Into the Darkness is the first book of the Crimson Worlds Refugees series. It is available now for presale, and is scheduled for release June 23. There is a good chance the release date will be moved up, possibly to the first week of June.
Chapter One
Excerpt from Admiral Compton’s Final Communique to
Augustus Garret:
You have seen the scanning reports, as I have. You know there is no other option. I know you, perhaps better than anyone else,
and I understand how this will affect you.
It is a crushing burden, and yet that doesn’t matter. You have no choice, my old friend, and you
know it as well as I. It is not just
victory that hangs in the balance, not even the survival of the fleet. Nothing less than the continued existence of
the human race rests upon your actions in the next few hours. If you allow this enemy force to get through
the warp gate and into the X1 system, we will never stop them. They will destroy every planet in Occupied
Space. When they are finished, there
will be nothing but the unburied dead to mark that men had ever lived, silent
graveyards where once prosperous worlds had been.
You have been more than a friend to me, Augustus…more than a brother. We have laughed, supported each other, gone
to war together. I had no idea, when I
left home for the Naval Academy all those years ago, that I would find a friend
like you. We had quite a run together,
Admiral Garret. It’s been my great honor
and pleasure to be at your side…to watch your back, as you have watched mine.
Though I know it is pointless, I will say this anyway. Do not blame yourself. You do not have a choice in this. Do your duty, as you always have, and then
step boldly into the future. I am asking
you to do this, to save mankind. Mourn
the lost, as we always have, but think of me—and all those who serve with me—no
differently than the thousands who have died in our many battles. Drink a toast to me and remember friendship
fondly, shed a tear if you must…but do not spend the rest of your life
tormenting yourself. It is my final
request of you.
Go now. You will have to move ahead
without me, my comrade, bear the burdens alone that we would have shared. I’m sorry I won’t be there to help you face
the next battle. Because we both know
there will be another. There always
is. And I know you will be ready, that
you will stand again in the breach and do what you must. As you have done all your life.
There is one last thing I ask of you, Augustus. Look after Elizabeth for me. Try to ease her pain. I was going to ask you to tell her I love
her, that I always have, but that would be selfish of me. I am gone to her, and I know I shall never
see her again. I would have her forget
me, move forward…to have a happy life, and not to wallow in misery over what
can never be. It is my solace to imagine
that happiness without me waits in her future.
You are the best, most honorable man I’ve ever known, Augustus Garret. Goodbye, my friend.
AS Midway
Deep in System X2
The Fleet: 242
ships, 48,371 crew
“You are clear to land in Bay B, Admiral Hurley.” There was a strange sound to the launch bay
coordinator’s voice, not fear exactly, but something cold, almost dead.
“Acknowledged,” Hurley replied. She knew, of course, what was happening. She’d seen the enemy ships on her own
scanners, hundreds of them, more than the entire massed fleets of humanity
could hope to defeat. She also knew what
would happen next, what had to happen. Admiral Garret would detonate the massive
bomb General Cain and Dr. Hofstader had found—and if the CEL scientist was as
brilliant as everyone said, the warp gate leading back to X1, to human space, would
be disrupted for several centuries, an impassible obstacle instead of an open pathway.
It was an ideal way to end the war, cutting off the massive
First Imperium forces from human space without a fight. But there was one problem. Midway—and
the rest of Compton’s fleet, half of humanity’s combined naval strength—was on
the opposite side of the system, light hours from the Sigma 4 gate. There was no way they could get back, not
before the First Imperium forces were able to transit. And Hurley knew that was something Admiral
Garret simply could not allow. No matter
what the cost.
She understood the tone in the coordinator’s voice. Word had to be spreading through the
fleet. They were facing almost certain
death, and everyone had to accept that in their own way. She was confident the Alliance spacers, at
least, would stay at their posts and go down fighting. She knew damned well she would. Her fighters had been savaged in the combat,
but they weren’t done yet, not by a long shot.
And as soon as they could refuel and rearm, she intended to lead them
back into the fray.
“Bring us in, Commander.”
Hurley glanced over at her pilot.
Commander Wilder had been under instructions from Admiral Garret to keep
Hurley away from the worst of the fighting.
Greta Hurley had no peers in the field of fighter-bomber tactics, and
Garret knew she tended to put herself in the forefront of her squadrons. He’d been determined to keep his aggressive
fighter commander from getting herself killed, and knowing how stubborn Hurley
was, he’d figured a secret pact with her pilot seemed the likeliest way to
achieve success. Wilder had made a noble
effort, but in the end Hurley—and events—had prevailed, and Wilder had joined his
charge in taking their fighter right into the maw of an enemy battleship—and
delivering the killing blow to the behemoth.
“Yes, Admiral,” the pilot replied. “Forty-five seconds to landing.”
Hurley leaned back in her seat and took a deep breath. She had about 240 fighters left, less than
half of what she had led into battle just the day before. But it was still a potent force. They might not have any real hope of
survival, but she silently vowed that her people would sell their lives dearly
to the enemy.
She looked through the forward cockpit, to the hulking form
of Midway beyond. Compton’s flagship was one of the greatest
machines of war ever constructed by man, two kilometers of sleek hull,
bristling with weapons. Until the First
Imperium invasion, mankind had considered itself strong and technologically
advanced. But now they were fighting an
enemy thousands of years ahead of them.
Courage and innovation had bridged that gap, at least in the battles on
the Line, allowing the outmatched humans to not only stem the enemy tide, but
to drive the First Imperium fleets back.
But those victories had only stirred the enemy to bring forth its full
strength, and now humanity was faced with the real power of their enemy. Against the massive array now approaching, even
a battlewagon like Midway seemed weak and
small.
The ship moved steadily toward a large opening in Midway’s hull.
Hurley could see tiny shapes moving around the bay, technicians clad in
environmental suits and small tractors moving parts and supplies toward the
fighters sitting in their cradles. A
landing bay during a battle was a busy place.
It took a lot of support to keep her birds in space fighting.
She felt the deceleration as the fighter slowed
gradually. Landings could sometimes be a
rough affair but not with a pilot like Commander Wilder at the controls. Hurley had been a great pilot herself, and a
feared Ace who had racked up a still unmatched number of kills in the days
before her advancing rank took her out of the direct fighting. But she had to admit to herself, Wilder was
even better than she had been. He worked
the controls of the fighter like they were extensions of his own body. And now he dropped the craft onto the metal
floor of the bay so softly, she could barely tell they had landed.
“Your ship is the last one, Admiral,” the coordinator’s
voice said. “We’re closing the bay
doors, so if you wait a minute, we’ll have the deck pressurized.”
“Understood, Commander.”
She reached around and unhooked her harness, turning toward Wilder as
she did. “That was a hell of a landing,
Commander.” She paused for an instant
then added, “In fact, the entire battle was an example of magnificent
piloting.” Hurley lived and breathed
fighter-bomber tactics, and her praise was highly sought after among her pilots
and crews.
“Thank you, Admiral.”
She could hear the satisfaction in his voice at her words, but also a
dark undercurrent. He had clearly come
to the same grim conclusion she had.
They were dead men and women, all of them. It was just a question of time—and how much
damage they could inflict before they were wiped out.
She walked across the cramped cabin of the fighter bomber,
heading toward the hatch as the other three crew members unhooked themselves
and followed. She knelt down and waited.
“Landing bay pressurized,” came the announcement a few
seconds later. Hurley punched at the
keys next to the small door, and the hatch slid open. She put her leg down, and her foot found the
small ladder almost immediately. She
climbed down to the deck and turned around, her eyes looking for the crew
chief.
“Chief,” she said as she spotted him, “I want these birds
turned around in record time…and I do mean fucking record time, you understand
me?” Hurley had a fearsome reputation
among the maintenance crews. Most of
them felt she asked for the impossible, yet they somehow managed to do what she
commanded anyway. And it was hard to
argue with a fighting admiral with Hurley’s chops—especially when she’d just come
back with barely half the birds that she’d launched with a few hours before.
“The crews are ready, Admiral.” Sam McGraw was old-school navy all the way, a
chief petty officer who drove his staff relentlessly and who could stand up to
any officer, even to a superior as terrifying as Greta Hurley. “They’re already at work on the birds that
landed ahead of you.” He was waving his
arm as he spoke, gesturing to a work party to get started on the admiral’s
ship. It was mildly inappropriate. Technically, he should have been at attention
while addressing the admiral. But Hurley
didn’t give a shit about foolishness like that.
No one had ever turned her fighters around like McGraw, and she wasn’t
about to give him shit for pushing his crews—or worrying about his job instead
of kissing her three-star ass.
“Very well, Chief.
I’ll leave you to it.” She saw a sudden
difference in McGraw’s expression, shock, tension. Then the non-com snapped to attention. She knew the veteran petty officer well
enough to understand the only person on Midway
who could generate that reaction from him.
“Well done out there, Greta.”
She turned abruptly and snapped to attention herself. “Thank you, Admiral Compton.” Greta Hurley was a force of nature, but
Admiral Terrance Compton was like a god striding among mortals. Compton had nearly fifty years of service,
having fought in both the Second and Third Frontier Wars. He’d been a hero of the rebellions,
steadfastly refusing orders to bombard civilian targets, and somehow
maintaining control of the fleet through the entire crisis. His victories were too numerous to be
counted. He was the other half of the
legend of Augustus Garret, the only naval officer who could match his lifelong
friend’s prowess.
“I take it you understand the current situation,
Admiral?” Compton’s voice was serious,
but it lacked the grim resignation she’d heard in everyone else’s.
“Yes, sir,” she replied.
“Well, I’ve got a plan, Greta, and I need your help to pull
it off.”
“Of course, sir.
Whatever you need, my people will see it done.” She felt the power of Compton’s legend, of
his extraordinary charisma. She didn’t
expect to live more than a few more hours, but there was adrenalin flowing,
excitement about fighting again for this man.
She could face death in battle, as long as she didn’t have to look into
Compton’s eyes knowing she had failed him.
Thoughts of doom and imminent death faded away, replaced by a surge of
determination.
“Our position isn’t hopeless, Greta, no matter what everyone
in the fleet seems to think. And this
isn’t a suicide mission for your people either, so you remember that. It’s dangerous as hell, but I expect most of
you to be back. In fact, I demand it.” Compton’s voice was firm, resolute.
“Yes, sir.” She had a
pretty good idea of the tactical situation, and she didn’t see a way out. But she found some part of herself believing
him, even as the rational side of her mind clung to its hopelessness.
She looked at the man standing in front of her. He was rock solid, not the slightest doubt or
weakness apparent. Whatever Terrence
Compton, the man, believed, the undefeated fleet admiral was firmly in control
right now. She had a significant
reputation herself, but now she drew strength from the man standing in front of
her, feeding off his iron will.
Perhaps it’s part of the legend,
she thought. The
man is simply incapable of giving up.
* * *
“Admiral, we’re picking up massive energy readings from the
X1 warp gate. Really off the charts…I
can’t even get a steady reading.” Max
Harmon was Compton’s tactical officer.
Indeed, he’d also served Garret in the same capacity when Compton had
been wounded, and he had the singular distinction of being declared the best
tactical officer in the fleet by both of
mankind’s legendary naval commanders.
Compton looked over at Harmon, but he didn’t reply. There was no reason. They both knew what had happened. Garret had detonated the device. If Dr. Hofstader’s calculations were correct—and
Compton had no doubt they were—the X1 warp gate was now scrambled by a massive
amount of captive energy that would slowly leak out. It would be centuries before a ship could
transit to Sigma 4—and the human domains beyond. And if it didn’t
work, every human being will be dead in two years, he thought.
“Alright, Max,” he said, changing the subject. There was nothing to be gained by dwelling on
the fact that they were now officially cut off from home. “Transmit navigational instructions to the
fleet.” Compton sat in the command chair
on Midway’s flag bridge, as he had throughout
the war. “We’re going to take it hard on
the way in, but that can’t be helped. Ships
are authorized to defend themselves the best they can and engage any enemy
within range, but nothing is more important
than following the nav plan exactly. We’re not going to be able to help any ship
that falls out of the formation. This is
timed to the second as it is.”
“Yes, sir.”
Compton sat back and listened to Harmon relaying his
orders. He appeared confident, almost
unconcerned, but it was 100% bullshit.
He was nervous as hell, heartbroken at being cut off from human space,
scared about what would happen in the next few hours. But he was Fleet Admiral Terrance Compton,
and his people needed the legend now, not the man. If they were going to survive, he needed
their absolute best, and he wouldn’t get that from despondent spacers resigned
to death. He needed for them to have
hope, to believe they had a chance. Because
he had come up with a way to give them that chance.
“All vessels confirm receipt of nav data, sir.”
“Very well,” Compton replied. He stared at the tactical display. “Get me Captain Kato.”
Harmon leaned over his station for a few seconds. Then he turned back toward Compton. “On your line, sir.”
“Are your people ready, Captain?” There was a noticeable delay. Kato was on Akagi,
about a light second from Midway.
“Yes, Admiral. We are
ready.” There was deep resignation in
Kato’s voice, and Compton felt his stomach clench. Kato was a talented commander and an
honorable man. Just
the kind who’d sacrifice himself if he thought he was saving the fleet.
“Aki, this is not a suicide mission. You are to engage the enemy until the
designated moment…and then your people are to board the shuttles and abandon
ship. And let me be absolutely clear…you personally are included in my definition of ‘your
people.’ Is that clear?” Kato’s ship was badly damaged, and she had no
chance to keep up with the fleet.
Compton had ordered Akagi—and the other
fifteen vessels too shot up to maintain full thrust—to form a line to the flank
of the main force. They were to hold off
the enemy as long as possible. But
Compton had been clear. The ships were
on their last mission, but the skeleton crews remaining onboard were not. He had ordered them to flee, and link up with
the rest of the fleet. The plans were
clear, but Compton was still afraid of unauthorized heroics. It was easier for his spacers to throw their
lives away when they believed they were as good as dead anyway. But he was still determined to get his people
out of this alive.
“Understood, sir.”
“Remember that, Aki.
Don’t you dare get yourself killed.
I need all the good people I can get now. Just do your best, and then bug out before
it’s too late.
“Yes, Admiral.”
Compton flipped off the com.
He hoped he’d gotten through to the officer. Aki Kato was one of the best officers in the
fleet—and more importantly, he wasn’t one of Compton’s own. The fleet was an international force, and he
knew if he managed to get them out of this he would have to deal with rivalries
and old resentments. And he was doing
nothing to help prevent that by having his own people in virtually every major
command slot.
He wasn’t making decisions based on national preferences, at
least not consciously. But he couldn’t
help but trust his own people more than he did those from the other
powers. Besides, the navy he and Garret
had built was vastly superior to any of the others, and the officers who had
developed under their tutelage and leadership were head and shoulders above
their rivals. Compton had Alliance
officers in key positions because they were the most skilled and reliable. But he knew it created bad feeling as
well. A capable PRC officer he could
trust was a precious commodity, one he could ill afford to lose.
He flipped on the com unit again, calling up Greta Hurley’s
fighter. She and her crews were waiting
in the landing bays of a dozen ships, armed and ready to go.
“You all set, Greta?” he asked softly.
“Yes, Admiral. The
strike force is ready to launch.” Her
voice was cold, hard. Compton wasn’t
sure he’d convinced her they had a chance, but he was certain she would do
whatever was necessary to carry out his instructions.
“Very well. You may
launch when ready. And Greta,
remember…this is not a suicide mission.”
He was getting tired of reminding everyone of that fact. “I expect you to be at the designated
rendezvous point spot on time.
Understood?”
“Yes, Admiral.
Understood.”
“Fortune go with you, Admiral Hurley.”
“And with you, sir.”
She cut the line, and a few seconds later, Compton felt Midway shake softly—the first of the fighters
launching. He looked down at his display,
watching the small blue dots assemble in formation. If everything went according to plan, those
ships would launch their attack and then link up with the fleet. They’d have to match vector and velocity
perfectly, and the slightest inaccuracy would prove fatal. But they’d have a chance, at least. And that was all Compton could give them now.
He stood up abruptly.
“Max, it’s time. Give the fleet
order. All personnel to the tanks
now. Maneuvers begin in twelve minutes.”
And if everything goes perfectly, we just might make it out of this system.
* * *
“All weapons ready.”
Kato was in Akagi’s command chair. His ship was wounded, mortally so considering
the situation. Even if Compton’s wild
plan was successful, the PRC flagship was far too damaged to escape. But she still had fight left in her, and
Captain Aki Kato was about to demonstrate that fact to the ships of the First
Imperium.
“All weapons stations report ready, Captain.” Yoshi Tanaka sat at the tactical station on
the otherwise nearly empty bridge. Akagi normally had twelve officers and two guards in
her control center, but Kato had cut his crew to the bone, evacuating all but
the most essential personnel. That left
Tanaka and the communications officer the only others there.
His face was twisted into an angry scowl as he stared at the
display, watching the enemy move closer.
Kato was a veteran of the Third Frontier War, and he’d fought hard in
that conflict. He’d lost good friends
too. But that war had paled next to the
savagery of this one, and nothing matched the intensity of his hatred for the
First Imperium. The soulless robots were
brutal and relentless in a way no human enemy could be. And the sacrifices this war had demanded made
the devastating losses of the Third Frontier War seem light by comparison.
It only made it worse that he knew his enemies did not feel
fear. They didn’t even hate their human
enemies, at least not in the way mankind understood the emotion. Their attempts at genocide were logical from
their perspective, and not driven by rage or prejudice. They were merely following orders in the
truest sense. But Kato hated them—he
hated them with all the passions his human emotions could generate. He wanted to kill them, to see them in pain,
to watch them overcome with fear as he ignored their pleas for mercy. And the fact that he knew his enemy would
never feel the pain or fear he wanted to inflict only drove Kato’s anger. He didn’t know if he believed any of his
people would survive, but he was damned sure they were going to dish out some
damage.
“All ships are to fire when ready,” he said, his voice
dripping with venom. He stared across
the almost silent bridge as the comm officer relayed his order to the thin line
of vessels under his command. Sixteen
damaged ships was a poor force to stand against the massive array of First
Imperium power now approaching, but no one expected his forlorn hope to stop
the enemy or even damage them significantly.
All they had to do was buy a little time, and if they could manage it,
even a few minutes, they could increase the escape margin for their
comrades—and for themselves if they were able to evacuate in time.
His eyes were fixed on the tactical display. The first enemy line, about fifty ships
strong, was almost within missile range.
Many of the vessels were damaged from the earlier fighting, and some,
Kato hoped, were low on ordnance. Behind
the initial wave there were others, over a thousand ships in all, including
twenty of the massive new design that was already being called the Colossus. The whole fleet had twenty times the
firepower needed to destroy every one of Compton’s ships, but Kato wasn’t
worried about the massive waves of strength relentlessly approaching. His target was the first line, and in that
fight, he knew his people could inflict a toll before they bugged out.
“All missile launchers…fire.
One volley, continuous launches.”
He spoke softly, firmly, never taking his eyes off his display. Akagi shook
as she flushed the missiles from her external racks. Normally, it took at least fifteen minutes to
clear the superstructure from the hull to allow internal launchers to
fire. But Kato had already given his
orders, and a few seconds after the missiles launched, the racks that had held
them in place were jettisoned immediately, without the careful effort to direct
the huge chunks of metal away from the ships.
It was a dangerous procedure, and Akagi shook
several times as discarded hunks of hyper-steel slammed into her hull. But Kato knew time was his most precious
resource, and a concentrated missile volley had the best chance of overwhelming
the enemy’s defenses and scoring some kills.
“Racks cleared, Captain.”
Tanaka was staring at his screens as he reported. “We have some hull breeches, lost atmosphere
in several sectors, but nothing vital.
And no casualties reported.”
Kato sighed softly. That’s one advantage of having 80% of the crew gone…fewer
people around to get sucked out into space when their compartment is ripped
open. Dropping the racks so
quickly had been a big risk, but it was looking like a gamble that had paid
off. At least for Akagi.
“Admiral, Orleans reports extensive damage from disengaging
external racks. She is streaming air and
fluids, sir.”
“Captain Amies is to evacuate immediately.” The stricken ship was no longer capable of
contributing seriously to the fight. And
that meant Kato couldn’t justify risking even its skeleton crew.
He stared straight ahead, watching the cloud of missiles on
his display accelerating toward the enemy.
“Let’s close to laser range, Commander.
The task force is to accelerate at 5g.”
Time to finish this.
* * *
“All squadrons, this is the highest precision operation we
have ever attempted.” Hurley’s voice was
like ice. She didn’t have Compton’s
confidence that any of her people would make it through, but that didn’t
matter. Live or die, she would do it
following the admiral’s orders. And
Compton had been clear. Besides, if they
were fated to die, it meant something to her that they die well, hurting the
enemy and helping give their comrades a chance to escape.
“We will be commencing our assault in one minute. You will each make a single attack run at
your assigned enemy vessel, and then you will execute the exact navigation plan
locked into your onboard computers. You
will not delay, not for any reason. I
don’t care if you think one more run with lasers will take out a Leviathan…you
will follow my orders to the letter.
Admiral Compton’s orders.”
Her eyes were on the chronometer. It read forty seconds, thirty-nine,
thirty-eight…
“There is no room for hesitation, no margin for error. We have to reach the rendezvous point on time,
and align our velocity and vectors with our specific landing platforms. Then we will have to land rapidly, again with
no room for delay or mistakes.”
Twenty-four, twenty-three, twenty-two…
“I expect not only the best from all of you…I expect
perfection. And so does Admiral
Compton. It’s time to do this, people,
and do it right. And then we get the
hell out of here so we can fight another day.
Good luck to all of you.”
She cut the line and looked over at Wilder. The pilot was also staring at the
chronometer, waiting for it to count down to zero. “Alright, John. You ready for this?”
The pilot nodded slowly.
“Yes, Admiral. I’m ready.”
Hurley turned toward the rest of the crew. “Boys?”
The others nodded.
“Yes, sir,” they said almost simultaneously—and unconvincingly.
Hurley took a deep breath as she watched the display work
its way through the single digits…to zero.
She leaned back as Wilder hit the thrust and the pressure of
nine gees slammed into her. She could
hardly move, but she managed to glance down at her screen. The entire formation, 243 small blue dots,
moved ahead in perfect order. She felt a
rush of pride. Her force included craft
from most of the superpowers, crews with different training doctrines and capabilities. There were former enemies fighting together,
men and women who had struggled against each other in the great battles of the
Third Frontier War. But she had forged
them into a single cohesive unit, and she’d done it in just two years. And she was damned proud of every one of
them.
Many of her people were already dead. Indeed, almost two-thirds of her strength was
gone in the battles of the last few days.
More would die soon, she knew, but the fighter wings had done their part
and more. They had given all they had to
give to defeat mankind’s enemy.
“Captain Kato’s ships have fired their missiles,
Admiral.” Kip Janz was the fighter’s
main gunner, but now he was manning the small scanning station. He was struggling to hold his head up over
the scope, to push back against the massive forces bearing down on them all. “It looks like they somehow launched
everything in one continuous volley.”
Janz’ tone was thick with confusion, but Hurley understood immediately.
He blew off his racks. Hopefully, he
didn’t sustain too much damage.
“We’ll be at Point Zeta in thirty seconds, Admiral.” Wilder’s voice was as strained as everyone
else’s. No one, not even the hardest
veteran, could take nine gees without it affecting everything they did. “Cutting thrust in three…two…one…”
Hurley felt the crushing pressure disappear, replaced by the
weightlessness of free fall. She looked
down at her display, watching the icons align as thirty squadrons cut thrust
simultaneously, maintaining almost perfect order. Then her eyes glanced toward the top of the
screen, where a line of large red ovals marked the enemy vessels.
Her birds were already entering firing range, but not a shot
came from any of her fighters. Every one
of them was loaded with double-shotted plasma torpedoes, and the plan was
simple—fly through everything the enemy could throw at them and close to point
blank range before firing. She knew they
wouldn’t all make it through, but the enemy ships in the first line had been
badly shot up, and with any luck, the defensive fire would be light. The First Imperium didn’t have any fighters,
and their defensive tactics had been thrown together to meet the threat. Her birds were coming in fast, and that would
minimize the time they spend in the hot zone.
But they were also heading directly for their targets, and at almost 0.04c,
they weren’t going to be able to maneuver or alter their vectors quickly. In space combat, high velocity reduced the
variability of a target’s future location.
“We’ve got enemy missiles on the screen, Admiral.” Janz’ turned toward Hurley. “It looks like a heavy volley, but not as bad
as it could be.”
Hurley could tell from Janz’ tone the enemy response was
weaker than he’d expected. “Man your
guns, Lieutenant. It’s time to take out
some missiles.”
“Yes, Admiral,” he replied sharply.
Hurley could heat a loud hum as the fighter’s anti-missile
lasers powered up. The tiny ship had
four of the small point defense weapons.
They had an effective range of about 5,000 kilometers, almost nothing
relative to the vast distances in space combat.
But the missiles approaching weren’t the enemy’s big antimatter fueled,
multi-gigaton ship killers either. They
were barely firecrackers by comparison—20 to 50 megatons. They had to get close to take out one of her
birds. A detonation within 500 meters
would destroy a fighter outright. One a
kilometer away would probably give her entire crew a lethal dose of
radiation. But any farther out, and the
damage, if any, would be light.
She sat quietly and watched her tiny ship’s crew go about
their tasks. She didn’t need to
interfere. They were the best. She’d trained them, she’d led them. Now she would let them do their jobs.
“Missiles entering interception range in four minutes.”
Hurley nodded, but she didn’t reply. She just sat and waited. And wondered how the rest of the fleet was
doing. Compton’s plan had seemed crazy
to her at first, but the more she thought about it, the more she came to believe
he just might pull it off. It didn’t pay
to bet against Terrance Compton.
Getting through the warp gate didn’t mean getting away, but
it was a step in the direction. Once the
fleet transited, Compton intended to drop a spread of mines just on the other
side and blast toward one of the system’s exit gates. The enemy fleet would follow, but its sheer
size would slow its transit—and the minefield would disorder them further. With any luck, Compton would gain on the
enemy, increasing the gap between the two forces. And they would need every kilometer of it.
Compton had scouting data on X4, and the location of several
potential exit gates. But whatever
system lay beyond was a total mystery—and each successive transit would be a
gamble. Would they manage to find an
exit gate in each before the enemy caught them?
Or would one of the systems prove to be a dead end, with no escape?
“Missiles entering range in one minute.”
Hurley had great confidence in her people, but she knew this
was a difficult mission. She tried not
to think of it as a suicide run, as much because she knew that’s what Compton
wanted, and not because she particularly expected to survive. Her birds were moving at a high velocity, and
that made the job easier for the enemy missiles. Her ships couldn’t quickly alter their
vectors, which meant the incoming warheads had a small area to target.
“Commencing interception.”
Hurley heard the high pitched whine of the lasers firing,
one shot after the other in rapid succession.
She’d always hated this part of an assault, pushing through the enemy’s
long-ranged interdiction, powerless, waiting to see if her ship would get
picked off by a well-placed—or lucky—shot.
Her weapons were deadly, but they were shorter ranged, especially if she
wanted to do serious damage. And she
damned sure wanted that. So there was no
choice but to take what the enemy threw at her people, and hope for the best.
Survival wasn’t pure chance, of course, and a gunner’s skill
was crucial in increasing the odds of a fighter closing to its own firing
range. And Kip Janz was one of the best.
She glanced down at the screen, monitoring the status of the
incoming volley. Janz and the ship’s AI
had taken out seven enemy missiles. That
didn’t mean all of those would have closed to deadly range, but still, she was
glad they were vaporized. Anything that
got within the 5,000 kilometer window had to be considered a serious threat.
She saw the warning lights go on—a detonation about two
klicks away. Close, but not close enough
to cause major damage. Still, there was
a good chance she and her people would need a course of anti-rad treatments
when they got back. If they got back.
The enemy missiles were mostly gone from the screen. They were nearly through—and that much closer
to releasing their own deadly attack.
But Hurley’s eyes were fixed on a dozen flashing icons. Twelve of her fighters hadn’t been as
fortunate, their gunners not as skilled as Janz, and now they were bits of
plasma and debris. She found it hard to
look at a scanner displaying that kind of data, at the impersonal symbols that
represented real ships, real crews. A
dozen flashing circles meant sixty of her people were dead, their ships
destroyed before they even had the chance to fire. It was cold, impersonal. She wondered how the Marines and other ground
troops fared, so often seeing their comrades killed right in front of
them. Is it easier
that way? Or more difficult?
“We’re through the missile barrage, Admiral,” Janz said
firmly. “Beginning final approach.”
Hurley looked over at Wilder. “The ship is yours, Commander.” Wilder and Janz had stepped aside during the
last attack run, allowing their admiral to take the shot—a dead on hit that had
finished off the ailing Leviathan. She’d
appreciated the gesture, and she’d enjoyed the hell out of killing the First
Imperium ship, but she didn’t intend to make a habit out of it. She’d accepted the stars Garret had given
her, and she was resolved to behave accordingly and not act like some gung-ho
pilot. Most of the time, at least.
Technically, Hurley didn’t have a job on her ship, at least
not one involved in its operation. Her
fighter’s purpose was to carry her wherever she had to be to command the strike
force. Much to the frustration of
Admiral Garret’s plans, it had proven impossible to keep her back from the
fight, so now it was not only a moving headquarters—it was another ship in the
line, one more attacker determined to plant a double plasma torpedo into the
guts of a First Imperium vessel.
“Prepare for high-gee maneuvers,” Wilder said.
Hurley sat quietly, looking at the display. She knew just where Wilder was going. The closest ship was a Gargoyle, but half a
dozen fighters had already made runs at it, and three had scored solid
hits. The ship was still there, but
there wasn’t much left of it, and there was no fire at all coming from it. But tucked in just behind was the target that
had caught Wilder’s eye. A Leviathan,
also badly damaged, but still firing at the fighters buzzing past it like flies
on a carcass.
“Heavy incoming fire,” Janz said, staring at the scope as he
did. The main First Imperium defensive weapon
was similar to the Alliance’s shotguns.
Both systems were essentially large railguns, firing clouds of metallic
projectiles into the paths of incoming fighters. The First Imperium version had been designed
purely as an anti-missile platform, but it performed well enough against
fighters to make the hair on Hurley’s neck stand up.
The fighter pitched hard as Wilder hit the thrust. Hurley felt the force slam into her, an
impact like five times her own weight.
She focused on breathing deeply as the force increased…6g…7g…8g. She held herself straight in her chair,
angling her head slightly so she could see her screen. Her movement was slow, steady, disciplined. At 8g, she knew she could pull a muscle just
moving wrong.
She could see the enemy vessel getting closer—and bigger—on
the display. Another fighter streaked
across, putting its payload right into the huge enemy vessel. The scanners were assessing damage, feeding a
continuous report on the status of the enemy ship. There were a dozen great rents in the side of
the vessel, and liquids and gasses were spewing out into space. On a human-crewed ship, men and women would
be dying in those compartments, blown into space or frozen and suffocated in
place. But she knew it was impossible to
disable a First Imperium ship by killing its crew. The robots onboard were impervious to cold,
to lack of oxygen. No, to kill a First
Imperium vessel, you had to tear the thing apart, bit by bit.
Suddenly, the thrust was gone, and weightlessness replaced
the crushing pressure. She took a deep
breath, grateful for the ease of it. She
glanced over at Wilder and then back to her screen. The range was counting down rapidly. They were moving at 5,000 kilometers per
second, and the enemy was less than 50,000 klicks away. They were ten seconds out and on a collision
course. She opened her mouth, but she
didn’t say anything. Wilder knew what he
was doing.
Eight seconds. The
pilot was totally focused, his head staring straight at the display, hands
tight on the controls. Six seconds. The ship bucked slightly, as Wilder released
the plasma torpedo.
Hurley stared straight ahead, watching the distance slip
away. We’re
going to hit that ship…
Then 9g of pressure slammed into her like a sledgehammer,
and Wilder hit the thrust barely four seconds from impact. A few seconds of thrust couldn’t do much to
alter the course of a fighter travelling at over 3% of lightspeed. But it didn’t have to do much, just enough to
swing the fighter around the enemy ship.
And it did just that. Hurley
looked down in disbelief at the scanners.
The fighter had passed within 300 meters of the Leviathan before it
continued on, putting 5,000 klicks a second between it and its stricken target.
Wilder’s torpedoes had found their mark. It was a shot generally consider impossible,
a degree of accuracy almost unimaginable considering the velocities and
distances involved. But Wilder had
dumped his doubleshotted payload right through one of the great rips in the
Leviathan’s hull. The great ship
shuddered hard as the heavy weapon unleashed its power on its unarmored
insides.
Hurley saw the data coming in, and she knew what was
happening. The torpedo was gutting the
inside of the ship, destroying everything in its path. But she knew one type of damage would prove
to be its doom, and a few seconds later she was proven correct. The massive vessel disappeared in an explosion
of unimaginable fury, as it lost containment on its antimatter stores and
unleashed the fury of matter annihilation.
“Nice shot, John,” Hurley said simply. Then she added, “Think you can cut it a
little closer next time?”
“I’ll try, Admiral,” he said, an amused grin on his face.
Hurley looked down at her screen. The strike force had completed its
attack. They’d hit the enemy line right
on the heels of Kato’s missiles, and they’d taken out half a dozen ships,
including two Leviathans. And her people
had only lost another twenty fighters. Normally
she wouldn’t draw comfort from another hundred of her people dead, but even at her
most wildly optimistic, she had imagined several times that number.
The attack had been a massive success—and Kato’s task force was
just a few minutes out of laser range.
With any luck, his ships would wipe out the enemy line before his people
had to abandon their crippled vessels.
She smiled grimly, feeling a wave of satisfaction. Compton wanted us to
delay them. Well, I’d say wiping out
their first line will cause a delay. The
rest of the fleet is over an hour behind.
Hurley just nodded and returned the smile. “OK, according to Admiral Compton’s
navigation, we should be close to the right course and speed to link up with
the fleet.” A hint of skepticism slipped
into her tone. She’d never even heard of
fighters landing on ships moving at this kind of velocity. She understood the physics, and as long as
everything was perfectly aligned, it shouldn’t be much different from a normal
landing. Still, it was going to take a
hell of a piloting job to pull it off, and she didn’t kid herself that all her
people were going to make it. And the
ones who didn’t would die. It was that
simple.
