by Jay Allan
Erica West had been through hundreds of warp gate transits, and not a few under battle conditions. It’s odd to think this is the last one. How often do people realize the last time they will do something they have done many times, the final moment they see someone they have been close to for years?
“Transit…now.”
She felt the usual disorientation…and then the space in front of her was different, the field of stars nothing like it had been a few seconds before. She didn’t know where they were yet, and she wouldn’t until the ship’s AI and scanning systems rebooted and crunched on the navigational data. But she knew she was lightyears from where she had been, across a vastness of interstellar space it would take decades for a ship to cross conventionally.
The deep space that will be your grave soon…
“Scanners, Captain…as quickly as possible.” It was a pointless order, as much something to do as anything else. A warp gate transit always scrambled a ship’s systems, and there was little even a gifted commander could do to speed the recovery.
“Rebooting now, Admiral.” Perhaps a minute later. “We’re getting readings.” He looked up and stared over at the command station. “I think it’s them. They’re half a million kilometers ahead.”
West felt a rush of adrenalin. That was practically right next door in interplanetary terms. “All ships, execute 6g thrust directly toward enemy. All missile crews, prepare to fire on my command.”
Captain Black relayed the admiral’s orders, both to his own crew and the commanders of the other vessels. “All ships acknowledge, Admiral.”
West felt herself pushed hard back into her chair as Hudson’s engines fired. Six gees was a lot to endure out of the tanks for an extended period, but she wanted to close the range immediately. She was betting they’d caught Zhang flat-footed, just in from the warp gate, accelerating at 1g and moving at a low velocity as his people scanned the system’s potential exit gates.
He’s a damned fool to be so close to the gate at that velocity. Arrogant ass.
It would take time to get his crews into the tanks and make a run for it, and she was damned if she was going to give him that opportunity.
“Launch all missiles, consecutive volleys,” she said, forcing the words out under the heavy pressure of Hudson’s thrust. Her light cruisers didn’t have external racks, like heavy cruisers and capital ships did, but they did carry enough ordnance to launch three waves—and she was damned sure going to send them all Zhang’s way. She thought the CAC admiral was a pompous fool, damned near incompetent, but Tang was still a battleship, if an old and small one. There was no point taking chances.
“Yes, Admiral. Launching all missiles.” Black’s voice was strained. Six gees of pressure made breathing a difficult exercise and talking even worse.
We caught him, Admiral Compton. And I promise you, we won’t let him go…
* * *
“How? How is this possible?” Zhang’s voice was distraught, his fear on display for the entire bridge crew to see and hear.
“The pursuing force appears to consist entirely of Alliance Thames-class light cruisers.” The tactical officer’s voice was haggard, but he acquitted himself better than his commander in controlling his fear. “They are capable of considerably greater acceleration than any of our vessels.” He paused. “It would appear Admiral Compton sent his fastest ships after us.”
Zhang squirmed in his seat. “We have to make a run for it. We need to get everyone in the tanks now.”
“That won’t work, sir,” the tactical officer said. By the time we could get into the tanks, they’d be on us. And besides, they’d catch us anyway.”
Zhang took a deep breath and tried to gain control over himself. He’d planned his mutiny carefully, enlisting Udinov as well as Samar and Peltier…the commanders of forty percent of the entire fleet. But almost since they’d launched their plan things had gone wrong. The standoff over the fueling station had been bad enough, but the sudden appearance of First Imperium forces had been an unmitigated disaster. In the end, he’d lost his co-conspirators…and most of his own CAC contingent, all of whom refused to run from a fight.
Fucking Compton. He couldn’t just let us go…
“Sir, the pursuing force has launched missiles.”
Zhang slumped back in his chair. He hated the Alliance admiral with a raging passion. But there wasn’t time for that now. He had to find a way out. “Our only option is to fight.”
“We are at a disadvantage in a battle.”
“But Tang’s firepower…”
“Our combat effectiveness is severely compromised. The attacking vessels have already launched missiles, and they are accelerating toward us even now.” Tang was a battleship, but like most of the older CAC designs, it was missile heavy and poorly outfitted with energy weapons. And the approaching ships would be firing their lasers before Zhang’s people could even begin to launch missiles.
“Then we must surrender.” The CAC admiral sat in his seat staring straight ahead.
“We are guilty of mutiny, Admiral.” The tactical officer’s voice was thick with disgust. “We fled in the middle of a battle, leaving our allies behind.” A long pause: “It is inconceivable to expect Admiral Compton to do anything but impose the regulation sentence on all of us.” Which everyone present knew was death by spacing.
Zhang sucked in a deep breath, trying to control the fear beginning to take him over. “We must attempt a ruse,” he said. “Transmit our surrender…and when the approaching forces close to board, open fire with all weapons.”
The tactical officer glanced over at Zhang and then back to his workstation. “Yes, Admiral,” he said, his voice pinched, as if he’d tasted something bad. “Transmitting now, sir.”
* * *
“Admiral, Tang is signaling surrender.”
“I am aware of that, Captain.” West was stone still, sitting at her station staring straight ahead. Her voice was like ice. “Carry on.”
“But, Admiral, shouldn’t we accept their surrender? They are giving up.”
“Admiral Compton said nothing about taking prisoners. These are mutineers, traitors—men and women who fled battle while their comrades were fighting for their lives. It may be tempting to be merciful…”—it wasn’t tempting at all to West—“or to imagine we can take their vessels, but it is not that simple. Admiral Zhang is a fool and a coward, but even he knows Admiral Compton would never spare his life after all he has done. No, Captain, this is almost certainly a trick of some kind. And we cannot risk even the chance of allowing any of these vessels to escape. We will have just this one pass, and we have to destroy them.” She leaned back and sighed.
“Besides,” she said wearily, “none of our vessels have enough fuel to come about and match velocity with any of Zhang’s ships, so whatever fuel he has might as well be a thousand lightyears away.” It was pure mathematics. Her flotilla would pass right by Zhang’s force, and none of her vessels had enough power remaining to decelerate and head back to dock with a captured ship. It was frustrating, almost ironic, to have vessels carrying the precious fuel she needed, and no way to get to it. Zhang’s ships had the fuel to dock with hers, but if she completed her pass and left them alive, they’d have no reason to surrender. They could just continue on their course, leaving her people heading off into deep space.
“Yes, Admiral,” Black said softly. “I understand.” Half a minute later: “All ships report ready to engage with laser batteries.”
West stared straight ahead. She paused for an instant, and then she uttered a single word. “Fire.”
* * *
West sat quietly, glancing around Hudson’s bridge. There was a smoky haze, and the smell of burnt machinery hung heavily in the air. Zhang was dead…all the mutineers were. The battle had been short but nasty. Once they realized their trick had failed, Zhang’s people had fought for survival with all the ferocity they could muster. The rebellious admiral and his crews had battled hard, and they ha
dn’t died alone.
Two of West’s cruisers had been destroyed outright, and the rest had varying degrees of damage. Hudson had taken two solid hits, but her damage control teams had done a masterful job of repairing battered systems. All in all, West’s flagship smelled like it was harder hit than it actually was.
Normally, she’d have increased power to the circulation system and cleared the air, but Hudson had barely enough fuel to maintain basic life support. Indeed, West realized her people wouldn’t have long to contemplate their fates. She doubted they had more than a couple weeks left, even at minimal power utilization.
Still, that’s a long time to sit with nothing to do but stare death in the face. Not just death, but an eternity in the unknown depths of space.
Spacers in general were drawn from fairly hardy stock. It took a certain amount of natural toughness to venture into the cold darkness. And naval crews faced death every time they entered battle.
But this is different…
West knew even the bravest had their worst fears…and for spacers it was being lost, hurtling forever through the endless depths. And now her people would face just that fate.
Still, she thought, maybe—just maybe—we saved all of humanity. Perhaps that fool Zhang would have found his way home somehow…and led the First Imperium back with him. She knew that wasn’t likely, that Zhang hadn’t had a strong chance of finding his way back. But even a small risk was too great when the stakes were so high. She knew her people were going to die, but they would all die heroes.
And that is worth something…even if no one back on Earth—and in all the colonies—knows it…
She wanted to believe that, but still, she felt doubts, uncertainty…and a voice deep from within telling her death was just that. Death.
Chapter Twenty-One
From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton
If I’d been asked what I would put in a final log entry, I imagine my answer would have been expansive, an almost endless outpouring detailing all the commendations and final messages I would have included. But such a response ignores the fact that, by its nature, a final log entry is made during the heat of a hopeless battle or some other disaster. We face such a final fight now, one we have no chance to survive, and my time belongs to my people, to ensuring that though we will die now, our deaths will not come cheaply to the enemy.
So, I will say one thing only, and then I will jettison this log in the remote hope that a human ship may one day find it. Whoever may one day read this, know that a human fleet of over 200 ships ventured deep into the First Imperium, that we fought the enemy with the last of our strength, and that we died fighting.
And in the event it is the First Imperium that recovers this log and is able to translate it and understand my writings, I have a message for you as well. Go fuck yourselves. One day, a fleet of beings like me will come back here, and they will blast you all into oblivion.
AS Midway
X18 System
The Fleet: 186 ships, 40,453 crew
“At least there are still no Colossus’ in the enemy fleet,” Cortez said, struggling to sound hopeful. “They must be main battle units of some kind, not kept with the rest of the local forces.”
Compton almost laughed. Gallows humor, he thought. He appreciated Cortez’ attempt to find some good news in the situation. He knew it was quite a reach. There were twenty Leviathans leading a First Imperium fleet of over 150 ships. His own vessels were damaged from the fight they had just finished, their crews exhausted. They had no anti-ship missiles at all—and a severely depleted supply of other expendable ordnance. The fleet was beyond outmatched, it was doomed. He knew what his AI would say if he asked for a percentage chance of survival…mathematically indistinguishable from zero.
Compton had always been strangely amused by that phrase, one that had clearly been programmed into the fleet’s AI systems. He’d heard it reported to him in those—mostly human-sounding but not quite—voices many times. But this would be the first time it applied to his own chances of survival.
Why don’t they just say none, no chance at all…it’s over? Some bizarre need to offer the illusion of hope where there was none?
He had an urge to order the fleet to run for it, to make for the X20 warp gate and transit before they were blown to bits. The supply ships were there, with enough ordnance to refit his combat units. But a quick look at the display only confirmed what he already knew. His ships didn’t have a chance of outrunning the faster First Imperium vessels to the gate.
And dying in the tanks is the worst way to go…
He had to stand and fight. There was no other choice. Maybe we can buy some time for the supply ships to escape. He didn’t try to fool himself that the almost unarmed transports would survive for long on their own, but they’d have a chance, at least. The same words, mathematically indistinguishable from zero, drifted through his head again, amid thoughts of the helpless supply vessels being chased down and blown apart by First Imperium warships.
No, we will fight because that is who we are, because I will not die fleeing from the enemy, blasted to plasma as I run…nor will I see these brave men and women I have led meet their ends so ignominiously. We will fight because that is who we are, because if these infernal machines want to destroy us, we will make them pay a terrible price for their victory. If we must die—if we must die—let it be a worthy death.
Compton forced himself bolt upright in his chair. “Commander Cortez, the fleet will remain at red alert.” His voice was firm, commanding, not a touch of fear evident. Thank God they don’t know how fake it is. “All taskforces are to reform into battle array delta-two.”
“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez’ tone was firmer. Compton had always been amazed at what strong leadership could achieve. They would follow his example, draw strength from him, even as they faced certain death. He’d known for decades how crucial that was for fighting men and women. But few of them understood what it cost the commanders they followed so bravely, the drain of projecting that constant strength in the face of horror after horror. Augustus Garret, Elias Holm, Erik Cain…Compton had been privileged to serve alongside a number of legendary commanders. And he’d see firsthand how the stress and pressure affected them, eating them alive, hollowing them out from the inside. But they still did it. For them—for him—there was no other way.
“Admiral Hurley is to scramble her fighters immediately.” Compton felt a pang of guilt. Hurley’s crews had been to hell and back…again and again. Sending them into the teeth of this new force was murder, pure and simple. But this time there was no point in holding them back. If they didn’t die in their fighters in combat with the enemy, they’d die in their bays when their motherships were torn to shreds or vaporized by their exploding reactors.
No one is coming back from this fight…
“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later: “All squadrons are scrambling, sir. Admiral Hurley advises four minutes until launch readiness.”
Four minutes? That’s impossible. But this is Greta Hurley, so is anything impossible?
“Very well,” he said simply. I wish I had time to go down to the bay and shake her hand. I doubt we will meet again…
“Alright Commander…the rest of the fleet will prepare for high-g maneuvers. I want everyone in the tanks ten minutes after the fighters are launched. We haven’t got any missiles, so we need to get to energy range as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, sir,” Cortez snapped.
Compton wasn’t at all sure he was ordering the right maneuver, but he knew being unsure was the one luxury he did not have right now. At least not as far as anyone in the crew was concerned. Maximum acceleration would get the fleet to energy weapons range quickly…but they would still pass through the enemy’s missile barrage.
At high velocity, it was difficult to significantly alter a vessel’s trajectory, in essence making its course more predictable, and therefore easier to target. On the other hand, while a slower moving ship could
more easily execute radical changes to its vector, it was obliged to spend more time in the kill zone. It was a debate that had raged for a century in the naval academies, and one for which no generally-accepted agreement had ever been reached. Against a highly skilled adversary like Augustus Garret, he would have opted for a slower approach, attempting to confound his enemy’s targeting with rapid and unpredictable course changes. But the First Imperium intelligences were far less adept at battle tactics than their overall sophistication suggested, and Compton wanted to get to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.
Maybe you just want to get it over with. Half a century at war…and now you face your last battle. There will be no stories, no history, no legacy of the great Terrance Compton other than that you were trapped beyond the Barrier…and assumed dead in system X2. This isn’t about how you go down in history…no one here will survive to remember, save perhaps in some jettisoned log destined to float forever in the depths of space. No, this isn’t about anything except you…and these men and women who have fought by your side. We will have good deaths…and in our final moments, we will know we have remained strong and defiant to the last…
* * *
“Commander, please…we have to get your people to the tanks.” The medical technician was rushing around the edge of the bed.
Mariko Fujin stared back with blazing eyes. “We’re not going to the tanks.”
“But Commander, you must. The ship will be accelerating at more than 30g. We can continue your cleanse once you are in the system.” The sickbay acceleration tanks were specially designed to allow medical treatments to continue while a ship was executing high gee maneuvers. It was far from ideal, but it was the only alternative when a vessel was going into battle. A stretch of time in the tanks could be dangerous or fatal for a badly wounded patient, but Fujin’s people were undergoing a relatively minor procedure.
“I’m sorry, Ensign,” she said, pulling the last of the IV connections from her arm, “but my people and I are going to our fighter, not to the tanks.” She looked over the flustered medic’s shoulder toward Hiroki, who was following her lead and tearing the plastic tubing from his own arm.
