by Rick Shelley
He didn’t rip a great gash in the fabric of spacetime or any of the other rot the naysayers have been vomiting out for generations.” Truscott paused to scan the holographic images around his chart table.
“The rest followed like gas after a spicy meal.”
When the meeting ended and the last holographic image had faded, Truscott leaned back and took a deep breath. “You’re getting too tense,” he told himself. “You’d think you were already defending yourself before an Admiralty Court of Inquiry.” He grunted then, aware that it might come to that.
He got up and fixed a cup of tea, then went out to the flag bridge.
“Any word from Ian or His Highness?” he asked Gabby Bierce.
“No, sir, not a word. The Marines are still moving.”
The admiral nodded, then took a long, slow sip at his tea. “I can’t help but wonder just how much of the rough life our guest will take to. The Marines won’t make it any easier for him than they have to.”
“Likely not, sir.” Gabby grinned. “I imagine they’re pretty ticked at having outsiders stop by for a natter while they’re looking for Feddies.”
“Is Miko ready to go down and pick them up when they call?”
“He’s been waiting since first thing this morning, sir. I think there’s some sort of pool over how long His Highness will stay on the ground.”
“I didn’t hear that.” Truscott put a stern look on his face, then relaxed. “I hope you got your money down on a good time.”
“I think so, sir,” Gabby said, but the admiral was already on his way to the door.
It took Truscott less than a minute to walk the forty feet to his day cabin, but that was enough to change the situation completely. “Call to Quarters” sounded as Truscott reached for his doorknob. He hesitated, hand on the knob, then pushed the door open. His complink was buzzing madly. He crossed to it just long enough to say, “I’m on my way back to the flag bridge.” He didn’t wait for an acknowledgement.
“Federation ships bearing in at attack speed,” Commander Estmann reported when Truscott reached the flag bridge.
“What’s the layout?” the admiral demanded.
“Nine ships so far, in a skirmish line, from fortyfive degrees north of the ecliptic, heading directly toward us, no more than thirty miles higher than Victoria and Sheffield. The initial scans show five dreadnoughts and four escorts.”
“What’s the closest match with the new ops plans?” Truscott adjusted a monitor to show the essential portions of Buchanan’s system.
“C4” Estmann replied after a second’s hesitation. “We show two more escorts now, on their flanks.”
“Make to all ships, ‘Execute C4 instantly,’ ” Truscott said.
“A report from below, Admiral,” Gabby said. “That lot of Marines the prince is with just walked into an ambush. Fighting going on now.”
“Keep me posted, Gabby,” Truscott said. “Get Captain Hardesty on link.”
“Two more escorts, Admiral,” Estmann reported. “These are below us, almost atmospheric. C4 is still the best match.”
“Admiral?” A holo of Captain Hardesty appeared in front of Truscott’s command console.
“Launch the alert squadron to take the escorts below us under fire. Direct the Spacehawks that are already out to go after those two as well. Any weapons you can bring to bear on them in the next thirty seconds. Then jump us to Sheffield’s first C4 alternate.”
“Aye, sir.” Hardesty’s image disappeared.
Victoria, Sheffield, Thames, and Lancer jumped to Qspace within twenty seconds of one another.
Repulse, concealed from the main Federation formation by Buchanan’s smaller moon, waited longer before moving.
The classic scenarios of space combat were like graceful ballets in slow motion, with engagements requiring hours— even days—to be joined, fought, and decided. There was time for admirals to micromanage the fight, running alternatives through Combat Intelligence Center computers at great length. Truscott’s wholesale rewriting of combat procedures made that impossible. The battle arena became too fluid.
Repulse made what was almost certainly the shortest Qspace transit in history. It entered Qspace five hundred yards above Pebble and exited 150,000 miles away, slightly above and behind the center of the Federation line, effectively between two of the five dreadnoughts. For ninety seconds, Repulse bombarded those two ships with every weapon she had. The dreadnoughts had scarcely had time to begin returning fire before Repulse was directly between them, limiting the firepower the enemy could bring to bear without risking damage to its own vessels.
Then Repulse returned to Qspace. The dreadnought to her left was close enough to be touched by the bubble of Qspace that Repulse generated.
Repulse had no opportunity to see the damage she caused, but Sheffield was back in normalspace by that time, and her cameras caught the explosion as the dreadnought’s starboard bulkheads were torn and twisted. Debris was sucked through the spacetime vacuum created by the Qspace maneuver, hurtling large chunks of shrapnel toward the next dreadnought in the Federation line.
The second dreadnought survived only by turning its weapons on the approaching debris, vaporizing the most dangerous chunks. All of its attention was focused on that threat when Lancer passed through the Federation line on the other side at a ninetydegree angle, aimed directly at the surface of Buchanan.
Like Repulse, Lancer only remained in normalspace for ninety seconds. Though Lancer’s results were less spectacular, she still scored telling hits on the nearest Federation ships before she reentered Qspace.
By that time, Sheffield had completed her first interchange with the two escort vessels that had been the last to arrive. Coming up from directly astern, Sheffield was shielded from many of their weapons while she launched her Spacehawks and opened fire on the Federation ships. Then Sheffield was gone through Qspace, out of reach.
The first hit that either Federation escort scored wasn’t even against any of the ships or fighters in space.
One of its beam weapons scored a hit against a shuttle operating low over the forest below.
Victoria and Thames, the most lightly armed of the five Commonwealth ships, made the longest jumps in the original dispersal. Thames jumped out of the ecliptic, taking her position over the sun’s north pole, far from any of the action. Victoria hopped to the far side of Buchanan to launch its shuttles with the remaining companies of Marines. The shuttles landed out of direct observation by the Federation ships.
And although the Marines disembarked and set up defensive perimeters, they remained ready to board their shuttles again to return to Victoria, or to move closer to the action. After the last Marine shuttle had been launched and was well clear of the ship, Victoria went back into Qspace and emerged in normalspace well behind the Federation ships, too far away to be in immediate danger from any enemy weapons.
The battle progressed considerably during Victoria’s absence.
Admiral Truscott leaned forward in his seat on the flag bridge. He kept his eyes on a holographic projection of the engagement. The projection was visibly disturbed each time one of the Commonwealth ships providing the video jumped back to Qspace to regroup and return. The repeated and sudden shifts in the time the signals needed to reach Sheffield taxed the computer that maintained the projection.
“One Feddie escort definitely degraded,” an enemy damage assessment officer from CIC reported. “The shift in her power emissions is clear.”
“We’re ready for our next jump,” Mort Hardesty reported immediately after that. “No difficulties with the Nilssens.”
“Very well, Captain, shift to our next position as soon as you’re ready,” Truscott replied.
“Qspace insertion in thirtyone seconds, sir.” Then Hardesty was off the link. Truscott focused on the holo display of the battle again. Repulse and Lancer were attacking the main enemy formation simultaneously now, one from either end of the line. Repulse veered off above the enemy s
hips. Lancer ducked below. They made the transit to Qspace simultaneously, but Truscott had no chance at the time to see if that caused any damage to the Federation dreadnought between them because Sheffield made her jump before those images had time to reach the ship.
The concealing gray of Qspace formed around Sheffield, but only remained there a little more than the minimal ninety seconds that the Nilssen generators needed to recycle. This time, the ship emerged directly in front of, and slightly above, the two lowflying enemy escort ships, and the weapons officer concentrated on the already damaged ship as they approached on a near collision course. Near the rear of Sheffield, a pattern of mines was deployed. While Sheffield remained in normalspace, her bulk would hide the mines. When she exited to Qspace, the enemy escort ships would be too near the mines to effectively maneuver away from them. If the plan worked.
Arias Rivero was shocked when he saw his face in a chance reflection from a complink screen. His teeth were bared in a fierce grin, the heady aggressiveness of a successful predator. There was something exhilarating about this sudden stooping to the attack, assaults that were broken off before they could become too dangerous, to be resumed from another direction minutes later.
After Lancer’s second pass at the main Federation battle line, she jumped ninetytwo lightseconds away, reemerging in normalspace just as the images of the end of the attack were reaching that position. As Lancer and Repulse disappeared from their own screens, one of the remaining Federation dreadnoughts suddenly twisted ninety degrees out of line. Its momentum continued to carry it forward, but its rockets were pushing it toward the surface. Attitude rockets were fired and slowly started to correct the ship’s alignment. The maneuver hadn’t been completed before it was time for Lancer to duck back through Qspace for her next attack.
This time, Lancer appeared precisely where she had disappeared the last time, below the center of the Federation line, but on a different heading, pushing up through the line, next to the dreadnought that was still attempting to return to its initial course. Repulse appeared on the other side of the massive Federation ship, and both of Truscott’s frigates opened up on the one ship… while taking other targets under fire on their opposite sides.
It wasn’t coordination, it was merely luck. Missiles from Lancer and Repulse hit opposite sides of the Federation dreadnought at virtually the same instant, both far back along the final major segment of the twelvemilelong ship. The final eight hundred feet of the dreadnought were blown loose, taking down the ship’s main propulsion units. By the time the two Commonwealth ships blinked back to Qspace, the dreadnought was obviously out of commission, falling behind the other ships in the line.
Seven Federation ships changed course, climbing higher, away from the planet. The three dreadnoughts and four escorts spread out their line, the wreckage of two dreadnoughts remaining behind. The ship that had been caught by the Qspace bubble had been shattered. There were no life support systems operating. The other dreadnought had lost its main propulsion module, but the rest of the ship remained intact, gaslight. Life support systems were still functioning. The ship was using maneuvering rockets, trying to achieve a stable orbit; it no longer had the power to climb away from the planet.
The two Federation escorts that had come in separately from the rest of the fleet appeared to be in worse condition. The one that had been damaged first had taken more serious damage on Sheffield’s second pass. Then it hit two mines. Its companion had escaped damage the first time around, but this time it suffered several missile hits, then struck a mine. It was without power, and its orbit was degrading.
Unless its crew managed to restore power, the ship would be atmospheric in three hours. That would spell the end of it.
“Take five,” Truscott whispered to himself as he viewed the latest conditions. “Give them a little longer to stew.” It was part of the plan he had ordered to meet this attack. Blitz quickly, then pull away, long enough to communicate among the ships of the fleet and, more importantly, to run more detailed diagnostics of critical onboard systems, particularly Nilssen generators.
It was mere proximity that brought Sheffield’s reports to Truscott before news came from the other ships. “The Nilssen generators are running about a tenth of a degree hotter than normal, but cooling quickly,” Hardesty reported. “We’ve sustained no detectable damage.”
Victoria and Thames also reported no damage. Since they had stayed clear of the fighting, that was no surprise. Repulse reported damage to one maneuvering rocket, but no degradation of operating ability.
Lancer hadn’t taken a single hit.
Truscott got all five captains together on a holographic link. “We’re doing fine so far,” he assured them.
“We’ve already put a force greater than our own out of action, and the rest of the Federation fleet has to be reeling. Stay alert though. They may have somebody bright enough to figure out a way to counter what we’re doing. With those two escorts away from the main fleet out of action, we’ll switch to the C3 schedule. Sheffield, move in to recover your Spacehawks, then we’ll rendezvous with Lancer and Repulse for our next go. That dreadnought that’s lost its tail still has a sting. Let’s finish it off.”
“Why don’t they pull out to regroup?” Lancer’s first officer asked, only half turning toward the captain.
“I’ve been wondering that for five minutes,” Captain Rivero replied. Lancer was back in Qspace, heading for its next attack. “Either that first dreadnought was the flagship and they haven’t sorted out their command and control yet, or there’s some overriding reason for them to stay in reach.”
“Transports coming in behind them?” the first officer suggested.
“That’s the obvious thought,” Rivero said. “Another flight of ships in any case, transports or another battle line. Could be their mission is simply to keep us engaged for another fleet to box us in.”
“Except the box has too many holes.”
“We hope,” Rivero said as Lancer came out of Qspace.
Sheffield and the two frigates came out of Qspace together this time, Sheffield over and behind the center of the Federation line, Lancer to the far left and Repulse to the far right. Return fire was heavier this time than before, but still uncoordinated, scarcely effective, unable to overwhelm the defensive systems of the Commonwealth ships.
The Federation escort ship nearest Repulse started to maneuver away from the fleet line, half of its propulsion systems suddenly inactive. Repulse delayed her return to Qspace by ten seconds to pump another volley of missiles at the wounded Federation ship.
The ten second delay meant that Repulse was the last of the Commonwealth ships to spot the five Federation Cutter class troopships that emerged from Qspace on a low approach to the settled area of Buchanan. The first shuttles were already being launched from the enemy troopships when Repulse identified the new targets.
39
It had been a miserable twentyfour hours for Josef Langenkamp, even before the arrival of the Federation fleet. When the trauma tube let him regain consciousness after surgery, he felt overwhelmed by the familiar nausea and disorientation—and this time seemed much worse than he remembered. The process of tuning the new implant took two technicians seventeen hours, and that too was extraordinary.
A large, specialized, imaging apparatus was connected to Josefs neural implant. The computers that collated the data would be able to account for the firing of virtually every neuron in his brain for the entire time. There was no physical pain, but the process was uncomfortable.
By the time the technicians pulled Josef free of the equipment, he felt so nauseated that he held both hands over his stomach. He felt weak, almost unable to keep his legs under him long enough to transfer from the lab table to the wheelchair that was waiting to take him to the convalescence ward.
“Easy, Lieutenant,” one technician said. “Let us do the work. You’ll come out of it soon enough. A little broth when you get to your bed, and you’ll be ready for a
real meal in two or three hours.”
“I don’t believe it,” Josef said. “I don’t think I’ll ever be ready for food again.” And I don’t ever want to go through that again.
“Sure you will,” the technician said. “We issue a brandnew warranty every time. There’s not a thing wrong with you from the neck up.”
“At least nothing physical,” the other technician added with a laugh.
The horrible feeling passed as quickly as the technicians promised. In two hours, Josef was hungry. A meal was brought in, high on proteins and carbohydrates, twice the calories of a normal dinner. He ate every bit and considered asking for more, but settled for an extra glass of citrus juice.
He didn’t taste the sedative that was added to his juice. And when he woke eight hours later, he never even considered the hows and whys of his long, restful slumber.
“When can I get out of here and back to duty?” he asked the nurse as soon as she came in. “I’m just taking up space here.”
“I’ll agree with that, but you know the rules, fortyeight hours after coming out of the box before we can release you.”
“Peacetime rules,” Josef countered. “This is wartime. Everything’s rush rush now.”
“I’ll ask the flight surgeon,” the nurse said. “I expect he’ll have your answer tomorrow night.”
Josef didn’t doubt her for a moment. Even when the flight surgeon, Lieutenant Commander Shai Jupa, came in later than morning, Josef wasn’t prepared for the answer he got when he repeated his question.
“How do you feel right now?” the surgeon asked.
“Ten thousand percent. And that’s on an empty stomach.”
“We’ll run a few tests and see what the black boxes say,” Jupa told him. He called up Josefs file on his portable complink. “You were rather beyond the usual replacement parameters. You should have been in for your replacement a week ago.”
“Wartime necessity,” Josef said.
“That’s not the way your squadron commander put it,” Jupa replied. “She insinuated that we should have done a preventive replacement after your last, um, misadventure.”
