Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I

by Jay Allan

  He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Udinov was dead. There was nothing he could do but honor his memory. But Erica West and her people were something different. He knew what he should do, what prudence demanded. Forget about them…get everyone else out of here now.

  To hell with that. I can’t leave more of my people out there to die. I’ve spent a lifetime making decisions with my head. This one I’m making with my heart.

  “Get me Captain Duke.”

  “Captain Duke on your line, sir.” Cortez was still at his post, though he belonged in sickbay. Compton had been reluctant to order him there outright, but he’d suggested it a couple times to no avail. He’d almost made it a command, but then he decided Jack Cortez had earned the right to stay at his post if he wanted to.

  “John, I need your help. I just can’t leave Erica West and her people lost out there.”

  Duke’s gravelly voice replied immediately. “Thank God, Admiral. I feel the same way. I’ve been trying to figure out how to suggest it.” A pause. “We’ve lost too many already.”

  “And now I’m going to ask you and your people to put yourselves at risk.”

  “Ask? Hell, Admiral, all you need to do is let us go.” Duke had twenty fast attack ships still functional enough to go chasing after West’s lost flotilla.

  “Your ships are the only thing we’ve got left that can catch her people in any reasonable time. But you won’t be able to carry enough reaction mass to refuel her ships. And if we send a tanker with you it defeats the advantage of your speed.”

  “If we fly with skeleton crews, we should just have enough space to load up all her people. Her cruisers will be a writeoff, but…”

  “I’m not worried about the ships, John.” That was a lie. He hated losing some of his newest, fastest vessels. But the crews came first.

  “I think we can manage with eighteen man crews.” Duke’s ships had standard complements of 65-80.

  “Your eighteen man crews will be pulling some serious shifts, John. And if you get into a fight…”

  “If we get into a fight, we’re dead anyway. And we can pop stims for a few more days. If I keep too many more of my people onboard, we’re not going to be able to fit all West’s crews.”

  “Okay, John. Do it. You can transfer your people to…” He glanced down at the fleet manifest on his screen, looking for large ships that weren’t half wrecked. He got almost halfway through the list before he found one. “Dallas looks good…and Kyoto…and Valois.” All three ships were heavy cruisers. There wasn’t a battleship in the fleet that wasn’t half wrecked and overrun with damage control parties.

  “I’m transferring a thousand crew, Admiral. That’ll make things tight on three cruisers, won’t it?”

  “Yes, but we can move people around after you get them off your ships. We need to get you moving as quickly as possible…or we might as well not bother.”

  “I’ll be on the way in two hours, sir.”

  “Good.” Compton paused. “And, John…time is of the essence. Both for you to find West’s ships before they’re too far away and because we can’t stay here for long.”

  “Understood, sir.”

  “Good luck to you…and to your crews.”

  * * *

  “I’m sorry, Will, but there’s just no way. Montgomery’s a writeoff.” Max Harmon’s voice was soft, gentle. He knew no captain wanted to hear that his ship was finished, that her crew would be reassigned and the vessel itself, in Montgomery’s case a cruiser that had seen service since the Third Frontier War, would have its reactor intentionally overloaded and disappear into a superheated plasma.

  “But I’ve had my crews working around the clock, Max.” Will Logan was a seasoned captain, the veteran of many battles, but now he was practically pleading, his reason overwhelmed by emotion, by love for his ship. He’d taken a shuttle to Midway just to take one more shot at convincing Harmon to change his mind.

  “I’m sorry, Max. You’re too close, but you just can’t see it. The reactor’s okay, but Montgomery’s engines are a mangled wreck. We don’t have the parts or the equipment to fix them…let alone the time. You’ll never be able to get them over six or seven gees.” He paused. “You know we need more than that. We’ve got to get as far from here as possible. And they’ll be another fight. If Montgomery stays in the line, we’re going to end up having to leave her behind anyway…and if that happens, we’re not going to have time to get your crew off.”

  Logan stared back for a few seconds, but finally he just nodded. Still, Harmon could see the emotion in his eyes, and he knew Montgomery’s captain had truly convinced himself his crippled ship could still serve.

  “You can take it to Admiral Compton if you want.” Compton had assigned Harmon to weed out ships that had to be culled from the fleet, and he knew the admiral would agree with his decision. But if it made Logan feel better, as if he had expended every available effort to save his ship, Harmon had no problem with it.

  “No, Max.” The energy was gone from Logan’s voice. “You’re right. I just don’t want to face it.”

  Harmon put his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Look to your people, Will. They need you now. You’ve done all you could for Montgomery. She was a good ship, and she served well, fought many battles. It’s time to let her go.”

  Logan just nodded.

  Harmon returned the gesture and stood where we was for a moment before turning to leave. “I’ve got to go, Will,” he said softly. “Just call the bridge when your shuttle is ready, and they’ll give you launch clearance.”

  Harmon turned and walked toward the main corridor. His steps were slow at first, but then they picked up. He wanted to get the hell off the landing deck, take off the hood of fleet executioner. He’d decommissioned a dozen vessels, in essence sentencing them all to death. And every one of their captains—and a fair number of officers and spacers from their crews—had urged him to reconsider. But he hadn’t changed his mind, not once. His decisions had been rational…and they’d been right.

  He’d done the job Compton had given him, but he’d hated every minute of it. Now he was done. Montgomery had been the last. The rest of the ships had made the cut, at least for now. He had no doubt they’d lose more ships once they got underway. He’d only flagged the vessels he knew were too badly damaged. But there were a lot of ‘maybes’ too, and not all of them would make it.

  Battle was terrible—the tension, the fear, death all around. But Harmon preferred it to what followed. Combat was all-consuming. You watched comrades die, but the pain didn’t fully hit until later, after the guns fell silent. Counting the cost was brutal, and he hated being so deeply involved. But Compton had needed someone he trusted to honestly evaluate the damaged ships of the fleet, so Max Harmon had become the angel of death, pointing his scythe at a ship and pronouncing its demise.

  Now he just wanted to get back to his quarters. He had something to do, a duty he’d put off for too long already. He walked down the hall from the lift, waving his hand over the sensor outside his quarters. The door slid open, and he walked inside. He ran his hand back through his sweatsoaked hair.

  He leaned down and opened a small chest, carefully pulling a bottle of amber liquid from inside. He carried it over to the small sofa built into the wall and sat down, taking a single glass from the shelf behind him. It wasn’t glass, not really. Glass was far too breakable for warships that found themselves conducting evasive maneuvers at 30g, but the name was still used to describe the various advanced plastics used in lieu of the actual material.

  He slowly opened the bottle of Scotch and poured himself a drink. He could feel the emotion inside as he thought about the officers on Petersburg, the ones he’d come to know while he was on that doomed ship. He’d won the poker game they had played, so he’d never had to give up his priceless bottle. But now he decided there was only one thing to do with it…to drink to those men, the ones he was sure could have been friends. If only they’d had more time…


  He raised his glass. “To you, my comrades in arms…and to your gallant vessel…”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

  I am cautiously optimistic that we have outrun our immediate pursuit. I feel as though I have been holding my breath for four months, waiting each second for the report of First Imperium ships pouring through a warp gate. But there has been no sign of the enemy, not since the last battle in X18. I know that cannot last, but I am grateful for the respite we have enjoyed. It has given us the chance to make some repairs to our damaged fleet units. Still, few of our vessels are without lingering damage. We simply don’t have the facilities and the parts we need.

  We are vastly stronger, at least, than we were at the end of the fighting in X18. The ships of the battleline have all been brought back to at least moderate combat readiness…even Saratoga. I’d almost given up on her after the battle, but her damage control teams covered themselves in glory. They simply wouldn’t give up on her. Part of that, I know, was a last service to Admiral Dumont, a tribute to an officer who must have seemed like a dinosaur to them, yet who won their admiration and respect. Barret Dumont was a friend of mine, a man I respected, one I had once feared in my days as a green officer. He commanded a task force of this fleet and Saratoga directly as well, and he died on that ship along with over half her crew. You died as you lived, Barret…as a hero.

  I look ahead and I wonder what we will do next, where to lead this fleet. They look to me with starstruck eyes, all of them, believing I know what to do, where to lead them. Mutiny is the farthest thought from my mind now. The victory in X18 cemented my control over the fleet. No officer would dare challenge my authority now.

  The adoration is uncomfortable, though I realize it has its uses. Still, I am not the demi-god they would make of me. I am just a man, unsure of what to do and as scared as they are…and as lost.

  AS Midway

  X18 System

  The Fleet: 144 ships, 34,106 crew

  “Hieronymus, I know I’ve said this before, but I will repeat it. Your research is the most important project in the fleet. We wouldn’t even be here if it hadn’t been for your tremendous success in securing control over the enemy Colossus.” Compton stood in the lab, facing Cutter and Ana Zhukov, as he had months before when the two scientists had first briefed his on their research.

  “Thank you, Admiral,” Cutter replied. “I have been focusing on developing a theory as to why the Colossus believed we were members of the species that created the First Imperium. My virus was designed to secure control over First Imperium intelligences, but not through convincing the AI that we are its long lost masters. There was something at play beyond my virus. Indeed, I cannot be sure my algorithms played any part at all in what happened.”

  “You think the Colossus would have obeyed you even without the virus?” Compton sounded doubtful. “They haven’t shown any hesitation in killing us before.”

  “Yes, Admiral, that is true. However, this is the first time a human has encountered an intelligence of this magnitude. Our prior direct contact has largely been armored Marines fighting lower level AI’s directing ground combat.” He paused, as if unsure he wanted to say what he was thinking. Then: “It is also possible the isolation of this Colossus played a part in its actions. The forces that have been fighting us for the last four years are clearly being directed by some central authority, probably an AI of almost unimaginable complexity. The Colossus, however, had been deactivated by a freak malfunction, one easily repaired by the ship’s intelligence once we had reactivated it and provided an alternate source of power.”

  “So it hadn’t received the orders the units fighting us had…” Compton wasn’t sure what that meant, or where it might lead, but he was intrigued. “So you think whatever intelligence is directing the First Imperium forces, that it is our true enemy? That the ships and armies themselves wouldn’t be hostile without the orders coming from above?”

  “That is a considerable assumption to make from the data we currently possess…however, I have been thinking along similar lines. Still, it is far too soon to make sweeping statements. And I’m not sure what practical good it would do us anyway. We were fortunate to find such a powerful vessel completely deactivated yet mostly intact. I’m not sure what any of this offers us in terms of countering hostile enemy forces.”

  “Nor I, Hieronymus, but you can rarely see the finish line when you first start. I want you to pursue this as aggressively as possible, and if you need anything—anything at all—you just tell me.”

  “Yes, Admiral. I will do my best.”

  “I know you will.” Compton’s eyes shifted to the slender woman standing next to Cutter. “I’m very happy to see you looking so well, Ana. You had us worried there for a while.” Zhukov had spent a month in sickbay, the first week in extremely critical condition. Her head wound had been extremely severe, and she almost certainly would have died within minutes if Connor Frasier hadn’t put her in his armor. The injury was beyond the med system’s ability to repair, but it managed to keep her alive until she made it to Midway’s sickbay. She’d had multiple subdural hematomas, and half a dozen strokes before the med team had managed to repair the damage.

  “Thank you, Admiral. It’s taken quite a while, but I’m starting to feel somewhat like myself again.”

  “I’m glad to hear it.” He paused then added, “Hopefully something good will come out of the whole thing.” Compton didn’t elaborate…he didn’t like to involve himself in personal relationships. But he’d seen Connor Frasier and Ana Zhukov together more than once over the past few weeks, and if there was a new romance budding on Midway, he approved wholeheartedly. He still regretted his own hesitancy to allow his relationship with Elizabeth to develop. Now she was gone, but he thought of her every day. And he knew he always would.

  There is little enough promising or cheerful ahead of us. Let them have what happiness they can find.

  * * *

  Compton walked into the wardroom, smiling as he saw his officers relaxing. The losses they had suffered in X18, and the constant fear that a new enemy fleet would emerge any second had dogged them for a long while, and Midway’s small rec areas had been like ghost towns. But as the weeks passed, and turned into months, gradually things began to return to normal. The sadness was still there, the mourning of lost friends…and the fear remained. No one in the fleet, and certainly none of Compton’s people on Midway, truly let their guard down. Not ever. They were constantly alert, on edge, ready for the next fight. But they were learning to live with it, to balance the keen edge with a reasonable daily routine. To blow off some steam now and again. And Terrance Compton was glad to see it.

  He looked across the room and saw Max Harmon and four other officers playing poker. He’d intended to give Harmon a command of his own, but he’d just never done it. Finally, he realized he wanted to keep the officer on Midway as his aide. Compton had served with a long list of talented and courageous men and women, but in his fifty years in space he’d seen few as capable as Max Harmon…and he knew he’d have need of his aide’s—his friend’s—help again. Especially now that Erika West no longer prowled Midway’s corridors.

  John Duke had completed his mission and brought West and her survivors back, though it had been a long and tenuous journey. Compton waited in X20 as long as he dared, but then he moved on, leaving a trail of ships—all volunteers—behind to watch for Duke’s return and to lead him back to the fleet. They were all frigates and destroyers, with the best ECM suites in the fleet, sitting powered down like holes in space, waiting for the returning flotilla. Compton had hoped for the best, but he’d also had his doubts…until the day Duke’s ships, and all the frigates and destroyers, jumped through into the X48 system, where the fleet had paused to scan the local planets.

  Compton could still remember the wave of relief he’d felt, the gratitude at having almost a thousand fewer deaths on his conscious. He’d wasted no time
in sending West to Saratoga to take over Dumont’s task force.

  Barret would have approved, Compton thought. West is just like him…younger, of course, but cut from the same cloth.

  The fleet was safe for the moment…at least the closest thing to safe he could hope for. The worst of the damage had been repaired, at least partially. And they had put a lot of space behind them from the accursed X18 system. He looked around the room, watching his officers at recreation. He appreciated the ability of junior officers to set down their burdens, to relax, even though they knew soon they would be called back to war. Compton remembered a younger version of himself, a cocksure officer on the rise who still found the time to become the scourge of the navy’s clandestine poker games.

  Where has that man gone? And did he leave behind nothing but a grim and humorless old man? How long has it been since I just stopped thinking about duty, even for a few hours?

  He walked across the room, stopping next to Max Harmon. “How is your game going?” he asked, looking around the table.

  “It’s going well, sir. It’s a pleasant diversion, a nice change from fighting First Imperium robots, at least. Though we don’t have much left to gamble with. Currency pretty much defines useless for us now. We played for stashed bottles for a while, but most of that’s gone too.”

  “So it’s just bragging rights now, eh?” Compton smiled. It had always been the win to him, far more than what he won.

  “I suppose so, sir.” Harmon turned and looked up at the admiral. “Join us, sir? We’ve got a free seat.”

  Compton could feel the polite decline coming out, but he stopped the words in his throat. He’d long avoided playing cards with his subordinates, unwilling to deprive them of their paychecks…or even their last, cherished bottles of hooch.