by Jay Allan
The bridge lights dimmed as more of the reactor’s power was diverted to the weapons. Petersburg’s three remaining main batteries were targeting a single enemy ship, a Leviathan, the same vessel Midway was blasting. The enemy battleship was still fighting back, but with fewer and fewer of its weapons as the combined lasers of the two human dreadnoughts ripped into its ruptured hull.
“Keep firing,” Udinov said, as if his determination could recharge the lasers faster. He could see the enemy ship was dying, but a First Imperium vessel, especially a battleship, was dangerous until the end.
Almost in answer to his thought, Petersburg shook hard, and the flag bridge was plunged into darkness. The workstations stayed live, and a second later, the emergency lights engaged, providing a dim but workable illumination.
“The reactor is down, sir.”
Udinov just nodded. He didn’t need Stanovich’s damage report to know what had happened. He turned and stared across the shadowy bridge. “I want it restarted. Now.” He slapped his hand against the side of his chair.
Stanovich turned back to his board. A few seconds later he said, “Engineer says five minute to restart att…”
“Now!” Udinov roared. “No five minutes, not three minutes. Right now…whatever the risk.”
Stanovich hesitated a few seconds. “Yes, sir,” he finally said.
Udinov sat in his chair like a statue. The scragged reactor meant his lasers weren’t firing. And that meant Petersburg was useless…just when the fleet needed her most. Five minutes…in five minutes this fight will be decided.
The ship shook hard, and an instant later the lights came back. A few seconds later Stanovich turned and stared over at Udinov. “Power restored, sir. Some radiation leaks, casualties in engineering. But the lasers are recharging now.”
“They are to fire at once when ready, Commander. It’s time to win this battle.”
* * *
Greta Hurley was rubbing the back of her neck. Her fighter had just come close to getting blasted to plasma. And if anybody other than John Wilder had been at the controls—myself included—we’d all be dead. The pilot’s keen eye had seen the missile’s approach on the scanner, and his sudden maneuver put a couple klicks between ship and the warhead before it detonated.
The sudden thrust had been unexpected, and Greta had twisted her neck hard. Kip Janz had smacked his head against his workstation, and the others had gotten banged up as well. But no one was complaining, and Hurley suspected they were all silently giving thanks that the best pilot in the fleet was at the helm of their bird.
She flipped on her master com, addressing the entire strike force. “Okay, listen up. The first time we hit these bastards, we were picking off cripples. But the battleline’s deep in it now, so the situation is different. I want you all to break off and find the ships putting out the heaviest fire…and hit them as hard as you can. We’re not counting dead hulls now, we’re degrading their firepower. Every battery we take out could be the one that saves one of the battlewagons…maybe even the one your squadron calls home.”
She looked down at the display. There were barely a hundred fighters in her formation. In addition to the losses from the first attack, she had fifty birds back in the hangers, too shot up to launch without major repairs. And she’d had to ground Mariko Fujin’s ship so the crews could be treated for radiation exposure. Fujin had put up a fight, insisting they could fly one more mission before their condition became critical, but Hurley had taken one look at the radiation readings and ordered the spirited officer, and everyone else in her fighter, to report directly to sickbay.
“I don’t have to tell you how much you’ve all contributed to the survival of the fleet, but Admiral Compton himself asked me to give you his thanks…and his immense respect. You have all performed brilliantly, heroically, and I have never felt the level of pride in a group of warriors that I do in all of you. But we’re not done. The enemy still stands before us, and while they are there we will never rest. The spirits of all those who have died fighting these monsters are with you at this moment. Now, let’s get in there, do our jobs, and get the hell out and back to our ships.”
She turned toward Wilder. “I told them all to pick their targets. That applies to you as well, Commander. You see anywhere promising for us to drop a plasma torpedo?”
“I was thinking about that Leviathan over there…coordinates 300.273.092. It seems to be fighting Midway and Petersburg.”
Hurley smiled. Fighters approaching a formed up fleet had to get through a lot of interdiction before closing, but once the task forces were disordered and the battleships engaged with each other, almost all their targeting efforts were turned elsewhere…and a lone fighter could get in close for a good shot.
Hurley nodded. “I like the way you think, Commander Wilder.” She glanced down at the display herself and took a deep breath. “Let’s go get that son of a bitch.”
* * *
Terrance Compton rubbed his hand across his face, wiping the dripping sweat onto the leg of his pants. The survival suit was hot, uncomfortable. But it was vital too if an enemy hit breached the flag bridge. Compton had seen too many spacers killed because they’d neglected to wear their suits or they’d left their helmets too far out of reach. He’d made it clear that any of his people caught without the proper gear during a fight would be sorry if they somehow managed to survive.
The battle had been going nonstop for almost ten hours. Compton’s people had fought bravely, brilliantly, and they’d unleashed hell on the attacking First Imperium fleet. They’d destroyed over a hundred enemy vessels, and now he had his entire fleet positioned to destroy the last enemy task force.
The fight had been brutal and costly, but thankfully, Compton had been so busy directing the fight, he hadn’t had much time to think about the losses. Thousands of his people had died over the past ten hours, and more of his irreplaceable ships had been gutted or blasted to plasma when their reactor cores had ruptured. But that was for later. Right now, there were still enemy ships to engage, and that was the admiral’s only concern.
“Transmit navigational data to all ships.”
“Yes, Admiral,” Cortez replied, clearly trying to sound alert through the crushing fatigue Compton knew his aide was feeling.
Compton’s orders were simple. The fleet was closing in on itself, forming a single dense battleline to finish off the last of their adversaries. The fight was almost over, the remaining enemy ships damaged and outgunned. A human opponent would almost certainly have retreated. But First Imperium vessels didn’t react the way people did. They almost always fought to the death.
“Sir, Admiral Hurley’s fighters have all landed. She is requesting permission to rearm and go back out.” Hurley’s own ship had just finished off the enemy battleship Midway and Petersburg had been fighting…and it had been a quick trip back to the flagship’s landing bays.
“Permission denied.” A grim smiled passed over his lips. In all his years of naval service, he’d seen few cut from the same cloth as Greta Hurley. He knew she was fearless. No, that’s not fair. We’re all scared, even her. But Hurley never lets it affect her choices. Never.
Compton had known other officers like her, those who could stand in the line, unwavering against whatever came upon her. But he’d never seen one so able to pass that trait to those she led. In X2, and again in the current battles, Hurley’s squadrons had fought like demons from hell, launching attack after attack, without regard to fear or fatigue.
Hurley was a specialist, a commander of fighter squadrons, and because she’d never led fleets of battleships, she hadn’t gotten the same attention as some of the other heroes of the war. But no one has done more, and no force has made a larger contribution—or paid a greater price—than her fighter wings.
“Admiral Hurley is to see to her squadrons’ refit, but she is not to launch.” Compton was planning to finish off the remaining enemy ships and then make a run for the X20 warp gate. There would be n
o time to retrieve scattered fighter groups. And Terrance Compton didn’t have the stomach to send more of his people on a suicide mission.
He didn’t doubt Admiral West would catch Zhang and destroy his renegade ships. She was one of the best, destined to one day reach the highest levels of command—at least before she was lost in space with the fleet. He knew her ships would never make it back. They’d both pretended in their last conversation, paying lip service to the hope that her people would manage to stop Zhang and return. But Compton knew West didn’t believe that any more than he did. Zhang was running for his life, which meant he was buttoned up in the tanks blasting away at full power. West’s ships were faster, so if she picked up his trail she could catch him…but by then her force would have burned through most of its fuel. She simply wouldn’t have enough left to come to a halt and then accelerate back to the fleet.
And she won’t even know where the fleet is…we can’t stay here.
Compton’s mind drifted from the battle, just for a few moments. He knew the fate that awaited Erica West and her crews. Their vessels would become ghost ships, tearing through space without the fuel to decelerate. Her people would live, for a while at least, until their power reserves were completely gone. Then they would spend eternity in the cold blackness, frozen corpses still manning their posts as their vessels continued on into the endless dark.
He forced his thoughts back to the present, to the fight still raging around him. There was nothing he could do for West and her people, nothing but mourn them and nurse the guilt for having sent them to their deaths. But that could wait. There were still enemy ships to destroy. And a fleet full of spacers he could help to survive.
Time to wrap things up and get out of here.
Once his battered ships transited, they could link up with the supply ships and reload their empty magazines. And then the fleet would continue onward, fleeing the enemy and repairing whatever damage they could on the run.
Escaping to X20 wasn’t a cure all, and if there were more First Imperium fleets on the way he knew it would only buy his people a short period, perhaps a day or two. But he needed that 48 hours. There wasn’t a missile on any of his warships…not one. He dreaded the idea of putting his people through yet another fight on the heels of these last two, but at least they’d have a chance if they were rearmed and supplied.
Compton sat silently, watching the final engagements on the display. He’d been actively directing almost every aspect of the battle, but now he was finished. His people knew what to do, and he saw icon after icon disappearing—First Imperium vessels vaporized by the coordinated assaults of his task forces.
It’s a good thing they’re weak tactically, he thought, not for the first time. The First Imperium technology was vastly superior, but the intelligences who directed their fleets, amazing creations though they were, could not match the skills of a gifted human commander, not without a massive advantage in firepower.
He winced as he saw one of his own ships disappear. Abdullah, he thought to himself, doublechecking the key to confirm. Light cruiser, 188 crew…
Still, despite the loss, the final stages of the battle went well, coordinated packs of human ships encircling the few enemy survivors and blasting them to pieces with overwhelming concentrations of fire. A few minutes later, it was over. The only ships remaining in the X18 system were those of Compton’s fleet.
He sighed hard and rubbed his hands over his temples. His head throbbed, and he felt the fatigue at the fringes of his consciousness, like a great wave straining to come over him, held back only by the chemistry of the stims he’d been popping like candy. He took a deep breath and arched his shoulders backward, stretching. It was time to give his people some rest.
“Commander,” he said, glancing over at Cortez, “Bring the fleet back to condition yell…”
“Admiral, we’re getting readings from the warp gate!” Cortez’ words slammed into Compton like a club.
“Readings?” Compton snapped back, trying desperately to keep his own demoralization out of his tone.
“It looks bad, sir.” Cortez paused, just for a few seconds, and then he continued, his voice grim. “It looks like at least a dozen Leviathan’s in the lead, Admiral.” Another pause. “No, eighteen now…twenty…still coming through, sir.”
Compton slouched back in his chair. It didn’t matter anymore. His people were exhausted, his ships low on supplies and ordnance. They would fight, he knew that.
And they would die. He knew that too.
Chapter Twenty
Admiral Erica West: Final Log Entry
As I dictate this, we are approaching our next transit. Our best analysis of Admiral Zhang’s particle trail, suggests we will catch and engage his forces in the next system. I am gratified that we have been able to follow his force, and that we will have the opportunity to complete this crucial mission.
I will jettison my log before we make the next transit. I do this for multiple reasons, including the possibility that I will not survive the battle to come. But I have other motivations. I know our fuel supply is nearly exhausted…and the fight looming ahead will almost certainly drain the task force’s tanks. I doubt we will have enough to even bring ourselves to a halt at the end of the battle, much less turn and head back toward the fleet. At this moment, we are a task force of the Grand Pact, engaged in an important operation. I would rather end my story as such…and not as a helpless passenger on a doomed ship. I will, of course, send another probe after the battle, with a complete battle report and a confirmation that Zhang’s forces have been destroyed. But I will end my personal log now.
I know there is little chance that any human ship will ever find this record, but if one does, even decades or centuries from now, I would like to state that my officers and crew understand the importance of our mission. Perhaps Zhang has no chance of finding a route back home. Indeed, almost certainly the odds are heavily against it. But if he does, and the enemy is able to follow, the cost would be nothing less than the complete destruction of the human race. So, if some future vessel finds this, know that my people sacrificed all so that you had the chance to exist. And if you are still fighting the First Imperium, in your next battle, strike a blow for a group of Alliance spacers, long dead and gone…
AS Hudson
Unnamed System, Four Transits from X18
The Fleet: 186 ships, 40,651 crew
“They’ve been through here, Admiral. Recently.” Davis Black looked over from the workstation back toward the command chair. His chair, at least until recently. Hudson’s captain had insisted Admiral West take the bridge’s command station, and he’d move himself to the spare position. She’d refused twice, but he’d finally gotten her to relent, as much by persistence as by reminding her that she needed the enhanced com build into the captain’s station.
West nodded as she looked back. The Thames-class light cruisers hadn’t been built to serve as an admiral’s flagship, and there was no provision for a flag officer or her staff. But they were the fastest ships in the Alliance navy, and speed was what she needed.
“Very well, Captain Black.” She stared down at the display. The particle trail was lighter here. She guessed Zhang’s ships had come through this stretch of space at low to moderate acceleration. She had respect neither for the CAC admiral’s character nor his ability, and she knew the coward would have blasted away like crazy to escape from Terrance Compton’s wrath if he could have, staying in the tanks at full thrust 24/7. But that just wasn’t possible. Systems were vulnerable to breakdown, and crews could only tolerate so much time in the tanks. And his ships had to alter their vectors in each system to navigate to the next warp gate. Depending on the layout of gates in a system, that could entail considerable deceleration to sustain the required heading changes.
“Position us for transit, Captain. We’ll scan as soon as we get through and then decide how to proceed.” She knew she’d already burned enough of her dwindling fuel supply to eliminate any cha
nce of making it back to the fleet. That wasn’t a surprise—she’d known from the instant Compton gave her the assignment it was a one way trip. But knowing something intangible was different that seeing the mathematical certainty. Her people were lost. All they could do now was make certain to carry out their mission. Otherwise, they would all die for nothing. West could face death if she had to, but futile death was unthinkable.
“Transit in two minutes, Admiral.”
West just nodded.
I hope I’m right about that trail. Because if Zhang isn’t in this next system, we’re not going to have enough fuel to catch the bastard.
“Ninety seconds.” Hudson’s nav officer was calling off the countdown.
The bridge was silent, save for the distant hum of the reactor. The crew understood what was happening. They knew they were on their last mission, and they were well aware of its importance. Erica West glanced around at Hudson’s bridge crew, ignoring their fate, focusing totally on their duties.
I’ve never been prouder of a group of spacers under my command.
“Sixty seconds.”
West stared down at the screen, but her own thoughts clouded her vision. Will they be there? How close to the warp gate? Will they be ready for us?
Probably not, they have no way of knowing we’re here. But we’ll be ready for them…
“I want all ships at red alert, Captain…all gunners at their positions.”
“Yes, Admiral.” A few seconds later, Hudson’s bridge was bathed in the red light of the battlestations lamps.
“Thirty seconds.”
