Hell or Highwater (Hell's Jesters, #5), page 38
Jerry fired. Missed. But his blast splashed slag from a bulkhead, spattered the Guardsman, who flinched low rather than shoot.
And a flurry of blaster fire took the trooper apart, sent him flying backwards from the boarding ramp in sprays of spark and shrapnel. Footsteps rang on metal. A figure was rushing up into the shuttle, shouting, firing.
Jerry pivoted to the shuttle pilot, backpedaling towards the cockpit hatch and fumbling to draw his pistol. He fired and missed a third time. The pilot ripped his holdout piece clear and returned fire hastily, sent a compact bolt cracking off the wall to his right and squalling off into the hold.
The newcomer turned and fired from the angle of the ramp and the floor, walked blasts along the wall, into the pilot. A pair of bolts burned through his chest, flung him halfway into the still-open cockpit hatch. A hand gripped the edge for a moment, held him suspended before strength gave out and he sagged backwards and stilled.
All was silence for a moment, save Julian’s whimpers, muffled by arms folded over his face and the floor.
“Rodann, stop pointing that thing at me!”
Jerry blinked, realized in his shock he’d let the tension leave his arms, and the blaster muzzle dip till it was almost aimed at his savior.
Josie scowled as she leapt the last two steps up the ramp into the shuttle and panned the blastrifle she’d obviously claimed from the unconscious Guardsmen left at the bottom around the hold. “Check the cockpit. Hurry!”
Jerry shook off his stupefaction and rushed forward. Stepping gingerly over the still-smoking corpse of the pilot, he sidled between a pair of seats to reach the controls. Instrument panels blinked. Globular holograms glowed above them, showing systems readiness schemata and course data. One showed a local map, the planet Tartan, and an icon pulsing yellow in orbit above it.
“We’re clear!” Josie called from aft. Thumps and clanks told of her dragging the dead Guardsmen down the ramp, leaving them. Another few seconds later, she was manhandling Julian up into the cockpit. Flinging him down into one of the spare seats, she pointed a finger at him. “Behave yourself!”
Julian quailed and shrank into the chair. His face was a mask of smeared blood and his dark eyes were wide and wild with terror. He cringed even further as Jerry turned from the controls, not quite pointing his blaster at him.
“P-p-please...”
“Shut up!” Josie snapped and scrambled to drag the dead pilot from his slump halfway through the hatch.
“This thing’s preset for a return trip to your yacht, isn’t it?” Jerry asked.
“I-I never had anything to do with flying it,” Julian sputtered.
“But they’ll recognize it up there, right?” Jerry pressed, now definitely aiming the weapon at him. “They’ll think it’s you and let us dock.”
“I don’t know,” he replied desperately.
Jerry couldn’t help a derisive snort that escaped him, staring at the suddenly pathetic creature. The Methuselah had chuckled and sneered as he gunned down his own kind, out there on the landing pad a few minutes ago. But with the tables turned, this Julian had none of poor, dead Anton’s grit.
“Sit tight, then, tough guy,” Jerry told him. “I’m going to need you in a few minutes to talk us aboard.”
Josie was clanking back up to the cockpit. Jerry could hear the whir of the ramp closing below them. She shouldered past quivering Julian and settled into the seat beside him, blastrifle cradled in her lap, but the still-glowing muzzle angled towards him. “I’ve got an eye on him. You’ve got a plan?”
“Going for a ride,” Jerry replied, putting the blastpistol aside and settling in at the controls. He knew the type—heavy orbital jumper, used for quick deliveries or, in this case, air assault insertion. Fingers flew over the controls, found their way. The gravity drives spooled up at his cajoling. Lights greened with readiness on the instrument panel.
“How many crew on that yacht?” Josie asked Julian.
“I don’t know.” The Methuselah shivered into the corner of the chair and the compartment wall.
“He doesn’t know anything,” Jerry growled. “But he’ll do what he’s told when the time’s right. Isn’t that so?”
Julian’s bleat in response wasn’t exactly reassuring.
Jerry glanced over his shoulder, couldn’t help a grin at Josie. “I knew you couldn’t quit me.”
“Shut up,” she replied—though there was a flicker of smile at the corner of her pinched lips. “I’m already regretting it.”
“What about all that talk about the mission?”
“Oh, I’ve still got the drive.” She wiggled a little in the seat and Jerry could see the memory tome fastened between her back and her belt. “After a minute of running the other way, I just realized the best way to get it out was to follow your crazy-ass lead.”
“So that’s the only reason?”
She snorted. “You know damned well it’s not, Jerry Rodann! But we don’t have time right now for me to tell you all the ways I’m mad at you! Can you fly this thing or not?”
He grinned and spun back to the controls. The gravity drives roared and shook the craft at his command. Gripping the stick, he pulled her up on a cushion of anti-gravity, wheeled her about, and pulsed the thrusters to push up and away. The blizzard-shot sky opened before them.
He laughed, a hoarse, desperate racket that seemed to crumple the shock and fear of the last few minutes and blow it apart. He felt sick and crazy and exuberant all at once.
Hold on, Tina, baby. We’re coming for you.
CARSON GREER STARED with horror at the tactical hologram, riveted in place, motionless, barely breathing. He couldn’t comprehend it. He couldn’t make sense of the blips sweeping for Surigao down-system from them. The flashes as starfighters rushed to stop them and died scrawled across his vision like a foreign script.
This couldn’t be happening.
We were winning!
And they were. Harrison’s devastating starfighter losses in the earlier phases of the fight had left the Fringe World pilots in a situation few of them had likely ever seen—outnumbered. And the Union fighters took full advantage, sweeping into the midst of the thinly-defended Alliance ships and wreaking havoc. With the main Union body closing to long range for their heavy weapons, Greer would soon be in a position drown Harrison in a barrage of fire.
It looked like victory!
But...
“Mayday! Mayday!” a voice, distorted by distance and signal degradation, crackled through the bridge. “Alliance ships approaching Surigao from the primary side! We can’t stop them all! Mayday!”
“Where did they—” Greer cut himself off, turned to Arrian. “Who in the living hell are they?”
The younger man turned to stare into globulars popping up at the tactical station. Scanning one of these triggered a flinch. “They, ah...sir, data’s still refining across the distance—”
“Who, Commander?”
Arrian gulped. “One of the gravity drive signatures may be a match for a Retribution-series, sir. Could be the Annihilator.”
“Here?!?!”
That would mean the Rimward Fleet—or at least part of it. That would mean Severson had thrown the balance of the Alliance’s remaining mobile hitting power all on this thrust. All in this place. A gamble of breathtaking audacity. That couldn’t be...Timothy’s a weakling, more politician than any kind of warrior. The move would risk losing the whole war in an afternoon.
Or winning it.
Greer’s innards soured and he felt the cool clamminess of sweat beading across his flesh. The Alliance had spent the war underestimating the Union’s willingness to take risk, to accept casualties, to hit hard. They’d underestimated me.
He realized in a gutting moment that blade could cut both ways.
“We’re not yet at extreme range, sir,” Kelin said softly. She worked the controls at her armrest and a dotted curve drew itself across the tactical hologram ahead of the charging Union Fleet. “And the Fringe World Fleet is still retrograding.”
Trying to lure us after them, Greer recognized now with a grimace.
“We have the time,” Kelin went on, “we could come about and reverse course. A long, hard burn from the gravity drives would keep us ahead of any response or pursuit from the Alliance, at least at first.”
Greer looked at her, frowning, gave himself a shake as though it’d clear his thoughts. What is she saying? Come about...? Does she mean run?
“It’ll be hard on the fighter groups,” she was going on. “They’d have a long sprint to catch up to us.”
“You mean retreat,” Greer growled.
Kelin flinched at the word. “Admiral,” she said slowly, carefully, “what’s left of Avery’s group and the rest of those stragglers won’t be able to defend Surigao on their own.”
“But we’ve got them,” Greer answered in what sounded like a plea. He pointed at the tactical, finger shaking. “They’re running! Finally, smug Harrison and his pretty-boy fleet are on the run!” Greer pivoted back to her, could feel control slipping, his voice rising to a shriek. “We’ve got them on the motherfucking ropes, Captain!”
Kelin blanched. Only after a moment of obviously-suppressed rage did she reply, “Aye sir.”
“Admiral!” the communications officer called from her station. “Distress call from the Solomon! Direct from Admiral Avery!”
“Put it up, Lieutenant,” Greer snarled.
A globular shivered to life in front of the tactical, showed Avery unbuttoning his collar and rubbing sweat from his brow with the back of a sleeve. Smoke twined about him and scorch marks on the bridge behind him suggested an explosion. “Attention, any Union vessel. We are tracking a large Alliance fleet down-system from us and closing rapidly on Surigao. Spotters think four dozen ships of varying tonnages.”
“Admiral,” Arrian said softly, “we’ll be near extreme weapons range in four minutes.”
“I have neither the numbers nor the firepower to resist,” Avery warbled on. “Requesting any back-up available. Repeat I do not have force sufficient to resist.” He shook his head. “You all have to be seeing this now.” Avery seemed to look straight through the hologram. “Carson, you’ve got to be seeing this.”
“There’s still time, sir,” Kelin repeated.
“Carson,” Avery’s image demanded, “I know you’re seeing this. They’re going to run over us!” He leaned forward, voice shaking. “Where in the hell are you?”
Greer let out a shriek that felt like his guts emptying. He balled both fists till the knuckles popped and shook them. His skin felt like magma and his eyes burned as sweat slid to their corners. “God damn it...” he rumbled. The frenzy within boiled to the surface, all the stress of two and half years, all the mistakes and missed opportunities and—God help him—all the deaths demanding a different outcome. “God damn it!!!”
“Admiral,” Arrian snapped and then grimaced when Greer turned his glare upon him. He stiffened his back, eyes glassy with terror, but— “Sir, we need you. You’ve got to...” he gulped again “...sir, you’ve got to pull yourself together!”
Another shriek—maybe there’d been words—escaped and Greer whirled back to the tactical hologram, searched the imagery for some other hope, some other answer. He found nothing. He thought he’d seen disaster before.
But he knew now he hadn’t.
This decision.
This was disaster.
TIM JUKED TO PORT AS plasma bolts converged on the Hellhound off his starboard wing. Already stripped of its shields and trailing ionized particles, the fighter shattered in a roiling red globe of fire and shrapnel. The latter clamored off his own fluttering shields in a chain-lighting pattern of glancing hits, flung him even further off course.
“More power to guns and shields!” Tim howled at Jeanie.
Steadying the stick, he nosed back for the heavy cruiser. The targeting icon crimsoned with lock and he held down the trigger, streaking in on the huge ship’s flank and hosing it with plasma bolts and the stab-stab of particle beams. The Alliance vessel’s shields flared sun-bright, but Tim had seen enough to know the pyrotechnics were as futile as they were brilliant.
“Not gonna be enough...” he growled to no one in particular.
Point-defense blasts littered the void ahead of him. One crashed off the dorsal shields, jolted the Hellhound’s nose up. Rather than fight it, Tim let the momentum carry the starfighter and released the trigger to pour power into the thrusters. Acceleration outpaced the inertial compensator to slam him in the kidneys as the starfighter shuddered into a sprint. The charge carried him over the cruiser’s command tower, close enough to see the bridge.
A hit like a blow to the spine crashed into the Hellhound. Damage control alarms warbled till Tim killed them with a wave of his free hand. He pulsed the ventral maneuvering fields, threw the fighter into a tumble perpendicular to his original course. The cruiser’s chasing fire fluttered to aft, lost him after another second.
Tim gripped the stick in both hands and worked the Hellhound into a long arch out and away from the conflagration of the fighting through the Alliance fleet. “How bad was that?”
“Main shield projector coil is fused,” Jeanie replied. “Already switching to the auxiliary, but that only gets us back to fifty percent.”
“I’ll take it! Did we do any good with that last run?”
Jeanie’s pause didn’t reassure. “I’d estimate minor damage.”
“Damn,” he growled. “Without scatter-packs it’s like water guns against those things!”
That wasn’t entirely true. A look at the tactical showed him his attack wave scattering away from their strafing runs on the Alliance, leaving streaks of bleeding atmosphere and flame. Flashes announced secondary explosions in the process of devouring one of the cruisers. A wounded destroyer was tumbling out of formation, the flicker of its grav drive emissions suggesting engine failure. And Kelly’s Slashers had already left fire and wrecks with their pass.
But there were still so damned many of them.
“This isn’t working, Watkins!” Matyszak grated in his earbud.
And Tim couldn’t exactly deny the reality of that. Straddled with fire, the Alliance group was, nevertheless, forging ahead at full speed. And above Surigao, the pitiful tangle of Union ships lay outnumbered, outgunned, and with no chance to outrun them.
Tim shook his head. “We’ve got to keep at it! Another run! Keep fighting!”
The volume of fire from the Alliance ships thinned, much of it turning abruptly away from the fleeing Hellhounds and Marauders. Blaster fire angled back towards leading edge of their formation, towards the Firestorms of the Surigao militia. Missiles spilled from the oncoming wing-shaped craft, twining out into the fleet, birthed hell globes of destruction. But the slower starfighters were exploding, even as they unleashed. Plasma bolts clawed them to fiery ribbons as their strafing runs lumbered by. Missiles chased them as survivors pulled out of their passes, caught up to them.
Tim grimaced at the mess, at the futility. Poor, brave devils. But the horrifying spectacle of it seemed to have utterly distracted the Alliance gunners. And it gave him an idea.
Hey keyed his comm. “Slasher One, this is Jester Leader Two-One. Do you read me?” His heart paused its next beat as he waited on a response. Vainly, he searched the tossing, squirming tactical display for some hint of her.
“I’ve got you, Jester,” Kelly’s voice finally crackled back.
“We’re regrouping now,” he said in an explosive, relieved rush. “Do you have anything heavy left?”
A pause, probably to check. “Several of us are still carrying partial payloads.”
“All right. Look at this.” He drew a finger across the tactical, Jeanie highlighting the course he indicated, then refining it with her own calculations. Kelly would be seeing his scheme from her own cockpit. “We form up, your Slashers with my Jesters, here, and then resume attack. But we spread out, Jester flights leading Marauders still carrying scatter-packs.”
“You want to draw their fire with the Hellhounds?” Kelly asked.
“That’s right,” he replied. “You linger far enough behind us to take advantage of the distraction.”
Another pause. “I don’t know, Tim. You’ll be taking quite a beating.”
“As opposed to what we’ve already taken?” he quipped. “Look, we’re doing nothing good, here, otherwise. Just flinging ourselves at them. This at least serves a purpose.”
“All right,” she replied quietly. “We’re on our way to you.”
“Don’t keep us waiting,” he replied and switched channels. “Jesters, finish sorting yourselves out. Got a new plan!”
“Is it as inspired as the last one?” Matyszak grumbled. On the tactical, he and the surviving tatters of his squadron closed with Tim’s.
Jesus, Tim thought. Nine left—four with me; five with Matyszak. He forced back nausea. “Better. We’re going to give the Alliance slugs something to shoot at—”
“Pretty sure that was the last plan,” Matyszak remarked drolly.
“—while the Marauders get the job done.” He transmitted the plan he’d sketched out for Kelly to the others. “It’s better than just rushing at them, people.”
Matyszak didn’t have a glib word for that.
Tim checked the Hellhounds consolidating around him, found Cory’s icon blinking off his starboard wing, and couldn’t help anpthet exhalation of relief. He touched the holographic point of light. “Jester Five, you stay on me. The rest of you, form into flights, each one serving as the decoy for a Marauder team.”
A look back at the tactical showed Kelly’s Slashers on their way.
It also showed the spectacular, futile finish of the Firestorms’ charge on the Alliance juggernaut. The slower, unmodified militia fighters wove into the midst of the fleet, seemed to be bursting into flames and slag all at once. Alliance fire chased wildly, seemingly without coordination. But they didn’t need it, finding the slow wing-shapes and turning them into a scouring, intertwining pattern of fume trails that ended in ugly flowers of fiery death.
