Cauldron of Fire (Blood on the Stars Book 5) Page 5

  She shot a glance to the screen, checking the status of the torpedoes. She wanted to beat these fighters…many of them had probably been at Santis, and they carried their own share of the responsibility for Kat’s death. But mostly, she wanted Dauntless, and she would do anything, endure any sacrifice, to gain that victory.

  Damn.

  Dauntless’s gunners picked off two of the inbound torpedoes as she watched. She cursed under her breath, angry that the bomber crews hadn’t converted their weapons to energy yet. She knew her anger was misplaced, that guiding in a successful bombing attack meant balancing factors correctly. The plasma torpedoes were almost impossible to intercept once they had fired up their reactions, but then they would be on a fixed vector, the thrusters that allowed course changes incinerated by the conversion.

  She pulled her eyes from the long-range screen, back to the tactical display. There was no time to watch the attack on Dauntless. Those fighters were coming on. She could defeat them, she was confident about that, but she also knew how dangerous they were, that if she relaxed her guard, let down her intensity one iota, this Confed squadron would cut her people to ribbons.

  She looked over the display, her eyes seeking the ship she’d engaged before. She’d put a tracer on him, and now her AI was searching the incoming scanner data, looking for her target. She hoped for an instant the pilot had been one of those stranded by an overloaded reactor, but then one of the symbols on her screen glowed. There he was.

  The ship was at the far end of the enemy formation, not an ideal position for her to engage. But that pilot was too good. He could kill a lot of her people…unless she took him down herself.

  She hit her turbos and was pressed back into her seat by the force of acceleration. She took a deep breath, at least as deep as she could manage with an effective force eight times her body weight pressing down on her. Grachus believed in the way, with all her heart and soul. She was an Alliance warrior. She didn’t acknowledge fear, and she didn’t let concern for danger interfere with her actions.

  She felt a droplet streaking down her neck, then another. She might not acknowledge fear, but that didn’t mean she didn’t feel it. It was there, now more than ever. She’d never met her match before in the cockpit, never encountered a pilot she couldn’t best. Until now.

  This Confed was good. Really good. She thought she might have the edge, slightly, but then she wondered if that was just ego driving her analysis. Whatever the final score, the tally of skill and talent, she knew this Confed could best her. She needed all she could manage right now, every scrap of instinct and experience she could deploy to face this deadly foe.

  She took another deep breath. She was ready.

  * * *

  “Seal off breached compartments. Reroute main port power conduit.” Barron was snapping out commands, fully aware of the redundancy of every word coming out of his mouth. He knew Fritzie was on top of all of it, that she had likely already dispatched crews to do everything he was ordering. But she remained silent on the other end of the comm line, respectfully listening to his every word.

  “Yes, sir,” she replied as soon as Barron paused long enough to allow her to get out a word without interrupting him. “All being done, sir. The hit was a solid one, but I think we’ve got most of the damage contained.”

  “All right, Fritzie. I hear you. Carry on.” Barron’s tone was as apologetic as a ship commander’s was ever likely to be in action. He knew his engineer was in control, but damn it anyway, Dauntless was his ship, and he’d sweat every detail, especially when she was hurt.

  She’s only your ship because you won’t give her up to Atara as you should…

  He shut the comm line. His engineer had more important things to do than humor her captain’s interference. Fritzie had brought Dauntless back from the blackest pits again and again. If there was one person in the crew who deserved his utmost trust to do her job, it was Anya Fritz. And, despite his tendency to micromanage upon occasion, the truth was, she had it. There was no one Barron trusted and relied upon more than his extraordinary engineer.

  “Commodore…” Barron heard Travis’s voice, even as his eyes fixed on the last group of torpedoes. There were five, coming in at better than 0.05c, and the spread pattern was a problem.

  Damn these Alliance pilots.

  Barron’s mind raced, looking for an evasion pattern, one that would allow him to avoid all five incoming weapons. But there wasn’t one. The cluster of plasmas was perfectly placed, and approaching along every possible escape route.

  “Hard to port, full thrust,” he yelled, gripping the armrests of his chair against the expected force.

  “Hard to port, sir,” Travis snapped back. Dauntless swung hard, and a wave of pressure hit Barron and the rest of the bridge crew.

  Barron’s eyes were fixed on the display, watching each of the approaching plasmas. He was sure he’d evaded two of them, but that wasn’t enough.

  “Cut thrust to fifty percent. Full power to starboard positioning thrusters.”

  “Yes, Commodore.” Once again, Travis executed his orders faster than he’d thought possible. The ship shook again, and the force shifted, and lessened in intensity.

  Barron watched as two more torpedoes zipped by, one missing the ship by less than five hundred meters, a very close shave by the standards of space combat.

  He wanted to breathe a sigh of relief, but he was too distracted watching the last torpedo, the one he hadn’t managed to evade. The one that was about to slam into Dauntless amidships.

  The battleship shook hard once, followed by silence, for perhaps ten seconds. Then a series of internal explosions rocked Dauntless, the sounds reverberating through the hull. A shower of sparks flew across the bridge as a series of panels burned out one after the other, and a section of plating fell from the ceiling, landing with a loud crash.

  Barron was on the comm again in an instant. “Fritzie…”

  This time the engineer did interrupt. “It’s bad, Commodore…but I can get it under control. We’re looking at some temporary power losses…and you can forget about primaries or secondaries for at least an hour, and probably longer.” There was a pause, a few seconds where the only sound was the static of the damaged lines. Then, as if reading his mind, she continued, “The landing bays are salvageable, sir. Alpha’s in better shape than Beta, but we should be able to land the entire strike force.”

  That was good news, at least, tinged a bit darker by the fact that Dauntless’s combined wings were going to be quite a bit smaller landing than they were taking off.

  “Okay, Fritzie. Priority to keeping the bays open. Our squadrons are going to be on fumes by the time they get back.” If they get back. “And I want the rescue boats ready to launch. A lot of our people had to ditch out there, and we’re not leaving them behind.”

  “Yes, sir. Don’t worry…we’ll get them all in.”

  “I know you will, Fritzie.” Barron hit the comm unit, cutting the line again. He leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath. Dauntless was out of the fight, at least for some time. But she’d done her part, battering two enemy battleships to scrap.

  Tyler Barron hated sitting there, watching, leaving his fate in the hands of others. But there was nothing to do but wait.

  And hope his ship had done enough to tilt the battle into the win column.

  * * *

  Grachus did the calculations again, as though her AI—and she, herself, the other three times she’d done the math—were wrong, that some repeated miscalculation had reared its head instead of the simple fact that she didn’t have enough fuel.

  Turn back now. That’s what the book says.

  Grachus wanted to ignore regs, to stay in the fight as long as she had fuel in the tanks and watts in her lasers. But it was about more than her right now, more even than her own Dragons. There were three full squadrons engaged with the Confeds, and as unofficial as it might be, she was as good as the commander of the whole lot. They’d followed he
r here, they’d thrown themselves into the fight with abandon, without the slightest reservations. Could she really decide on suicide, not just for herself, but for all of them?

  Because it would be suicide. Our battleships are losing, they’d never be able to send a rescue after us.

  She’d sparred with that Confed pilot again, another twenty minutes of pointless maneuvering and close calls on both sides. Every stratagem she tried, every trick to get a second’s advantage, had been countered. She’d come close once or twice to taking him, she was sure of that. It was harder to acknowledge the reverse, that he too had nearly taken her out, that more than one of his attacks had almost finished her. The two had ended up on sharply divergent vectors, causing a momentary break in their death struggle. Now, she had to decide whether to stay and finish the fight—and risk running out of fuel—or to return to the ship. She knew what she wanted to do, and also what she should do. The two were contradictory.

  She stared at her display. The battleship, that accursed ship Dauntless, had taken significant damage, but the bombing strike had failed to destroy her. That pilot was as much to blame for that as anyone. Somehow, he’d gotten his squadron back in time. His people hadn’t been able to turn back the whole assault force, but they’d thinned it enough. The whole battle had been close, but looking at the screen, she knew her comrades would be retreating soon. The Grays had the clear edge now, another injury caused by Dauntless.

  She felt the rage growing again, the hatred for that ship and its commander…and that ace pilot. She respected his ability, but he had thwarted her vengeance, and for that he would have to pay.

  She knew what she had to do, but she swore silently, an oath to herself, that they would all meet again. And when they did, it would be a reckoning the likes of which could hardly be imagined.

  I failed you here, Kat, but I swear on my honor, on my life, that I will still avenge you.

  Chapter Six

  Imperator’s Palace

  Victorum, Alliance Capital City

  Palatia, Astara II

  Year 62 (311 AC)

  “We knew they were coming, we devised a plan to surprise them…and yet the result is still the same. Defeat. The freighters were destroyed, and a precious cargo of vital electronics obliterated. We outnumber the traitors, yet all my admirals deliver to me is lost battles, even when we risk a king’s ransom of precious supplies as bait in a snare. Who did we trap? Ourselves?” The Imperator Calavius I sat on his seat, looking out over the officers and courtiers gathered before him on the polished marble floor.

  No, not a seat. Ricard Lille, the architect of the current regime’s rise to power—and its financier as well—stood quietly in the corner of the room, watching as his creation roared at his subordinates with a fury that increasingly seemed to verge on the irrational. That is not a seat. It is a throne.

  Calavius had pushed hard since Lille had helped engineer the coup that had put him in that…chair. He had relentlessly secured more and more power for himself, ignoring the very tenets of the Alliance’s “way” even as he gave speeches praising Palatia’s early heroes for their virtues of honor and duty to the state. The Imperator had never been an absolute monarch in the Alliance. In fact, the Imperator had been somewhat of a figurehead, a senior warrior to lead his or her people by example, not by unquestioned edict. But Calavius didn’t want only the respect and the trappings of power. He wanted it all.

  Still, he needs to move more slowly. Foolish opulence like that chair will cause more damage to the loyalty of his followers than three lost battles…

  “Your Supremacy, I assure you that we inflicted as much damage as we suffered in this last exchange. Indeed, we were close to victory…before the Confed flagship returned and joined the enemy line.” The officer’s voice changed slightly as he mentioned the Confederation vessel.

  “Flagship? Do you fear that wretched craft so much that you cannot utter its name? Must I do it for you? Dauntless.” The last word dripped heavily with venom. Calavius paused, glaring down with such focused rage, his commanders were struck silent. They watched their leader with varying degrees of concern, fear…and some growing resentment as well. “Or its cursed commander. Tyler Barron.”

  Lille had been well aware Calavius was a man driven by ego, that the tool he had chosen to secure control of the Alliance would become difficult to handle once in power. Calavius was far from an ideal choice, but his friendship with Vennius had meant he was the only one with the ability to sabotage his friend’s possible responses to a coup. At least, the only one corrupt enough to be susceptible to Lille’s overtures.

  The fool had botched the initial move against Vennius, of course, allowing the Alliance’s top military commander to escape from Palatia with the Imperatrix in tow. Vennius had been able to mount a defense against the coup, turning an effective fait accompli into a full-blown civil war. Lille was angry his tool had allowed that to happen, but in spite of the complications, there was no question Calavius had delivered some solid value, especially in securing the allegiance of fleet units and utilizing his control of the communications networks to declare his adversary a traitor. Lille was continually amazed at just how naïve these Alliance warriors were. Propaganda that wouldn’t fool indentured workers on any Union world was taken as unquestioned fact, even by the Patrician elite. And that fact had been used to great effect, turning many against Vennius who otherwise would have enthusiastically supported him.

  Vennius, cornered in Sentinel-2, clinging to just under thirty percent of total Alliance forces, was a much preferable situation to the Commander Maximus at his desk in Victorum, reputation intact and the whole fleet under his command. And while Calavius’s people had failed to kill the Imperatrix in her palace as he’d ordered—suggested, Lille reminded himself—they’d managed to wound her. And though she’d taken her time about it, by all accounts, the infuriatingly stubborn old woman had finally had the decency to die. That left Vennius alone, isolated, his claim to the Imperator’s scepter lacking the Council approval Calavius had managed to buy…and coerce. All in all, things were still moving in the right direction, and if an easy and quick victory had been squandered, it still seemed likely his plan would succeed.

  But now he’s going too far. These are Alliance officers, nobles and members of distinguished families. They were raised on the cult of duty, but they are also proud and arrogant in their own rights. If he pushes them too far, acts too much like a king…

  “Perhaps more could have been done to win the outright victory.” Lille stepped away from the wall, interjecting himself into the exchange. He’d almost kept silent, fully aware of that most of the Alliance officers despised him. But he was afraid of how far Calavius might go if left unattended. If he starts executing his top officers…

  The last thing Lille needed was a coup within the coup.

  “But there is no question this last battle was far more successful than those that preceded it.” He could feel the eyes of the assembled officers boring into him as he spoke. He wasn’t one to allow hostility to distract him, but the success of his mission depended on keeping these men and women in Calavius’s camp, something the Imperator was beginning to prove to be beyond his own abilities. “I believe we can learn from this last fight, and continue to push this destructive conflict to the end we all seek.” He paused for a few seconds, then he continued, “All present despise Tarkus Vennius as a traitor, a collaborator with the Confeds…” Always worth reminding them of the image his propaganda had created of the previously popular Commander Maximus. There is nothing so powerful as a fallen hero, nor anything so readily despised by weak-minded fools. “…but we must not allow ourselves to underestimate his tactical skills, nor those of the butcher, Tyler Barron. Hate them both, swear to destroy them…but never forget how dangerous they are.”

  Lille could see the anger in the officers’ faces. It was reflexive, he knew. They might agree with every word he said, but they would never show that to him, the foreigner, the
outsider. Still, he could feel the tension ratchet down, and he knew he’d managed what he’d set out to achieve.

  Now, something positive…

  “And one more thing. Your fighter squadrons battled the enemy to a standstill. This is a marked change from previous battles, is it not? Perhaps there is someone to reward, a warrior whose skill and valor has set an example to all the wings fighting alongside her own.” He knew already, of course, of whom he spoke…and he was well aware the admirals all did as well. But his words weren’t for them. They were for Calavius, whose adherence to old social standings was most definitely subordinate to the fight to secure his throne.

  “Ambassador Lille is correct,” the Imperator said after an overlong silence. “We must reward heroism and success, wherever it arises in our service. We need role models. Our fighter pilots were inspired by one who set the standard for courage and skill. I will reward that hero.”

  “A Pleb from a disgraced family as a hero?” Commander-Altum Battarus spoke first, though Lille knew the gruff old man was only saying what the others were thinking. “I do not question the piloting skill of this Optiomagis—what is her name, Grachus? Nor do I doubt that her exploits have provided limited inspiration to members of her squadron, and even some among the lesser-born in the other wings. But, I cannot believe you would elevate such a lower…”

  “You may believe it, Commander-Altum. If you or any of your associates had devised and executed a winning strategy, none of this would be necessary. But Optiomagis Grachus—no, Commander-Princeps Grachus now—is the one beacon of success in an otherwise lackluster series of operations. We must seek to build on her accomplishments.” Calavius glared at Battarus, almost daring the officer to disagree before he continued, “Commander Grachus will henceforth be designated as fleet fighter commander, and she shall lead all squadrons deployed to the next operation.”