Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I (33 page)

And dying in the tanks is the worst way to go…

He had to stand and fight. There was no other choice.
Maybe we can buy some time for the supply ships to escape.
He didn’t try to fool himself that the almost unarmed transports would survive for long on their own, but they’d have a chance, at least. The same words, mathematically indistinguishable from zero, drifted through his head again, amid thoughts of the helpless supply vessels being chased down and blown apart by First Imperium warships.

No, we will fight because that is who we are, because I will not die fleeing from the enemy, blasted to plasma as I run…nor will I see these brave men and women I have led meet their ends so ignominiously. We will fight because that is who we are, because if these infernal machines want to destroy us, we will make them pay a terrible price for their victory. If we must die—if we must die—let it be a worthy death.

Compton forced himself bolt upright in his chair. “Commander Cortez, the fleet will remain at red alert.” His voice was firm, commanding, not a touch of fear evident.
Thank God they don’t know how fake it is.
“All taskforces are to reform into battle array delta-two.”

“Yes, Admiral.” Cortez’ tone was firmer. Compton had always been amazed at what strong leadership could achieve. They would follow his example, draw strength from him, even as they faced certain death. He’d known for decades how crucial that was for fighting men and women. But few of them understood what it cost the commanders they followed so bravely, the drain of projecting that constant strength in the face of horror after horror. Augustus Garret, Elias Holm, Erik Cain…Compton had been privileged to serve alongside a number of legendary commanders. And he’d see firsthand how the stress and pressure affected them, eating them alive, hollowing them out from the inside. But they still did it. For them—for him—there was no other way.

“Admiral Hurley is to scramble her fighters immediately.” Compton felt a pang of guilt. Hurley’s crews had been to hell and back…again and again. Sending them into the teeth of this new force was murder, pure and simple. But this time there was no point in holding them back. If they didn’t die in their fighters in combat with the enemy, they’d die in their bays when their motherships were torn to shreds or vaporized by their exploding reactors.

No one is coming back from this fight…

“Yes, sir.” A few seconds later:  “All squadrons are scrambling, sir. Admiral Hurley advises four minutes until launch readiness.”

Four minutes? That’s impossible. But this is Greta Hurley, so is anything impossible?

“Very well,” he said simply.
I wish I had time to go down to the bay and shake her hand. I doubt we will meet again…

“Alright Commander…the rest of the fleet will prepare for high-g maneuvers. I want everyone in the tanks ten minutes after the fighters are launched. We haven’t got any missiles, so we need to get to energy range as quickly as possible.”

“Yes, sir,” Cortez snapped.

Compton wasn’t at all sure he was ordering the right maneuver, but he knew being unsure was the one luxury he did not have right now. At least not as far as anyone in the crew was concerned. Maximum acceleration would get the fleet to energy weapons range quickly…but they would still pass through the enemy’s missile barrage.

At high velocity, it was difficult to significantly alter a vessel’s trajectory, in essence making its course more predictable, and therefore easier to target. On the other hand, while a slower moving ship could more easily execute radical changes to its vector, it was obliged to spend more time in the kill zone. It was a debate that had raged for a century in the naval academies, and one for which no generally-accepted agreement had ever been reached. Against a highly skilled adversary like Augustus Garret, he would have opted for a slower approach, attempting to confound his enemy’s targeting with rapid and unpredictable course changes. But the First Imperium intelligences were far less adept at battle tactics than their overall sophistication suggested, and Compton wanted to get to grips with the enemy as quickly as possible.

Maybe you just want to get it over with. Half a century at war…and now you face your last battle. There will be no stories, no history, no legacy of the great Terrance Compton other than that you were trapped beyond the Barrier…and assumed dead in system X2. This isn’t about how you go down in history…no one here will survive to remember, save perhaps in some jettisoned log destined to float forever in the depths of space. No, this isn’t about anything except you…and these men and women who have fought by your side. We will have good deaths…and in our final moments, we will know we have remained strong and defiant to the last…

*  *  *

“Commander, please…we have to get your people to the tanks.” The medical technician was rushing around the edge of the bed.

Mariko Fujin stared back with blazing eyes. “We’re not going to the tanks.”

“But Commander, you must. The ship will be accelerating at more than 30g. We can continue your cleanse once you are in the system.” The sickbay acceleration tanks were specially designed to allow medical treatments to continue while a ship was executing high gee maneuvers. It was far from ideal, but it was the only alternative when a vessel was going into battle. A stretch of time in the tanks could be dangerous or fatal for a badly wounded patient, but Fujin’s people were undergoing a relatively minor procedure.

“I’m sorry, Ensign,” she said, pulling the last of the IV connections from her arm, “but my people and I are going to our fighter, not to the tanks.” She looked over the flustered medic’s shoulder toward Hiroki, who was following her lead and tearing the plastic tubing from his own arm.

“Commander, that’s out of the question.” The medic turned and looked out over the sickbay.

“Relax, Ensign,” Mariko said softly. “We’re all going to die anyway. You know that…I know that. Everyone knows. And my people and I are going to die in our fighter, alongside our comrades.”

She fixed her gaze on him for a few seconds, and then she turned and walked out into the main area of the sickbay. A few seconds later the others came walking over one at a time. “Are we all ready?” she said when they were gathered.

“We’re ready,” they said almost as one.

“Then let’s go.” She led them out into the corridor toward the main lift. They got a stare or two as they strode down the hall in their hospital gowns, but most of the crew members they passed were solemn and focused. They all knew what they were facing, and few of them even noticed the fighter’s crew.

Mariko moved swiftly. She knew she didn’t have time to spare.
Midway
’s crew was moving to the tanks, and in less than ten minutes the ship would be blasting at 30g. Her people had to be in their fighter and launched by then.

She felt the impatience rising up within her as the lift moved—too slowly—toward the launch bay. Finally, the doors opened on the sprawling deck. It was mostly empty. Hurley’s squadrons had just completed their launch. But her eyes scanned the area quickly and locked on their target. There it was, her fighter, tucked in right next to the launch track.

“Let’s go. We’re gonna have to skip preflight. Just get her powered up and ready to…”

“What the hell are you pukes doing on my launch deck?” The roaring voice was unmistakable. Sam McGraw was
Midway’s
senior NCO, the chief of the ship’s launch bays and a certified terror to any officer without the stones to face him down.

“We’re launching, Chief,” Mariko said without a trace of doubt in her voice.

“To hell you are,” came the almost deafening reply. “This deck is closed right now, and none of you puppies are cleared for duty.”

“We are taking off, Chief, and I don’t have the time to argue with you right now.” The scene was almost comic, the meter and a half tall Fujin staring up at the 110 kilogram monster towering at least 35 centimeters over her. But the pilot held her own, not giving a millimeter, and her voice was as hard as a plasti-steel girder.

“C’mon, Chief,” she added, her tone a bit softer. “We all know what is happening. None of these fighters are coming back. This is the fleet’s final battle. Do we really need to leave a perfectly good fighter sitting unused?” She paused. “We all need to die our own way.”

McGraw stared down at her for half a minute that seemed like an eternity. Then, something amazing happened, an event so improbable that she doubted anyone else on
Midway’s
crew would have believed it. Chief Sam McGraw, the hardest screw ever to walk a launch bay’s deck, gave in. “Go,” he said, the slightest hint of admiration in his tone. “I’ll open the doors for you.”

“Thank you, Chief.”

“Never mind that. Just move your asses. You’ve got three minutes or that door’s staying closed.”

She nodded quickly. “Alright, let’s go.” She flashed a quick glance at her shipmates, and she took off for the fighter at a dead run.

*  *  *

“We’ve got one of the damaged laser batteries functional, sir.” Stanovich was staring at his screens, monitoring the emergency repair efforts underway throughout
Petersburg
. His voice was weak, tentative.

Udinov knew that was the residual effects of the tanks. His crew had only been out of the protective shells for ten minutes, and he knew from the pounding in his own fuzzy head, it took longer than that to completely shake the disorientation. He’d taken a stim injection strong enough to stampede a herd of elephants, but he was still foggy, his thoughts moving slowly.

“That’s outstanding, Commander. Give the crews my congratulations.” Udinov allowed himself a guarded smile. Things were looking bleak, but in the overall context, 30% more firepower was a good thing.

He glanced at the display. The wall of icons approaching the line of human ships was imposing. More than that, he knew it was his death he was looking at. Not just his, but that of every man and woman on
Petersburg
…on every ship in the fleet.

He also saw a cluster of smaller icons, swarming toward the edge of the enemy formation.
Admiral Hurley’s fighters
, he thought. “All ships accelerate at 3g, course 343.011.116.” His eyes were focused on the tiny symbols as they streaked across the screen. “We will go in behind the fighters, support their attack.”

He knew his battered RIC task force had limited firepower, especially against an enemy force like the one now heading toward it. Still, following up Hurley’s bombing run he might get the chance to finish off a couple enemy battleships, and that seemed like the most he could do to hurt the enemy. And he was determined to sell his peoples’ lives dearly.

“Get me Admiral Compton.” He’d had enough of playing the rogue. He wanted Compton’s blessing for what was likely to be his final maneuver.

“Admiral Compton on your line, sir.”

Udinov adjusted his headset. “Admiral, I request permission to move forward with my task force in close support of the Admiral Hurley’s bombing run. I believe we can be of the most value there.”

“Permission granted, Admiral Udinov. My admiration and best wishes go with your people.”

“Thank you, sir.” The Russian admiral paused. “And please accept my apologies, Admiral, for my earlier actions. I can only hope you can one day forgive me.”

“It is forgiven, Vladimir. And forgotten…washed away by the blood your people shed in the last battle.” There was a long pause and then Compton added, “It’s a man’s final actions that define him the most, wouldn’t you say?”

Udinov swallowed hard and replied, “Yes, sir. I would say that.”

“Then go with my respect, Admiral Udinov, and take the fight to the enemy.”

“Yes, sir. I can promise you I will do that…”

*  *  *

“Very well, Admiral Udinov. Your forces are most welcome. I am concentrating my assault on the flank of the enemy battleline. I had intended to try to take out the two Leviathans on the end, but with your added firepower, I propose we attack three instead of two.” Hurley had been surprised at first, but she quickly adapted to the news that she had a whole task force backing her strike.

“I couldn’t agree more, Admiral. Let’s blast them to atoms.” Udinov’s voice was strong, predatory.

Whatever had happened before, Hurley realized, Vladimir Udinov was ready to give his all to this fight. “Good luck to you, Admiral,” she said solemnly. “And to those who serve with you.”

“And to you, Admiral,” his voice blared through the com. “And to your brave squadrons. Udinov out.”

Hurley leaned back in her chair, looking down at the screen. Her eye caught a tiny dot, an icon representing a single fighter. It was behind the rest of the strike force, accelerating to try to catch up. She knew who it was the second she saw it, but she toggled the ID function just to be sure.

She tapped the earpiece of her headset, changing the com channel. “Commander Fujin, what the hell are you doing?”

There was a small delay, less than a second, as the signal traversed the space between her fighter and Fujin’s craft and the response worked its way back. “We’re joining the strike force, Admiral. The fleet needs every bit of firepower it can muster.”

“And you came to that conclusion through your many years of command experience?” Hurley was annoyed, but not as much as she might have been in other circumstances. Everyone knew this was no normal battle, that it was almost certainly their last.

“I apologize for disobeying orders, Admiral, but we are perfectly capable of flying this mission.”

“Now you’re a doctor? I thought you were a pilot…and one who knew how to follow orders. Clearly I was mistaken.”

There was a pause, longer than the normal transmission time. Finally, Fujin’s voice came back on the line. “Admiral, my people don’t want to die in a hospital bed.” Another pause then:  “Please.”

Hurley nodded to herself. She didn’t take kindly to her orders being disobeyed, not normally.

But if there ever was a time and place…