Back Into the Fire, page 2
“In exchange for the Sabbat’s continued support of your leadership, we require this of you, Alexi.” Julian leaned forward in his seat. “Above all other things.”
Noovin met the false-youth’s gaze, turned to take in the smugly quiet stares of the others. He hated them, had always done so. And there’d come a time when even the Sabbat’s usefulness to him would run its course.
But not now.
He offered them his best High Councilor’s smile. “It will be as you ask.”
THE AIRLOCK CORRIDOR leading to the shuttle trembled as an internal blast rocked the Union heavy carrier Concordia. Grand Admiral Carson Greer flung a hand up to a bulkhead to steady himself. The air stank of fires and scorched electronics and rang faintly with screams.
Hands pushed him from behind. “We’ve got to get you off the ship, sir!”
“Easy, now,” Greer growled over his shoulder at Lieutenant Commander Arrian—the ship’s Tactical Officer and, after that last Alliance sortie had crippled her weapons systems, his babysitter. “Panic benefits no one.”
Arrian flinched a little at that. He was no coward and Greer instantly regretted the hasty words. “At best, Concordia’s dead in space, sir,” the young man insisted. “At worst—”
Greer’s stomach flopped over as a dizzying sensation went through the floor, like getting caught in a dropping elevator. Arrian wobbled into him, features going momentarily green with nausea. Artificial gravity failure, he thought, steadying himself again. Damn, the old girl’s hit really badly this time.
“Sir,” Arrian pressed.
Feeling the gravity settle, Greer started down the corridor again. “Right.”
It had all gone to hell so fast.
The battle across the Bolingbroke System had been the kind of blind-fighting brawl Greer hated. Gone were the early days of the war, when the Alliance flung its ships straight at them. Now, it was cut and feint, maneuver and false retreat. The fleets hid from one another in the vastness of space, sending out feelers by way of starfighter sweeps, then lunging out of darkness into storms of fire when they found something.
Greer had found the Alliance Fringe World Fleet first. But they’d landed the last blow. Concordia had paid the price.
A pair of star sailors in the olive drab jumpsuits of shuttle crew waved with increasing urgency from the airlock. Greer hustled to them. “I’ll want contact with Admiral Avery immediately!” he called over his shoulder to Arrian.
“The heavy cruiser, Solomon, is closest,” Arrian replied. “We’ll get you transferred over to her first, sir.”
The deck quivered beneath him again as Greer hurried through the airlock. Stooping, and with the unneeded help of another crewman, he found his way to a seat in the cramped administrative shuttle, plopped down unceremoniously, and tolerated it as the crewman buckled him in. The little flitter was meant for ship-to-ship transfer, minimal deflector shields, no weapons. A part of him tensed at the idea of rushing out into space, even for only minutes, with the enemy still slashing about.
It was all such a cock-up. How would he explain this to Levine and the Legislature?
Arrian stumbled into the seat next to Greer’s left, jostled him. “Get us out of here,” the Commander ordered, waving off the attentions of the unhelpful crew. They scattered to their stations as yet another judder shook the carrier and reverberated through their own ship.
“Does this work?” Greer asked, flipping open the comm plate affixed into the armrest of his seat.
“Should, sir,” the shuttle’s pilot called back to him.
Greer’s fingers were already working the controls. Within moments, he had the link and a globular hologram fluttered to uncertain life above the armrest. Within it a tiny woman of jet hair and Eurasian features looked up. Half her face was blackened from aerosolized blastisteel. A blood smear marred the other. Behind her, the bridge of the Concordia smoldered and shadowy figures scrambled.
“Are you pulling away?” she asked through a snarl of static.
“Just about,” Greer replied. A thump of released airlock pressure confirmed it, followed by steady weight on his body as the shuttle’s inertial compensator struggled to keep up with a rush of acceleration. “How’s our girl?”
Mia Hyabusa, longtime Flag Captain of the old carrier, hesitated before answering, and Greer despaired. “We’re still fighting her, sir. That last strike triggered a chain reaction all the way from the grav drive distributor line to the fusion bottle assembly. Navigation’s shot. We’ll probably need a tow, if we can get these damned fires under control!”
Greer nodded. It was as he’d feared. “Do what you can, Mia,” he said softly. “But no more unnecessary risks.”
“We’ve still got a chance, sir,” she replied. A flash of something from a console behind her cast sparks that briefly silhouetted her.
Greer glanced at Arrian, who was working the communicator controls at his own chair frantically. “Have you gotten Avery, yet?”
“Working on it, sir.”
“Engineering thinks they can get the core restarted,” Hyabusa was saying from the globular. “If they can avoid another misfire.”
She wasn’t just fighting out of stubbornness, Greer knew. Concordia was the Union’s only modern heavy carrier, deserted from the Alliance at the very beginning of the war, along with a full task force of sister ships. Other crews and vessels had come over to the Union, one here, a squadron there. And the Union’s construction yards were working at full-tilt now, finally, would have two new carriers coming in months, if they skipped the shakeout time. Resistance-class strike carriers, they wouldn’t be the exactly equal of an Alliance heavy, but they’d have advantages their opposites didn’t. Greer knew. He’d helped design them.
But the Concordia was more than any of that, more than just a ship. She’d been Greer’s flag. She’d been through so much, had become, in a very big way, the heart of the poor, beat-up, hodge-podge Union Fleet.
“Do what you can, Captain,” Greer told the hologram.
“Aye, sir.” The globular dissolved.
Another was crackling into existence from Arrian’s armrest. “Think I got him, sir!”
The image stabilized to show a blocky-jawed, brown-haired man blessed with youthful looks his old, tired eyes belied. Static smeared his first words. “—rson, are you clear?”
“We’re away,” Greer replied. “I should be aboard the Solomon in about five minutes.”
“Concordia’s that bad, then?” A flicker of pain crossed Rear Admiral Preston Avery’s features. She’d been his flagship, before the war—another life—before he brought her over to the Union with the Secession Crisis. And Greer had always felt a twinge at the way he’d pulled her out from under him for his own.
But it was just a twinge. “Point is,” he pressed on, “I’ve been blind. What’s happening?”
“Looks like they’re finally pulling back,” Avery replied. “We shot that last attack wave up pretty bad. Sensors show Harrison’s regrouping on the far side of the system. Unless he’s brought more fighters in from hyperspace, I’d say he’s thrown his last punch. Even if he did, our pilots think they got two of his carriers and damaged all the rest. Fresh fighters will have no place to refuel and rearm.” Avery shrugged. “My analysts think Harrison’s looking to pull out.”
Harrison, Greer though with a simmer of rage. Oh, you got the better of this one, didn’t you, Nehemiah? Alliance Grand Admiral Nehemiah K. Harrison, top of his class, former protégé of Greer, himself. But the student was rapidly becoming the teacher.
“He still has more ships, Admiral,” Greer noted. “Even if his starfighters are spent.” And it’s not like we have a lot left.
Avery nodded with a hungry hint of a grin. “Harrison’s shown little appetite for capital ship engagement since his return to fleet command.” The grin broadened. “Not since Junction.”
Junction, where it’d all started.
Harrison had brought in the entirety of the Fringe World Fleet there, to smoke out the Hell’s Jesters, who’d been squatting there for years. Greer had met him with everything the Union could cobble together at that time. The ensuing melee had been a confused wreck, capital ships rushing in for point-blank broadsides, starfighters perishing by the hundreds. In the midst of that slaughter, Harrison had blinked, had pulled out, rather than risk greater loss, leaving Greer the field and the Union its first victory.
At the time, it looked to have ruined Harrison’s career. He’d been relegated to an advisory role on Nova Terra while other commanders were given a chance against the Union. But all of those had failed spectacularly, in turn—that maniac, Geiger—leaving the Admiralty with their least-bad option, once more.
And clearly Harrison had profited from the experience.
“Bolingbroke remains free,” Avery declared.
“But not out of danger,” Greer growled. “If Harrison’s backing off, it’ll only be just outside the system, or maybe hypering back to their staging areas at Coronado. He’ll be licking his wounds and waiting for more ships. But he’ll jump at us again, given the chance.”
And he would, went unsaid. The bastard’s got more of everything. He just has to wait for it. Greer beat his thigh with a clenched fist. When the thrust towards Bolingbroke had become obvious, he’d welcomed it, craved it. The Union had been bleeding slowly across multiple fronts, in a dozen slow sieges. The fresh wave of planets declaring for the Union had, unfortunately, brought little in the way of material reinforcements. And Greer still had to defend them. Harrison’s attack had seemed the answer to a prayer, a set-piece battle, a chance to really hurt the Alliance again.
Greer had hurt them, all right, and badly. But he’d gotten hurt, himself.
“So, we’re pinned here,” Avery prompted when Greer’s simmering silence dragged.
“Some of us are,” Greer said. “I’ll stay with a strong force, parked here. But that feint towards Saipan might turn serious. We have to have something mobile to respond there.”
“Turner’s in position,” Avery pointed out, “and she can draw reinforcements from Theseus.”
Greer stopped pounding his thigh, unclenched the hand and raised it to run the fingers over the frizz of his now-completely white hair. Thoughts quivered a moment, then settled. The navigation system of the shuttle was chiming and the holographic viewscreen showed a shark-like silhouette of metal growing before the stars. Greer winced at the sight of the Solomon. Even at a distance, he could see the heavy cruiser had taken damage, too.
“You’re thinking of Fury?” Avery asked.
Greer nodded. “No one’s made a play for it in weeks and what we left there has been bled white. If I was Harrison, and I’d just drawn us out elsewhere, that’s where I’d throw ships. We’ll need to counter that.”
“You...have someone in mind for that duty?” Avery asked archly.
Greer offered him an unpleasant smile. “As a matter of fact, I do.”
Avery visibly clenched his jaw. “How soon?”
“Immediately,” Greer replied. Avery had the last-gen strike carrier Sacramento as his flag, the escort carrier, Caruso—little better than a blastisteel coffin, that one—and a small task force of one battleship, two cruisers, and a destroyer screen. All had been used hard, just now, but they were intact. And the Sacramento could carry two starfighter squadrons. “Don’t scowl, Preston,” he quipped. “I’m not going to leave you totally holding the bag. How are your fighter losses?”
“Bad,” Avery admitted. “We’ve still got unaccounted, but I’d say we’ll have a hard time scraping together even a full squadron.”
“Ditch any of the lost causes and swap the rest over to the Bubo.” Greer knew the light carrier would be bulging at the seams, but needs must. “I’m going to send you the remainder of Concordia’s flight group.”
“The last of the Valkyries?”
“What of them are left, yeah.”
The Valkyrie AF-1B was the mainstay of the Alliance fleet, the most advanced space superiority fighter in the galaxy. When Concordia went over to the Union, she brought her full load of Valkyries with her, a wing of three squadrons. Of course, after nearly two years of war, Greer had less than two of those remaining. But they were almost the only thing he had that matched the Alliance, starfighter-to-starfighter.
Almost...
“We should be able to service them,” Avery was saying. “Going to take a little work, though. Sacramento’s built to take on Firestorms.”
The ST-111 Firestorm was the Union’s answer to the Valkyrie and, honestly, an uneven one, chosen not because of any merits, but because they had them. They’d been mostly out of service at the outbreak of hostilities, relegated to planetary militia and independent security forces. It was from those the Union had scrounged most of theirs, and the rest from factories they’d managed to restart.
If it had any advantage over the Valkyrie, it was that it was hyper-capable, didn’t need a carrier to jump from system-to-system. Early in the war, that had been an asset, the Firestorms hitting targets throughout the galaxy, regardless of starting point, whereas the Valkyries could only meet them where their carriers were. For a time, it seemed the tactical theories of space combat had changed.
But as the war became one of taking and holding worlds, as opposed to tearing up space, the balance shifted. The Firestorms could hit hard and fast, but without the ability to rearm and repair, they quickly had to fade away, back to distant bases. Meanwhile, a carrier-backed Valkyrie group could stand off a contested world indefinitely.
Which was why Greer needed to get his surviving handful of “rebel” Valkyries to Fury immediately.
“Work the kinks out on your way,” Greer said. “I want you out of here within seventy-two hours. You’ll take the entirety of Task Force 3 with you.”
“Aye-aye, Admiral.” Avery hesitated. “The Omu is struggling—engine damage.”
Greer nodded, sighed. That was one of his cruisers. “Leave her with us, then.” He manipulated the controls on his armrest, after a moment brought up a holographic star map, zoomed in on a quadrant of it, and estimated transit times. Fury glowed balefully at the center of the display. Greer’s eye caught another system, far off to one side, but one he knew well. He considered it.
“Anything else for me, sir?” Avery asked as Greer’s silence dragged.
“Hit anything you find there,” Greer said, “but preserve your force. Contest the space. But no unnecessary sacrifices. I’ll transmit clarifications once things are more settled here.” He offered Avery’s image an ugly smile—his other decision made. “And don’t worry, I’ll be sending you other help.”
Avery made a face. “I don’t suppose I want to know what kind of help.”
“You probably don’t,” Greer replied with a laugh. He flipped the hologram a casual salute. “Good luck to you, Preston. We’ll see you soon.”
Avery returned the salute with far more precision. “You as well, sir.” His hologram vanished.
“Solomon’s signaling,” the shuttle pilot announced as the heavy cruiser filled the forward viewscreen. “Docking in ninety seconds.”
“As soon as we’re aboard,” Greer said, putting a hand on Arrian’s shoulder, “we need to get them working on a hyper-capable message drone. I don’t want to trust this to ether-tenna signal. Once we’re sure it won’t be intercepted by any of Harrison’s stragglers, I’ll want it launched.”
“Destination, sir?”
Greer smirked. “Shangri-La System.”
Arrian hissed. “You can’t be—”
A flash scrawled the forward viewscreen into momentary white. That blanked out into black as the shuttle’s computer cut the glare to save its human occupants’ eyes. Cries of alarm burst from the shuttle crew and Arrian flopped suddenly into Greer as the ship rocked. Alarms warbled from its control consoles and the crew was suddenly scrambling at their work as the Solomon lurched dangerously close.
The shuttle wobbled again. Greer could feel the strain of maneuvering fields as the pilot flung the craft clear of a collision. That’d been damned fine work, he realizing, gulping reflexively as the ship steadied. They’d only been seconds from the docking chute and a crash would’ve been—well, it would’ve been over.
The drift of the shuttle over the spine of the heavy cruiser brought their viewpoint tilting back the way they’d come.
A miniature star had flared to life, but was already dying.
“My, god!” Arrian choked at Greer’s side. “Concordia...”
Silence gripped the shuttle as all eyes beheld the fading glow of plasma fire and cooling debris. Fusion bottle breach, part of Greer knew clinically. But horror howled through his soul. It was more than the ship. They’d been hurriedly evacuating more than just his worthless hide, so some would’ve gotten off. But thousands of less fortunate—star sailors still fighting fires, medics scrambling to get their wounded out—had just perished. So many...Mia! She would have stayed to the last, he knew. Damn.
Greer gripped Arrian’s arm hard. “Focus.” He looked around at the rest of the crew, raised his voice. “Focus, people.”
Arrian gave himself a shake. “Sir.”
“I need you working on that hyper probe, once we’re aboard, Commander.”
“Aye, sir.” His voice was still husky with emotion, but his eyes blinked, seemed clear of the glassines of a moment before. He was a good kid. They all were. “You actually think they’ll come? We’ve heard nothing from them in months. They’ve just been hiding out there, at the edge of the galaxy, brooding.”
“Of course, they’ll come,” Greer forced himself to laugh, “they’re the Hell’s Jesters!”
Part 2 – Opening Moves
HOLOGRAPHIC RECEPTOR ON>>>
>>>SCANNING>>>SCANNING>>>HYPER-CHANNEL 666789 - NOVA TERRA - GOVERNMENT SPONSORED>>>RECEPTION>>> Shouts echo down from the many tiers of Assembly benches and the one of the High Councilors rises from among the nine seats arrayed on the dais at the center of the amphitheater-like chamber to address them.
