by Jay Allan
* * *
Jake Stockton sat in his quarters, hunched over the small desk, reviewing the order of battle for the coming invasion. The part of him that controlled his actions was focused on finding ways to maximize the strength of the wings to secure victory…to kill more of his true friends and comrades. But the black hopelessness that had engulfed Stockton for so long had receded slightly, and a tentative ray of light trickled through.
His hand reached for a small data storage chip…and dropped it almost immediately. It fell to the floor, and he leaned down to pick it up, putting it back into place before continuing his work.
The small, imprisoned part of his brain that was still Jake Stockton felt something almost unfamiliar. Hope. The data chip hadn’t just fallen…he had dropped it. Intentionally. After more than four years of utter helplessness, he had regained at least a marginal ability to partially control his body. It was limited, certainly, and he’d been hesitant to push too hard, unsure how the controlled portion of his brain would react.
But it didn’t seem the parts of him controlled by the Collar were even aware of what he’d done. And that encouraged him to push harder, to struggle with all the strength he could muster, to take back control of himself. He didn’t dare to imagine he could utterly break the Collar’s hold…but all he needed was the jerk of his hand at the right moment, barely enough to hit the controls and pop open his airlock in flight, or to jump from an exposed catwalk to the hard deck below. Stockton hadn’t let his imagination run to thoughts of escape, or of returning home. But for four years, he had dreamed of escaping his unending nightmare through death, and the idea of ending his pain was as seductive as any vision he’d ever had. He’d lived through scenes of constant horror for the past four years. He just wanted to die.
Still, thoughts of real escape drifted through his mind. He quickly squashed them. There was no going back, no way he could return, even if it had been possible. He was the blackest traitor in Confederation history. He had killed his old comrades, several dozen of them personally, and thousands through his training and leadership of the Highborn wings. Nothing could undo what he’d done…not even death could wash away his crimes. It could only end his pain.
He focused his thoughts, used all the strength he had to move his hand again. He watched as his palm slid across the table, and then seconds later when the controlled part of him moved it back, seemingly unaware that anything had happened.
Stockton had replayed that moment in his cockpit a thousand times. Reg Griffin had come a hair’s breadth from defeating him, from killing him.
Before you killed her…
He could remember the moment, the wild bolts of electrical discharge…the searing pain in his head. The hit on his ship, and the energies it had unleased had damaged his Collar, somehow. In some way the Highborn hadn’t discovered. He wondered what the chances had been, to break, at least to some extent, the device’s hold on him, without doing any detectable damage.
Was it payback, some equalization by fortune for all he had endured? Had some force in the universe taken pity on him…finally granted him a path to the death he’d craved for so long?
Or were thoughts of death selfish? Should he try to do more? Could he?
Return was unthinkable. He couldn’t even imagine looking his friends in the eye. But perhaps he could help them. If he could regain the control he needed by the time the next battle was joined…
He focused again, moving his hand once more, slowly, cautiously. This time he went further. He concentrated on each finger, wiggling them up and down just the slightest bit.
Yes…maybe you can do some good before you die for your crimes. Not full atonement…no, that’s not possible. But something. Maybe you can save lives, help the fleet endure…even to defeat the Highborn…
* * *
“There was some concern that the humans had acquired sufficient technology to construct vessels of imperial levels of power. This was exacerbated by the presence of a vessel of the imperial Terradonna class in their order of battle. As you all know, the Terradonna class was one of the most powerful vessels in the imperial navy, second in strength only to the purpose-built planetkillers launched during the late stages of the fall. A current human ability to produce such ships would be unprecedented, and of grave concern, however, the lack of any additional units of the class, despite a large number of other, clearly new and more primitive vessels joining the human ranks, suggests this ship—which they seem to call Colossus—is merely an old imperial unit that was found in sufficiently good condition to return to service. As we have responded to this vessel’s existence with our own construction program, we will have no fewer than six Terradonnas of our own in service within just over a year.”
“Thank you, Gelliax. I concur with your conclusions. Would I be correct in stating that with some shifting of priorities, the first of the Terradonnas could be placed into service within a matter of weeks?”
Gelliax looked down at the table for a few seconds, and then back at Tesserax. “That is…possible, Viceroy, perhaps…though it would require virtually halting work on the other vessels of the class, likely delaying their launches by a number of months.”
Tesserax nodded slowly. “I understand that, Gelliax. However, as our planned assault against the human fortress and fleet will begin in a matter of weeks, perhaps two months at most, vessels entering service any later will be of little purpose, at least assuming we are successful and gain the upper hand in the struggle against the humans. The other Terradonnas will be most welcome on the primary front, I am certain, and likely they will undertake the long journey there as soon as they are launched. But I would have the lead vessel with the fleet now, if possible, to match against the humans’ Colossus, to take their greatest weapon out of the main struggle. We have modified our tactical plan, emphasizing the capture of key prisoners, and this is likely to increase the ferocity of combat and partially yield our range advantage. Colossus is a danger to any ship in our fleet, and if there is any possibility to counter that, we must pursue it.”
Gelliax, a Highborn from the tenth class, far below Tesserax’s status as one of the Firstborn, sat in quiet thought. Then he said, “I will have the first Terradonna to the fleet in five weeks, Viceroy, ready for action. Will that be satisfactory?”
Tesserax smiled. “It will indeed be satisfactory, Gelliax. And it will contribute greatly to the success of our revised plan. We will defeat the enemy fleet, take their great fortress, and capture their leaders. Their morale will surely be crushed, and the end cannot long be delayed after that.” Tesserax was silent for a few seconds. “See that veteran Thralls are posted to the vessel. We must achieve maximum combat readiness to engage the human-controlled Terradonna.”
“As you command, Viceroy.” Gelliax looked back across the table. “We have not yet set a name or designation for the vessel. It has merely been referred to as Terradonna-1. Perhaps, if it is to launch so soon, you would care to bestow a name upon it.”
Tesserax sat quietly for a moment. He usually didn’t care about such things, but then a thought found its way into his head, one that might serve him in some way.
“Ellerax. We shall name the vessel Ellerax.”
Tesserax wasn’t sure exactly what he hoped to gain by naming the new vessel after the first of the Highborn, but he didn’t see any downside.
Even the gods could benefit from greasing those at higher levels.
Chapter Five
CFS Vandengraf
Sigma Tarsus System (One Transit from Outpost Twelve)
Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)
“Damage report…now!” Simpson was on the comm a few seconds after the Highborn beam slammed into Vandengraf. The shot hadn’t been a direct hit, but it had been far more serious than the first glancing blow. The showers of sparks still flying across the bridge told him there had likely been system blowouts throughout the ship…and he could feel that the acceleration had slipped. The engines were still fun
ctional, but either they or the reactor that powered them had suffered some kind of damage.
He listened as the engineer snapped off a list of items. It was only a partial report, and Simpson knew his people hadn’t had time to determine the full extent of the damage, but it was bad enough.
His eyes moved to the main display. The point lay just ahead, so close Simpson almost felt as though he could reach out and touch it. That was nonsense, of course, and all the more absurd because the calculations already running in his mind were telling him that last hit had cut Vandengraf’s chances of making it out at least in half.
The casualty reports were becoming worse with each passing moment. He’d lost three ships outright, but the real situation was far worse than that. The enemy didn’t have to obliterate a vessel immediately. They simply had to cripple its ability to run. Any ship without the thrust to reach the point before the enemy could score additional hits would never leave Sigma Tarsus.
His eyes caught the row of green lights on his workstation. His fleet had four ships capable of carrying fighters, two hundred fifty-six craft in total. The lights confirmed that every squadron was on full alert, their ships manned and fully armed. But he hadn’t given a launch order, not yet.
Commanding a pilot to take off would be tantamount to pronouncing a death sentence. There would be no time for the ships to return and land, not before their launch platforms transited. A few veterans might just manage to get back to the point and navigate their way through, but without proper shielding, even the most experienced pilots faced something like ten to one odds against. The chance of a rookie making it through—and more than ninety percent of his pilots had never faced an enemy in battle—was so small, it was hardly worth considering.
He felt Vandengraf lurch again, five times in rapid succession as its engines blasted hard, the vectors of each pulse changing almost randomly. The evasive routine was holding up, and even as his screen lit up with fresh reports of damage from the last hit, his ship dodged another three shots.
The rest of the fleet was less fortunate. Two more ships, a cruiser and an escort had simply vanished, and the list of ships that weren’t going to make it out had grown to ten.
At least ten. Simpson stared at the display, at the point projected right in the center, and then he glanced down at the range figures. The enemy ships were too close, and the rest of his fleet’s desperate flight would take place under the guns of the Highborn.
He tried to estimate how many more ships he would lose before the survivors transited, but the only answer he could come up with was…more. He wondered if he should have turned to fight, if his choice to make a run for it was going to result in disaster. He even considered issuing the order for his ships to engage where they were, to fight it out and maybe save their cripples.
Then, the transit point flared bright, a large energy surge indicating that something was coming through. Grimaldi was on the other side of that point, and Simpson felt an instant of panic, even as he realized there was no way the enemy could have gotten to the fortress yet. Anything coming through had to be friendly.
But what could be coming? He already had every ship to be had within half a dozen transits.
He stared straight ahead, still without an answer, or even an idea…just the certainty that something was about to come through.
* * *
“Full power to railgun and primaries, as soon as systems reboot!” Holsten hadn’t intended to say anything, and even as the words poured from his mouth, he felt foolish, as a child playing naval captain. But Constellation was an immensely powerful ship, with weapons that outranged everything Commodore Simpson had in the system. Holsten had brought the ship to rescue Simpson’s fleet, the Confederation’s primary force available to defend the border, and even with the superbattleship’s scanners only partially rebooted, it was clear his hunch that the enemy wouldn’t let Simpson escape without a chase had been disturbingly accurate.
He had to do something, at least to distract some of the Highborn ships…and Constellation’s antimatter-powered railgun and sixteen third generation primaries were by far the longest-ranged weapons the Confederation had in the system.
And all eight enemy ships pursuing Simpson’s forces were in range of Constellation.
“Punch up the reactors to full power plus five percent as soon as they’re back online.” Sam Taggart’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere, but Holsten remained silent, allowing the experienced captain he’d placed in command of Constellation do her job…no doubt better than he could ever manage. He could almost hear her telling him to shut the hell up and stay out of her way, though she’d simply ignored him.
A few seconds later, his mind really processed what she had said.
It had become a fairly common tactic in the navy for ships to push their systems beyond stated safety levels. Tyler Barron had done it so many times, it had become colloquially known as the ‘Barron Maneuver,’ at least among the ships of the line. The fighter squadrons had their own version, named just as matter-of-factly for Jake Stockton, who had been, if anything, even crazier than Barron when it came to demanding everything his equipment could give and then a bit more.
But Barron had never issued the orders on an antimatter-powered ship. Fusion reactors were old technology, in use for more than a century and a half on Megara, longer even than the Confederation had existed as a united polity. The thermonuclear reactions were barely controlled and potentially highly dangerous, but the engineers running them had extensive experience, and the true veterans had a seasoned touch.
Antimatter was an entirely different beast. The new reactors were simpler in many ways. Energy was generated by the simple mechanic of feeding antimatter into the system and combining it with normal matter, capturing the released energy with methods not unlike those employed in fusion systems. But while containment was vital in a nuclear system, safety controls could also scrag a reaction if the magnetic bottle was damaged or showed signs of failing. But the tiniest, microscopic quantities of antimatter escaping containment would almost certainly cause utter disaster.
Which made the idea of pushing the mysterious substance through the containment tubes faster than rated levels allowed seem…well, downright crazy.
But his eyes fixed an instant later on the now-fully restarted main display, and he realized the alternative to such insanity might very well be watching Simpson’s ships gutted as they raced toward the point.
He leaned back in his chair, silent. Sam Taggart was in command, and she knew what she was doing far better than he did. He felt himself bracketed back and forth as Constellation’s engines fired up and the great ship began its evasive routine. The Highborn ships were tight on the heels of Simpson’s fleeing vessels, and that put Constellation, and the enemy ships, in range of each other immediately.
There was no enemy fire coming in, not yet. Holsten wondered if he’d caught the Highborn by surprise, or if they’d simply discounted the importance of a force of only four ships.
That won’t last, not once their scans give them mass figures…
But even those first few seconds were enough. Constellation shuddered a few seconds later as the great railgun fired, and just after, the sixteen particle accelerator beams followed.
Holsten was no gunnery expert, but he knew Constellation’s spacers had limited targeting data, and short navigational histories on the Highborn ships. That made gut instinct all the more crucial…and the superbattleship’s crew proved their skill as the railgun projectile slammed into one Highborn ship, and six of the sixteen primaries struck two others.
Now, that’s some fine shooting!
The accuracy was almost unprecedented for the range, especially against the difficult to target Highborn vessels. But Holsten figured the Confederation forces were due for some luck, and the current time seemed opportune to spend some of it.
He watched as the damage assessments updated on his screen. The railgun shot had been a direct hit, and it had torn
open half of the enemy ship’s hull. The vessel wasn’t destroyed—Highborn ships were tough—but it was the closest thing to crippled. That ship, at least, wasn’t going to stop Simpson’s forces from escaping.
The primary beams struck two additional ships, four slamming into the forwardmost of the Highborn vessels. One was close to a direct hit, but the others were glancing shots. Still, the cumulative damage looked serious. The third stricken ship took two beams amidships, solid hits, but nothing critical. Holsten suspected the vessel had suffered significant damage, but a few seconds later, the black speckled blue beam lancing out from its forward turret proved it had at least one weapon system still functional.
It was a successful opening attack, and Constellation continued to move in-system, its course jagged and weaving, its vector changing wildly to evade the enemy fire that had just begun to come its way.
Holsten watched, remaining silent as Taggert snapped out orders to her bridge crew. He’d spent so many years dealing with politicians, he’d come close to despairing for the Confederation’s future. But whenever he’d been close to giving up, fate had put him close near a Tyler Barron or an Andi Lafarge, and helped hold back the hopelessness. The Confederation fleet had seen its share of corruption, and of empty uniforms and bloated egos, but Tyler Barron’s navy was, overall, an extraordinary institution. It had fought almost nonstop for the past twenty years, back to when its current commander was simply a ship’s captain, and Holsten didn’t even dare to guess at what percentage of its spacers over that time had been killed or maimed. The fleet had paid a terrible cost, but in the process, it had become something truly extraordinary, a fearsome weapon, forged in blood. Holsten didn’t know if that would be enough, if the war machine Tyler Barron had created could overcome the fearsome genetically-engineered enemy it faced.
But he was sure of one thing. It would fight to the very end, and if it failed it would not be because it yielded. It would be because it had been utterly destroyed.
