Loyalties (HMCS Borealis Book 3) Read online

  "No," said Dillon. He turned to look at her. Her usually calm face was lined with worry; deep furrows stretched across her brow. There was tension around her eyes, which stared at him. "Captain, if I'm putting the ship in danger, I should—"

  "No!" barked Dillon, slamming a fist down on the arm of his chair. Amba flinched as if struck. "No," he repeated. "No fucking way. They don't get anyone. Forget it." He pointed back at the empty jumpseat at the back of the bridge. "Sit down, Tassali."

  As Amba retreated behind him, Dillon pointed at the Chief. "Chief of the ship, I don't care what the Horlan want from us; they can't have it. Make them chase us. We'll lead them straight to the fleet's big guns. Lay in a course back to the fleet, and go. Advise everyone of our intent."

  Chief Black gave a terse nod from over the top of her console. "Aye aye, sir."

  The stars pivoted outside the bridge window, as the Borealis made a sharp turn to starboard. The whine from the sublight engines got louder as they accelerated.

  Dillon leaned further forward in his chair, until he was pulling against the straps holding him. He wiped his finger across his upper lip. He knew he was reacting emotionally, being protective of Amba. But objectively, there was no way this was about a single Palani. It wasn't as if the Horlan would turn around and leave once they got her; that didn't make any sense. It had to be the jump drive.

  On the screen in front of him, the dots of the Horlan fleet were moving, forming into a narrow speartip of ships pointed right at the Borealis. The other cruisers of Borealis' squadron, and the American destroyers, fanned out to keep their distance. Far away, to the left edge of the screen, were the ordered rows of the battle fleet.

  Dillon thought he should say something to Amba, but before he could turn around in his seat, the Chief spoke up. She was raising her voice, trying to be heard over the growing sound of the engines. "Two percent light speed."

  "Understood. Sensors?"

  "They're gaining on us, sir."

  Dillon was leaning forward against his hand, his fingers rapidly drumming on his upper lip. "Damn it," he said through his fingers. "How long until we're in weapon range of our fleet?"

  "Ninety seconds, sir."

  "Increase speed. Let them gain on us, but slowly."

  Pakinova half-turned her head, calling over her shoulder. "Sir?"

  "Faster, helm. We want them to keep up. We want them to keep chasing us." Just not catch us, he thought.

  Borealis's sublight engines became louder still, their whine increasingly high-pitched, as the ship continued to gain speed. Over Dillon's head, the communications console on the ceiling began to rattle. From somewhere at the back of the bridge, there came a metallic creak.

  Dillon wiped the sweat from his upper lip. The Borealis didn't like being stressed like this. Her sublight engines were an old design, and pushed hard against the hull as they shoved her through space. She always made ominous noises when she was being overworked.

  "Five percent light speed," called Pakinova.

  The Chief glanced up from her console. "We'll be in range of the battle fleet in thirty seconds."

  Outside the window, Dillon could only see the blackness, the stars, unmoving despite the ship's current speed. The display over the window drew glowing boxes on the glass, showing where the ships of the fleet would be, if he could see them with the naked eye.

  Dillon fidgeted in his chair, bouncing one leg, watching the range indicator ticking downwards thousands of kilometres at a time. Behind them, the cluster of Horlan ships crept nearer. He was convinced the Horlan were after the Borealis for her jump drive. But what did they want it for? Weren't the Horlan more advanced?

  "Sensors, do you see anything in the Horlan ships that looks like a jump drive?"

  The technician shook his head as he called out. Dillon could barely hear him. "Negative, sir. No energy readings consistent with a jump drive."

  Dillon rotated his seat to face Amba at the back of the bridge. "I thought the Horlan could jump," he said over the noise.

  Amba's face showed her usual effortless calm; only the way she held her hands tightly together suggested otherwise. She nodded. "Yes, Captain. When the Horlan last invaded, they could jump. But only the larger ships, bigger than these."

  Dillon made a face. "Bigger? But we haven't seen any bigger ones." He turned his chair back to face the front of the bridge. "If they have bigger ships, where are they?"

  The Chief's loud voice interrupted. "The battlefleet is moving, sir. Coming closer."

  He turned back to the display. The wall of heavy ships was approaching; it wouldn't be long before Borealis was in range of their big guns. "Perfect. The Horlan are going too fast; they won't see the fleet getting closer until it's too late. Time?"

  "We'll be in range in ten seconds, sir."

  "Pakinova, when we get inside the range of our fleet's big guns, cut across in front. Let's draw the Horlan across, and give everyone a chance to shoot at them."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  "Five seconds."

  Dillon realised he was clutching, white-knuckled, at the arms of his chair. "Everyone hang on, this next bit is going to—"

  "New contacts!" cried the sensors tech. "Horlan! Dead ahead!"

  New dots appeared on the display, in the rapidly-shrinking space between the battlefleet and the approaching Borealis. "What the hell? Evade!"

  Dillon thought he was about to rip the arms off the chair. Half the Horlan fleet had sped by them, making a short FTL hop that put them between the Borealis and the human battlefleet. But the battlefleet had moved closer, and now found half the Horlan fleet in their midst.

  Borealis decelerated and began to manoeuvre, threading a path between Horlan and human ships. Even though kilometres separated ships, the space between erupted with of blue and white light as both sides opened fire. Hundreds of fast-moving contacts filled the screen, as projectiles too small to see streaked across the distance between ships. Bright blue plumes of plasma erupted from struck human ships, with brief flashes of orange and yellow as escaping gases flared.

  The Borealis swung around to port, and Dillon gasped at the sight of a Horlan ship filling his view. Behind him, the Chief was barking out orders to the helm, and Pakinova was grunting in acknowledgement.

  Brilliant streaks of white light flickered in the space next to the Horlan ship. The dark hull shuddered as projectiles slammed into its side. Each hit blossomed into a flare of light, gouging a crater into the Horlan ship's flank and ejecting clouds of debris. The flashes were too bright to look at, and Dillon turned away as the glow flooded the bridge with white. The jarring clang of a collision-warning alarm added to the din, and Dillon had to shout to be heard above it.

  "Are we still being chased?"

  "Affirmative," yelled the Chief.

  "Draw them in front of our ships if you can. Let everyone get a shot at them."

  Pakinova said nothing, her stern face lit by the orange glow from her console. Her posture was rigid, but her hands danced and swept across her terminal.

  The damaged Horlan ship out the window spun out of view. The stars wheeled about as the Borealis slalomed left and right through the cloud of projectiles and debris. A burning battleship slid past the display, its engines sputtering as they vented a trail of glowing plasma.

  A beam of white seared past them, close enough to light the bridge windows with its glow. Dillon reached up and pushed a button on the ceiling, trying not to focus on the dizzy spinning of the view outside. "Combat centre, bridge here."

  The XO's voice came through the speaker, from her position down in the ship's weapons suite. "Kalla here."

  "Fire at will, Kalla. If you somehow get a shot at something Horlan, take it. Don't wait for me."

  "Aye aye, sir."

  Dillon pushed the button again, then grabbed a handrail over his head as the stars out the window careened madly.

  Two Horlan ships came into view. One was breaking in half, showers of debris spraying away from
its broken hull. Behind it, the other was broadside to Borealis. Hundreds of metres long, its black hull had organic, smoothly-curving lines to it. Dozens of legs dangled from its underside, some of them extending, reaching outward as if probing the darkness for something. A row of irregularly-spaced lights flashed along its side.

  The screen burst with red warnings. Over twenty new projectiles appeared on the display, all of them headed for Borealis. "Fuck!" shouted Pakinova.

  The Horlan ships rotated out of view, as the warning alarms grew more shrill. The straps of Dillon's chair tensed, pulling him tight against the seat. The ship lurched, and the view out the window flew by as Borealis spun around. In front of Dillon, the status board lit up red. Out the windows, he could see a thin snake of glowing blue light wrapping itself around the ship as it spun.

  Over all the shrieking alarms, and the groaning of the ship itself, Dillon could clearly hear the Chief's sharp, controlled voice. "Port side main armament offline and venting plasma. Isolating."

  "Acknowledged," he called back. His display showed the ship's damage status. The symbols around the port gun were lit red; some had flashing question marks: the computer couldn't find the gun. "Damn it," muttered Dillon, his words lost in the din. "The gun's gone."

  He struggled to make sense of it all. There was so much going on at once – too much – and Dillon stared at the screen in front of him. Thousands of dots moved across the cluttered display, mimicking the movement of the giant ships outside the windows. Horlan ships, several of them destroyed. Human battleships and cruisers. Some ships spun in silent ruin, shedding debris as they tumbled. Others continued to spew streams of projectiles at the Horlan. Individual ships were lost in the jumble of information in front of him; he ignored it, trying instead to concentrate on the most immediate threats.

  Everything outside the window was spinning, wheeling madly around as the Borealis manoeuvred. Every time the ship lurched to one side, a stream of Horlan projectiles flickered past, right where the Borealis had just been. Dillon caught glimpses of the same Horlan ship – twin holes in its side – twirling repeatedly past the windows. Beyond it, three battleships – American, one of them probably the Rhode Island – sailed in stately formation, too far away to reach.

  Right where Dillon was looking, a new window popped up in the display, obscuring his view. It said that seventy-five Horlan ships remained; twenty-nine of them were chasing or shooting at the Borealis. Behind the glowing, shifting shapes of the display, the view outside the window continued to wheel and spin as Borealis leaned from side to side. A large projectile flew past the bridge window. It was a flickering light, almost too fast to see, its path followed by worried faces that glanced up from their consoles.

  The ship shuddered, pitching downwards. More damage indicators lit up red: atmosphere loss on the lower deck, power loss in several compartments. The stars outside slowed their spin, and the damaged Horlan ship came into view. Its arms reached out toward the Borealis as if to pluck her from the sky, and bright lights flickered down its scarred side.

  A red sea of warning lights lit the view screen again. Dillon heard Pakinova's frustrated grunt. "I can't—"

  The screens flashed brilliant white, filling Dillon's vision. A shockwave slammed into him like a fist to the chest. Hot pinpricks stung at his cheek. His ears were ringing so loud, all other noises were blotted out.

  The bridge had gone dark, and everything seemed to be happening in slow motion. Something was swinging in front of him. He focused his eyes on it, and realised it was the comms terminal from the ceiling, detached and hanging by its cabling.

  The row of bridge windows, their displays all gone dark, no longer formed a neat line. Two of the window panels were bent inwards, their foot-thick ceramic panes webbed with cracks. Below the windows, the interior wall was jagged and cracked; blobs of damage-control foam were inflating themselves in the wound, like blisters on burned skin.

  Sudden movement caught Dillon's eye, dragging his mind back into focus. Amba had unbuckled herself from her chair, stumbling to her feet. Spots of blue blood had begun to stain her right leg, through the coldsuit. She took a limping step toward the far side of the bridge, while trying to peel off her gloves.

  Dillon's eyes followed the direction she was facing. The helm console wasn't where it should be; neither was the Chief's console. The twisted frames of the consoles were shoved to the rear of the bridge, their circuits hanging out like sparking entrails.

  Obscured through the dark and the smoke, Dillon could see shapes underneath the smashed consoles, pinned against the bulkhead. Amba stepped into the jumble of wreckage, kneeling among the debris. Behind the ringing in his ears, Dillon thought he could hear screaming. He shook his head to clear it, but the ringing didn't stop.

  The display screens across the front of the bridge were dark; so was the smaller console attached to his chair. The comms terminal swinging above his head was unlit. Dillon poked at the swaying terminal with one unsteady hand, but nothing happened.

  The ship. No one was steering the ship. He needed to get to the combat centre.

  Dillon punched at the strap buckle on his chair until it released him. As he stood up, his legs were rubbery underneath him, and he held onto the arm of the chair to steady himself. The ringing in his ears blocked out all other sound; acrid smoke filled his nose and stung his eyes.

  He took a step, and something crunched under his foot. He looked down. The decking was scratched and pitted; flecks of metal were embedded in the flooring.

  Dillon's eyes went to the bent forward bulkhead. Expanding bubbles of foam were growing over the fractured metal, sealing it in polymer. The inner surface of the bulkhead was webbed with cracks, like shattered glass; jagged corners of metal bent away from the armour's surface.

  This wasn't supposed to happen. The armour wasn't supposed to spall when struck; wasn't supposed to spray the inside with fragments. It had been tested and certified. It was supposed to be strong enough.

  The shriek of protesting metal snapped Dillon back into focus, and he turned toward the back of the bridge. The bent and battered frames of the helm and supervisory consoles were crushed against the after bulkhead. Two bloodied crewmembers – the sensors and comms techs – were pulling against a twisted console panel. Amba, her leg smeared with blue, was trying to reach underneath. Dillon shoved debris out of the way and moved closer. He saw two legs protruding from under the smashed consoles. There wasn't enough room under there for people.

  Amba was on her hands and knees next to a section of console. Dillon could see a uniform next to her, and glimpses of a blood-soaked face under Amba's outstretched hands. When he pulled a panel away, Amba turned her head to look over her shoulder at him. The side of her face was smeared with crimson. "Captain," she said, her voice muffled against the ringing in his ears. "The Chief is injured. I can help her." She gave a nod of her chin, toward the overturned half of a console, and the bent figure underneath it. "There's nothing we can do for Pakinova."

  Dillon stared at the battered body of the helmsman, awkwardly heaped against the bulkhead. Just a moment ago, she'd been struggling to keep Borealis safe. Fuck.

  A shadow fell across the bridge, and Dillon spun around. Beyond the expanding foam, the stars had slowed their spin: Kalla must have taken control from the combat centre. Thank God someone was alive down there. A wall of grey came into view to starboard, then another to port: two giant ships were sailing past Borealis, blocking her from the Horlan.

  The combat centre. He needed to get down there. He needed to—

  The sound of Amba's voice gave him focus. "Go, Captain. The battle's not over."

  He reached forward, touching her shoulder. He just needed a moment's contact, to reset his mind. She was cold beneath her suit; she was alive, and so was he.

  Dillon stumbled to the bridge hatch, shoved it open with his shoulder and stepped into the passageway beyond.

  Down to the end of the darkened passageway he ran, to the hat
ch that led to the middle deck. The hatch console was dark; it wasn't reading his nametag and opening for him on its own. He swore and dropped to his knees, grasping the wheel to open the hatch manually. With a few turns — and precious seconds slipping by — the hatch unsealed, and he hauled at the heavy door to open it upward. The moment it was open he jumped through, down the stairs, pulling the hatch shut behind him with a clang.

  The middle deck was fully lit, but the bulkhead hatches were closed. Every few steps he had to pause and wait for a hatch to open, then climb through. Kalla had command, he reminded himself. But until he got to the combat centre, he was blind and out of touch: he had no idea what was happening to the ship. His mind kept bringing him the faces of Pakinova and the Chief, but he forced himself to push them out of his mind. There wasn't time for that now. No time for anything. "Come on," he barked at the slowly-opening hatch. As soon as he could fit, he squeezed through the opening.

  The dark room of the tech suite, lit by the screens of half a dozen terminals back-to-back along one wall, served as the Borealis' combat centre and secondary command post. Four of the consoles were occupied by tense-looking crewmembers hunched over the displays.

  Executive Officer Kalla jumped to her feet. She rushed toward him. "Captain! Sir, are you injured?"

  Dillon shook his head to clear the ringing in his ears. "I'm fine. What's the ship's status?"

  Kalla nodded and took a deep breath. "Sir, we took the helm when we lost contact with the bridge. The ship is stable. After we were hit, Vikrant and Viraat put themselves in the way. Captain West ordered us to stay in their shadow."

  Dillon stepped past her, bending to look over a seated technician's shoulder. "Fleet status?"

  Kalla reached past the crewmember, pointing at details on the display. "The Horlan broke into groups here and here. They were totally fixated on us, and ignored the fire from the rest of the fleet. They're being punished."

  Dillon squinted to read some of the smaller text boxes on the display. "Shit, We are too. Alabama and Glorious are both dead in space. They're—" he pointed at the display. "Wait. Are the Horlan withdrawing?"