by Jay Allan
* * *
This one is good. Damned good…
Junus’s hand was tight on his controls as he watched his target trying to evade the missile he’d fired. He’d had the enemy dead to rights, caught him napping, too focused on the target he’d been chasing to notice Junus sneaking up on him. Overconfidence was the bane of fighter pilots, a flaw that took down even the best. But this pilot was good.
His evasive maneuvers were wild, unpredictable. He’d broken the missile’s lock twice, only to have the weapon reacquire. But now Junus realized the enemy was going to outlast the missile. The weapon had only a few seconds of fuel left, not enough.
His hand moved, angling the throttle, bringing his ship right toward the enemy. He had the advantage. His prey had no choice but to continue to evade the missile…and that meant Junus could get behind him.
He brought his ship around, matching the target’s moves, keeping his vector aligned with the ship a few thousand kilometers ahead of him. His finger rested on the firing control. His lasers were charged and ready. This was someone important, or at least one of the enemy’s top aces. Taking him down would remove a massive threat to the rest of his fighters…including the anti-ship strike moving forward behind the interceptors.
He fired, but the shot went wide, thrown off by the target’s sudden change in thrust. He countered, maintaining his position and fired again. Another miss.
He took a deep breath. The pilot in front of him was the most skilled he’d ever faced…and he knew if he made any mistakes, his adversary could turn things around on him in an instant. He tapped the throttle, increasing acceleration, closing slowly as he kept firing.
* * *
“Raptor, you’ve got one on your tail!” “Ice” Krill looked down at the screen, watching as Stockton tried to evade the enemy fighter pursuing him. Stockton was one of the best—in truth, Krill knew, the best—pilot on Dauntless. But he was in trouble now.
“I can’t shake him, Ice.” Krill couldn’t remember ever hearing Stockton sound so tense, but the strain, the fear, was clear now.
“I’m on my way, Raptor. Just hold on. A few more seconds.”
Krill pushed his thrust to the limit, moving his vector toward a direct line to the enemy. Clearly it was a gifted pilot on Raptor’s tail, an ace. But Krill knew a pilot was most vulnerable when pursuing an enemy, and chasing down Raptor would take all any pilot had to offer. It was a chance…if he could get there in time.
He saw the flashes on the scanner, the enemy firing at Raptor’s ship. It was too close…he couldn’t count on the enemy missing much longer. His eyes dropped to the display. He was too far away. There was no way he’d make it to close range.
Krill stared grimly at his scanner. He was focused, maintaining his eerie calm even as he recognized the gravity of the situation. Ice. The call sign had been his since the Academy, one his classmates had unanimously agreed was a perfect fit. And now he put it to the test.
He wasn’t going to get close, not in time. That left one choice. He had to score a hit from long range. He stared hard at the screen. The enemy was too close to Raptor. There was no time.
He moved his hand, adjusting the firing solution. Then he fired…and missed.
Again. Another miss.
He could feel the heat on his neck, even his own unflappable demeanor beginning to fail. He and Stockton weren’t friends, not exactly. But they were comrades. And they were the best, members of an elite group. He couldn’t fail. He just couldn’t.
He leaned forward, moving the stick slowly, lining up another shot.
His finger closed slowly, even as he was still adjusting his line. He heard the sound of the lasers firing, again and again as he held his finger on the trigger.
His eyes were locked on the targeting display when the enemy ship vanished. He leaned back, let his hand fall away from the throttle, felt the tightness drain from his muscles. He’d done it, a one in a hundred shot.
He’d saved Raptor.
* * *
“Thanks for the assist, Ice.” There would have been a time when Stockton couldn’t have imagined a worse fate than thanking his rival for saving his life. But he’d experienced total war now, and he knew it had changed him. Petty rivalries seemed pointless.
“Any time, Raptor, now let’s…” Krill’s voice trailed off. Stockton saw it too. An enemy fighter coming up right behind Krill.
“Ice, you’ve…”
“I see him, Raptor.”
Stockton could hear the tension in Krill’s normally even voice. He was the one in trouble now, and he knew it.
“On my way, Ice.”
Stockton pulled back hard on the throttle, pushing it to the side, trying to bring his bird back toward Krill’s ship. But his vector and velocity were still taking him farther from his comrade’s ship. His eyes dropped to the display, looking for any other friendlies close enough to intervene. Nothing.
“Fuck!” He banged his free hand against the console as he watched what was happening on the display. Ice was maneuvering wildly, trying to shake his pursuer. But his attacker was right on his tail…and closing.
Stockton reached down, opened a small panel under his control panel. His fingers reached around, finding a small lever. He pulled.
“Deactivate safety mechanisms?” The AI’s voice was dispassionate, professional.
“Yes,” Stockton answered. “Increase reactor output to one twenty.”
Stockton knew he was being reckless, that he was pushing his ship to the edge of its capabilities, but he didn’t care. He had to get to Ice before…
He looked at the display again. Krill was trying to break free, and the enemy fighter was still hot on his tail. Stockton could see small flashes on the display, laser blasts. The attacker was shooting now.
“Damn!”
His fighter was moving toward the enemy, but he was still far out, too far for a laser shot. Still, he armed his guns. A hit at this range was improbable to the point of impossibility. But that didn’t stop his finger from closing around the firing stud.
He heard the whine of his lasers as he fired. He didn’t even know if a hit at this range would be powerful enough to damage the enemy. But he kept shooting anyway. He couldn’t just do nothing.
He watched on the scanner as the enemy ship closed, his eyes following as Krill’s ship zigzagged wildly, avoiding his pursuer’s fire, but failing to break the deadly pursuit.
I’ve got to get there…
He felt the helplessness growing, mocking him. For all his vaunted skills as a pilot, he was watching helplessly, unable to prevent the tragedy he saw unfolding before his eyes.
He stared at the screen, even as he continued to fire. Then he saw it. Another flash on the display. A laser blast from the enemy fighter. Stockton felt his stomach heave as he saw Krill’s fighter vanish from the screen.
He sat for a second, unmoving, stunned, absorbing the reality of what his scanner showed. Then the rage came, an overwhelming need for vengeance. His eyes locked on the display, on the symbol representing the enemy fighter. He hadn’t been able to get there in time to save Krill…but he was damned if he’d let the bastard who killed his comrade escape.
The enemy ship changed course, thrusting hard to alter its vector. But the enemy pilot had accelerated hard to catch Krill, and now he was trapped by his own vector. Stockton came on, relentless. He was focused, obsessed. Nothing but the death of this enemy could satiate his need for revenge.
He fired, his blasts getting closer as the range fell. He saw that his enemy recognized the danger. The pilot moved his ship as erratically as it could, but its existing vector limited his options.
Stockton stared at the symbol on his screen. It was the only thing on his mind, all he lived for at that moment. He was a predator, an avenger…he was death itself.
He squeezed the firing stud, then again. And again. His eyes narrowed, he shut out everything, no thought in his head save his fighter’s lasers. The screen displaye
d an icon, impersonal, no more than a speck of light. But he saw his enemy there, the metal of the ship, the fear in the eyes of his victim as he brought death upon him.
He tried to relax, to let his instincts take control, to put intuition as well as math into his targeting. He stared, his finger ready. Then he fired, half a dozen shots. And with the last one, the enemy fighter’s symbol vanished from his scanner.
He didn’t cheer as he usually did. He didn’t pump his fist. He sat silently, not moving.
That was for you, Ice.
He’d avenged his comrade, but there was no satisfaction. He just felt cold, empty.
Chapter Thirty-Three
CFS Dauntless
Krillus Asteroid Belt
41, 000,000 kilometers from Santis, Krillus IV
307 AC
“Third wave moving up, Captain. Commander Jamison reports his people will be engaged in seconds.” Darrow’s voice was calm, cool. Barron was proud of his people, of how they had stood up under the pressure. Some of them might not have analyzed the situation quite as extensively as he had, but they had to know the odds were against them.
“Very well, Lieutenant.” Barron toggled his own com. “Good luck, Thunder…to you and all your pilots. Our thoughts and best wishes fly with you.”
“Thank you, sir. We’ll get the job done.”
Barron cut the line. The last thing Kyle Jamison needed now was his commanding officer distracting him.
Barron had watched his first two lines of fighters engaged the enemy strike. He’d sat silently, his eyes locked on the display as his fighters fought a savage battle with the enemy, as “Ice” Krill died. Jake Stockton had gone mad after his rival was destroyed, and he’d plunged into the enemy formations with utter disregard for danger. He’d burned through his fuel reserves, ignoring every warning to break off and return to Dauntless. And the pilots with him—the survivors of Blue squadron and part of Ice’s Yellows—had followed his lead, extracting a gruesome price for Krill’s death.
Stockton fought like some demon unleashed, and he took down no fewer than six enemies before his guns fell silent from lack of power. He was out there now, moving through space along his final vector, no fuel remaining to decelerate. And the rest of his pilots, and Krill’s, the six who had survived, were in the same situation. They would be rescued if Dauntless won the battle. And if the enemy prevailed they would be captured…or they would suffocate in their cockpits as their life support dwindled.
Of course, we’ll all be dead by then…
Barron leaned back in his chair, his eyes moving toward Darrow. “Let’s get the display centered on Commander Jamison’s force, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir,” Darrow snapped back. A few seconds later the holographic display morphed slowly, showing a region of empty space…and a line of small blue dots. Dauntless’s last line of fighters.
Darrow was covering Atara Travis’s station. Dauntless’s first officer was down in engineering, monitoring the status of repairs.
Driving Fritzie crazy, that’s what she’s doing.
Fritz was a fine engineer, and one of the hardest workers he’d ever seen. But Travis was smart, probably the most intelligent officer Barron had ever met…and he included himself and his famous grandfather in that calculation. His first officer somehow kept track of every detail, every reading on every device. And she could make the snap decisions that might be the difference between life and death for them all.
Barron had a trick or two up his sleeve, stratagems he hoped might pull victory from the jaws of defeat, but he knew the battle would still be won—if it was won—as much in the engineering spaces and access tubes of his ship as on the bridge.
The primaries…if we can get the primaries back online we still have a chance.
Barron didn’t know if that was possible. But with Travis and Fritzie on the job, he believed there was at least some hope. He wanted to believe it, at least.
Barron’s com buzzed.
“Captain, we’re all set down here.” Stu Weldon was one of Barron’s oldest friends. He was also Dauntless’s chief medical officer.
“Did you set up the aid stations?” Dauntless was a big ship, and men and women could die before they made it to sickbay, especially if systems like the turbolifts and intraship cars stopped functioning. Setting up aid stations in remote locations was something he remembered from his grandfather, one of the things the great admiral had done during his battles. It would almost certainly help save lives. But there was a colder, more mercenary take as well. It was a way to show the captain’s concern for his crew, to squeeze that last bit of fanatical loyalty from the men and women in Dauntless’s compartments and at its stations.
“We’re all ready, sir. Six remote locations…that’s all we could staff without crippling sickbay itself.”
“That’s good. Hopefully they’ll save some lives.” Barron’s voice was somber. The risk of losses was bad enough, but he knew even in the best case scenario, a lot of his people were about to die.
There was a long pause. Then: “Tyler…how many stims have you taken?”
“Stu…not now…”
“You may be captain of this ship, but you’re still just a man. There’s only so much your body can take. Have you gotten any sleep at all?”
“Yeah, sure. Not a lot, but enough.” He was lying to his friend. It had been days since he’d gotten even a moment of sleep.
“Bullshit.” It was a breach of protocol and regulations to call bullshit on your commander, but Barron knew Weldon had always fit uncomfortably in the military structure. And they had been friends since they were teenagers, sneaking out of school on crisp fall days to go hiking in the mountains.
“Here’s a deal, Doc, and it’s the best you’re going to get. Get off my back—and keep me awake and alert, no matter what you have to pump into me—and when this is over, I’m all yours. I’ll sleep, eat right, come down for you to poke and prod me to your heart’s content. After the battle is over.”
“Do you think you can just keep going like this endlessly?”
“What would you have me do? C’mon, Stu…you know the situation. It’ll be a damned miracle if we live long enough for any of this to matter.” His eyes darted around the bridge. He’d only meant that last part for Stu’s ears, but he’d blurted it out anyway.
“All right, Skipper. You know best.”
“Just focus on the wounded, Stu. I’m afraid we’ll have more coming your way.
“Ty…you didn’t cause this fight. The crew we’ve lost, the ones we still might lose…it’s not your fault.”
“I’m up here in the captain’s chair, Stu, so I’ll be damned if I know who else’s fault it is.”
Barron was staring at the display as he spoke, watching the last of his fighters engaging the incoming enemy strike. Jamison’s people were doing well, chasing down the less maneuverable bombers. But he could see some were going to get through. The strike force was too well led, its ships coming in on different vectors, from multiple directions. It wasn’t pilot skill that dictated some of the bombers would get through. It was pure physics.
“Gotta go, Stu. Good luck down there, my friend.”
“And to you, Ty. Godspeed.”
Barron turned back toward Darrow. He had a lot of confidence in his communications officer, but he missed Travis’s presence on the bridge. The two of them worked effortlessly together. She even had a way of communicating to him she thought he was wrong without letting the others know.
I need her down in engineering…she can do more to win this fight down there…
“Activate defensive batteries.”
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “All batteries report armed and ready.”
The anti-fighter lasers were Dauntless’s tertiary batteries, smaller and less powerful than the big primaries and secondaries. They were located all over the ship’s exterior, and they were designed to target incoming fighters. They were far less effective than intercepto
rs at taking down attackers—it was hard to target something as small as a bomber with a fixed gun—but they were a hell of a lot better than nothing.
Barron stared at the display. Three bombers, maybe four. That was what was going to get through. The squadrons had performed brilliantly, virtually wiping out the enemy escorts, and tearing into the bombing force. But even one or two attackers could hurt Dauntless badly if they planted their torpedoes in the right place.
He sat still, silent, watching the red dots, the four craft that remained from a strike force of thirty-seven the enemy battleship had launched. His fighters had won a great victory…and now he would see if it was enough.
“All batteries, commence firing at will.”
“Yes, Captain.” Darrow leaned over his borrowed workstation. “All batteries, commence firing, fire at will.”
Barron sat, listening for the sounds of the point defense lasers. The primaries shook Dauntless hard when they fired, and the secondaries had a telltale whining sound that could be heard all the way to the bridge. But the smaller anti-fighter weapons were harder to hear. There was a cracking sound when each fired, almost like a gunshot, but it required paying close attention to hear it.
He sat and waited. There was nothing else to do. Jamison and the rest of Dauntless’s fighters were on the way back. Whatever the attacking ships managed to do, Barron knew none of them would get home. They’d try, but enough of Dauntless’s birds had the fuel remaining to take them down. He wanted to feel some sort of satisfaction about that, but he didn’t. He’d watched, astonished, as the enemy squadrons advanced, heedless of losses. It was hard not to respect such steadfastness, even in a bad cause, and it only reinforced the importance of somehow winning this battle. It was more than just his own survival, his crew’s. The suicidal bravery of the Alliance forces gave him a glimpse of what war with them would be.
He felt anger, of course, rage at the losses his people had suffered. But the pilots in those fighters hadn’t decided to come here, they hadn’t made some devil’s bargain with the Union. Their leaders had done that. He found it hard to despise warriors who were doing their duty so magnificently.
