Conqueror

by Richard Tongue

  “Hey, look at Red Flight’s course!” Haynes said. “They’re meeting us at the carriers!”

  “Good work. Damned good work,” Winter replied. “Except that they’ll throw everything they’ve got at us. Something else they’ve exposed as well. These people might have truly fearsome weapons and impressive training, but they’ve got damn-all combat experience. Nobody who’d ever led a squadron into battle would have fallen for some of what I’ve thrown at them today. They’re having to learn on the job, and it shows.”

  “They still have overwhelming force and technological superiority on their side, sir.”

  “Details, Flight, details,” he said with a smile.

  The fighter raced on, gaining altitude and speed, the trajectory plot showing them racing clear of the system, soaring past escape velocity and ever onward. They charged towards the carriers, the formation now on the move with the cruiser at their head, and as he had hoped, another squadron flying in defensive guard around them, breaking to engage the incoming Caledonian craft as they approached. Haynes held her collision course until the final possible instant, Dubois on the far side of the formation showing similar courage, racing through the enemy defense perimeter with hardly a thought, the enemy ships unable to even begin to match speed in time. More evidence of the doctrinal weakness of the enemy, another advantage that they might be able to exploit.

  The fighters flashed past each other with seconds to spare, curving onto outward trajectories that would take them deep into space, as the protesting power network finally failed, the engines dying as the emergency lights flashed on, Haynes and Winter now drifting helplessly in space.

  “That’s about it,” the pilot said, shaking her head. “We’ve got enough to try and get a message packet to Maddox, but other than that we’re going to have to conserve our energy if we’re going to last to the limit of our life support.” Looking up at a readout, she added, “That takes us to about thirty-one hours from now. Plenty of time for them to intercept, assuming they don’t forget we exist.”

  “Not much chance of that,” Winter replied. “Commodore Tyler will send someone to get us when the fighting is over.”

  “Assuming we win,” Haynes said, bluntly. “At best, sir, we’ve knocked them down to numerical parity, and they’ve still got a technological edge. We didn’t destroy a single enemy fighter, and only took out a second-rank installation. One that was ours until a few days ago.” Shaking her head, she asked, “Do you think it’ll be enough, sir?”

  “We’ll just have to wait and see, Flight,” Winter replied. “And pray.”

  Chapter 16

  Bradley looked up at the sensor display, watching with dismay at the chaos unfolding before her. The enemy fleet was struggling back into formation, leaving the three squadrons it had launched behind in orbit over Taranis, while the Caledonian fighters moved into a dispersed pattern, scattered across space, none of them able to so much as fire a burst from their engines. A rescue ship launched from Caledonia would struggle to reach the lost ships in less than a day, and with the battle that was about to begin, it seemed unlikely that they’d have anything like that much time.

  While Bishop talked to Nguyen, she called up the navigation computer, her fingers smoothly working the controls, remembering her flight training, the brief course she’d had during her induction course, and the stories her aunt had told her of some of the hair-raising stunts she had taken part in while working on the colonization of Hibernia. The whole purpose of Mitchell Station had been to support operations in the outer Caledonian moons, to provide a base for rescue shuttles and supply ships.

  “Got it,” she said, as the trajectory lines winked into life.

  “What have you got?” Bishop asked.

  “There’s a window to intercept the Twenty-Second in less than an hour. They’re swinging close to here on their path to the outer solar system. Our shuttles can match relative velocity and bring them home. We’ve just got to get close enough that they won’t have to be out for long. I don’t think the enemy would be able to catch us either.” She looked up at her controls, and said, “Departure would be in eleven minutes. Shuttles launched nineteen minutes later, with the last fighter back on board in twenty-nine.”

  “That’s great, Cadet, but we don’t have anything to put in that window,” Nguyen said. “And we lost our shuttles when the hangar deck went up.” He paused, then said, “Though I suppose there are plenty on the station that we could commandeer. Quite a lot of the local companies bought military surplus hardware.” Shaking his head, he added, “It’s out of the question, though. There’s no way we’d be able to get there in time.”

  “I’m forced to agree,” Bishop added. “It’s a nice idea, Cadet, and I appreciate the sentiment, but this ship isn’t in any condition to make the attempt. I want to get out there every bit as much as you do, but I’m afraid we’re just going to have to sit this fight out. Your father will be fine. SAR will get him soon enough, once the battle is won.”

  “That’s not the only reason I’m suggesting this, ma’am.” She gestured at the trajectory plot, and added, “The enemy fleet is on the move, and it’s going to catch our forces head-on. My father’s squadron has weakened them considerably, but as it stands, those three squadrons will be able to recharge, reform, and catch our task force on the flank, right in the middle of the battle.” She gestured at the display, and continued, “There’s only one way we can prevent that from happening. We’ve got to give them something else to think about.”

  “Ma’am,” Federov volunteered, “I checked over the engines myself. They’re intact. Even the hyperdrive.”

  “The power network isn’t,” Drake said. “It could never take the strain of launch, and neither could the superstructure. Any significant acceleration would just cause escalating damage until it finally tore the ship apart.” He paused, then added, “Our job is to get back to Caledonia and get this ship into a maintenance yard.”

  “If we lose the battle, sir, then that maintenance yard will be under Terran control, and we’ll be forced to give up, to surrender without even a fight, and condemn seven pilots to death,” Bradley protested. “There’s no point planning ahead for tomorrow when you don’t think you’re going to live through today. We patched the power grid with the fighters, and the ship could take a boost for a while, one long pulse to get us onto trajectory. After that, we just have to wait for a tug to get us home, but we’ll have done what we have to do.”

  “The ship won’t survive the maneuver, Cadet. It won’t be a tug we’d be needing, but a rescue ship of our own.” Patting the hull, Drake added, “My boys went all through the outer structure. There are breaches everywhere, the superstructure buckling. I’m not even sure she’d manage to get clear of the station in one piece, and you’re talking about executing complex rescue maneuvers.”

  “Perhaps,” Bishop said, quietly. “Perhaps.” She looked around, and said, “If we win today, then I’m realistic enough to know that Ariadne will be scrapped anyway. It won’t cost much less to build a new ship, it’ll just take a lot longer. In peacetime that won’t matter.” She looked at the sensor display, and added, “I don’t like the idea of sitting here and watching, Cadet, I don’t like that at all.” Turning to Fedorov, she asked, “You’re going to be riding this ship during the battle, Specialist. What’s your judgment? Can she really do this?”

  “I think so, ma’am. The engines are completely intact, and we won’t need a full-power burn either.”

  “We’ve still got to feed power to them,” Drake began.

  “Wait a minute,” Nguyen said. “There might be a way of pulling this off after all.”

  “What have you got in mind?” Bishop asked.

  “The primary power feed can’t possibly handle the loads we’re talking about. We can accept that as a given. It could probably handle part of it, though, and we could disperse the rest through anything that might be able to take it. The backup grid could take some of it, even with the
damage it suffered, and we’ve still got lots of the data network. That’s designed as a secondary backup. We wouldn’t be able to use much of it, but certainly it would help.” He nodded, then added, “And we could draw from the station, charge all of the emergency batteries to overload and funnel that directly to the engines. It’d be a short life and a merry one for the primary systems, but it would be enough to get us on our way.”

  “We’d blow out every circuit on the ship,” Drake warned.

  “Probably, but it would take time, and we’re only talking about a hundred-and-ten second burn, possibly a couple of course corrections later. As long as we’ve got structural integrity after that, then we’re good to complete the mission.” He glanced at Bishop, and added, “I have to admit that there is a strong chance that we’d end up writing off the ship. That’s a reasonable objection to this, but I think it might be worth the risk.”

  Bishop looked at the trajectory plot again, frowned, nodded, then said, “Lieutenant Drake, contact the station. Inform them that I want four shuttles capable of search and rescue operations ready to launch in nine minutes. They’re to link up with us as soon as we’ve completed our first-stage burn. I will not put any unnecessary lives at risk with this operation. They’ll be able to catch up and dock as long as they move quickly enough. If Ballard protests, inform him that it is my belief that a declaration of martial law will be coming in the near future, and note that the compensation his company will receive now is a lot higher than the compensation he’s likely to get in an hour.”

  “Aye, ma’am,” Drake replied. “I’ll get my people dispersed into damage control teams, make sure we’re ready to put out any fires that might crop up. I just hope I’m speaking metaphorically. This is a hell of a gamble, ma’am.”

  “With a potentially big pay-off if we win, Lieutenant,” Nguyen replied. “I’ll get all of our people on board. That’s not many, but it should be enough to help keep the sensors going.”

  “Should we contact the fleet?” Fedorov asked.

  “No point doing that, Specialist,” Bishop replied with a wry smile. “I know exactly what they’ll say, and in my experience it is usually better to ask forgiveness than permission, especially when playing around with a hundred million credits worth of military hardware.” She reached for a microphone, threw a control, and said, “Now hear this. Now hear this. Prepare for departure. I repeat, prepare for departure. All hands to emergency stations, on the double. We’ll be leaving the station in nine minutes minus. Seal all space-tight hatches. Decompression warning on all decks. That is all.”

  “That’s probably enough to scare everyone to death,” Drake replied with a smile, leaning over his console.

  “Cadet, I want you to take another look at that course of yours. It looks pretty good from here, but you can probably make it better with a little work. See if you can cut our initial acceleration down a little, and try and keep the need for a mid-course correction to a minimum. Once our engines fire, I’m not that confident that we’re going to be able to light them again, so let’s see what we can do on the first try.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Bradley replied, turning back to her station. Her hands swept across the touch screen as she brought up her course, details of Ariadne’s current potential acceleration and her hull stresses appearing to the right, the computer bringing up the information she needed before she was aware that she needed it. It was just like the exam she’d passed to get her Astrogator’s certification, years ago, when she was training as a shuttle pilot. Just like all of the flight plans she’d filed since then, working for the salvage teams in orbit.

  Except back then, there was always someone watching her back, double-checking her work, and should the worst happen, she was only putting herself at risk, and even then, with a functioning shuttle and all the emergency systems it carried. This was different. Dozens of lives were on the line if she made a mistake, including her father and the friends he had talked about growing up, a host of honorary uncles who had entertained her with stories of battles and adventure across the system. Now she had a chance to add to that catalog of tales, or bring it to an end forever.

  She allowed herself to focus completely on the trajectory plot, her fingers introducing a succession of minute adjustments to refine the course, cutting a second of acceleration at one point, altering the initial heading by a hundredth of a degree, tapping controls to indicate launch times for the shuttles, their best chance to intercept the fighters and bring them to the theoretical safety of Ariadne.

  And the enemy, of course. She couldn’t neglect them. The thirty-plus fighters swarming in orbit around Taranis, waiting to strike, waiting for a chance to contribute to the battle. Now she was in unsafe, uncertain territory, trying to bring the course as close to the moon as she dared to provide a tempting target, without making it too easy for them to catch and kill the crippled corvette. She wiped her forehead, sweat building up on her brow, trying to find some way of increasing their margin of error, some way of improving their chances. Try as she could, she couldn’t see it. She felt a hand on her shoulder, and turned to see Nguyen standing behind her, a smile on his face.

  “Relax, kid. All you can do is the best you can. Nobody is asking or expecting more.”

  “If I get this wrong…”

  “Then at least we tried, and there’s nothing more we can do than that. Besides, if this goes that badly, there won’t be anyone left around to complain, will they?” he replied, a twinkling smile on his face. “Three minutes to go. Better lock it into the computers, give the engine programs a chance to get used to the idea.”

  “Aye, sir,” she replied, her hand poised over the control for a brief moment before she finally tapped the button to confirm the course, committing the ship to the course of action she had conceived. She looked around the room, the faint smell of ozone still in the air from arcing below decks, the life-support system failing to scrub the tang from the artificial atmosphere. The monitor stations were a sea of amber and red, only the occasional flicker of green to break the monotony. By any standards she could think of, this was crazy. Except that they had no other choice.

  The task force was beginning to break up, Theseus and Ares moving ahead of the rest with their flanking fighters attached, the others holding back, tentative, as though they had already realized the hazard of the course Commodore Maddox had placed them upon. She didn’t need to see the communication logs to know the discussions the commanders of those ships had to be having as data on the Terrans streamed in, warning them of the risk they were running.

  “Course computed and laid in, ma’am,” Bradley said, taking a step back from the console.

  “Excellent, Cadet. Watch the hull stress monitors. If we get too many red lights, we’re going to have to abort.” Bishop reached for a control, bringing up the helm indicators from the ruined bridge, while Nguyen took the flight engineering station. She turned to Drake, and asked, “Have we got our shuttles?”

  “With protest, and either a Patrolman or a Guard on each one. Civilian pilots, but all of them volunteered. We also have departure clearance, all the way to Taranis.” He paused, then said, “I wish I could see the look on Maddox’s face when we break orbit and head into the black. He’ll think we’re stealing his thunder.”

  “Interesting, given that we’re actually trying to save his butt,” Bishop replied. “Sixty seconds, people. You all know where the nearest escape pod is. If I give the order to abandon ship, I don’t want any stupid gestures. Just run for the pod and get the hell out of here on the double. There’s no point throwing your life away for nothing.” She tapped in a series of commands, and said, “I’m bringing the engines to one-quarter power. If it holds, we’ll go to half-power. That should be enough to get us where we’re going.”

  A low hum rumbled through the ship, and a pair of red lights flashed on Bradley’s console, the systems warning her that the hull couldn’t take the strain they were putting on it for any length of time. She’d refine
d the course down to a hundred and seven seconds. Less than two minutes. It had to hold for that long. It had to. To her right, Nguyen’s hands were a blur as he worked the distribution controls, funneling energy where it was needed in a desperate bid to keep the power mix stable, to get the ship on the move.

  Somewhere aft, there was a loud report, and Bradley jumped for a moment before realizing that it was the docking clamps disengaging. A further series of reports followed, the bulky support cradle jettisoned, an action that yielded another dozen warnings from the stress indicators. The whine continued to grow as power surged to the engines, a countdown clock flickering into life on the monitor above, ticking away the final seconds to ignition.

  Then, it came, the engines bursting into life, the hull wailing and protesting as the acceleration grew, and grew, and grew, the clock now counting upwards, each second giving them more speed, putting them on the course that would take them to the distant fighters. Red and amber lights danced across the monitors in strange, random patterns, wailing alarms warning of hull breaches opening throughout the ship, Ariadne beginning her final voyage.

  “Sixty seconds to go,” Bishop said.

  “Power network holding, just,” Nguyen replied, his hands dancing from one control to another, warnings blaring on his screen that he was pushing the networks too hard, that a series of catastrophic overloads were imminent. Matters were little better on Bradley’s screen, the hull buckling under the load, whole decks decompressing, mercifully unoccupied.