Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I (38 page)

Then he’d gotten the transmission from Admiral Hurley. She hadn’t minced words, and what she’d said seemed like the craziest scheme he’d ever imagined. He didn’t suspect dying in space was a pleasant way to go, but Hurley had been insistent. And in the end, only one thing mattered. She was
Admiral
Hurley. Connor Frasier would be damned if his last action would be to disobey a superior officer.

“I’m in position, Admiral.” He held the small com unit in his hand as he pressed the button to close the inner door.

“Okay, Major. Here is what you’re going to do. You will hit the button to begin depressurization, but you will not wait until it is complete. You will estimate the halfway point, and then you will open the hatch. You will be pulled out by the force of the remaining atmosphere, but it is important that you also push yourself forward…straight out of the airlock. We’ll be hovering a few meters in front of you with the bomb bay doors open. It’s a big area, over three meters square. But if you miss…”

“Understood, Admiral.” He took a deep breath. “I’m ready when you are…”

*  *  *

Greta Hurley stood in the bomb bay of her fighter, with Kip Janz at her side. This wasn’t the kind of duty one often found an admiral doing, but even rarer was someone with the stones to tell Greta Hurley what she could and couldn’t do.

“Okay, John,” she said slowly, methodically. “Depressurize.”

She could hear the sounds as the pumps pulled the air out of the bay. The entire process took about thirty seconds before Wilder’s voice blared into her headset. “Depressurization complete, Admiral.”

“Open bay doors.”

She watched as the hatch slid slowly open, revealing the blackness of space. And beyond she could see it…the dark gray of the Colossus’ hull. Somehow, Wilder had managed to get within four meters…she almost felt like she could reach out and touch it.

The whole thing had been her plan, yet now she found herself staring in wonder at what her pilot had managed to do. The ship was angled with its bottom facing the Colossus. The bomb bay doors were the biggest opening on the Lightning, the largest target she could give Connor Frasier.

It was time.

“Okay, Major. We’re in position. You may proceed when ready. Just let us know when you hit the depressurization control.”

A few seconds passed. “I’m ready, Admiral.” Another pause. “Hitting the button now.”

Hurley felt a burst of adrenalin. In a few seconds, Frasier would come out of the airlock. He would float across the frigid vacuum of space, with no suit, no protection at all. If his aim was true, if he landed in the fighter’s bay, he might be injured…but he would probably survive. Space, as deadly an environment as it was, didn’t kill instantly. And it would only take Frasier five seconds to reach the fighter. If his trajectory was true. And if it wasn’t…well, then he would die.

Hurley pushed that out of her mind, along with the morbid question of what would kill him first in that scenario. There was nothing she could do but watch and wait…and wonder at how long a few seconds could seem to last.

When it happened, it happened quickly. She saw the doors slide open, and Frasier’s body was pushed out with the force of the remaining pressure in the airlock. She saw his feet pushing off the floor, aiming his body toward the waiting fighter.

She watched as he moved closer. He was on target…or close to it. But a near miss would be as fatal as any. Each second went by in slow motion, and Frasier’s body moved achingly slowly toward the bay.

He’s going to…

She was going to think ‘make it,’ but then she wasn’t so sure…

It happened suddenly. He slammed hard into the edge of the opening, and she could see his arm bent back at a sickening angle. There was no sound in the vacuum of the bay, but she had no doubt he was hurt. His body seemed to pause, and her eyes were fixed, waiting to see if he would slip into the bay, or roll out into the emptiness outside.

Finally, she saw the movement, as he rolled over and fell into the bay. “Close the doors,” she snapped, letting out her anchor line a bit to move toward him.

“Pressurize!” she shouted into her com the instant the doors slammed shut. Frasier had been exposed to the vacuum and the frigid cold for almost twenty seconds. Every instant counted. “Get the heaters on!”

She made her way over to him. At first she thought he was unconscious, but then he opened his eyes. He stared at her for a few seconds as the pressure rose, and then he gasped for breath. His nose was bleeding, and his eyes were bloodshot and streak with red. But he was alive. And after he sucked in a second breath, he looked up at her and gasped out five words.

“Permission to come aboard, Admiral?”

Chapter Twenty-Three

Command Unit Gamma 9736

The latest attack has failed. The calculations had been clear in their result. The enemy fleet would be destroyed; they had no chance of survival. Yet they have prevailed. Again.

Even more inexplicably, the reports from the system suggest that the enemy was aided by one of our own vessels, a main line battleship. Yet no such craft responded to the sector-wide call to arms. If a battleship remained functional, why did it not answer the summons? I must analyze this in greater detail, develop a hypothesis to explain what occurred.

I must also call for more vessels, seek aid from neighboring sectors. Losses have been extremely high, and yet all efforts to destroy the enemy have failed. The next fleet to intercept the humans must be overpowering. The Regent’s orders are clear. There can be no further failure.

AS Midway

X18 System

The Fleet:  160 ships, 34,203 crew

Compton coughed hard, his lungs rebelling against the noxious fumes in the air.
Midway’s
life support systems were functional, but they were still catching up, trying to deal with the smoke and the chemical leaks throughout the ship. The fleet’s flagship had survived the battle, but no one wandering its battered corridors or rubbing eyes stinging from the noxious vapors thought it had come through by more than the slimmest of margins.

“I want all ships ready to move out in one hour. Any vessels that can’t be ready are to be abandoned, their crews transferred immediately to the nearest functional ships.”

Compton felt his people had fought enough First Imperium forces in this accursed system, and he was determined to get them out now. They’d only survived the last battle through the miracle of Dr. Cutter gaining control over the First Imperium Colossus and bringing it back to turn the tide. The final stages of the battle had been ferocious beyond reckoning. The super-battleship had fought with astonishing power, destroying a dozen enemy Leviathans, and fifty other vessels, before it was finally beaten down and its antimatter containment was breached. Compton had never seen an explosion like that, and he hesitated to guess at the gigatons of energy that had been released.

His ships had begun their second pass just as the Colossus slipped into its death agony. The enemy ships were out of position, deployed to face what they had perceived as the greatest threat. Compton’s task forces ripped through their formations, blazing away with every weapon the exhausted damage control parties could keep functional.

The battle continued after the Colossus was gone, but Compton’s people had gained the upper hand, and they kept it to the end. One by one, in desperate ship duels, they had finished off the damaged First Imperium vessels. They’d suffered losses too, and the Delta Z codes had poured into the flag bridge, each one like some ominous bell tolling, an announcement that a ship and its crew had just died.

Compton stared down at the deck, a grim look on his face. Among the dead in the battle just won was Vladimir Udinov…and the entire crew of
Petersburg
. The RIC flagship had fought heroically…indeed the entire RIC contingent had. They’d been far in advance of the fleet, and their sacrifice had held the enemy back…just long enough for Cutter’s Colossus to turn the tide.

Udinov had died a hero, and Terrance Compton was determined that was the way he would be remembered. He’d never falsified records before in his entire career, nor had he lied in his log. But that’s just what he was going to do. Vladimir Udinov and his crews would not be part of the mutiny in any records that remained in the fleet. Not that it really mattered…it was almost a certainty that no one would ever read them. But it was all Compton could think of to honor a man who had proven his quality. And the brave crews that fought and died with him deserved nothing less.

He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Udinov was dead. There was nothing he could do but honor his memory. But Erica West and her people were something different. He knew what he should do, what prudence demanded.
Forget about them…get everyone else out of here now.

To hell with that. I can’t leave more of my people out there to die. I’ve spent a lifetime making decisions with my head. This one I’m making with my heart
.

“Get me Captain Duke.”

“Captain Duke on your line, sir.” Cortez was still at his post, though he belonged in sickbay. Compton had been reluctant to order him there outright, but he’d suggested it a couple times to no avail. He’d almost made it a command, but then he decided Jack Cortez had earned the right to stay at his post if he wanted to.

“John, I need your help. I just can’t leave Erica West and her people lost out there.”

Duke’s gravelly voice replied immediately. “Thank God, Admiral. I feel the same way. I’ve been trying to figure out how to suggest it.” A pause. “We’ve lost too many already.”

“And now I’m going to ask you and your people to put yourselves at risk.”

“Ask? Hell, Admiral, all you need to do is
let
us go.” Duke had twenty fast attack ships still functional enough to go chasing after West’s lost flotilla.

“Your ships are the only thing we’ve got left that can catch her people in any reasonable time. But you won’t be able to carry enough reaction mass to refuel her ships. And if we send a tanker with you it defeats the advantage of your speed.”

“If we fly with skeleton crews, we should just have enough space to load up all her people. Her cruisers will be a writeoff, but…”

“I’m not worried about the ships, John.” That was a lie. He hated losing some of his newest, fastest vessels. But the crews came first.

“I think we can manage with eighteen man crews.” Duke’s ships had standard complements of 65-80.

“Your eighteen man crews will be pulling some serious shifts, John. And if you get into a fight…”

“If we get into a fight, we’re dead anyway. And we can pop stims for a few more days. If I keep too many more of my people onboard, we’re not going to be able to fit all West’s crews.”

“Okay, John. Do it. You can transfer your people to…” He glanced down at the fleet manifest on his screen, looking for large ships that weren’t half wrecked. He got almost halfway through the list before he found one. “Dallas looks good…and Kyoto…and Valois.” All three ships were heavy cruisers. There wasn’t a battleship in the fleet that wasn’t half wrecked and overrun with damage control parties.

“I’m transferring a thousand crew, Admiral. That’ll make things tight on three cruisers, won’t it?”

“Yes, but we can move people around after you get them off your ships. We need to get you moving as quickly as possible…or we might as well not bother.”

“I’ll be on the way in two hours, sir.”

“Good.” Compton paused. “And, John…time is of the essence. Both for you to find West’s ships before they’re too far away and because we can’t stay here for long.”

“Understood, sir.”

“Good luck to you…and to your crews.”

*  *  *

“I’m sorry, Will, but there’s just no way.
Montgomery’s
a writeoff.” Max Harmon’s voice was soft, gentle. He knew no captain wanted to hear that his ship was finished, that her crew would be reassigned and the vessel itself, in
Montgomery’s
case a cruiser that had seen service since the Third Frontier War, would have its reactor intentionally overloaded and disappear into a superheated plasma.

“But I’ve had my crews working around the clock, Max.” Will Logan was a seasoned captain, the veteran of many battles, but now he was practically pleading, his reason overwhelmed by emotion, by love for his ship. He’d taken a shuttle to
Midway
just to take one more shot at convincing Harmon to change his mind.

“I’m sorry, Max. You’re too close, but you just can’t see it. The reactor’s okay, but
Montgomery’s
engines are a mangled wreck. We don’t have the parts or the equipment to fix them…let alone the time. You’ll never be able to get them over six or seven gees.” He paused. “You know we need more than that. We’ve got to get as far from here as possible. And they’ll be another fight. If
Montgomery
stays in the line, we’re going to end up having to leave her behind anyway…and if that happens, we’re not going to have time to get your crew off.”

Logan stared back for a few seconds, but finally he just nodded. Still, Harmon could see the emotion in his eyes, and he knew
Montgomery’s
captain had truly convinced himself his crippled ship could still serve.

“You can take it to Admiral Compton if you want.” Compton had assigned Harmon to weed out ships that had to be culled from the fleet, and he knew the admiral would agree with his decision. But if it made Logan feel better, as if he had expended every available effort to save his ship, Harmon had no problem with it.

“No, Max.” The energy was gone from Logan’s voice. “You’re right. I just don’t want to face it.”

Harmon put his hand on Logan’s shoulder. “Look to your people, Will. They need you now. You’ve done all you could for
Montgomery
. She was a good ship, and she served well, fought many battles. It’s time to let her go.”

Logan just nodded.

Harmon returned the gesture and stood where we was for a moment before turning to leave. “I’ve got to go, Will,” he said softly. “Just call the bridge when your shuttle is ready, and they’ll give you launch clearance.”