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
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
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