by Phil Geusz
"I see, sir," Nestor replied after thinking it over for a moment.
"You have to be able to ruin what you love in order to be a good officer," I continued, though a little less angrily. "To be able to give orders that you know full well will lead to the destruction of magnificent ships and the deaths of multitudes without flinching. If you hesitate the outcome is usually something terribly indecisive. Then the war drags on and on, costing far more by all conceivable measures than a single short, sharp, sanguinary battle would've. But most flag officers don't want to take risks, you see. They've climbed so high both socially and professionally that they're more afraid of losing status—and ships—than they are desirous of victory. Professor Lambert would go on and on about it—it was his biggest pet peeve. A fleet doesn't exist to be preserved and cherished and have its brasswork polished. It exists to be risked and perhaps even destroyed whenever and wherever it can hurt the enemy more than its loss damages its own side." I shook my head and sighed, then began slipping into my uniform.
"Some admirals are real fire-eaters," I continued as I buttoned my pants. "Not many, though. Most are so terrified of defeat and the shame that goes with it that they spoil their chances for victory by refusing to take enough risks with their commands." I sighed. "The two sorts are notoriously difficult to tell apart until they actually make contact with the enemy; both talk equally good games ahead of time. If James sent us Mr. Milquetoast instead of Mr. Damn-The-Torpedoes-And-Full-Speed-Ahead, as I'm beginning to suspect, well… He wouldn't be the first sovereign to be fooled. Not by a long shot."
Nestor nodded. "And if it is Admiral Milquetoast in command of the Royal Fleet? Or even just a cruiser squadron, like you said earlier?"
I shrugged again. "Then we'll have to work with what we've got instead of what we might wish for, Nestor. Just like we always do."
For almost another hour I sat and fumed and began to wonder if what we'd have to work with was nothing at all. It was the most frustrating experience of my life—I sat and alternately squirmed, paced and forced myself to sit perfectly still in 483's uncomfortable command chair. It was clear that there was still something big coming, because the Imperials were maneuvering to place their battle-line astride the jump-point in a manner that'd allow them to concentrate their firepower into an annihilating storm. "Look!" I finally expostulated, pointing at the computer screen. "Soon they'll be in position to blow up three Royal battle-lines; what gives here?"
"I only wish I could answer that, David," Heinrich replied. "But I suspect we're thinking along the same lines."
"Is everyone in the Fleet blind except for Professor Lambert's special favorites?" I finally raged, not caring for once that my angry tone was making my fellow Rabbits edgy—even Nestor suddenly looked a bit nervous. "Are you and I and Jean and a bunch of self-educated ex-slaves going to have to win this war all by our lousy selves because everyone else of any importance is a foppish fool?"
"Quite possibly, sir," Heinrich replied, and it was only when his words penetrated my anger that I realized he wasn't kidding.
"I'm sorry," I eventually apologized to no one in particular. Then I forced my hands to relax—somewhere along the line I'd balled them up into fists. "Please—I shouldn't have said any of that."
"James is competent," Nestor opined. "So is Sir Robert. A few others that I've met as well. But mostly…" He shook his head. "They're better at backstabbing and social conformity than anything else. The good news, of course, is that the Empire is probably run by equally incompetent fools."
I opened my mouth to contradict him…
…then shut it again with the words unspoken as bim, bam, boom! Suddenly Royal line-of-battle ships were bursting into local space one after another, regal in their stately majesty.
"Look!" Heinrich declared with a smile. "There's Tennyson!"
"And Coleridge and Kipling!" I added, my own expression equally bright. "Where's Shakespeare?"
"Probably back home undergoing repairs," Heinrich replied. "She had serious engine problems, last I heard."
I nodded, but felt warm and proud inside regardless. The Bard class were our newest and best battlewagons; now there could be no doubt that the rest of the line would be pouring through behind them. Suddenly there was a bright flash, then a second as the inevitable torpedoes struck home. While Tennyson seemed to shrug them off, no ship in the sky could take such punishment without paying a price. Even as her attackers—a group of four destroyers stationed to watch the point—were shredded by short-range fire from dreadnought-class blasters, Tennyson staggered and hove to starboard, already at least partially knocked out of the battle.
"That's the price of an assault jump, sir," Heinrich reminded me. "The defenders always have a tactical advantage that way."
"Yes," I nodded, unable to tear my eyes away from the unfolding fleet action. "But still… Shouldn't they have sent an older, more expendable ship through first? Or maybe even several of them? I certainly would've." Then the answer became clear to everyone as our low-powered merchie computer finally caught up with reality and added an admiral's pennant to Tennyson's pip. She'd led the way through the most dangerous patch because she was the fleet flagship, apparently, and that's what flagships do. Still, there had to be a less wasteful way to manage things…
"Of course," Heinrich continued, "While the defense has a tactical advantage in that they can waylay the first ships through at a jump, the offensive side gets to dictate when and where the battle is fought." He smiled and pointed at the lone Imperial battleship still in parking orbit around Wilkes Prime. "Fraternitie won't be making the battle, I don't think. Equalitie lost power totally while you were asleep, sir. And then boats came out from Fraternitie to meet her before she could get underway again. My guess is that they've cannibalized Fraternitie to maintain her sister as a fighting unit, and we just witnessed the latest parts donation." He smiled; the three sisters were the newest and toughest in the Imperial Fleet, the near-equivalent of our Bard class. "Libertie never did show up all the way out here. So even with Tennyson hit, it's two to one in our favor in the heaviest weight class."
I nodded in agreement as the Royal line kept rolling in. Next after the Bards came scads and scads of destroyers, each squadron led by an ultralight extra-fast cruiser to lend a little staying power to their torpedo attacks. Only the main fleet destroyer squadrons were led by such cruisers; they were too expensive to be employed in large numbers. The Imperials didn't have an equivalent, preferring just to build more destroyers. Seeing them was the final proof, if any were needed, that this was no decoy force or halfhearted strike; it was the real thing, in spades. Such specialized ships wouldn't be sent halfway to nowhere unless in the expectation of a real fight.
"Well," I finally decided as the screens filled to bursting with red and blue pips. "What do you say we reveal our own true colors, Heinrich? Nobody's in a position to intercept regardless."
He nodded. "I can't think of anything that'd energize our men more before a fight, sir."
I felt my ears redden, then flipped the switch I'd just installed earlier that morning. Our pip was now adorned with a little flag of its own, a commodore's pennant. "Birkenhead", it read beneath in small print. For a long, long moment nothing happened. Then the communicator buzzed. "Commandeered Merchant Ship 88-483,"I answered, using live voice for once. "Commodore David Birkenhead in command."
There was a pause. "Damn me if your code-pulse isn't correct," an elderly voice replied. "This is Vice Admiral Beckendorf, commanding the Battle Squadron. But I need something more to identify you, 483. Or I'll blow you out of the sky." He paused. "You've come across my family name before, if you're really Commodore Birkenhead. It's unusual enough to stick in the memory. Can you recall the circumstances?"
I thought about it for a moment. "A Lieutenant Beckendorf died on Zombie Station, sir. I helped remove his body from number six turret myself, and did all the paperwork on him. I recall that his father was a high-ranking officer, as well." I p
aused, voice Graves-Registration-trained mournful. "Was he perhaps your son, sir?"
There was a short silence, until a single word broke it. "Authenticated," the admiral declared…
…and suddenly the frequency was a cacophony of undisciplined traffic, filled with cheers and hoorahs. Then, totally unexpectedly, the blue icons began to blink in all the hues of the rainbow and I felt my jaw drop to my chest
"What's that all about?" Nestor asked, looking over my shoulder. Apparently he didn't notice the state of shock I was suddenly in.
Heinrich smiled at him. "That's a space-navy salute," he explained. "A very special one. Normally reserved only for kings and fleet admirals."
"Oh," Nestor replied, his voice very soft. "I see."
53
While receiving a Rainbow Salute was all very well and good—I admit it brought a tear to my eye—the radio indiscipline that went with it wasn't exactly the best thing in the world for tactical control of a fleet about to go into action. So I reached down and switched to the fleet-alternate frequency, which was much less congested. "Thank you," I replied. "Each and every one of you, more than I can ever express." Then when the pips were back to stable blue icons again, I did what I could to return everyone's attention to the business at hand. "What are my orders, Admiral Beckendorf?" I asked calmly.
"Stay well clear of the action, Commodore," he replied, his tone polite but perhaps a bit terse—after all, this was to have been his day for the history books, and his alone. "There's really nothing else you can do. Maneuver at your own discretion. As the battle progresses you may either proceed home in your current ship or if you prefer I'll detail a destroyer for you." There was another short pause. "My orders from His Majesty make it clear that you're to be returned home as expediently as possible in order to take up another important assignment. He attached quite a high priority to this, in fact."
I nodded and thought things over for a moment; it was abundantly clear that Admiral Beckendorf had no use for my services—indeed, his flagship had been one of only a handful that hadn't participated in the Rainbow Salute. Nor should he—I was totally out of the loop in regard to his plans and intentions, and there was no way I could be brought up to speed in time to make a difference. But still... James, I decided, wouldn't want me to leave at such a critical moment no matter what orders he'd issued from so many parsecs away. "I'll proceed via Point Three," I decided. That'd take me right through the heart of the fleet just as it was deploying for battle, unless the Imperials maneuvered in some totally unexpected manner.
"Very well," Beckendorf agreed, his voice solemn. "Please forgive me then if I return my attention to other urgent matters. Godspeed, Commodore! Encountering you at such an important place and time was an unexpected pleasure indeed. Have a safe trip home!"
Heinrich and Nestor and I spent the next several hours watching both sides maneuver for advantage, though at this point there was precious little to be had. In the absence of any significant tactical features in the immediate vicinity of the battle—such as a large asteroid, perhaps, or a valuable convoy—things were shaping up in the direction of a classic line-against-line engagement. These engagements were called 'classic' not because there was anything especially good about them; rather it was just that there'd been so many. Professor Lambert had often compared naval battles to spouses hurling crockery at one another. A line-engagement was simply what happened when lots of spouses had lots of crockery to hurl and didn't want to get in each other's way while doing the flinging. If they stood all stood side-by-side in nice parallel lines, everyone had a clear shot at everyone else. Of course, that also meant that no one had a special edge, either. Such formations had a lot to offer traditional battleship commanders—the vessels could all support each other against torpedo attacks, for example, and if you kept a jump point behind you at all times there'd always be a clear line of retreat for cripples. It was the lowest-risk—and lowest-imagination—approach possible. While Professor Lambert had hated line battles, even he admitted that sometimes they just sort of developed and no one could do anything about it. "It wouldn't be so bad if they were at least decisive sometimes," he'd explained over and over, face glum. "But just as soon as someone starts losing, they run for the nearest jump point and that's that. Hundreds, maybe even thousands of dead, and no decision."
I squirmed in my seat again; heavens but the thing was uncomfortable! "I don't like the way the situation is playing out, Heinrich," I offered at last.
"Me either," he agreed with a scowl. "But what's there to be done? There's no lever about."
I nodded; by a 'lever' Heinrich meant some sort of valuable target that the enemy could be made to fight to defend at a predictable time and place. "Have you ever heard of Beckendorf?"
"He's an academic," my friend replied. "Which can be either a good or bad thing, depending. He wrote several of the Naval War College's texts—I know that much."
I nodded and did a spot of research on my computer, as I should've done from the beginning. Sure enough, the admiral had indeed written several War College texts. "Damn!" I muttered.
"Sir?" Heinrich asked.
I shook my head. "He's a plodder," I explained. "I was supposed to attend the College, but never could because other stuff sort of came up."
Heinrich smiled. "Like raiding Imperious single-handed in Richard, you mean."
I felt my ear-linings color again. "Among other things," I admitted. "But I read all the texts later, you see. And these…" I shook my head as I read the titles—The Mathematical Ascendancy of the Big Gun, Formations and Firepower, and Geometric Fallacies in Common Deployment Schemes. "They're… erudite, I suppose. Certainly, they're the work of an intelligent and able man. But… He's got no grasp of what he's out here to do. To him, war is all numbers. In everything I've read by him, not once did he utter the word 'leadership'."
Heinrich sighed. "I see. And now look what's happening!"
I switched back to the tactical screen. Coleridge had been leading the line with Kipling tucked in close behind her since Tennyson had taken her torpedo damage. Now, the whole line was bending towards the starboard in order to allow the damaged flagship, slowed as she now was, to ease her way back into the lead slot.
"He's letting the Imperials close him off from Wilkes Prime," I replied, nodding. "Giving them all the room in the world to maneuver, while turning back in on himself and closing off his options." It wasn't a bad move in some ways, I admitted to myself. While a few ships might have their batteries masked for a time the fleet would remain concentrated and the maximum available number of heavy weapons brought to bear. It was the kind of thing one would expect from a statistically-oriented admiral. But… He was in effect ceding the imitative, and inviting the Imperials to become the aggressors!
"I don't have a good feeling about this, all of a sudden," Nestor observed, picking up perfectly on my mood.
"I'm cutting our speed," I informed Heinrich. "We'll alter course to stay out of range later if we have to. But… I just don't feel right leaving so soon."
"Good," he agreed. "I wanted to make the same suggestion, but felt it wasn't my place."
Soon the opening compliments were being exchanged. Equalitie's guns were the first to speak, then Tennyson and Coleridge replied a few seconds later. Kipling might've fired as well, but her weapons were masked for the moment due to the way the battle-line curved. "Two to one," I observed eagerly. "Soon to be—"
But I never got to finish. Instead Coleridge took a full ship-killing salvo, sort of staggered, and then began darting about obviously out of control. Almost as quickly as it could be said, she swerved towards Kipling and collided with her, the two massive hulls shedding fittings like scales as they rubbed and abraded on each other. Then they drifted apart, both now completely out of control. Meanwhile, the ships coming up behind all were forced to take strong evasive action, destroying the formation entirely.
"Damn!" Heinrich hissed. "Of all the lucky shots!"
I maintai
ned my silence, but my grip tightened on the command-chair seats. Luck was a factor in any naval battle, and had been since the days when ships had fired iron balls or even catapulted stones at each other. Meanwhile, Equalitie didn't miss a beat. She merely shifted her fire to Tennyson and kept the salvoes coming hot and heavy. "Form up on me in echelon to starboard!" Beckendorf signaled to all ships—presumably he didn't mean us, of course. "Fall back!" And even as I watched, the flagship's prow swung towards Point Three. Towards home, and yet another small, limited defeat.
And that was all I needed to see. "Damnit!" I raged. "Damnit all to hell! Those Imperial ships are half-crippled for lack of fuel and maintenance, for heaven's sake! They're not as impressive as they look—they can't be! Their flagship was drifting dead in the sky due to a breakdown not all that long ago! And if we take command of local space, they'll be isolated from their ground-support and with it all hope of maintaining an effective force. This fight is life-or-death for them! If they lose, for their side the war's all but over!" By now we'd wandered perilously near the maximum range of the Imperial's weapons, and I had no illusions as to who they'd choose as their next target if I but offered them a clear shot. Gently I eased the helm over, keeping the Royal ships between me and the Emperor's forces. It felt like rank cowardice, even though it was the smart thing to do. "And yet, he's going to retreat before the fighting even really gets started, due to one single lucky hit. You just heard him say so!"
