Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  Hornet was preparing to leave Adelaide’s system, but they weren’t heading back to the Alliance…they were on a course out into the Rim, back in the direction from which the First Imperium invaders had come. One more fast attack ship wouldn’t make much difference back wherever the fleet was mounting its defense. But loose deep behind the enemy lines, who knew? Maybe they could do some good…sabotage supply lines or gain some useful intel. It was a daring mission…Hornet was going to earn the designation suicide boat. It wasn’t always meant as a compliment when the other branches of the service used it, but the attack ship crews invariably took it as one.

  “Let’s get everybody in the couches before we transit, ensign.” Jacobs leaned back in his own seat as he spoke. “We may need to make some fast maneuvers once we go through the gate. Those few minutes could make the difference.”

  “Yes, sir.” Carp flipped his com to the shipwide circuit. “All personnel report to your acceleration couches immediately.” He turned toward the captain. “Insertion course plotted into the nav computer, sir. Ready to execute on your mark.”

  Jacobs took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds before exhaling. “Let’s go, ensign.” He slapped his hand lightly on his armrest as he issued the order. “Execute.”

  Carp bent over his workstation. “Engaging thrust plan Gamma-3.” The ship shook and Jacobs felt the increased pressure of 2g acceleration. Carp hesitated, listening to something on his earpiece. “All personnel are in their couches, sir.”

  Jacobs leaned back. He wasn’t going to actually activate the couches, not until he saw what was on the other side of the gate. But at least with the crew in position they could be at maximum thrust in less than a minute.

  “Five minutes, forty-five seconds to insertion, captain.” Carp was focused intently on his screen. His voice was so steady it was almost robotic. “All systems 100% operational, sir.”

  “Very well, ensign.” Jacobs stared straight ahead. “Forward then, and let’s see what awaits us.”

  Chapter 3

  Bridge – AS John Paul Jones

  Point Epsilon

  Near Psi Capricorni Warp Gate

  “Full power to the engines. I want maximum thrust in one minute.” Captain Gwen Beacham was already encased in her acceleration couch…along with the other 323 members of the crew. The heavy cruiser was thrusting at 14g, but that wasn’t going to be enough. The air was thick with acrid smoke…the ship had taken more than one hit, but she was still in the fight.

  “Understood, captain. Full power in six zero seconds.” The voice of her chief engineer sounded distant through the ship’s com system. Lieutenant Commander Grove was one of the best. He played the fusion reactor like a virtuoso coaxing sound from a violin. But there was only so much he could do to keep the ship’s systems functioning. Another hit like the last one, and she would be dead in space.

  John Paul Jones had been on station at Point Epsilon for six months. Six boring, uneventful months. Epsilon was a rarity, a starless nexus where two warp gates converged. While the science of the gates was imperfectly understood in the best of circumstances, their occasional occurrence out in deep space was a complete mystery. But Point Epsilon was on the way from Farpoint to Sandoval, the natural invasion route for the enemy to take on its way into the heart of the Alliance.

  Beacham had chafed at the inaction, but now she longed for the aching boredom. The enemy had finally come through the warp gate; that much was certain. A cluster of the new, smaller ships – her people had been calling them Gremlins – transited first. Damn, she thought, these bastards are learning. It was getting harder to mousetrap them.

  The larger enemy ships were equipped with massively powerful anti-matter weapons, and several Alliance fleets had managed to trick them into firing early. Antimatter was a fragile substance; if containment failed for a nanosecond it would annihilate immediately, vaporizing whatever vessel was carrying it. Admiral West had even managed to sneak up on the First Imperium forces at Cornwall and attack before they’d ejected their antimatter ordnance. She’d destroyed half a dozen ships outright, and driven the survivors back long enough for her to rescue the Marines on the planet.

  Now the enemy was sending scouting fleets through the warp gates first. The Gremlins were tough – all First Imperium ships were – but they were small and expendable, and they carried no antimatter missiles. They transited and determined what was on the other side of the warp gate. If it was a major fleet, they signaled the heavier ships waiting on the other side. If it was a screening force intended to strip the heavy weapons from the bigger vessels, the Gremlins engaged it.

  Beacham’s vessel had been waiting there with five other cruisers and a cloud of attack ships. It wasn’t a major fleet, but it was too much for half a dozen Gremlins to easily take out, so the First Imperium force had called in reinforcements. Their dark energy communications system allowed them to send messages through warp gates at lightspeed, a massive advantage over the Alliance’s physical drones. Fifteen Gargoyles transited, more than enough to take out the defenders. The battle had been raging for 72 hours, and the battered Alliance survivors were trying to break off.

  Now, two of the Leviathans came through, surrounded by another twenty Gargoyles. The massive battleships were like nothing the humans had ever seen. Almost 4 kilometers long, they were two and a half times the tonnage of the Alliance’s Yorktown class battleships. It was the biggest force the enemy had yet deployed, and just trying to estimate its firepower made Beacham’s head hurt.

  “Delta-Z transmission from Manchester, captain.” Lieutenant Wharton’s voice was scratchy, labored. Wrapped in the heavy cocoon of the acceleration couch and exhausted from three days of nonstop fighting and maneuver, she sounded like she was near the breaking point. Beacham knew all her people were.

  She didn’t respond to Wharton’s report. What was there to say? Things were deteriorating rapidly. Force Q, as the flotilla had been designated, was coming apart. Admiral Sand was dead, blasted to bits along with Vicksburg. With Manchester gone, she’d be the senior captain left alive…and the new commander of the dying task force.

  My first multi-ship command, she thought grimly…most likely my last, too. She had four cruisers and a dozen attack ships left, but half of them were wracked by internal explosions and bleeding atmosphere. The attack ships were out of plasma torpedoes, which made them almost useless against a First Imperium vessel. The light lasers the suicide boats carried wouldn’t even scratch the mysterious dark matter infused alloy in a Gargoyle’s hull.

  Force Q’s cruisers had been the first ships to be armed with the new missiles. Each weapon carried ten 500-megaton enhanced fusion warheads, giving them a total yield comparable to the enemy antimatter devices. That power, came at a cost, however. The new missiles massed well over 1,000 tons, and a ship the size of John Paul Jones could only carry four, mounted on its external racks.

  The enemy was still having a hard time dealing with sophisticated ECM, and the new weapons had been loaded with jammers and other systems designed to confuse point defense and other interdiction systems. It was a partial success. A lot of the new missiles were intercepted before they reached detonation range, but the ones that got through proved very effective at inflicting damage on the Gargoyles. But they were gone now, expended along with every standard missile in Force Q.

  “Commencing maximum thrust in five, four, three, two, one.” The ship’s AI counted down. Beacham grimaced as the pressure jumped from 14 to 23 gravities. She didn’t even feel the needle as her couch’s control system injected an increased dose of the drug cocktail into her arm. She was sluggish, and she could feel her mind drifting from reality into subconscious wandering. Between the pressure and the drugs it was almost impossible to stay focused at 23g, not for more than a few seconds.

  The task force was running for it. They’d done all the damage they could do to the enemy, delayed them as long as possible. To stay was nothing but useless suicide. Unfortunately
, fleeing didn’t look much more promising. The two worst-damaged cruisers had no hope at all of escaping, and the rest of the force wasn’t much likelier to make it to the relative safety of the Gamma Sagittarii warp gate.

  She struggled to open her eyes and stare at the plotting screen a few centimeters over her head. It took practice to correctly read the flat tactical displays. A stylized 2-D representation of three dimensional space, flats, as they were called, were the only thing practical for use under heavy acceleration.

  She winced – Quebec was already falling behind. One of her engines was damaged, and her reactor was reporting some disturbing fluctuations. It would be a race to see if the enemy caught her first or if the reactor blew from over-powering. Either way, another 300+ Alliance fleet crew were going to die in this dark, forsaken corner of deep space.

  She tried to assess the status of the other ships on the display, but the pressure was too much. Her eyes were tearing hard and, finally, she couldn’t take it anymore. She closed her eyes, and tried to stay at least partially lucid. But the relentless pressure combined with the heavy concentration of the drugs was too much. She felt the floating sensation, the strange detachment from time and space. She wasn’t hallucinating, not yet. At least she didn’t think so. But she wasn’t concentrating on anything either. Had a second passed? A minute? A week?

  The harsh white light assaulted Beacham’s eyes. She could feel the wave moved across her body, through her mind, clearing away the fog, the fatigue. Stims, she realized. As her head cleared, she could see the light wasn’t bright at all. It was soft, dim…emergency power. The crushing pressure was gone, replaced by total weightlessness. John Paul Jones was in freefall.

  “Porthos, report immediately.” Beacham was a fan of old literature, and she’d pulled a name for her AI from an ancient classic novel.

  The AI responded in its usual calm, soft tones. “Yes, captain. The reactor self-terminated operations, reasons unknown. The primary ship AI is conducting a diagnostic test at this time.”

  Beacham was one of those captains who liked to work through her crew rather than directly with an AI. But right now she had no idea what shape her people were in…and no time to find out. “Damn,” she spat bitterly to herself. “What a time for the reactor to scrag.”

  “The ship is approximately 47.4 million kilometers from the warp gate insertion point. We remain on target vector. At our current velocity of 0.0401c, we will transit in one hour, one minute, 40 seconds.” The AI continued its report, ignoring the coughs and wheezes as Beacham tried pull herself together after the high gee forces.

  Good, she thought…at least we’re still on vector. But if we lose an hour of acceleration, we’ve got even less chance of making it before they catch us. She sighed, lifting herself painfully from the now-open acceleration couch. Every inch of her body hurt. Damn…she’d been so busy worrying about John Paul Jones, she forgot the rest of the task force. She’d been in command all of ten conscious minutes. “Task force status?”

  “Quebec was destroyed by enemy particle accelerator attack approximately three hours fourteen minutes ago.” Beacham closed her eyes. It wasn’t unexpected, but it still hurt. Worse, even…because she had a few friends on Quebec. “Dragonfly and Foxhound were also destroyed.”

  She tried to focus on the OB. Her head was still a little fuzzy despite the stims, but it was getting clearer every second. The two attack ships had been badly damaged. Again, it was no surprise they’d been taken out. “Other vessels?”

  “The rest of the task force is continuing to accelerate with maximum thrust.” There was a slight pause, almost imperceptible. “Portland is only producing 13.5g of thrust. The vessel is lagging approximately 11.7 million kilometers behind the main force. However, the pursuing enemy vessels began decelerating when the relief force transited.”

  “Relief force?” Beacham turned her head quickly, too quickly. She felt a rush of dizziness, and she sat back on her couch. “What are you talking about, Porthos?”

  “Forty-seven Alliance and allied vessels have transited from Gamma Sagittarii, commencing approximately eleven minutes ago. There are additional ships still exiting the warp gate.” The AI paused again. “I reported to you several times, captain, but you were non-responsive under the effects of the acceleration.”

  Beacham felt successive waves of emotion. Anger that the AI hadn’t notified her…even though it had tried. The fury passed quickly, and she started to remember the AI’s voice, speaking to her when she was floating incoherently. The drugs and gee forces affected people differently, with effects that could vary wildly from instance to instance. Now that clarity had returned, it was coming back.

  Excitement flooded through her, and curiosity. She hadn’t expected any reinforcements…and this seemed to be a major fleet coming through. What was going on?

  Terrance Compton sat bolt upright in his command chair, staring out over his staff. They were busily at work, focusing on the various displays that monitored Second Fleet’s 111 ships. They were scared too, very aware that they were about to engage in the largest naval battle yet fought against the invading forces of the Third Imperium. But Compton could feel their anger as well…their fearsome determination. The Alliance navy didn’t like to retreat, and for two years now that was damned near all they’d been doing. But not today, he thought with a predatory smile. Not until we make these bastards pay.

  Bunker Hill was the most fearsome instrument of destruction the Alliance had ever put into space, the newest of the Yorktown class battleships. Compton fought the temptation to micromanage its operations. Captain Arlington would fight her ship, and she’d do it with her usual skill…he was sure of that. Compton and Elizabeth Arlington were very close, and they shared a bond of trust beyond even that typical between an admiral and his flag captain. The two would probably have been lovers, but that was a line Compton wouldn’t cross, not while she was under his command.

  Arlington had been up for promotion to flag rank twice, including just before Second Fleet left for Point Epsilon, but she’d declined both times. She hadn’t wanted to leave her ship, and she hadn’t wanted to abandon Compton. Not now. Not when he had to face this terrifying enemy. Compton knew why she had turned the promotions down, but after the battle he intended to urge her take her star. If they were both still alive.

  “The fleet will come to battlestations.” Compton spoke slowly, evenly. He was the model of a proper naval officer, which would have been quite a shock to anyone who’d known him when he and Augustus Garret were hotshot suicide boat captains, tearing up enemy space and friendly ports with the same unrestrained vigor.

  “Yes, sir. All ships to battlestations.” Commander Harmon’s response was sharp and crisp. He’d proven to be a top notch tactical officer, which was a welcome surprise. Compton was considered an extraordinary judge of talent, but for once he’d promoted someone for reasons other than their tactical record. Max Harmon was the son of Admiral Camille Harmon. An officer who’d given decades of distinguished service, Camille Harmon had also supported Compton during the rebellions, when it looked as though he was disobeying Admiral Garret’s orders. She took two bullets for her trouble, courtesy of an Alliance Intelligence assassin planted in her crew. One of the shots severed her spine, and she spent two years enduring an agonizing series of surgeries and regenerations before Sarah Linden pronounced her healed and let her out of the hospital on Armstrong. Compton felt the least he could do was mentor her only son, and he was glad to see his favoritism justified…Max had proven himself multiple times since he’d joined the staff.

  Bunker Hill’s klaxon sounded - Captain Arlington following the fleet order Compton had just issued. They were coming in at a slow 0.01c, decelerating at a leisurely 1g. Compton was here to hit the enemy fleet, but he had no intention of getting sucked deep into the system into a deathmatch he couldn’t win. This was a hit and run operation, but on a fleet scale…part of the new grand strategy of attriting the enemy and forcing them to wa
ste supplies and ordnance. Plus, Compton had a few surprises to try out, goodies from Colonel Sparks and his pack of whitecoats in the lab.

  “All ships…prepare to launch bomber strikes. Alpha launch in 15 minutes, beta launch in 25.” Compton was looking over at Harmon as he fired out the command.

  “Yes, sir.” Harmon leaned over and spoke into his com. “All ships, prepare for alpha launch in one five minutes, beta launch in two five minutes.” There was an instant of silence while the acknowledgements came in, no more than 5 or 6 seconds. “All capital ships confirm, sir.”

  Compton smiled. He believed in his people…his direct staff, of course, but also the thousands of officers and crew in the fleet. There were a lot of veterans, and they’d been training constantly. Every man and woman under Compton’s command knew what was at stake...they knew they were fighting for the future of the entire human race. They were ready…and their commander knew it.

  Bunker Hill’s klaxon sounded again, the alert for her bomber crews. Second Fleet’s flagship carried four squadrons, 48 fighter-bombers, and all of them were going to launch against the enemy. The First Imperium forces didn’t seem to employ small craft, and that relieved Compton of the need to hold back any squadrons to defend the fleet. Bombers had only been used twice against the enemy, but they had been highly effective both times, albeit with heavy losses. That made them a potent weapon, even more so than usual, and Compton was going to get the most out of that before the enemy caught up and developed stronger interdiction tactics.

  Second Fleet had five capital ships, including another Yorktown class vessel and the Martian Confederation’s flagship, Sword of Ares. The only ship of her class, she was bigger even than the Yorktowns, and she carried 6 full squadrons. All together, Second Fleet was sending 216 bombers at the enemy. Compton was duplicating Admiral West’s successful strategy. Half the fighter-bombers were fitted out for missile interdiction and the others for an attack on the enemy fleet.