Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  "Uh," began Satchkov. He began to turn in his seat, to face the Chief behind his left shoulder.

  "Don't turn around and look at me," she barked. "Check your navigation."

  Satchkov turned back to his console. "Nav is fine, Chief. We should've come out over there."

  "But we didn't. Check your gravimetrics."

  He poked at one of the datapads on his console. "I see it." Satchkov raised his voice a notch. "Sir, FTL dropped us here because of so many ships coming out of FTL in close proximity."

  "Shit," breathed Dillon. "Ships are going to be dropping in all over the place. Helm, get us away from here."

  Even as Borealis began to move forward, additional ships continued to emerge from FTL all around them. With ships arriving out of formation, there was the very real risk of collision. Dillon knew they couldn't stay here; they had to get moving, get away from the arrival area. More than that, they needed to get to the jumpgate.

  Above them and to port, a mountainous American battleship leapt into view. As it slid by the windows of the turning Borealis, it exposed its bulky underside to them, ponderously leaning toward its squadron mates.

  The comms console above Dillon's head was filled with more voices, as dozens of ships arrived, their crews warning each other of their proximity. Dillon reached up to the console, turning down the volume on the speaker. It was getting too noisy in here; too many voices all speaking at once.

  He tried not to flinch as sudden movement caught his eye. A line of frigates streaked by on Borealis's starboard side, the neat line of escort warships playing a high-speed game of 'follow the leader'.

  Dillon glanced at the console in front of him, wondering why he hadn't seen the frigates coming. The display was a jumble of dots and lines, with dozens more appearing by the second. It was all too much for him to take in. He looked back out the windows, biting at his lower lip. Ships were climbing and diving, rolling left and right, veering away from the increasingly crowded arrival area. Similar ships had begun to group together, as squadrons sought to reform their formations. To Borealis's port, a pair of destroyers appeared, their engines flaring blue as they accelerated away.

  "Faster, helm. We're going to get run over back here. Maximum speed, straight for the jumpgate. Try to keep in the shadow of larger ships, so the Horlan can't see us."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  The ships out the window all pivoted to the left, as Borealis made a banking turn to starboard. The display showed the combined formations of human squadrons — two hundred ships and counting — approaching the leading edge of the Horlan fleet. The human ships angled their approach, preparing to intercept the Horlan and cut them off from approaching the jumpgate.

  Borealis ducked behind the battleship Florida, keeping the giant ship's hull between them and the Horlan. Ahead of Florida, the battleship's sisters — North Carolina and Oregon — were forming into line. To Borealis's right, two squadrons of sleek European cruisers glided past, accelerating ahead on the flank, past the American battleships and onward into the distance.

  Dillon thought the new helmsman was doing well. Satchkov was being a bit shaky, but he had more to learn in his new job than the helmsman did — much more.

  The display in front of Dillon glittered as thin orange lines spread across the screen. The leading edge of human ships were near to the Horlan formation, and the enemy had begun to scan the human ships. Sensor beams jumped from ship to ship as if they were searching for something specific. Dillon turned in his seat to look behind him.

  Amba was in the jump-seat, buckled in, her hands in her lap. Her eyes came up and found his, and a warm smile spread across her face. Whatever happened next, he was taking with him everything that mattered. The ship, the crew, and her.

  The sensors tech glanced up from his console. "Captain, the lead formations have engaged."

  Spinning his chair back to face the front, Dillon watched the display draw lines between the Horlan ships and nearby human vessels, showing weapon fire. One of the ships disappeared, followed by two more. Additional human ships were moving closer to the Horlan — the Indian battlecruisers — and were exchanging fire with the enemy. He checked the top corner of the display: 296 active Horlan ships, compared to the five-hundred-plus human ships and the thousand fighters they brought with them.

  On the display, more and more groups of dots marched across the screen, getting closer to the Horlan formation. The tactical readout was becoming an indecipherable jumble. When Dillon looked outside the window, he could see the sparkle in the distance; the bright flash of beams, the slow blossoming of explosions.

  To his right, he heard Satchkov telling the Chief about his displays. Her head was cocked sideways, one ear toward him as she listened. Her hand was on Satchkov's shoulder, the other curled up into a fist on her knee. It reminded Dillon to check his own body language, to force himself to unclench his hands and relax his shoulders. Regardless of the panic he felt welling up inside, he had to remain cool and collected on the outside.

  He saw the Chief turn her head toward him, then she frowned and turned back to Satchkov. A habit, he knew; she was turning to him to exchange a look, or a brief gesture; some connection that they were on the same wavelength. But he'd just be a blur and shadow to her, if she could even see that.

  "Chin up, everyone," he said aloud. "Focus on your stations. We can do this." Several sets of eyes glanced toward him, but in truth he'd meant it for the Chief.

  Dillon looked out the window, past the displays. They were even with the Oregon now, the lead ship in the American battle squadron. Together they were approaching the Horlan fleet; Borealis would soon need to break away, to head for the jumpgate by herself. No other human ships were headed that way, so she would be flying on her own. That, Dillon expected, would be when the enemy figured out which ship was Borealis.

  He checked the display again. 287 Horlan ships remaining. Over a hundred human ships had been disabled or destroyed; their wrecks filled the space near the Horlan fleet.

  Above Dillon's head, the comm console gave a never-ending stream of voices on the tactical channel. Some voices were becoming high-pitched and frantic, while others kept their detached calm. The worst were the voices cut off mid-sentence, as another another ship was destroyed, and its dot on the screen turned grey.

  "Message from Oregon," said the comm technician.

  "Go ahead."

  "Sir, they're turning in toward the Horlan and cannot screen us any further. They wish us good luck and godspeed."

  "Thank you, Comms. Please respond in kind, with our compliments. Good luck and godspeed to them as well."

  Dillon glanced to his right, where the Chief was leaning over Satchkov's shoulder. "Damn it," she was muttering, "what's going on? I need a play-by-play." Satchkov gave Dillon a questioning look; Dillon nodded and gestured at the Chief.

  Satchkov didn't seem to know where to start. "Well, uh, the American battleships are headed in now. Looks like they're timing it to arrive at the same time as the other heavy units…"

  Dillon's attention returned to the display, while he listened to Satchkov narrate the battle for the Chief.

  The slow-moving formations of heavy ships had sailed into range of the Horlan. Dillon took a deep breath, exhaling as the distant group of warships lit up with hundreds of glittering beams, their glow splashing over the Horlan formation.

  With a pulse of brilliant light, several Horlan ships burst apart, erupting into balls of flame. "Holy shit," said Satchkov.

  "Even I saw that," said the Chief. "Someone's using FTL torpedoes."

  The smile that had crept onto Satchkov's face drained away. "The Horlan are moving closer to the battleships, Chief." He held his hands at the sides of his console, palms open. "What are they doing? Why closer?"

  Dillon saw the Chief tighten her grip on Satchkov's shoulder. "Because they're not stupid, Satchkov. They know you can't use a nuke in a knife-fight."

  Dillon's eyes went to the display in front of h
im. The Horlan were in among the human ships, causing the formations to break up. The fight was devolving into a brawl between leviathans.

  Away from the chaotic cluster of vessels, the display showed a lone vessel striking out on its own, toward the jumpgate at the bottom. It was Borealis, and so far none of the enemy had—

  The sensors tech called out. "Sir! Priority contacts, sir. Five Horlan ships are breaking off from the main group."

  The display flashed, drawing Dillon's attention to the indicated ships. Five of the Horlan were breaking away from the melee, fighting their way past an American squadron, aiming toward Borealis. One of the Horlan winked out, turning grey as a stream of projectiles reached it. Four remained, still on a course to intercept Borealis.

  The top of the display read 172 total Horlan ships remaining. Over three hundred human ships had been lost or disabled, though a trickle of reinforcements continued to arrive. It wasn't going to be enough, not at this rate.

  Dillon fought the urge to fidget. Whether the fleet won or lost, there wasn't anything the Borealis could do about it. They had to carry on with their mission, and try not to think about the disaster unfolding behind them.

  "Full speed, helm. Just get us to the damn jumpgate before the Horlan reach us."

  "Aye aye," said Moran, though he didn't take his eyes off his controls.

  "Sensors," said Dillon, "do some math. Will the Horlan be in range to shoot at us before we reach the jumpgate?"

  The tech's fingers danced over his console for a moment. "Aye, sir. We'll beat them to the jumpgate, but we'll be in range of their guns for thirteen seconds."

  "Understood. Helm, be prepared to take evasive action."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon realised he was clutching at the arms of his chair. He forced himself to breathe slowly, though he didn't let go.

  He checked the display again. One hundred and thirty-three Horlan ships remaining. Most of the destroyed Horlan ships would be complete kills, which was good in the long run, but… he looked again when the readout changed: 314 Horlan remaining. "What the—"

  "New contacts!" said the sensors tech. "One hundred eighty one more Horlan ships have arrived."

  Even as he ran through the numbers in his head, Dillon knew the math wasn't in their favour. A hundred and eight more Horlan ships. Human ships still outnumbered the enemy, but the rate of human losses was greater. And as Borealis raced toward the jump gate, the faster Horlan continued to pursue. He considered several different possibilities, but everything kept pointing to the same outcome. There was no way to get to the jumpgate before the Horlan got a shot at them.

  He licked his lips, his eyes turned down toward the floor as he tried to think. He had to think of something. At the same time, he had to appear calm and collected. But being self-conscious just distracted him.

  When he raised his head, he saw Moran looking back at him. "Helm?" asked Dillon. "How long until the jump gate?"

  "Fifty seconds, sir."

  Dillon looked past the display screens, and could barely make out the jump gate's shape in the distance. A thin ring of metal, surrounding a ball of blackness. They were in sight of it, for god's sake. All they had to do was make it.

  "Time, Mister Satchkov? "

  "On my mark, sir, we'll be forty seconds to the jumpgate, and twenty-seven seconds to Horlan weapon range… mark."

  On the big display, the remaining human ships had begun to fall back. As they withdrew, they left behind a field cluttered with wreckage; beyond, two groups of Horlan ships were merging into one larger formation. They appeared to be regrouping. One last push, to finish the human fleet.

  With a flash of light, a wall of white appeared out the bridge windows: a curtain of metal that filled their view, looming dangerously close.

  "Shit!" cried the helmsman, pounding on his controls.

  The bow of the Borealis swung to the right; the vast white wall fell away to the left, its metal lit by the glow of Borealis's red navigation lights. As they turned away, they saw another giant white wall on their other side.

  "New contacts!" cried the sensors tech. "Dreadnoughts, sir. Palani! Twenty-one… now twenty-three. Plus one hundred and twenty-five frigates, and counting."

  "Holy hell," whispered Dillon. The bastards had shown up after all. Who the hell had lit a fire under them? Had the Palani come to their senses, or was this all Heather's doing?

  Another broad white hull swept by the bridge windows. Moran's hands were almost a blur against the helm controls, trying to keep the full-speed Borealis clear of the giants that surrounded her.

  Dillon stared at the gleaming ships as they went past. "Damn. How come they can land so close to the jumpgate?"

  "Goddamned Sunday drivers," said the Chief. "Probably got different gravimetrics in their FTL engines. They need to learn how to drive."

  The Comms tech spoke up. "Message from the Palani flagship Kaha Devada, sir. They want to know if we're using the jumpgate. If we're going, they say to go now, because they're going to blow it up."

  "Respond, Comms. Tell them that yes, we're going straight through. Say, 'may their Divines favour them'."

  "Aye, sir." There was a moment's pause. "Kaha Devada responds, sir: 'may your gods go with you'."

  "Ten seconds to jumpgate," said Satchkov.

  "Helm, take us in." Dillon pushed himself back in his seat, his head against the headrest. He carefully placed his mug in the seat's cupholder, then held on to the arms of his chair.

  The Palani ships had begun moving forward, accelerating toward the distant battle. The four pursuing Horlan ships had turned around, and were headed back to the safety of their fleet. Just under three hundred Horlan ships remaining, said the display, faced by the remaining human ships — less than half their original number — and the approaching Palani.

  Out the window, the sphere of the jumpgate loomed larger and larger. Its surface was smooth, almost liquid, and swirled with the distorted glow of stretched starlight. Its edges were rimmed with red and blue, the distorted light of nearby stars. Like a storm-filled hole in sky, the sphere grew until it loomed over them, its edges beyond the sides of the windows.

  As the blackness of the jumpgate enveloped the front of the ship, Dillon heard the comms tech speaking. "Sir, message from Bonaventure: 'Good luck, Borealis. Fair seas and following winds—'"

  All noise ceased and, after a moment, Dillon's vision faded away to a disorienting black emptiness. He could still feel his breathing, could still feel the pounding of his heart in his chest and the rushing of blood in his ears. Then, for just a moment, he could see the bridge again, lit briefly by an angry red glow that flashed outside the windows. It was a lurid, boiling red pulse of light that disappeared as quickly as it had come, plunging him back into blackness. Then the feeling of his breathing stopped, followed by his heartbeat. The stillness in his mind dissolved to nothingness, like falling into an anesthetic sleep.

  CHAPTER 26

  Whenever they went through a jump gate, it felt like it took several minutes for reality to reassert itself. Dillon took stock of his situation as his senses began to report in: he was still seated on the bridge, his hands clamped to the arms of his seat. His stomach gave an ominous lurch, and he had to focus to keep the room from moving.

  He did a visual sweep of the bridge, checking on the crew. Moran was awake and alert at the helm. The comms and sensors techs appeared baffled by the appearance of their consoles right in front of them. The Chief seemed unfazed; normally, she had trouble jumping, but this time she was in her chair, facing forward, speaking to the bewildered Satchkov.

  Dillon turned his chair halfway around, to see behind him. Amba was in her jump-seat, hands clasped in her lap, blinking her eyes the way she did when she first woke up in the morning.

  He remembered he should check the rest of the ship. He opened his mouth, but a barely audible croak emerged. He tried again. "Status report, please." That set Satchkov to examine his supervisory console; by the loo
k on the petty officer's face, the console's language had suddenly been changed to Jaljal hieroglyphics.

  Above Dillon's head, the comms console was silent. All the tactical chatter had gone quiet. Tunnel cells always died when passing through the wormhole of a jump.

  That reminded him. "Chief, stop at the relay and pick up some new Tunnel cells, so we can contact the ships here in Daltanin space." He tried to keep running through the blurry list in his head, of things he'd need to think of.

  Satchkov appeared to have collected the last of his wits. "Captain, all departments report ready. Status board is all green. We'll be at the relay in moments; it's already dropped a set of cells for us."

  "Very well."

  Dillon wondered what was going on back on the other side of the jump gate, where they'd just come from. He tapped a button next to his chair, and part of the giant window display changed to show the view behind Borealis. Fading into the distance was the churning sphere of the jump point; in its own physics-defying way, it was the last link to home. A glance back, he thought. Like turning around for a look at your old front door when leaving for the last time.

  The console chirped, and Dillon saw the relay station glide by as they passed it. "Tunnel cells aboard, sir," said Satchkov. "They should install shortly."

  "Good. Chief, plot a course to anywhere. Get us to FTL. The Palani are about to blow up the jump gate, and we don't know what'll happen at this end when the wormhole collapses. Let's be somewhere else."

  "Aye aye sir. Plotting a course to anywhere, sir. Going to FTL."

  Dillon always felt like the ship was taking a deep breath when it went to FTL travel. He'd been told it was only a small change in local air pressure caused by some imperfection of a magnetic field. But the moment she leapt into faster-than-light travel, that was one of those times when the Borealis felt most like a living thing.

  Even so, it seemed like the entire bridge crew exhaled all at once. They'd been on edge since the morning, and now that they'd survived the day and were safe in FTL travel, they could all begin to relax. With fewer life-or-death things to focus on, that also meant they'd have more time to think about their situation. Dillon knew he probably would, and he wasn't looking forward to it. He hoped Singh had brought enough sedatives for everyone, or else there would be a lot of sleepless nights for all of them.