Exodus: Empires at War: Book 17: The Rebirth

by Doug Dandridge

  Marcia had been afraid of that. Going off duty in a situation like this meant sitting in her quarters, or at best hanging out in damage control center. When they went to full alert, battle stations, the first two shifts would crowd engineering, while third shift scattered about the ship to the various damage control stations. If thing went well, they would stay there, sealed in their battle armor with nothing to do. If things went badly there was a very good chance that damage control would do no good at all, and everyone would be reduced to atoms, to swirl along with those of the ship. There was a small chance the ship would just take damage. Then there would be work, trying to get systems back online. In the case of severe damage trying to save a ship and rescue shipmates, when the ship could still be destroyed with the next hit.

  And now the bastards have stealth ships, she thought as she approached the lift that would would take her the twelve levels down and four hundred meters across to her quarters. From what she had heard, they weren't as good as the Imperial kind, nor were their launching systems up to the alliance specs. Still, they could sit hidden in the dark and drive a couple of one gigaton warheads into the side of a ship, making sure everyone aboard had a very bad day. If they came out of an accelerator, they could hit with enough kinetic energy to flash an eight million ton fleet carrier into plasma even without the warhead.

  The engineering rating thought it might be better aboard a battleship, but even one of those monsters wouldn't withstand a high kinetic hit. The carrier she was on, the Northrup, was the same mass as a battle cruiser, but had less than half the armor. They weren't made to stand in the line of battle and trade blows with the enemy. No, they were supposed to remain well out of it and launch and recover their reason for being, the nine squadrons of warp fighters that were their long range weapons. Each carrier had at least one squadron on close space patrol to help find and defend against enemies. And another at ready status, able to launch in less than one minute. And seven squadrons most likely getting ready for strikes within the system.

  They had a globe of tin cans arrayed around the four carriers of the battle force, along with some dedicated anti-missile light cruisers. Marcia thought, and it was a horrible thought, that the logistics ships that shared the protection of the screen were of more use, since they might intercept a missile the enemy intended for a carrier. Better them than us was the thought.

  She entered her room, the luxurious eight cubic meters she shared with one other petty officer, one on duty in the engineering spaces. Compared to what the able spacers had, ten cubic meters among four of them, it was absolutely sinful. If she ever made chief, not something she was expecting anytime soon, sitting as she was on third shift, she would have her own cabin.

  “Petty Officer First Finn reporting in,” she said into the air as she connected through the net to forward damage control, her assigned duty station for this shift. “Do you need me to come down?”

  “Go ahead and take some down time, Finn,” said Ensign Grishan, the Gryphon officer in charge of the forward station. “We have as many people as we can fit in here. Stand by, and be prepared to suit up and go where I send you. You'll be in charge of a team, of course.”

  Dammit. They're going to make me sit on the sidelines, thought the petty officer. She had enlisted right after the war had started with the Cacas, a patriotic gesture on her part. Now the Empire was conscripting people, after the initial surge of patriotism waned, and more citizens opted to work behind the lines in the factories and mines. Finn felt like the Empire owed her for her zeal in enlisting, and unfortunately they didn't seem to care.

  * * *

  Admiral Lokasure was back at it, inserting into another system to attack yet another enemy force. While not technically a suicide mission, since the analyst predicted that at least three quarters of the deployed ships would make it out, the admiral didn't like those odds. Still, they were better than any operation the old, too young, Emperor had planned. Lokasure still wasn't sure how he had survived long enough to gain a command like this, serving under idiots who took their orders from an even bigger idiot.

  Lokasure had a much bigger force than in the last operation. Over a hundred superbattleships, Six hundred cruisers, and almost two thousand scouts ships for missile defense. It was actually a force that could move in and destroy the enemy battle fleet, but his orders were to avoid that. The enemy had too many wormhole launchers, and could bring more ships in by wormholes as well. Forge into the system and he was likely to find himself in a fight he couldn't win.

  “Remember, Admiral,” said the higher ranking being that Lokasure had sworn his oaths to. “First indication they know you're there, launch everything you have. I would prefer that you wait until all of your assets are in place, but even a partially successful ambush is better than a slugging match.”

  The admiral gave a head motion of agreement to his Emperor. Mrastaran was a male he could respect and trust. Not that the Supreme Lord wouldn't sacrifice Lokasure and all his males if it proved necessary, but all of the spacers knew this Emperor wouldn't spend their lives in folly. Mrastaran had been an able, some thought brilliant, combat commander, who had not been so puffed up with his own importance that he didn't study the enemy.

  “All weapons are ready to fire, Supreme Lord,” answered Lokasure as the nausea of wormhole translation released its grip on him. “First indication and we're letting loose with everything.”

  “Very good. And try to get yourself and your ships out of there after you hit them hard. If you can get everything away, so much the better.”

  Lokasure didn't know if he could accomplish that. The humans and their allies were too damned good to take a punch and not come back swinging. He appreciated the sentiment, though. Nothing would strike a heavier blow to enemy morale than being hit hard and getting almost no payback. And this mission was as much about hitting them in their morale than destroying ships.

  No, it wasn't the traditional victory every Ca'cadasan male had been raised to aspire to. It didn't have to be, and the strategy just might bring the humans to the negotiating table. Something the Ca'cadasan Empire had never before contemplated. Maybe the only thing that would allow them to survive as an autonomous people.

  Chapter Fifteen

  I have never advocated war except as a means of peace. Ulysses S. Grant

  Mrastaran leaned forward in his chair, the series of holos hanging in the air taking his full attention. He had information at his fingertips like no other Ca'cadasan ruler before him. Jresstratta IV had caught the tail end of the wormhole revolution, and had never availed himself of it. Though truth be told, there were never enough wormholes during his rule to take advantage of it like Mrastaran was doing this day. Jresstratta V, the Younger, or the Fool, depending on who was labeling him, was never wise enough to gather all the strands. Mrastaran doubted the young male would have made good use of them if he had. Most likely he would have used them to spy on his commanders, finding the evidence he needed, real or imagined, to execute them for trumped up crimes.

  This Emperor lived on information. There was actually too much for him to digest, which was why he had installed his sons and other smarter than average relatives to analyze what was coming in and shoot it up for his attention. Right now he had holos with immediately updated production figures, orders of battle, and near the center of the conglomeration, the feed from the battles about to start. He would try to keep from meddling too much, but if something seemed off with the decisions of the admirals in charge he would speak up. While not wanting to stifle their initiative, it was more important that the fights have the results he and his empire needed.

  Mrastaran took a glance at production, something that would have little effect on this day, but greater rewards in the future. The Empire was now producing sixty wormholes a week. The experts were predicting eighty a week in the next two months. At that point they would hit a wall, since all the facilities that could be converted over would have done so, and building new ones might take mo
re resources than he had to spend. They had been converting supermetal production planets that were nearing the end of their productive lifetimes. Cold planets that had been absorbing heat for many years, until they were about to reach the point where a massive industrial complex like that was no longer efficient. Fortunately, wormhole production didn't need super-cold facilities. New supermetal planets were under development, and the Empire would need every one of them to keep producing the ships they needed.

  With a thought he pulled up the projected production versus what the humans could put out. The figure was jarring, thirty a day versus sixty a week. The humans were producing about three and a half times as many of the holes as he was, and their allies were adding a small but significant numbers to that total. It seemed that he could never expect to catch up. They would keep on churning them out, two hundred and ten a week, more than eight hundred and fifty a month, over ten thousand a year. He suspected that those figures were not entirely accurate, since they would have to perform maintenance on such heat producing facilities. But they would be accurate enough. While the best he could expect was just over three thousand a year. But if he used his three thousand wisely, they could come close to matching the efficiency of the enemy.

  Right now he had ten wormholes committed to five ambushes, all set to go off this day, if not exactly at the same time. He wished he could set them off simultaneously, since the enemy might get wind of a pair of them from the two that went off before. Unfortunately, he couldn't make the enemy put their heads in the noose. However, even if only two of them went off without a hitch, he could be taking out fifty or more enemy wormholes for the cost of four of his. If the attack succeeded beyond his wildest dreams he might take out two hundred enemy warships for the loss of a couple of his.

  That was important to him, to preserving of the lives of his best commanders and the ships and males under them. More than any previous Ca'cadasan ruler, he recognized that only intelligent males, putting their genes into the bodies of the most intelligent females, could reverse the trend of stupidity that had been growing through the last couple of millennia. However, he needed those intelligent males on the front, making a difference.

  “We are in position,” said the voice of Admiral Lokasure over the com. “Firing in two minutes. No indication that the enemy knows we are there.”

  Please make the attack count, thought the Emperor. And please come back from it.

  Lokasure was a very intelligent male, some might say brilliant, who needed some more experience before he could be raised to high admiral, then finally to great admiral. He was what Mrastaran wanted on the spear point of his fleet. And he was in a very good position to get killed.

  “Missiles will be coming through the wormholes in three minutes,” reported Lokasure, tension in his voice.

  Mrastaran already had the information on the attack. The stealth craft, carrying its own wormhole, would release streams of missiles toward the enemy fleet, traveling at point eight light. They would be coming through in groups of ten, as fast as they dared send missiles from a normal space launch through the narrow exit. The larger gate, having finished the transfer of the attack force, would soon be transiting a larger wave of missiles, right at the logistics train. Then it would be turned, to send an even larger wave into the enemy fleet within the system. Those might or might not destroy that part of the force. It really wasn't that important, since they would have already been hit by the mine launched missiles within the system.

  The Emperor waited, and it seemed to him that time had been hit by relativity, and was passing entirely too slow.

  * * *

  “Missiles are away, my Lord” reported the tactical officer. “From the stealth ship. The others will be coming through the gate in ten seconds.”

  Lokasure gave a head motion of acknowledgment, gripping the arms of his chair as the tension ramped up. He could order his ship board missiles fired, depending on the situation. If the wormhole missiles got in close without detection and made their kills, he would evaluate the situation and decide how many volleys he needed to send in to finish the job. If they were detected far enough out for the defenses of the enemy to try to take them out, he might have to launch more volleys.

  “Enemy force within the system is entering the first target basket, my Lord,” reported another officer.

  “Prepare to send the signal,” Lokasure told his com officer. “But wait for my command.”

  The com officer, unfortunately, was not the brightest officer on the bridge, and the admiral wondered if the male would sit there not taking any action if his commander keeled over dead. I'll just have to make sure I grunt out an order as I'm folding in on myself, thought Lokasure with a snort.

  He wanted this to be perfect, the enemy in just the right place for the mines to engage, while the prey out here had no idea what was about to happen. Things didn't always work as planned, though, and the enemy fleet started to add in some more deceleration than expected. They would not be in the perfect position by the time the wormhole launched weapons reached the outer force. He should have expected as much. Perfection was something that was found in the holo dramas the females watched, not in the real universe.

  His force was eighteen light minutes from the enemy. Far enough out that they didn't expect detection from the two squadrons of scout ships in a bubble ten light minutes out from the enemy force. Close enough that they could get wormhole launched missiles in quickly. There was always the chance that the enemy scouts would pick up the wormhole launched missiles in passing, but they were in a wide enough spread that it was probably they wouldn't. At least he could hope.

  “We have a launch from the carriers, my Lord,” called out the tactical officer, an edge to his voice.

  Lokasure gripped the arms of his chair tightly, wondering if that was the prelude of a massive launch toward his force. If so, he could try and maneuver, engaging the enemy weapons. There was no hope in getting his ships through the gate. It would take half an hour to get them through safely.

  “They're warp fighters, my Lord. Squadron strength, vectoring to the edge of the force. Those already out there are starting to change their vectors back to the force.”

  A change of shift, he thought, smiling at his own fear. Lokasure considered himself a courageous Ca'cadasan warrior, which meant he would put his life on the line for the Empire. It didn't mean he would be indifferent to the possibility of death. From what he understood, the new Emperor didn't want his warriors going into battle with a death wish. And he was only too glad to comply.

  “First wormhole group will reach the enemy in seven minute, fifteen seconds, my Lord,” announced the tactical officer after some time had passed.

  Which meant they had passed the outer globe of scouts without detection, since those ships were still patrolling as if nothing had happened. The next most probably detection point was at the one light minute mark. They wouldn't be boosting, but the grabbers would be powered up and ready to go. A close enough search by focused sensors could pick them up. The problem for the defense was those missiles could be coming in from any vector along the globe surrounding the force, and they could only focus scan small portions of it at a time. Still, things could happen.

  “Fifty seconds till impact,” called out the tactical officer a little under seven minutes later.”

  “My Lord. Their inner shield of scouts are grav pulsing. And accelerating at five hundred and forty gravities.”

  “Course?”

  “I can't tell for all of them, but the nearer ones are boosting to get into the way of our missiles.”

  Lokasure gave the Ca'cadasan version of a nod. Those ships had almost immediately gone into a maximum accel profile, most probably well above the capacity of their inertial compensators to handle. Anything not in battle armor or sitting in an acceleration couch was being bounced from bulkheads, bones snapping. The admiral stared at the icons of the boosting ships with a feeling of respect. Humans were even less willing to sacrif
ice their lives, yet the dozen ships moving, the other two score or so in the background, were furiously hurling themselves to sure death and destruction to try and save the more valuable ships behind them.

  “Those have to be com pulses we're picking up over the grabber boost, my Lord. They're warning the rest of their fleet.”

  And they would be pulsing every sensor they had in the direction the missiles were coming in from. In seconds they would have a picture of that part of the attack.

  “Send the signal to the closest group of mines. Fire on the enemy. And get a volley of our own weapons out to engage that close force.”

  He wasn't sure how much of it would still be there when his ship launched weapons arrived. He was sure that there would be very little left after that wave moved through them.

  * * *

  “Signal from the Dampher,” called out the com officer on the bridge of the fleet carrier Northrup, looking back at his captain with a concerned expression. “They're picking up twenty, no make that thirty, missiles, coming in at point eight light.”

  Captain Gail Merkle looked up in alarm from the report she had been reading. Suddenly the tale of discipline and accomplishment of the crew had no importance.

  “Order all destroyers and cruisers in our task force into defensive positions,” she ordered, looking over at her battle armor, wondering for a fleeting moment if she would have time to don it. And if it would make any difference if she did. “Begin boosting on a course that will put us as far outside their vector as possible. Emergency accel in ten seconds.”

  Which meant that any crew no in battle armor had less than ten seconds to make it to an acceleration couch. Any that didn't were going to find themselves flung into the nearest bulkhead at eight gravities. There would be serious injuries. There would be deaths. And if the carrier couldn't avoid being hit neither might matter.