Attack Plan Alpha (Blood on the Stars Book 16) Page 26

  “Jake…Jake…” For an instant, he thought Federov was at him once again. But the voice was different. Familiar.

  “Jake, please…please listen to Olya…” The words were heavy, mixed with the sound of tears.

  Stara…

  He moved his hand toward the comm, his finger hovering over the switch. But he couldn’t do it. He hadn’t seen Stara in five years, hadn’t heard the sound of her voice. She was gone to him, he knew that. There was no way to get back to where they had been. But any contact was something.

  He could see her in his mind, her face in front of him, almost as though she was there. He wanted to see her, to touch her, to feel her arms around him again. No, it’s not possible…

  The sound of her words, her tears, beat at him like the waves on a rugged shoreline.

  His eyes moved to the screen, checking the status of the battle. His nearest pursuers were gone. Somehow, Federov had destroyed them all, despite the superior Highborn weaponry. She was risking her life, and the lives of her pilots…even though she knew what he had done.

  Stockton felt as though his head was about to explode. He didn’t know what to do.

  And then, suddenly, he did. He reached out and grabbed the throttle. There was no joy in the prospect of returning home, no hope he could reclaim his old life. But he couldn’t give up, couldn’t ignore Stara’s pleas that he return.

  He couldn’t hurt her more than he already had.

  Perhaps he could do some good. His pilots would never follow him again…he couldn’t imagine any way they would. But he had considerable knowledge of Highborn equipment and tactics. It would be far from redemption, but just maybe he still had something to offer the war effort. Something to atone in part of the harm he had caused.

  He pushed the throttle forward, turning it to starboard, altering his vector back toward the fleet. The Confederation fleet. His fleet.

  He reached down and tapped the comm unit.

  “Stara, Olya…I’m coming home…”

  * * *

  Colossus shuddered again, as a pair of heavy beams from its twin slammed into it dead center. Sonya had cycled her ship’s evasion routines deftly, but such efforts only bought time, not eliminated the likelihood of being hit. Her people had scored no fewer than a dozen direct hits on their opponent, and the two rattling Colossus so hard were only the seventh and eight the enemy had managed in return.

  The distance had closed steadily, and the two behemoths were blasting away at each other from what could only be called point blank range…or something a step closer than that.

  Sonya watched the damage reports flood her screen. A hundred systems were affected, and at least two more of her heavy guns had been knocked out. Her ship had taken enough punishment to obliterate any other vessel in the fleet, even an Excalibur-class superbattleship, and Colossus had given out even more than it had endured. But the two combatants were still locked in a desperate battle to the end.

  Sonya had no way of knowing for sure, but she had come to believe that the Highborn had built their version of Colossus from scratch…to full imperial standards. That meant her people had faced an uneven fight from the start.

  Colossus had outfought it’s enemy, at least to an extent, but as Sonya looked up at the damage stats for her own ship, and the assessments—guesses!—for its opponent, her gut told her the fight was dead even.

  She stared for a moment at the display, and at the small workstation screens right in front of her. She had to do something. If the two ships kept pounding away at each other the way they were, either one could prevail. The enemy ship had done enough damage already to the Pact battle plan simply by taking Colossus out of the line, occupying the Confederation’s strongest ship in a one on one duel that left the rest of the forces in the system fighting what had almost become a separate battle.

  That was a victory for the Highborn, even if their monster ship lost the fight between the giants. If they destroyed Colossus…

  Sonya was well aware her ship was one of a kind…for the Confederation. But if the Highborn had constructed one such vessel, they could build more. She had to win the current fight…and she had to get Colossus through it as something other than a floating wreck.

  “All gunnery stations…focus all fire on the highlighted sections.” As she spoke, her fingers moved over the controls, almost in a blur. The schematic of the enemy ship appeared on the main display, with a cluster of small glowing dots about two thirds of the way to the stern. That was Colossus’s most vulnerable spot, at least to her own analysis, and the combination of training, experience, and intuition driving her.

  “Yes, Commodore…” There was a bit of hesitation in her aide’s voice. She understood. It was hard enough to target enemy vessels at all, with the wild gyrations and evasive maneuvers…but aiming at specific sections of a ship was almost unheard of. But her people were the best…and Colossus was close to the enemy.

  And getting closer.

  “I want every gun on this ship pounding away at those spots. Maximum fire…and tell engineering I need all they can coax out of the reactors. Push them all to overload, if necessary.” But the risk…

  Damn the risk! We need that power, and we need it now!

  She stared straight ahead, hardly moving as Colossus took yet another hit, and a shower of sparks erupted on the far side of the bridge. The fight she was in would be to the death, and if only one ship was going to survive…it damned sure wasn’t going to be that Highborn piece of shit.

  * * *

  “Admiral, with your permission, we’d like to set up a series of barricades along the avenues of entry onto the control deck.” Bryan Rogan had run in and out of the room half a dozen times, juggling directing the defensive efforts in the vicinity with returning to inspect the progress his Marines had made readying the control center for a last-ditch defense. The first time or two, Barron had written it off to Rogan’s meticulous attention to detail, but around the fourth time he’d seen the Marine in an hour, he’d come to realize Rogan was far from sure his people could hold their line.

  He was putting far too much time into setting up defenses he didn’t think he was going to need.

  “Yes, Bryan…do whatever you need.” Barron looked around the massive deck. He had over sixty officers and spacers there, and he didn’t really need them all. The fight was raging all around, but Barron had given his gunnery stations independent control over their fire…just in case any of them got cut off or the comm connections failed. He was staying on top of damage reports, but there wasn’t much he could do with any of that either. The boarders had cut off two of the station’s launch bays, and three reactors as well. That was bad, especially the loss of over two hundred Lightning fighters that had been in the process of being refit and refueled. But Striker was riddled with destroyed weapons platforms and even with thirty percent of its power generation capacity gone, everything still functional was firing at full power.

  Barron looked up at the main display, half to check on the status of the battle, and half to take his mind off the thought that Highborn soldiers might come blasting through the doors any minute. The fighting was still some distance away, but not so far that Barron couldn’t hear the echoes of gunfire, especially whenever one of the hatches opened.

  The fleet was fighting hard. He wanted to tell himself his people were holding their own, but he knew that would be a lie. The first fighter battle had gone better than he’d expected, but he knew better than to expect a repeat of that. Even with the thousands of casualties his people had inflicted, they were still going to be outnumbered when the two sides met again. Badly outnumbered.

  “Admiral, I’ve got Reg Griffin on the line for you.”

  Barron’s eyes darted to the side of the display. There was a cluster of fighters heading back toward the fleet. He’d thought the entire strike force had already landed.

  “Reg, what is it? Why are you still…”

  “Admiral…” Griffin had never interrupted Ba
rron. The admiral wasn’t angry, but he did feel a knot in his gut. If Reg Griffin spoke over him, something important was going on. “…Raptor is still alive, sir. Jake Stockton is still alive. He was a prisoner of the Highborn all these years. He’s coming in with Lynx now.”

  The words had been so unexpected, they sounded almost like gibberish to him.

  “Reg, I don’t understand. What are you saying?” He understood exactly what she had said, but his mind couldn’t accept it. He’d mourned his friend, missed him every day since the battle that had claimed him…but he’d never imagined Stockton could still be alive after so long.

  “He’s alive, Admiral. He is heading back now. I’d like to divert to Striker, with your permission.”

  Barron’s mind was racing, still trying to force himself to believe what he was hearing. His first thought was to approve Reg’s request, to order her to get to the station as quickly as possible. If Jake Stockton was still alive, Barron wanted to see him immediately.

  But his eyes remained fixed on the display, and on the almost constant reports of the outnumbered Marines pulling back in a dozen sectors. Both alpha and delta bays were under attack, and it looked very much like Striker’s entire launch and landing capability would be neutralized. He couldn’t risk bringing anyone in…he didn’t have a landing slot he was sure wouldn’t be overrun at any time.

  “Negative, Reg…we’re up against it with these boarders. The bays are at risk. Dock with Dauntless.” For an instant, he wondered if he should have sent them to a different ship. Dauntless was Stockton’s old home vessel. Barron’s mind was still in a whirlwind about all he’d just heard, but he knew if Stockton was alive, his friend faced a difficult integration. Barron knew all about the Highborn Collars, more than all but a few members of the fleet did. He understood that whatever Stockton had done for the enemy, it had been entirely involuntary. But he still felt anger toward the pilot, even as he told himself it was misplaced. He had no idea how the pilots and flight crews on Dauntless would react when their ‘dead’ commander returned…and they realized he had been fighting against them for five years.

  He remained silent for a few seconds. “Dauntless, Reg…get him over there as soon as possible.”

  He cut the line, and then he turned toward the comm station. “Commander, get me Admiral Travis on Dauntless…”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  HWS Hegemony’s Glory

  Vasa Denaris System

  Year 328 AC (After the Cataclysm)

  “Ilius, pull back, now. You need to get that ship out of the line.” Chronos’s flagship was battered, the bridge covered in a haze of patchy gray smoke, but Hegemony’s Glory was in far better condition than his immediate subordinate’s vessel. Ilius’s ship had been bracketed by two of the heavy Highborn ships, and it had only survived that encounter thanks to aid from a pair of Alliance ships. The two Palatian battleships closed on one of the Highborn vessels, firing relentlessly as the range dropped to the point where even their weaker weapons were devastating. One of Imperator Tulus’s ships was destroyed in the fight, but the other continued pounding away until the Highborn ship itself was obliterated.

  Ilius’s flagship then turned to face its other attacker. The two vessels had been locked in a death match, but finally, with more assistance from the remaining Palatian ship, the Hegemony vessel prevailed. It was seriously wounded, however, possibly mortally so. Yet, it had remained in the line, and now yet another fresh enemy ship was closing.

  “I can’t retreat. We’ve got nothing close enough to plug the gap. If the Highborn pierce the line here, they’ll flank us in both directions.”

  Chronos knew there was some truth to what his friend was saying…but only some. A single battleship pulling back would hardly open a huge hole in the line, and Ilius could cover whatever opening he did leave by extending the distance slightly between his ships.

  Chronos stared at the screen, watching as the new enemy contact moved closer. Flashes of light on the display denoted the shots being fired. The Highborn ship appeared to be fully operational, while Ilius’s vessel was a near-wreck, with only two batteries still functional. The confrontation wasn’t going to be a fight, especially since the remaining Palatian ship was almost as battered as Ilius’s. It was going to be an execution.

  Chronos had been worried about his friend. Ilius had been acting strangely, a strange fatalism heavy in everything he’d done or said for the past few months. Hegemony Masters liked to pride themselves on being above such normal human failings as exhaustion and despair…but Chronos knew that was nonsense. He knew, if for no other reason, because he was so close to giving up himself.

  And Ilius seemed closer even than he was.

  Neither of them could admit that, of course, not even to each other. A lifetime’s conditioning and decades of adherence to social mores and societal expectations were not easy things to escape. Chronos had already gone against the beliefs he’d been raised to embrace in his secret relationship with Akella. As commander of the fleet, the last thing he could do was admit to anyone he didn’t think the Pact was going to win the war.

  “Ilius, that’s a direct order. You are to pull that ship back, out of range of the enemy, and conduct damage control operations.” Even as he uttered the words, he knew convincing his friend wasn’t the problem. Ilius’s ship was badly damaged. Chronos was far from sure it could generate enough thrust to escape, even if Ilius gave the orders immediately. That went from conjecture to realization in just a few seconds.

  “Chronos, we’re down to maybe 3g from the engines. If we turn and tried to run, we won’t make it twenty thousand kilometers. If we stay in the line, at least we’ve got two batteries still in the fight.” Chronos could almost hear the unspoken, “for a few more minutes, at least.”

  He stared at the screen, feeling the helplessness build inside him. Ilius had given in to despair, but that didn’t mean he was wrong. Chronos could order his friend to retreat, but that didn’t make it possible.

  His eyes darted around, looking for some ships, any ships, he could send to Ilius’s aid. But the whole line was deep in a desperate firefight. There wasn’t a vessel within sixty thousand kilometers of Ilius that could break off and reposition…not without exposing its own flank and getting blasted to hell.

  Chronos wanted to repeat his order, insist that Ilius do as he commanded. But he remained silent. There was no way out, no tactic to pull the shattered vessel back to safety…none that would get it out in time. Chronos fought to resist the conclusion forming in his mind, the terrible reality that was unfolding all around him. Hegemony’s Glory was in enough trouble on its own, but Ilius’s situation was critical.

  No, not critical…hopeless.

  Chronos had always been considered a hard man, somewhat cold, always focused on duty…but as he sat there, he felt himself unraveling. He wanted to reach out somehow, to help his friend. But all he could do was watch the nightmare progressing before him.

  Hegemony’s Glory shook, even as his eyes were fixed on the screen, on the scanner feed from Ilius’s ship, over a hundred thousand kilometers away. Chronos turned his head, but only for a few seconds, long enough to confirm the hit his ship had just taken was a minor one. Then he turned back to look at Ilius’s ship.

  Just as the approaching Highborn battleship fired its main guns…and took the vessel directly amidships.

  Chronos watched, silent, even as, in his head, he screamed his friend’s name. The Hegemony ship was almost still for a few seconds…and then blasts of energy and flames erupted as a jagged fissure opened up along the hull.

  The fires were extinguished almost at once by the vacuum of space, but blasts of instantly freezing smoke and steam followed, as the cracks expanded, moving toward the front of the vessel as it began to split open like an egg.

  Reactors…shut the reactors down…

  But even as the thought pushed into his mind, Chronos knew it wouldn’t matter. Ilius’s vessel was wracked from bow to st
ern by massive internal explosions. The tortured hull shook, and a violent blast blew off the back section, just as the rest of the ship went into a wild spin…and finally broke into a dozen major pieces, and thousands of tiny shards.

  Chronos scanned the display, looking for any signs of lifepods or shuttles. It was pointless, he knew. Even if some of the crew had escaped, he knew Ilius well enough to be certain his friend would not have been on the first wave of escape ships.

  But there were none. None at all. Ilius’s ship was gone, along with its entire crew.

  Chronos drew in a ragged breath, and he felt the darkness close in even tighter around him as realization firmed into certainty.

  Ilius was dead.

  * * *

  Bryan Rogan staggered back around the corner, leaning against the wall and wincing as soon as he was out of sight of the Marines down the corridor. He’d taken a round in the arm, nothing serious enough to take him out of action, but it was bleeding like a faucet. He set his rifle against the wall, and pulled out his knife, cutting a strip off his sleeve and wrapping it around the wound the best he could manage by himself. The cloth quickly soaked through with blood, but it was the best he could do. There was no time to get down to any of the infirmaries on Striker, assuming he wasn’t cut off from them already. He had a pair of field medics with the force he’d assembled to defend the control center, but there were at least twenty of his people in far worse shape. Besides, the last thing he needed was for his Marines to see him appear to be incapacitated. A little blood was fine, it only added to the morale effect of seeing the general standing with the fighting Marines, rifle in hand. But any hint that he’d been taken down would shake even his veteran fighters, especially after they’d been pushed back hallway across the station, to a position they had to hold.

  If he withdrew again, it would be to the control room itself. That would be a last resort. The large, mostly open space there would make a poor defensive position, though he’d done what he could to fortify it just in case. Any fighting there would be a danger to the officers running the fortress…and the battle.