Invasion (Blood on the Stars Book 9)

  Invasion

  Blood on the Stars IX

  By Jay Allan

  Copyright 2018 Jay Allan Books Inc.

  All Rights Reserved

  Chapter One

  Report from Admiral Winters to Naval HQ on Megara

  (Intercepted and Delivered to Provisional Command, Archellia)

  Work to repair the fleet and prepare the planetary defenses to resist any renewed assault by the still-unnamed enemy is proceeding at the maximum possible pace. Dannith’s remaining industry has thus far proven capable of meeting the fleet’s material needs.

  Under my authority as Sector C Fleetcom, I have assembled additional forces from Fortress Grimaldi and several of the supporting bases rearward of the Union border. Coupled with the arrival of the remnants of the White Fleet, Dannith is now defended by a naval force vastly superior to that which resisted the initial invasion attempt.

  We are, however, almost entirely without orbital fortress support. We have managed to repair a small number of damaged facilities to partial operability, and have constructed a series of temporary orbital fighter platforms from the hulls of private freighters seized for the purpose. I have also issued transfer orders for ten fighter wings to replace the loss of virtually all of Dannith’s permanent squadrons. I have tapped the sector reserves of new, crated fighters, and I have commandeered available freight craft to carry them to the system.

  Work also proceeds on the ground defenses. Colonel Blanth is now officially in command on the surface, and I have been able to form a second ersatz division with detachments from other area bases to supplement the Dannith forces and the survivors of Peterson’s division. Colonel (previously Captain) Blanth cannot be sufficiently recognized for his performance in fighting off the previous landings. However, I have grave concerns about the colonel’s chances of withstanding a fully-supported ground assault in the event the fleet units are defeated. My past reports detail the enemy’s heavily-armored vehicles and the strange exoskeletal implants on its soldiers. I have approved the colonel’s request to authorize extensive tunneling operations to create an infrastructure to support a prolonged campaign of guerilla resistance, should a conventional defense fail.

  The included dossier provides a detailed analysis of our current readiness, as well as my own rationale for expecting the enemy to return in the near future. Nevertheless, for all my concerns and trepidations about the return engagement, at this time I am pleased to report…all quiet on the Dannith front.

  12,000,000 Kilometers from CFS Dauntless

  Variag System

  Two Transits from Archellia

  Year 317 AC

  “Move that damned thing! Shake it up. At least make him work for it if he wants to kill you!” Commander Johannes Trent was shouting into his comm, as if the intensity of his voice alone could somehow stop the tragedy he saw unfolding on his screen…save the doomed pilot on the other end of the line.

  “I can’t lose him, Commander. He’s matching every move I make.” The pilot’s voice was shrill. The man was scared to death, and he was beginning to lose it. That was the worst thing that could happen. Whatever chance the young officer had—and his voice sounded even younger than the twenty-four years the AI’s records indicated—it depended on him flying his fighter with cool, focused intensity.

  “I’m on the way, Weaver…just hold it together a little longer. You’re going to be just fine.” It was a lie, and one for which he felt immediately guilty…though he would have done it again if he’d had to. Trent had seen enough combat during the war to know there was no way he was going to get close enough to help Weaver, not before the bird on the terrified officer’s tail blasted him to plasma. If the young pilot was going to make it, he was going to have to do it himself.

  And, as much as Trent was committed, as aggressively as he screamed into the comm, he didn’t believe his pilot had one chance in ten. He’d seen too many rookies blown to atoms before they’d mastered the art of dogfighting.

  “I…don’t think I can…sir.” There was raw fear in the man’s voice, but something else too, a calmness Trent found especially unnerving. Acceptance. Weaver knew he couldn’t escape…and he was beginning to give up, to yield to death’s embrace.

  “Hold it together, Lieutenant. That’s a damned order!” Trent was a celebrated pilot, an ace with thirty-two kills in the war against the Union…but he hadn’t reached the level of raw egotism he’d seen in many of the other aces. Try as he might, he couldn’t convince himself he could save Weaver by willing it to be so. The panicked and beleaguered junior pilot wasn’t the only one yielding to seeming inevitability.

  For a few seconds, he just watched as three more shots zipped by Weaver’s ship, the last one close enough to give the young pilot a sunburn. Then an idea popped into his head.

  It was crazy, so out there his first reaction was to push it aside. But he had nothing to lose.

  “Fighter at coordinates 123.301.223…this is Commander Johannes Trent, assistant strike force commander CFS Defiant, temporarily assigned to CFS Dauntless. I fought through the entire Union war and amassed thirty-two kills. You can confirm this by checking your warbooks. The pilot you are pursuing is inexperienced, and you will no doubt succeed in destroying his ship.” He paused for an instant, and when he continued, his voice dripped with menace. “If you do that…I promise you this. I will pursue you, and nothing will stop me. I will avenge my pilot, and no force in this universe will prevent me from completing my mission. I will follow you back to your mothership. Into the landing bay itself, if need be. And, whatever it takes, I will blast you to a cloud of dust and gas. I have thirty-two dead Union pilots behind me who would testify I can do what I say I can.”

  He almost laughed at the sound of his own voice. He’d thought he was less of an uncontrolled egotist than many of his comrades, but now he wasn’t so sure. What he’d just done was about the most pompous and self-aggrandizing display he’d ever witnessed.

  But he was betting the pilot on the other side was fairly junior, too. A more experienced flyer would have obliterated Weaver’s ship long before.

  And it was the only thing he could think of.

  He brought his ship around, adjusting his course directly toward the targeted ship. He’d already been blasting at full thrust, but now he threw off his safeties and drove the reactor past the redline. He needed every g he could get…and watching as he raced recklessly forward would only make his words hit that pilot harder.

  He didn’t expect his adversary to pull up and openly allow his quarry to escape. That wasn’t Trent’s plan. He just needed to get into the man’s head, to distract him and buy time.

  Time to get there. Time to save Weaver.

  His hand tightened around the throttle. He was close to firing distance…at least extreme range. He almost fired, but he held back. He’d been in enough fights to know that even if he scored an unlikely hit at such long range, the impact on the target would be more like a flashlight than a deadly laser. He had to get closer.

  He watched as Weaver’s ship gyrated around, wiggling wildly—if a bit predictably. He didn’t know yet if his words had affected their target, but it was apparent they’d had an impact on Weaver. Trent wasn’t sure if it was inspiration, or just a last grasp at hope for survival, but the rookie was giving his pursuer a little more of a challenge.

  That was all Trent needed. That, and maybe forty-five seconds.

  He held the controls tightly, his fingers turning pale white as his grip closed like a vice. He was in action again, quite a change from the protracted time off he’d expected. He’d started a long leave the day he’d been discharged from Archellia’s naval hospital, but Tyler B
arron had come to Archellia that very day, and he’d asked for help. Trent had served alongside Barron’s Dauntless, and on days when his ego and pride allowed him to admit it, he knew he owed his life to none other than Barron and his legendary strike force commander, Jake Stockton. That had been another day, another battle, one where he’d met his own match and almost paid the price…but such debts were taken seriously in the fighter corps.

  Trent had been disappointed to find that Stockton wasn’t with Dauntless, but Barron himself had asked for help and support, and that was all it took…even after Trent came to understand the disturbing details, that other Confederation forces were after Barron and his people. That rallying to the famous admiral could very well mean fighting other Confederation spacers.

  Civil war was not something Trent had ever seriously considered, certainly not in the Confederation, but if such a tragedy had indeed come, he knew one thing for sure. He was on Tyler Barron’s side.

  And now you’re trying to kill one Confederation pilot to save another…

  Trent had come to Archellia to convalesce, and the prospect of combat had never entered his mind. After spending weeks in the hospital, he’d expected to return to Defiant and the crushing boredom of peacetime duties. Even the story behind his injuries was an uninteresting one, at least to anyone who hadn’t been through it. Flying Lightning fighters had never made anyone’s list of safe occupations, even in peacetime, and it had been an unlikely malfunction at just the wrong time that had come a hair’s breadth from killing the veteran pilot.

  Leave on Archellia had seemed somewhat of a dim prospect at first, certainly for a fighter pilot accustomed to recreational activities that were a touch more…unrestrained…than what passed for excitement on the sleepy Far Rim capital. Archellia was in the most remote end of the Confederation, a stretch of space filled with sparsely-populated agricultural and mining worlds. The naval base itself was a significant installation, though it had never really been necessary, and had been rendered even more pointless by the treaty with the Alliance.

  And now it’s Tyler Barron’s headquarters for what? To fight a civil war against other Confederation forces?

  Trent had already made his decision, whatever concerns or doubts might be drifting through his thoughts. Whatever was happening, whatever might yet come…he was with Barron. But that didn’t stop the whole thing from making him sick to his stomach.

  His eyes darted around the screen, his thoughts snapping back to the moment. He was seconds out of effective range, and against all odds, Weaver was still alive. More than that…the ship that had been chasing down the rookie had modified its course and setting.

  It was coming for him.

  Trent jerked his arm to the side, angling his fighter’s thrust sharply to the side, another evasive maneuver…and a manifestation of his realization that he had a real fight on his hands. His enemy hadn’t broken and run…but he’d been shaken enough to focus all his attention on the approaching threat.

  Trent could feel the tightness in his cheeks as a thin smile appeared on his lips. He would feel sick later for any Confederation colleagues he killed, but for the moment, the predator inside him was in control. He stared at the screen, eyes fixed on his target, noting the move of Weaver’s ship out of immediate danger…even as his fingers tightened on the firing stud, and the loud whine of his lasers filled the cockpit.

  * * *

  “All fighters are to return to base.” Atara stood alongside her chair, one hand on the armrest, steadying herself as Dauntless’s evasive maneuvers shook the bridge.

  “Yes, Captain.” Eliot Cumberland sat at the tactical station, three meters from where Atara stood. She was used to having the rock-steady Sonya Eaton at the position, though Barron had assured her Cumberland was a reliable and gifted officer…and she always took her oldest friend’s words as the unchallenged truth.

  “Make sure they come in at once,” she added, perhaps thinking more of the impetuousness of Dauntless’s regular squadrons…and less of the pack of misfits and rookies Tyler Barron had found on Archellia to refill the battleship’s empty flight decks.

  Most of the pilots were green, but Johannes Trent had been a pleasant surprise. She’d just watched the veteran pilot take out three enemy—if that was a word she could use against these opponents—fighters, saving one of his own with the last kill. Trent was a true veteran wing commander, one who’d never even have been on an out of the way planet like Archellia, save for a freak accident that had sent him to the base’s huge hospital for treatment.

  Barron had found the officer fully recovered—more or less—and already bored mere days into a four month leave on the Rim capital. He’d been straight with the officer, as he had been with all he’d approached. There was no point in lying to them…and having them bolt or switch sides when they found out they were as likely to be facing their own comrades as the invading Hegemony.

  Trent had jumped on board almost immediately. He’d fought in many of the same battles Dauntless had, and he’d led his fighters next to Stockton and his squadrons. It would take more than the accusations of a band of corrupt politicians to convince Johannes Trent that Tyler Barron was an enemy. And Barron had rewarded—if that description was applicable in such an upsetting situation—Trent’s support by putting the commander in charge of all the fighter strength he’d been able to rally. That was some job…filling Jake Stockton’s shoes, and without the pack of veterans that had followed him into battle. She didn’t figure Trent could replace Stockton—no one could—but she was damned glad to have him when Stockton and the rest of Dauntless’s pilots were…

  She stopped the thought cold. The truth was, though there had been reports of a battle on the frontier involving at least part of the White Fleet, she had no idea what kind of losses that force had suffered, or if Stockton, Anya Fritz, or either of the Eaton sisters were still alive. Years of war had taught her there was nothing to be gained by spending hours guessing.

  Dauntless shook again, a bit harder, restoring her focus to the situation at hand as the evasive nav plan she’d ordered moments before started to kick in. The ship was out of range of the enemy, she was sure of that. But the opposing vessels were closing hard, and she wasn’t about to take any chances.

  She did, however, slide around to the front of the chair and drop down into her seat. It wouldn’t do any good for those present to see Dauntless’s captain end up sitting on her ass in the middle of the bridge if the next vector change caught her by surprise. She wasn’t about to take any unnecessary chances of getting injured, either. Atara had never been timid, but she’d spent quite long enough in sickbay on the way back from the deep Badlands, and she was determined to stay the hell out of the place for a long while.

  “Set a course to the transit point, maximum evasive maneuvers. As soon as the fighters are in the bays, we’re getting the hell out of here.”

  Atara’s orders were clear, and she was one hundred percent sure of them. She’d fight other Confederation ships if she had to, and she’d kill their spacers too, if there was no other way. But Barron’s instructions had been to surprise the approaching force, to disorder its formation, and to inflict damage on its vessels, causing as few casualties as possible. Her fighters had done all of that, with impressive success, considering the relative inexperience of the pilots at her disposal.

  She agreed with Barron’s reticence. The situation in the Confederation could very well turn into outright civil war, but there was a chance that the threat of an outside enemy could create a route for a truce between Barron and the fleet units that had rallied to him…and whoever was pulling the strings on Megara.

  She’d been involved in a lot of desperate encounters, but she’d never imagined a situation so desperate that she’d look to an overwhelming invasion as the way out of an even worse nightmare.

  At least we’d all get to die together, on the same side…the way it should be.

  * * *

  Tyler Barron looked out t
he window, across the…skyline…of Archa City. At least, that was what the locals called it. Barron had seen the immensity of Troyus City and a dozen of the Confederation’s other vast metropolises, and Archa’s small cluster of tall buildings, not one of them so much as half a kilometer in height, failed to amaze him. He was in a room atop the highest and grandest of them all, the plush ego trip the planetary government had constructed to house its employees, politicians, and military commanders.

  It wasn’t a very militarily defensible headquarters. But with the Alliance treaty, the possibility of war with the Palatians—the only group that could even remotely threaten the Confederation from the Far Rim—had receded to insignificance. It had given the planet’s citizens cause for relief…and stripped the naval base of its last, shaky claim to importance.

  At least until Barron had come and rallied both the spacers and the locals to his cause. Barron had, as so often was the case, been aided by the immense benefits of his name. Though in Archellia, it was his own achievements that stood out, beyond even those of his famous grandfather. He’d been shocked to discover that the Archellians viewed him as almost a savior for his victory eight years before. It was a triumph that left him feeling vaguely uncomfortable, but one the locals believed had prevented an Alliance invasion that would have hit them first.

  He leaned back in the plush chair, feeling almost guilty at the degree of comfort it offered him as Atara and Dauntless were out fighting. They were executing a series of lightning strikes intended to harass and delay any forces Megara had sent to apprehend him…and crush what he could only imagine the Senate considered a treasonous rebellion. He’d planned to go himself, but Atara had let him have it with both barrels, reminding him that he was the face of the resistance. He had to stay on Archellia, to be there when more ships arrived to join his growing forces…and to ensure that the Archellians remained committed to the cause. The Far Rim wasn’t the ideal place to prepare either for civil war or to resist an enemy approaching a distant border, but there were significant naval resources there. And it was a damned sight better than being locked away in some Senate prison complex.