…or close to it.
He paused for a second at the top of the ladder, sucking in a deep breath. The air was better up here—there were still traces of noxious fumes, but they were far less concentrated than they’d been on the lower decks.
Carson moved quickly down the hall toward a large hatch. It was open, one side of the huge double door twisted and off its track. He stepped inside, nodding to the group of three technicians already there.
“So, what’s the problem?” He moved toward the main console, staring down at it, his hands moving over the controls. “What is it? We’re short on time, guys. So, what’s the issue?” He was normally a patient man, but this wasn’t the time for slowness and delay. If they didn’t get these guns online in the next fifteen minutes…
“Sir, there’s a power interruption of some kind. The guns themselves check out, we’ve run three diagnostics…there’s no significant damage to the weapon units proper. And the reactor’s operating at ninety-four percent, which should be more than enough. There’s power getting through to the guns, but not enough. We’re bleeding off energy somewhere in the system.”
Carson exhaled softly. It was good news, sort of. A break in the power transmission system was probably the least serious damage that could affect the main guns. It was likely an easy fix, at least compared to repairing the guns themselves, or a damaged reactor…assuming they could find it in time.
“Okay, I want a dozen bots moving along those conduits, and let’s get the AI working on an extended diagnostic. We’re bleeding power somewhere, probably a lot of somewheres, and it shouldn’t be that hard to find.
If we had the time…
“We’re short on bots, sir. They’re deployed all over the ship. We’ve only got four.”
Damn…this is because Commander Fritz was in the landing bay. Everything is a mess here…
“Get those four working. I’ll get more up here now.”
He glanced at his chronometer, shaking his head slowly. Then he tapped the com unit on his collar. “Commander Fritz, I’m up in weapons control. I think we can get the main guns back online, but I need more maintenance bots up here. At least eight, preferably a dozen.”
“Sam, those guns are our number one priority. I’m sending you twenty bots, and I’ll be up there myself in five minutes.”
Carson had never heard Fritz sound so frazzled. He’d come to view the chief engineer as a block of stone, unflappable. But she understood the same thing he did. For all their faith in Captain Barron, the outcome of the battle wasn’t in his hands. It was in theirs…Fritz’s, Carson’s. The whole engineering team. Barron could only fight with what they gave him.
“Yes, Commander. Understood.” He flipped off the com, and spun around. “All right, let’s move it. All of you. Until the bots get up here we’re going to climb down these tubes ourselves. We’re going to find every break in the system, and we’re going to get those guns online. Is that understood?”
Carson was usually mild-mannered, but he understood the importance of the repairs. The techs under his command jumped at his orders. Not one of them answered him in words, they did so by actions…and he was certain every one of them understood what was at stake.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Interplanetary Space
5,000,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
“All right, Raptor, your fuel status is lowest. You go in first.” Jamison paused. “And be careful, it’s gonna be a rough ride in.”
“Roger that, Thunder.” Stockton took a deep breath. “Don’t worry, boss…I’ve got this.” Stockton’s cockiness was part of his demeanor. He sounded calm, completely relaxed, but it was an illusion. His fighter was in rough shape. He’d destroyed six enemy birds, an astonishing performance, and one that fully met, if not exceeded, his peacetime reputation. But he’d taken battle damage too, and his fighter was shimmying like crazy. That would be
bad enough on a clear landing bay…but from what he’d been hearing, Dauntless’s beta bay was a nightmare, strewn with debris and scattered fires the damage parties were still fighting to control. It only had one thing going for it as a landing site: it was in better shape than alpha bay.
Stockton pulsed his thrusters, reducing his velocity. He angled the throttle, fired his positioning jets, lining himself up on the open hatch ahead of him. He could see flickering lights inside.
Fires…
The outer bay was open to space, but inside the membrane that closed off the pressurized deck from the vacuum, Dauntless’s life support systems pumped oxygen-rich air through the ventilation systems. Most of the great battleship was built from metal and high density plastics, materials that wouldn’t burn. But it took more than the basic structure to run a warship, and from fuel to weapons to all kinds of basic supplies, there was plenty that would burn. Internal fires were always a danger.
C’mon, sweetheart…you and me…after all we’ve been through, don’t let me down now…
His fighter was handling like a pig. The sleek, deadly craft, almost an extension of his arm before, was now showing the wear and tear. He angled the controls, but the response was slow, sluggish. Even the braking thrusters were damaged, misaligned. He had to adjust each thruster pulse, struggling to stay lined up with the bay ahead. He was doing all he could, but he wasn’t going to be able to cut his velocity completely.
“Raptor to Control, I’m coming in hot. You better clear the landing area…just in case…”
“Raptor, this is control. That’s bullshit, Jake. You’re just fine. You’re the best pilot we’ve got. Now stop screwing around, and bring that thing in nice and smooth. Just like you’ve always told me you do it…”
“Roger that, Lieutenant. Nice and smooth.” Stockton smiled, and he felt the stress—fear, if he’d been willing admit that’s what it was—recede. Stara Sinclair was one of Dauntless’s launch control officers. She was also a woman who’d proven her ability to simultaneously resist and match Stockton’s usually effective charms. He’d flirted with her incessantly for the past year, and she’d given it back to him in kind, but that’s as far as it had gone.
His hand tightened on the controls as he focused on the bay ahead. He felt his hands moving, driven by instinct as much as conscious direction. He sucked in a deep breath and held it as his fighter slipped into the bay, decelerating at full thrust as he did. The normally open surface was littered with chunks of metal, and one large structural support that had collapsed and been only partially cleared. There were piles of debris on the edges of the massive room, but the larger chunks were still strewn about.
He twisted his arm one way, then the next, pulsing his positioning jets to avoid the debris, and then he braced himself as his fighter slammed into the bulkhead at the end of the bay.
His head snapped forward, a pain shooting down his neck. But otherwise, his harness had held him in place. He was covered in sweat, and his heart was pounding, but he was okay. He pulled the release, popping open the cockpit, and he climbed out of the ship…into a shower of flame retardant foam being sprayed by a damage control tech and two maintenance bots. He turned his head and closed his eyes, pausing for an instant before climbing down to the deck.
He paused and sucked in a deep breath, steadying himself, struggling to bring his usual unflappable demeanor back in place. Then he turned around…and fell back against his fighter as Stara slammed into him, throwing her arms around his neck and planting a kiss on his lips.
He was surprised, but he put his arms around her and pulled her close. Then he leaned back. “What was that for?”
“I’m so glad you’re okay. I thought…”
“You thought I wasn’t going to make it? Me? The best pilot we’ve got?”
“Well…that was…just…”
“Landing control officer bullshit?”
“Encouragement.”
“And that kiss? Do you do that for every pilot who brings in a damaged bird?” He smiled, watching as her relief gave way to her normal discipline. “Or is that just for the best pilot we have?”
“You’re an ass,” she said, but she couldn’t force the smile from her face. “But welcome aboard. It’s good to have you back.” She lunged forward and hugged him again.
* * *
“Enemy vessel entering range in four minutes.”
Barron heard Travis’s words, but he knew they were meaningless. The enemy ship would be in range of Dauntless’s primaries in four minutes, but the main guns were still down. And it would be at least another four minutes after that before the secondaries came into play.
The important question was, when would Dauntless come into range of the enemy’s main weapons? And despite his analysis of every scrap of intel in the database, Barron realized that came down to a wild guess. Confederation intelligence’s notes indicated that the Alliance didn’t have anything that could match the particle accelerators on Confed battleships.
Maybe they’re better off without the temperamental beasts…
The heavy guns required an enormous amount of power to charge, and they had a relatively low rate of fire. They were hard to keep online too, subject to all sorts of breakdowns.
Just the kind of issue it’s easy to ignore in peacetime. But can the things stand up to battle conditions?
Barron realized his people would be the test case on that. The particle weapons were a relatively new development, one that had been introduced during the last war but had not seen significant action.
They’d better be effective…the whole fleet’s committed to them now.
“Two minutes to range…”
Barron looked down at the com unit for about the fiftieth time. He hated commanders who badgered their crews, especially when the personnel had proven their reliability. He knew Fritz was doing everything possible to restore the operational status of the main guns. Nothing would be accomplished by nagging her. Nothing.
He tapped the com anyway, putting his hand on the headset strapped on his head. “Fritzie, I know you’re doing all you can, but I need a status…”
“We’re on it, sir,” the engineer snapped back. It wasn’t disrespect in her voice, but she was clearly distracted, her mind focused on what she was doing. “I’ll let you know as soon as I know…”
“Very well, Fritzie. Barron out.” He shook his head, cursing himself for wasting time, for doing the exact thing he so disliked. Then he turned toward his first officer’s station.
“Commander, we may have to fight this battle with secondaries. I want them all firing at one hundred ten percent.”
Travis paused for an instant. Then she replied, “Yes, sir.”
Barron knew overloading the guns was a risk, and if he started losing secondary batteries along with the primaries…
Still, he didn’t know what else he could do. He had to hit the enemy as hard as he could. He didn’t like to gamble, he was a rational man by nature. But his analysis told him a stark truth. He wasn’t going to win this fight, not without taking some risks. Some big risks.
“Captain, Lieutenant Federov reports the enemy ship has a single squadron deployed defensively. She requests permission to engage.”
Barron paused, thinking. The fighters of Federov’s Red squadron were the only ones he had left that were armed and functionally operational. Commander Jamison and the handful of pilots who had followed him against the enemy bombers had landed…but with the damage to the bays there was no timetable on getting them refit and launched again, especially with so many resources committed to getting the primaries back online. And the rest of Dauntless’s squadrons were still on their way back from the dogfight. They wouldn’t arrive before the battleships exchanged fire, and Barron was far from sure they’d have any place to land by the time they returned. But either way, they had neither the fuel nor the ordnance to engage the enemy before they were refit.
“Very well, Commander. Red squadron is authorized
to engage the enemy fighters.” He questioned the order as soon as it had come out of his mouth. Federov’s ships weren’t equipped to attack the enemy battleship, and the Alliance birds were in a similar situation. All that would result from allowing Federov to attack was more casualties, on both sides. Still, he stayed silent, allowed the order to stand. This was a fight to the finish, he knew that. And he might as well make peace with that now.
Barron closed his eyes, breathing deeply. It was his own habit, his way of calming himself, centering himself. He’d seen action, fought in some minor engagements…but he’d never experienced anything like he was about to. This was war, up close, deadly. The kind of wars his grandfather had fought.
What would you do? Would you have avoided the errors I blundered into?
Barron knew he was being unfair to himself. He’d been careless at the transwarp link, that was true. But the rest of the tactical advantage the enemy had enjoyed had more to do with being the defender. He’d had no choice but to move toward Santis…but his adversary had been warned by the scanners deployed at the link, and had time to hide, to prepare. From the very beginning of the engagement, Barron had been at a disadvantage in information, in position.
What do I do, Grandfather? Is there some secret, some kind of sight you had that I lack? I’m ready to fight, to strike at the enemy with all I have. But that seems so inadequate. There must be something else. What did you do? How did you win so many victories?
And how did you live with the dead whose lives purchased those triumphs?
* * *
“All fighters have landed, Commander.”
“Very well, Optiomagis. Initiate refueling operations…and rearm all ships for anti-fighter operations.” She wanted to order the squadrons armed for shipping strikes, to send them against the Confederation vessel again…but the math just didn’t work. Invictus was moving at nearly 0.2c. That was fast. At that velocity, she would zip by the Confederation battleship, with barely enough time for a passing exchange of fire. She was already decelerating, but it would take hours to come to a halt, and more time to accelerate back the toward the Confed vessel. And fighters launched with an intrinsic velocity that high would have no chance of executing an attack run.
