When the Guns Roar

by Eric Thomson

  She reached into the hologram and, with a fingertip, narrowed the firing zone.

  “There.”

  Sirico tilted his head as he studied her changes.

  “Three salvos it is, Captain. And it gives us enough margin for a fourth.”

  Major Tatiana Salminen, commanding officer, E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment — Iolanthe’s embarked infantry contingent — entered the CIC, no doubt warned by one of the watchkeepers they were on final approach and would soon go to battle stations. She joined Dunmoore and Sirico.

  “Captain. Thorin. I gather they haven’t spotted us yet. Incredible.”

  “Not really,” Sirico replied. “Space is vast, our hull is dark, Shrehari sensors suck, and our emissions control is tight,” Sirico replied. “Besides, garrison troops of every sapient species share a common failing.”

  Salminen nodded.

  “They become complacent if they never see the enemy.”

  “Making them prone to dismiss sensor ghosts as an equipment malfunction or a natural phenomenon, especially if they occur frequently,” Chief Yens added, “instead of immediately thinking enemy ship running silent. Mind you, our orbital station crews aren’t much better in that regard, even if our sensor gear is.”

  Dunmoore took the command chair and glanced at Holt’s hologram.

  “Put the ship at battle stations.”

  “Battle stations, aye.”

  Seconds later, a klaxon sounded, though, under the circumstances, it was mainly a formality. Most of Iolanthe’s crew members were already at their posts, as Holt’s report proved when he declared the ship ready less than three minutes later.

  Time seemed to slow, and space expand as they approached the optimum engagement window, making it appear forever out of reach. But the impression was merely an illusion brought on by pre-battle jitters and fear the enemy would detect them before they came out of silent running. No matter how often the Q-ship went into combat, the last moments before they unmasked were always the same. Everyone aboard monitored the countdown timers displayed throughout the ship, bracing themselves as the last sixty seconds ran out.

  “Up systems.” Dunmoore’s order came out in a smoky, almost raspy voice. A new countdown timer appeared, this one to mark the minute and a half until the weapons systems were ready to spew death.

  “Shields are up,” Sirico reported twenty seconds later.

  “Active targeting is on,” ten seconds after that. “We should be lighting up the boneheads’ threat board brighter than a Founder’s Day fireworks show.”

  “Pucker factor pegged at ten on the meter,” Yens rumbled. “If they own puckers. But then, the damn boneheads are galaxy-sized assholes...”

  “We’re locked on, and the firing program is engaged. Thirty seconds to first rounds downrange.”

  Dunmoore felt a faint, almost imperceptible vibration run up the soles of her feet — Iolanthe’s missile launcher bays opening.

  Precisely ninety seconds after she gave the order to go up systems, Dunmoore’s ears picked up the characteristic dull thump of launchers ejecting missiles and autoloaders shoving pure copper disks into plasma gun breeches. The CIC’s main display, showing a real-time visual of the space between Iolanthe and its target, came to life with excruciatingly bright streaks of light.

  Hell was descending on the hapless Shrehari forward operating base. With any luck, the first rounds would strike before they could raise shields. And that station didn’t look as if it carried the sort of armor protecting permanent orbital installations.

  “Their watchkeepers are awake,” Yens said seconds before the opening volley splashed against an invisible cocoon enveloping the station, giving life to an ovoid greenish-blue aurora. “Shields are up, and targeting sensors are locking on to us. Countermeasures are taking out our missiles.”

  A second salvo left Iolanthe’s launchers. With the enemy awake and fighting back, the best tactic was saturating their defenses.

  “First batch of birds neutralized, though the guns are degrading shields.”

  The aurora dancing across the cocoon took on a deeper hue as competing energies battled each other.

  “For what we are about to receive,” Sirico intoned moments before a green glow enveloped Iolanthe as the enemy’s guns found their mark. But only the guns. “Fifteen missiles in their first volley. All destroyed.”

  The Q-ship’s thirty quad-barreled close defense calliopes had done their job.

  “Enemy guns and launchers are of the same type as those aboard a Tol class cruiser, except the FOB has more of them,” Yens announced.

  Sirico gave off a ferocious chuckle.

  “This is where the boneheads’ habit of keeping production lines to a minimum will bite them in the ass. We can take what they’re chucking twenty-four hours a day long and twice on Sundays. Third salvo away.”

  “Reluctant to waste heavier ordnance on a FOB? Or don’t they make bigger guns?” Holt’s hologram glanced up at Dunmoore.

  “Considering we’re probably the first to attack a Shrehari orbital base, at least in this sector, I doubt anyone can answer that.”

  Though she’d witnessed the same scene many times before, Dunmoore still watched with something close to awe as an almost continuous stream of plasma connected her ship to the FOB. Its shields crackled and glowed with an increasingly more menacing shade of purple as missiles evaded defensive fire and exploded against them, triggering energy feedback loops capable of damaging emitters.

  “Sir, the target is transmitting in code on a Shrehari emergency subspace frequency. The crypto AI thinks it’s a distress signal,” Chief Day, the CIC communications noncom, reported.

  A faint, almost inaudible whine, reached her ears. Iolanthe’s shield generators were feeling the strain of sustained enemy fire.

  As if he could read his commanding officer’s thoughts, Sirico said, “We’re going into the blue, Captain, but only a little.”

  “Second missile salvo, four hits,” Yens said. “Enemy shields are flickering.”

  The FOB’s protective energy shell now sparked with deadly deep purple flares, its edges wavering as generators fought to keep out the energy unleashed by four nuclear warheads exploding almost simultaneously.

  Moments later, “Third missile salvo, five hits.”

  With a silent pop, the eerie colors vanished, leaving the orbital station exposed to Iolanthe’s large-caliber cannon. The continuous stream of plasma attacked its outer shell with remorseless intensity, at first digging divots in the thick alloy, then punching through to release geysers of flash-frozen air.

  The entire CIC crew stared at the main display, mesmerized by the enemy installation’s death throes. Then, without warning, a bright light blotted out their view. When it faded, nothing but wreckage remained.

  Yens let out a low whistle.

  “That never gets old. We either hit their main reactor or a stack of nuclear missiles destined for the resident battle group’s ships.”

  “Check for life signs.”

  Almost a minute passed before the sensor chief shook her head.

  “Nothing.”

  “Destroy the satellite constellation and make it a clean sweep, Mister Sirico.”

  Dunmoore briefly wondered how many enemy lives they’d taken, but before she could reflect on the vicissitudes of war, Chief Day raised his hand.

  “Fennec is calling.”

  “Put her on.”

  A holographic projection of Lieutenant Nishino materialized in front of Dunmoore.

  “That was spectacular, Captain. Did you take any damage?”

  “Probably nothing more than strained shield generators. My chief engineer hasn’t reported yet.”

  “How about I push out to the hyperlimit and make a jump for the innermost gas giant? That way, when you arrive, I’ll either be able to point you at the antimatter fueling station right away or tell you it’s not there.”

  “Certainly. In fact, if you find it before we join you
and are willing to fire a missile or two, or perhaps even engage in a little target shooting, please indulge yourself.”

  Dunmoore winked at Fennec’s captain.

  Nishino’s face lit up with a hungry smile.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. I believe my crew will enjoy that. It’ll make a nice change from our usual shoot and scoot.”

  “Then you’re free to accelerate out of here.”

  “On our way. Fennec, out.”

  Dunmoore glanced at Holt’s hologram.

  “Return the ship to cruising stations. After-action review for the department heads in the conference room in one hour. If you and Renny would care to join me for a cup of coffee when you’ve finished your own reviews.”

  “Aye, aye, sir.”

  She stood.

  “You have the CIC, Mister Sirico.”

  Forty minutes later, a soft chime pulled Dunmoore from her perusal of the ammunition expenditure report. If Admiral Petras counted on using Iolanthe’s ammo locker as Task Force Luckner’s emergency supply should Skua, his replenishment ship, run out before they returned to base, he might be disappointed.

  Not that Petras ever mentioned it in so many words, but his flag captain had recently made several comments about Iolanthe’s extensive holdings. Never mind that Q-ships carried so much ammo because they fought more often and couldn’t be easily replenished underway — not when they were hunting several light-years inside the Shrehari Empire’s sphere. It was just another sign of how little Petras and Corto really understood Q-ship operations.

  “Enter.”

  The door slid aside soundlessly to admit Commander Renny Halfen, Iolanthe’s bearded chief engineer.

  “Captain. I hear there’s decent coffee on offer in here.”

  She nodded at the urn.

  “Help yourself. Still not getting satisfaction from the engineering crew?”

  He let out a disconsolate grunt.

  “I’ve given up trying to teach them how proper coffee should look, smell, and taste. Philistines, the lot of them. Thankfully, being inept with the fine art of coffee making is their sole weakness.

  Halfen poured himself a cup and sat in one of the chairs by Dunmoore’s desk.

  “Before you ask, the shield generators are fine, though a few more engagements of the sort and I’ll need to swap out the number two aft starboard unit. We have only one spare left, and so far HQ hasn’t seen fit to send us more, even though we’ve had three on order for several weeks. Field repairs only go so far, and will break at the worst possible moment.”

  The door chime pealed again before she could reply. This time it was Holt. He headed straight for the urn.

  “That was a nice thing you did, giving Fennec the chance to break something. I think you might end up being as popular with Shanna Nishino’s crew as you are with Gregor Pushkin’s.”

  “Aye.” Halfen nodded gravely. “And won’t that thrill the admiral.”

  Dunmoore raised a restraining hand.

  “Let’s not go there, gentlemen. Anything I should know about before we run the after-action review?”

  — Three —

  The intercom’s insistent pinging pulled Admiral of the Fifth Rank Brakal, Imperial Strike Group Khorsan’s commanding officer, from a deep sleep. He sat up with an irritated grunt and stabbed at the offending object.

  “What?”

  “It’s Urag, Lord. We received a message from Commander Gra’k.” Brakal’s face twisted in disgust at hearing his flagship captain pronounce the name of Strike Group Khorsan’s chief of staff, whom he’d left behind when he took his ships on patrol to hunt the humans bedeviling this part of the imperial frontier. “Our base is under attack by an enemy battleship.”

  “A single battleship?” Brakal’s lips parted to show yellowing, cracking fangs. “I hope the honorable Gra’k remembers how to fight.”

  Urag grimaced.

  “The base’s subspace radio carrier wave is gone, Lord. We are trying to re-establish contact but without success. I fear it came to grief. Is not that demon-spawned phantom we have been seeking for the last turn supposed to be a battleship under the skin? Perhaps it found our lair.”

  “And our supplies.”

  Brakal swallowed a string of pungent curses. Gra’k had announced the monthly convoy’s arrival a few days ago. If the humans were indeed destroying Khorsan Base, it would force him to withdraw the strike group and head for the nearest permanent station to replenish in a few days. That would leave this area wide open to human depredations. And if they were now bold enough to find and destroy the Deep Space Fleet’s support installations inside the imperial sphere, then the war was indeed turning against the Shrehari Empire.

  “We will head to Khorsan at best speed. When your navigator finishes plotting our course, you may synchronize our patrol and engage without further permission. Warn the other patrols and tell them to plan on replenishing at Atsang Base. I will issue orders once we know for sure.”

  A sly grin twisted Brakal’s face. “Perhaps we will get lucky and find our phantom loitering in the hopes of ambushing us. He will be aware Gra’k called for help. But even a battleship cannot stand against three Tol and three Ptar.”

  As the words left his mouth, Brakal remembered a time, long ago, when a human battleship did just that and made him withdraw before he lost the rest of his force. He had given as good as he got and intelligence reports proved the humans removed the battleship from active service afterward.

  Nonetheless, the flame-haired she-wolf’s actions in the Cimmeria system had ensured his promotion to a higher rank was delayed until the Admiralty dismissed Strike Group Khorsan’s former commanding officer. And if Hralk’s inability to contain the phantom and its fellow raiders let to his downfall, what would the admiralty do once he reported Khorsan Base destroyed, along with weeks of supplies?

  Urag did not notice his superior’s sudden discomfiture. He merely bowed his head.

  “As you command, Lord.”

  The intercom died away, taking Urag’s image and voice with it. Sleep interrupted for good, Brakal rose from his bunk, threw off his nightclothes, and pulled on his uniform. He knew with certainty that if and when his ships docked at Atsang or one of the other permanent fleet bases, he would find a missive ordering him to take the next courier headed for Shrehari Prime after turning Strike Group Khorsan over to the most senior officer available.

  How often was the same scenario repeating itself throughout the Deep Space Fleet? How often did the leadership of strike groups, assault divisions, and fleets change because commanding admirals did not satisfy the sclerotic imbeciles who could not fathom how one fights an interstellar war against a foe as tenacious as he was irrational?

  Nor could they understand how much morale-sapping turmoil each turnover caused, leaving thousands of disaffected senior officers to languish on the empire’s core worlds, their experience and talents wasted while less seasoned warriors took over and found themselves outmaneuvered by the damned hairless apes?

  Brakal was on his second mug of tvass when Tol Vehar shifted into otherspace. Now, the only thing he could do was wait until they arrived. Urag would not thank him for fretting on the bridge and annoying the crew. It meant he was practically a prisoner in a day cabin he was beginning to loathe. If only the admiralty had thought of giving Strike Group Khorsan an appropriately appointed flagship. But the home world’s growing stinginess was merely another sign this war might no longer be winnable.

  **

  “Nothing.” Menak, Tol Vehar’s sensor officer turned to face Brakal. The cruiser and its five companions were at the dead planet’s otherspace limit, running with systems dampened. “No emissions signature, no heat signature, and no evidence of the satellite constellation. I only see debris, and I only hear the recording beacon’s carrier wave.”

  Brakal grunted. His worst fears had come true.

  “What about the refueling station?”

  “I cannot find it nor hear its subspace ra
dio carrier wave.”

  “Any sign of the attacker?”

  “No, Lord. I paid particular attention to the planet’s co-orbital points. Something the size of a battleship would appear on visual even if it eludes the sensors altogether.”

  “Your orders, Lord?” Urag asked.

  After a moment of silence, Brakal ran his large, paw-like hand through the ruff of fur running across the top of his skull.

  “We will recover the recording beacon, then plot a course for... Where was the monthly convoy headed after dropping off our supplies?”

  “Back to Atsang Base. Khorsan was its last stop.” Urag replied after a brief pause to consult Tol Vehar’s database. “You think the human battleship might pursue it?”

  “If I were hunting behind enemy lines that is what I would do after scoring such a victory here. Besides, I suppose Atsang will be Strike Group Khorsan’s new home until the admiralty decides what happens, since it is the closest, and we are getting low on several consumables.”

  But not ammunition, Brakal thought, silently consigning his slippery human opponent to the deepest regions of hell.

  “Inform the other patrols they should make for Atsang once they need replenishment, then put us on a course which mimics that of the convoy.”

  “As you command. When will you inform the admiralty about Khorsan Base’s destruction?”

  “Once we extract whatever the beacon recorded of the attack. And seeing as how Menak found no threats, take us to what remains of Khorsan Base so we may pick it up. After that, we will check on the refueling station’s status before leaving this useless star system.”

  **

  “Surely that thing is the battleship which ambushed us when we were hunting for the phantom,” Urag said after they watched a silent replay of the attack from the doomed base’s perspective. “The one hiding in the co-orbitals of that accursed moon. What was the planet’s name again? Satan’s Eye?”

  “It is the phantom.” Brakal thumped the arm of his command chair with a meaty fist. “The same ship we saw threatening Kilia Station under the guise of a corsair. By the demons of the Underworld, do you know what that means, Urag?”