by P. R. Adams
Another design concession, not being able to carry or launch more missiles at once. They would be all but useless in most engagements, but immobilized or damaged foes? Planets? Missiles were a relatively easy system to replenish.
The chubby communications officer rubbed perspiration from his brow. “Captain! We are receiving an encrypted message!”
Morganson frowned. “What sort of fool offers surrender through an encrypted—”
“No surrender, Captain. It is the same encryption used previously by the source on Kedraal.”
“The same—” Their mysterious ally?
Voegel rushed to the communication console, command tablet in hand. “Transfer the message to me, Ensign Mencias.”
Mencias blinked rapidly. “Yes, Commander.”
The stubby little toad watched her with something more brutish than adoration as she studied her computing device. She was oblivious to him, turning back to the command station with a furrowed brow. “Our allies, Captain.”
“And what do these mysterious confederates tell us now?” It was maddening to have a communication in the heat of battle, but if the doctrine officer felt it was important…
“Word has reached them of the engagement.”
“Ah! More strategic advice?”
“They wish to make clear their desire to establish relations with the Azoren Federation.”
That caught the captain’s attention. “Relations?”
“Apparently, they have already sent ambassadors toward Azoren space with messages seeking our intervention.”
“Intervention for what?”
“They wish to secede from the Republic.”
“Secede? Who—?”
“The Dramoran.”
Despite the ongoing battle, Morganson found himself laughing. Dramora had been helpful during the Struggle for Independence, providing intelligence and other support, but they had lacked the will to make the full commitment to join the Federation. Had they, their resources would have been enough to tilt the balance of power dramatically. There most certainly could have been people worthy of joining the ranks of the army.
But to throw themselves at the feet of the Azoren now? With the battle all but decided?
It stank of grasping.
Voegel apparently didn’t see it that way. “We will need to offer their ministers and businesspeople free passage when the time comes to bombard Kedraal.”
“A concession we make to secure further assistance?”
“They have connections with other elements who wish to bring about change.”
Morganson snorted. “We have elements of change as well. Radioactive elements.”
Ostmann covered his mouth with a hand, but a small snort had escaped him as well. “Captain, missiles will be ready to launch in—”
Something lit up on his panel; Morganson saw a twin on his own console. “What is this? Weapons alert?”
“It would appear the Kedraalians are firing missiles of their own.”
“They have achieved lock-on? To which ship?”
The weapons officer hovered over his section of the helm station. “No lock-on, Captain.”
“And they fire?”
“Missiles away!”
The captain drilled down, then moved the view back out on his own display, but there simply wasn’t enough area to give an effective look at the incoming weapons. “On the main display, Ensign Ostmann.”
Ostmann tapped and swiped, and the display shifted from a broader view of the engagement to one focused on the closest enemy ships and the missiles fired toward the Azoren fleet. “Twenty, Captain.”
“Thank you.”
Morganson’s eyes darted across the display. The sensors and SCS were already computing the most likely targets based on trajectory, velocity, and signals.
Two ships flashed red, then dropped to a soft yellow, then to something closer to green—no threat of impact.
Then the systems projected that there were no apparent targets.
“They fire…wildly.” Ostmann’s voice held a tone of utter shock.
And relief.
That same sensation ran through Morganson, even though he hadn’t realized anxiety and fear had preceded it. So many missiles, with even a few attaining lock-on, even the Spear of Destiny would have been destroyed.
But the Kedraalians had wasted their weapons! The battle had truly degraded to the point that the enemy was desperately hurling its most precious resources into the void.
“We have them.” Morganson had meant to whisper the words, but Voegel and the weapons officer had heard.
And they both approved, beaming.
Ostmann seemed to suddenly remember that he had a role to play. “Fire upon the missiles, Captain?”
“No.” Rail guns could destroy a few of the weapons, but to what end? They were going to sail past. “You had a status on our own missiles?”
“Another two minutes, Captain.”
“And we still have lock-on to the damaged ship?”
“Sufficient to ensure its destruction.”
A quick scan of the command station console confirmed it: green targeting indicators flickered, dancing close to a burnt orange at times, but always tracking back to green. The ship had been more seriously damaged than he could have hoped.
Two minutes. With that, the enemy would be down a cruiser. They could turn their attention to some of the smaller ships and truly reduce numbers.
A few hours, certainly no more than ten. The numbers were tilting his way.
“Missiles are past us, Captain!” Ostmann’s chest puffed out.
Voegel leaned against a support rail and rested her chin on the back of her hands. It gave a more human, a more feminine sense to her that was alluring. “You have accomplished a great deal, Captain Morganson.”
Warmth spread through the captain’s gut. “Soon. There are still matters to contend with.”
“The situation with the Dramoran is an unexpected wrinkle.”
He tilted his head, offering the slightest of challenges. “Is it, Commander?”
“There have been overtures. We have had hopes. There have always been those among the planetary population who take issue with our views.”
“Skeptics and fools. Their fate will be the same.”
“The ranks of the army could swell quickly.”
“Yes. An end to the struggle with the Moskav dogs.”
“It is assured with such powerful allies. Even among the Kedraalians survivors, the Supreme Leader might find some worthy of service.”
Morganson’s stomach twisted at the thought of it. “Better to fail than compromise to such an extent.”
The doctrine officer glanced down at her boots. “The greatest of soldiers is yet an instrument in the service of the Supreme Leader, Captain.” She looked back up. “Ultimately. All of us are expendable for the cause.”
The knot in Morganson’s gut tightened. His lips felt dry. Her words seemed to carry the weight of a dark star but the fire of one yet burning bright.
Ostmann pointed at the giant display, which took on a different view: the Kedraalian fleet.
The Spear’s sensors tracked the wounded ship limping back toward Kedraal.
“Missiles away, Captain!”
Just as the system had shown the enemy missiles as streaks rapidly closing, their own missiles leapt away and fell on the trail of the doomed ship. Over each trail, a timer window opened. The first would strike in less than three minutes.
More lights flashed on the display, but these were far behind the Azoren ships.
Missiles. The enemy’s last, futile act.
Not only had the shots been wild, they had been pointless. Rather than fill a few points in space with several explosions, giving at least some slim chance of damaging an enemy ship, the Kedraalian commanders had apparently decided to fire everything randomly. Their weapons did nothing more than create a wall of debris that was too far away to be a threat.
No threat at
all.
Unlike the words that had slipped from the doctrine officer’s synthetic lips.
She backed from the command station, eyes once again downcast.
He stepped down and slipped between her and the hatch but put his back to the helm station and its officers. “What do you mean by that?” His voice seemed a little louder than he’d intended, but it couldn’t be helped. All of us are expendable for the cause?
Voegel’s eyes came up, jumpy. She had the look of a trapped animal. “I meant nothing. It is the understanding we all must have, nothing more.”
He squeezed her arm. It was soft, even though he knew of the strength within that artificial flesh. “I am no soldier, Sasha. I am one of the Supreme Leader’s Children. I am the greatest military mind in Azoren history.”
“The Supreme Leader knows each of his subjects.”
“Damn you, I am no subject! I am his rightful heir!”
“If you prove yourself.” Her eyes came up to his, and there was the hint of tears in the corner. “It is impossible to satisfy a master—”
“Who cannot be satisfied.” He caught a tear on his finger.
Real. As real as her flesh. As real as her betrayal.
“You transmitted to him. The Supreme Leader knows my words—”
“I am the Supreme Leader’s eyes and ears. I speak his words.” More tears. Her lips quivered.
“Captain?” It was Ostmann, an uncertain smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Do you wish to witness the destruction? The fireworks will be most spectacular. Something to be remembered for the ages.”
Fires burned in Morganson’s eyes. They were the fires of destruction.
The destruction of dreams that had only ever been half embraced.
27
“Detonation!” Benson’s eyes scanned the display, where one missile after another exploded far beyond where they’d estimated the Azoren ships might be. To the infrared sensors, the blasts were bright globes, set far enough apart that the diameter of meaningful heat of their released energy and the glowing shrapnel would barely overlap.
Now all the Pandora systems needed to do was find the charged particles of Parkinson’s theoretical Dawson-Surya Drive or the flicker of overwhelmed stealth systems trying to keep up against the constantly changing backdrop.
“That’s all of them.” Benson swallowed, louder than the soft machine hum of the console. She felt like she was cooking inside the heat of the missile explosions.
“So much power.” Stiles shook her head.
“The missile blasts?”
“It doesn’t seem right that it’s lost in the silence of space.”
Of course it wasn’t all lost. Close in, the shrapnel could overwhelm shields, hundreds of pieces striking milliseconds apart, each with sufficient force to pressure the deflection system. So far out, any pieces that eventually struck a shield would just register like any other individual chunk of debris—not enough to take a shield down.
But was it a wasted opportunity?
The commander turned at the scent of Halliwell’s cologne. He was leaning forward, head down, rubbing the chest of his olive drab flight suit, where his shrapnel talisman would be.
Reliving Dramoran. She wanted to reach out to him. “You okay, Clive?”
“Yeah.” The big Marine looked up, eyes on Stiles. “You don’t want to hear the explosions, Lieutenant. Or the other sounds.”
Stiles winced. “Sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
Benson flipped through the handful of filters Parkinson had suggested scanning with. “You getting anything on the SCS?”
The GSA officer frowned. “Nothing, ma’am. You?”
“The same. Lots of it.”
“Are we looking for the wrong thing?”
“We must be. Let me talk to Parkin—”
Benson’s communicator buzzed angrily: Devry wanted to chat.
“Faith?” Devry’s voice had an edge to it, close to panic.
“I saw the damage report. Any casualties?”
“Nothing serious. But that’s about to change.”
The Kolkota’s damage report was in a collapsed window that Benson brought up with a single swipe: mostly cosmetic damage, nothing truly threatening in a different circumstance. The worst was a reactor and shield generators being offline, but those should be quick fixes, and the ship was accelerating back toward Kedraal. It should be safe. “What’s the problem?”
“Lock-ons. We’re getting targeting signals. Sustained.”
Missiles! “They must be moving toward you.”
“The repair crew’s trying to get primary shields back up, but they’re having to rerun cables. We’ve lost some engine capacity, too.”
Benson muted and tapped Stiles’s display. “The Azoren fleet’s fired missiles at the Kolkata. We’re searching the wrong area.”
The lieutenant flashed a thumbs-up. Her screen shifted as the front of the sensor device on the Pandora’s belly came around to scan back toward the planet. Benson adjusted the ship’s course to take it closer to the Kolkata without getting in the path of any of the rest of the fleet.
Then she unmuted. “We’re searching for them now, Gillian.”
“Searching?” Devry’s voice shot up an octave. “I was bait for you to get a kill shot.”
“It’s not quite working out.”
“You damn well better make it work out, Faith. I put my crew at risk.”
“I know. We’re working it.” Benson disconnected and exhaled. “We’ve got to find those ships.”
Stiles leaned closer to her console. “I thought I saw something.”
“But…?”
“There and gone.”
“That’s as good as we’re going to get. Send me the coordinates.”
Benson programmed the new course in, then leaned back as the maneuvering system adjusted. There weren’t really any ships between the Kolkata and the signal Stiles might have picked up. The closest was—
“Damn.” She connected to the Clarion, hoping she hadn’t made yet another terrible mistake.
A wide-eyed, pale-faced ensign stared back through the connection. “Commander Benson?”
“Please connect me to Commander Scalise.”
Heat grew along Benson’s cheek as the delay stretched for seconds.
Finally, Lieutenant Commander Patty Scalise’s face was on the display. “Commander.”
Not a hint of contrition or warmth. In fact, it sounded like mostly anger with a few drops of resentment.
“Commander Scalise, we have a problem.”
“We do? The Clarion is fully operational.”
“It is. You’re doing excellently.”
“Thank you.”
“But the Kolkata isn’t so lucky.”
“How unfortunate. Have you found targets for the fleet to lock onto yet?”
“We’re working on it. The Azoren have changed their tactics.”
“You expected that, didn’t you? You told me that a good captain has to be adaptable. I remember that.”
Someone would have a full-time job rehabilitating Scalise one day. “Right on point. And my adaptation to the problem is to have you change course.” Benson sent the new coordinates. “That’s an intercept.”
“Intercept of what?”
“Missiles.”
“Missiles?”
“The Azoren fleet have lock-ons. The only thing we can do is try to destroy as many as possible. And to get another ship between them and the Kolkata.”
“Are you asking me to move the Clarion into harm’s way?”
“No. I’m ordering you to.”
“The crew of this ship is just as valuable as the crew of the Kolkata!”
“Commander Scalise, I—”
“I won’t do it!”
All Benson could see was a court martial. Assuming the fleet even survived. Scalise was smart, but she was immature and irrational. If there were any means to save her career, the Navy desp
erately needed someone to find the way. “Patty, I’m not asking you to get the Clarion destroyed. I’m asking you to get between the Kolkata and the enemy.”
“What’s the difference?”
“We’re going to destroy some missiles. We’ll destroy the enemy fleet. You’ll be okay.”
Scalise’s breathing grew deep and raspy. She sounded close to one of her temper fits. “Is that what you told Commander Devry—she’d be okay?”
How did it get to this point? She should have been in treatment long ago. “Commander Scalise, you’ve been given your orders. Execute them.”
Benson flinched when the connection squealed, then died.
Halliwell snorted. “I only needed to hear one side of that conversation to know what went on.”
She scowled at him. Lives were at stake.
He held up his hands in surrender. “I’m talking about how broken she is.”
“And it’s up to me to fix her.” Benson computed course changes for the closest of the remaining ships, then sent those out. “We’ve got to put some pressure on the Azoren captain, or he’s going to pick us apart.”
Stiles stiffened. “Another flicker.”
“Where?”
In answer, a coordinate showed up on Benson’s display. She scanned the area. There were large infrared ghosts that didn’t look at all like ships and could be trails from weapons or maneuvering. None of the filters seemed to—
“A trail!” The commander expanded the scanned area, tracking back the way she assumed the Azoren ships had come.
More trails appeared—ghostly faint like the infrared image. Worse, they were spread far apart. In previous engagements, the Azoren captain had kept the fleet closely packed as ship configurations went. Benson had assumed it was to increase the effectiveness of fire, probably to compensate for weaker sensor systems. The greater distance would explain not being able to pick up the signals, but it also hinted at fundamental tactical changes.
This captain was more capable than the one who’d attacked the task force at Jotun.
They’re not some monolithic group of dogmatic commanders. I need to get that through my head before I get the fleet destroyed.
