Into the Darkness: Crimson Worlds Refugees I (6 page)

He had no idea what he was going to do, where he would lead his ragtag group of refugees. But he was grateful he had that problem to worry about.

Chapter Three

From the Personal Log of Terrance Compton

I am not sure why I have decided to keep this log. It must be completely private, for there are thoughts I will record that I can share with no one, secrets I alone must bear. Perhaps I feel that one day humanity will push out this far, possibly even defeat the First Imperium. Men might one day read these words, centuries from now, and know that my people existed, that they had survived the battles in X2 and pressed on defiantly, deeper into the unknown space of our enemy’s domains.

Or, perhaps we will find a home, somewhere we can settle down in peace and strive to build something lasting. I don’t know how or where that might be possible, for we are deep within the territory of the First Imperium, and we make each successive jump knowing we might meet our doom at the hands of a massive enemy fleet at any time. We have passed a number of habitable worlds so far on our journey, all lifeless, with ancient crumbling cities marking the places where those who built the machines we battle once dwelled. Would they have been enemies, I wonder? Or if they were still here to control their creations, would they be friends, allies? Teachers? Would mankind’s nations strive to enlist their aid against each other?

I wish we could stop and explore these worlds. They are the most amazing discoveries human eyes have ever seen but, alas, we must keep fleeing. I am not foolish enough to think our enemies are not still pursuing us, searching for the fleet even as we continue deeper into the unknown, into the great darkness. Indeed, we cannot even be sure these worlds are completely dead. If I allowed landing parties to explore any of these planets, we could easily trigger some kind of alert and lead our pursuers right to us. Indeed, there are many theories that human activity on Carson’s World caused the First Imperium incursion in the first place. Still, despite my caution, eventually I will have to send landing parties to one of these worlds. We must learn about our enemy if we are to find some way to defeat them, or at least to survive their onslaughts.

For now we must run, stopping only when it is absolutely necessary. We must push deeper into the unknown, ever farther from home, until we can find a way to hide…or to hold off the doom our enemies bring with their relentless pursuit. I have no idea of the size of the First Imperium. Is it possible to travel past their domain, find a home outside of their influence? Or would we simply find another enemy there, perhaps even deadlier than that we now face? We must never forget, as enormously powerful as the First Imperium is to our perceptions, something destroyed them. Perhaps it was a plague or some self-inflicted disaster. But I cannot discount the possibility that an even stronger race existed…or still exists…somewhere in the depths of the galaxy.

The morale of the fleet is surprisingly good, though much of that is based on a lie. The initial euphoria over escaping what appeared to be certain death has been replaced by a new hope, a false one. I hear it in conversations, and I can see it in the attitudes and behaviors around me…the hope that we will find a way back home, that we might blaze a trail through successive warp gates until we emerge in some previously undiscovered portal in a human-settled system.

I have no doubt they are right, at least about the fact that a trail home exists other than through the now-blocked X1:X2 warp gate. But seeking such a course is the last thing we can attempt and, indeed, I will do whatever I must to prevent it. Humanity was saved by the barest margin through the discovery of the enemy’s great bomb and its successful detonation in the single known warp gate leading to human space. We cannot know where our enemy is…or whether they can track us, detect our path. But I cannot take the slightest chance of leading them back with us, for that would mean the death of every human being who now lives.

No, we are lost men and women, fated never to see loved ones, never to walk on familiar shores or gaze upon our homes. We were sacrificed so that mankind could survive, to buy centuries for men to prepare to once again face the First Imperium, and now we must accept that burden…and do nothing to bring doom upon humanity.

But I fear not all will understand and agree. I have officers and personnel from nine superpowers on this fleet—different languages, cultures, philosophies. I will face resistance, perhaps sooner rather than later. I will try to diffuse any disputes, to maintain control with diplomacy whenever possible. But I will not allow any vessels of this fleet to try to find their way back to Earth…whatever I must to do prevent it. I will see this fleet destroyed, all its crew dead, before I will risk the future of the human race.

We are lost now…and lost we will always be.

AS Midway

System X16

The Fleet:  226 ships, 47,918 crew

Terrance Compton was lying on his bunk, his head and shoulders propped up on a pillow. He’d tossed aside his uniform jacket, and it lay crumpled on the floor below the chair he’d been aiming for. He was just grateful to feel the gentle normalcy of one gee of thrust after weeks of being buttoned up in the tanks almost 24/7. The coffin-like structures were designed to allow fleets to engage in high-g maneuvers in battle, not to be used for weeks on end. But with over a thousand First Imperium warships are chasing them, none of that mattered. Compton had squeezed more out of his ships and crews than anyone—including himself—would have believed possible a few months before.

His ships, however, had been pushed as hard as they were going to be—at least until his people did some serious maintenance. No vessels, not even the toughest warships mankind had ever produced, could withstand weeks of nearly endless operation at maximum thrust. There wasn’t a ship in the fleet that didn’t need some kind of repairs, and a significant number required major work.

He stretched out his legs and closed his eyes for a moment, savoring the lack of crushing pressure on his body.
A man could actually get a good night’s sleep like this. That is, if a man didn’t have more than physical discomfort keeping him up.

He was halfway through a generously-poured glass of Scotch, a luxury he felt he was due after extricating his fleet from almost certain destruction and finally eluding the relentless pursuit of the enemy.
For now
, he thought.
They’ll find us again. But before they do, we need to do some repairs—and find some supplies.

He reached over and took the glass in hand, raising it slowly to his lips and taking a sip. He relished the taste of the expensive whisky, savoring it as it slipped down his throat.
This won’t last long. And when it’s gone, I’ll never see its like again.

He had half a dozen bottles of the 18-year old Scotch, the remainder of a case Augustus Garret had given him on his last birthday. He sighed softly. Of course, the Scotch wasn’t the only thing he’d never see again. It had been almost three months now, and he was still coming to terms with the fact that they were stuck out far beyond the bounds of human-occupied space. Friends, family, home…all were lost to him. To every man and woman on the fleet. They were alive, and that alone was a miracle, but they faced a cold and lonely future—and a very uncertain one too. By any measure, their long-term survival prospects were poor.

Compton had been reading reports, most of them grim, detailing the increasingly dire logistical situation facing the fleet. Thanks to stores on the freighters of the supply task force, he had enough food for his people, for a while, at least. He had ammunition too, though the stocks there had been significantly depleted by the protracted combats of the Sigma-4/X2 campaign. Another big fight would push things into the critical zone, or worse.

But it was reaction mass his ships needed most. They were dangerously low on the tritium/helium-3 fuel they used to power virtually everything, from thrust to weapons—to the nightlight over the fleet admiral’s bed. And if they ran out they would have two choices. Come to a halt and wait until the First Imperium forces found them…or accelerate with the last of their fuel and become a ghost fleet, ripping through deep space until the last of the reserve power ran out…when his vessels would become tombs for their frozen crews.

Fortunately, tritium for his ships’ reactors was something he could find. All he needed was a suitable gas giant, and enough time to build and operate a temporary refining facility in orbit. He’d already sent scouts to the adjacent systems, searching for the hydrogen source he needed.
It’s going to be a lot harder to find food…or replace missiles and damaged components. But that’s tomorrow’s problem.

But now he let the small ‘pad he’d been working on slide down the side of his leg, and he picked up an even tinier screen, this one bearing the image of a woman. She looked about 35, but that was only because of the rejuv treatments she’d been receiving since her Academy days.

Elizabeth Arlington was 48 years old, and an admiral in the Alliance Navy. She was known as a fighting officer, and she had performed brilliantly in the desperate battles against the First Imperium. She had been Compton’s flag captain before she got the promotion to flag rank and her own fleet command. Arlington was a rising star in the navy and one of the best in the service. She and Camille Harmon were the likeliest among the next generation to rise to the top command, to succeed to the role Compton had so long filled alongside his closest friend, Augustus Garret.

Compton stared at the small image, the only one he had of her that wasn’t an official navy photo. She was sitting on the couch in the admiral’s quarters on
Midway
. She was wearing the pants from her off-duty uniform and a gray regulation t-shirt. She’d discarded her boots, and she was leaning back with her knees bent and arms wrapped around her legs, her light brown hair tied back in a long ponytail. The image captured a rare moment of happiness and relaxation amid the almost constant crises of recent years. She had a big smile on her face. Compton remembered the moment well. She had been smiling at him.

Arlington had been more to him than a loyal commander, more than a trustworthy comrade. In truth, he’d loved her—he still loved her. Only now, lying in those same quarters and realizing he would never see her again, did he realize just how strong his feelings were. Just how heartbroken he was to leave her, to know she was gone to him forever.

He regretted not only her loss, but how he’d wasted the time they’d had together. She’d known he cared for her deeply. He was certain of that, just as he was sure of her feelings for him. But he’d never told her how he truly felt, never told her he loved her. It hadn’t ever been the time or the place. And now that time would never come.

She’d been under his direct command for most of the years he’d known her, and Terrance Compton was an honorable man, an officer devoted to duty above all things. He wouldn’t allow his personal desires to interfere with his responsibilities. The Alliance had been fighting the First Imperium, and Compton had refused to endanger either the efficiency of his command or Arlington’s career by having her pegged as the fleet admiral’s lover. There would be time, he always told himself. One day, they would have time.

But he had been wrong, tragically wrong. Now he knew they would never be together. She was lightyears away, beyond a warp gate that would be scrambled and impassible for centuries. Compton had never been one to fool himself, to salve his pain with lies and false hopes. He would never see her again, he knew. She was lost to him forever, and all he had left of her was one tiny image.

He could feel the moisture in his eyes, and he shook himself out of his reminiscences. “Old fool,” he cursed himself. “Don’t you have enough to do without whimpering like a lovesick boy?”

He slid his legs around abruptly, knocking the ‘pad off the edge of the bunk. It hit the ground with a loud crash. He sighed and stood up, bending down to pick up the now damaged device. So much for supply reports, he thought, staring at the cracked screen, now blank.

He tossed it aside, wondering suddenly how many more were in the cargo holds of the fleet. Almost since the instant his people had eluded their pursuers he’d been thinking of little except but how to obtain supplies, or ways to stretch what his force had, but now the magnitude of the problem truly sunk in. His people had to learn how to find or make everything they needed. Everything. They didn’t have access to factories, to laboratories except those on one of ships—not even a farm to supply basic foodstuffs. A simple device like an infopad would become irreplaceable…unless his people managed to somehow create a facility to manufacture more. And building high tech items meant starting with mining operations to secure the basic silicon and other raw materials. It was beyond daunting, especially with the constant danger of being discovered and attacked by their pursuers.

He stood up slowly, achingly. The weeks in the tank had been hard on him. The rejuv treatments were a biological miracle, slowing the aging process and extending a human lifespan to 130 years or longer. Still, it wasn’t a panacea. Compton was almost 70 years old, a man who had spent most of his life at war, who’d been seriously wounded half a dozen times, who’d spent untold hours in the tanks. He looked like a healthy 45 year old, and in many ways he had the physiology of man that age. But he still had 69 years of hard use on his body, and sometimes he felt every day of his true age.

He took one last look at Elizabeth’s image, and then he walked across the room and carefully put the small viewer away in one of his desk drawers. There would be time later to mourn lost love. Now he had work to do. More work than he’d ever faced before.

*  *  *

“Admiral, we’re receiving a transmission from Captain Duke.”

Compton nodded. “Very well commander. Put it on speaker.” Jack Cortez was working out well as Max Harmon’s replacement. Compton had been hesitant to let his longtime tactical officer go, but he finally realized he needed Harmon elsewhere, keeping an eye on things on the other ships. His longtime aide was still assigned to
Midway
, but he spent a lot of his time now shuttling around the fleet. Ostensibly, his job was to inspect ships for damage and supply status and to create a priority system for repairs. In reality, he was spying for Compton, listening for signs of discontent among the various crews.