by Britt Ringel
The chasing specters flickered in and out of existence. The tactical display turned into a useless clutter as sporadic cutter symbols appeared and disappeared at random and their overlapping uncertainty zones painted an unreadable overlay. As best Brewer could make out, the Parasite ships were anywhere from sixty to twenty light-seconds away.
Bright white dots pulsed on the display, clouding the picture further.
“I’m reading explosions behind us,” Docent’s sensor officer stated. “I can’t get an accurate count.”
“Probably collisions,” Michaels offered Brewer. “If they haven’t slowed down, it’s like running through a forest blindfolded.”
“Estimated range to the leading edge?” Brewer asked. Contacts were now jumping around the tactical plot with increased regularity.
“Best guess is six light-seconds.”
Flashing dots continued to appear and extinguish in Docent’s wake. It looked almost as if the Parasites had blundered into a minefield. Ahead of Brewer’s fleet, Waypoint Gamma awaited 12ls away. Three and a half minutes at our present speed.
In a single instant, seventy-nine cutter symbols appeared at 3ls from the fleet and failed to disappear.
“Leading edge is in range!” the sensor officer cried out.
Weapons directors from across the squadron leapt to action as each manager struggled to prioritize the newly acquired targets and divide them among their gunners. Meanwhile, Brevic gunners across the seven destroyers simply picked a random cutter and unleashed their pulse lasers.
Brewer noticed immediately that the Parasite cutters had reduced their speed to .25c. The modest reduction would give his gunners a fifteen-second window to annihilate the onrushing horde before it reached his ships.
The opening fusillade erased forty cutters, many dying to multiple laser shots from different ships. Behind the brief pinpoints of destructive light, more and more cutter symbols appeared along the 3ls horizon. Worse still, crowds of cutters were emerging on the flanks of the fleet.
Brewer bitterly watched the unwelcome intruders slicing in toward him from different angles. They’ve overshot us after losing sensor contact and are coming in on corrected courses. Many of the misguided cutters sailed outside of his fleet’s best firing arcs. A flicker of red drew Brewer’s eyes to his chair arm. Docent’s status display glimmered angrily by his hand. His fleet was taking sporadic particle beam fire. At least they’re having as much trouble obtaining target locks as we are.
“Order Hotchkiss and Minigun to rotate appropriately to deny our flanks,” he quickly ordered.
The first edge of attackers ground itself out at 2ls but the disorganized mass behind it surged unrelentingly forward. Despite the ferocity of weapons fire, both fleets’ gunners experienced more failure than success. The consolidated barrages from the Terran fleet resulted in more hits by sheer volume of fire but the outcome was growing all too apparent to Brewer. The Parasites were under 1ls from contact.
Instinct forced Brewer’s hands to close on his chair arms as he braced for impact. Despite the evidence, his mind refused to believe that being rammed by a Parasite cutter could result in anything less than the obliteration of both ships.
The leading edge washed over the destroyers and Docent experienced two, sharp jolts. The impact barely registered with Brewer before an alloy door smashed down over the flag bridge’s only entry. The anti-intrusion barrier could only be opened from inside the bridge.
Even as he heard the slam of added security, he stared at the tactical plot in disbelief. The Parasites had crashed through his formation but a sizeable percentage of the cutters had missed their ramming attempts. He had figured that fighting inside the Beta Field would add much-needed mayhem to the encounter. He had banked on the cutter pilots failing to compensate for the chosen battlefield but secretly, he believed that even these advantages would only delay his inevitable defeat. As Brewer watched over fifty cutters overshoot his fleet and spin radically to attempt a second pass, he began to ask himself, Can we actually win this fight?
Chapter 53
The detonation of something larger than a cutter flickered spasmodically on the tactical plot, six to eight light-seconds from Docent. Closer to the flagship, an unremitting flood of cutters threw itself at the Terran destroyers. Pulse laser shots gushed out toward the invaders, some finding their mark to slice deeply into the hull of a Parasite ship. More often than not, a hit to a cutter resulted in its destruction.
In recompense, cutters streaking into sensor view appeared to stagger slightly as if adjusting course before firing their spinal mounts. Their particle cannons inside the asteroid field were wildly inaccurate. Barely one in seven shots hit. Even still, Brewer knew that his fleet could not withstand the return fire for long.
Yet Docent was fighting well. Although her primary shields had collapsed when the first cutter rammed her, the command destroyer was a stalwart anchor in the center of the formation. Brewer resisted the urge to dwell on the Parasite intruders and the shipboard fighting occurring in her corridors and compartments. I must keep my focus on the fleet. His order to Hotchkiss and Minigun to rotate off the main line of advance and cover the flanks had been prudent. However, the necessary adjustment had left the remaining five Brevic destroyers with areas of responsibility greater than they could cover. Every few seconds, piecemeal remnants of cutter waves were impaling his formation.
The Parasite force nullifiers had another, devastating effect. As each of Brewer’s destroyers was struck, the Parasite device worked to counteract the push of the ship’s Allison-Turner drives. Already, the firing line was beginning to distort as ships within the squadron lost forward momentum. Thank God we’re only sailing at point-zero-six-C or our formation would be completely ineffective by now.
Another blow jarred Docent. An explosion from particle beam fire or another ramming craft? Brewer wondered. The fight was slipping out of control.
“Parasite destroyer at four light-seconds!” cried Commander Michaels.
Brewer mashed his squadron communications button. “All ships commence Delta firing protocol!” The new firing order directed twenty percent of the pulse lasers on each destroyer toward the destruction of the new threat. “Delta” protocol was for Parasite destroyers. “Charlie” would counter super-carriers.
“ELTI Howitzer.” The sensor officer punctuated the grim statement with a fist slammed down on his panel.
“Dammit,” Michaels cursed. “What the hell is that thing firing?”
Brewer shrugged off the question. Docent’s optics were nearly useless in the Beta Field. “We’ve got to stop it before it can recharge.” Already, his remaining destroyers rained pulse laser fire on their alien counterpart.
Docent shook violently again. That was definitely another ram, Brewer judged. A high-pitched warble filled the flag bridge. Captain Dawson is decompressing parts of the ship. Brewer stared helplessly at his communications panel.
Prior to the battle, Brewer had given each ship’s officers complete autonomy to self-destruct his or her own ship. When the Parasites boarded the vessels of Garrett Heskan’s squadron, they had done so with the intent to infect their crews and subsume the ships. Since evidence suggested that Parasites gained access to an infected’s memories, a prize ship would easily yield the Republic’s location to the Parasites. During Brewer’s battle plan briefing, he had hammered home the absolute necessity of preventing a Parasite takeover of a ship. As a result, any officer aboard any ship could order its destruction if he or she believed that capture was imminent. Further, no warning or countdown was to be given for fear than an infected crewman might escape in a lifeboat.
Brewer stared at the channel that would hail Docent’s captain. A few seconds warning of his impending death would be comforting. He shook his head and instead looked to the tactical plot. The first Parasite destroyer was in ruins but a second had appeared at the very edge of sensor range. Two more would be close behind it. Without looking down, Brewer pressed the
squadron-wide channel. “Stout hearts, sailors,” he commanded with grit. “We’re nearing Waypoint Gamma.”
* * *
Arquebus’ captain pressed forward against his seat restraints. “Push us up to point-oh-nine-C, Shelly.”
Already, his frigate squadron was sailing at the reckless speed of .08c inside the Beta Field. It was utter insanity. His formation was beginning to distort, the five ships unable to make the tiny course adjustments necessary to maintain squadron integrity amidst the massive sensor distortion. He was violating his orders but he did not care. Before the battle, the I.S. secretary had insisted that fleet speed inside the Beta Field was capped at .05c.
Once Captain Stone had been certain that the majority of cutters and over half the remaining destroyers were committed to his frigate squadron, he had taken his ships deeper inside the asteroid field to disappear. He had then ordered the radical course change necessary to direct his squadron toward Waypoint Gamma. Poised and confident, his ships had begun their sail at .05c. However, when explosions were detected ahead of his group, he rapidly lost his veneer of stoicism. What will I find at the rendezvous point? he wondered. The plan called for the frigates to join with the destroyers and defeat any Parasites present. It was obvious the destroyers were in combat. The flickering symbols and strobing lights on the tactical plot proved that much. Less clear was who was winning. Am I sailing my own ships into destruction?
Stone’s resolve to follow the fleet speed limit evaporated when his sensor officer picked up Parrott’s ELTI. He would be damned if he arrived at the battlespace only to find his brothers-in-arms dead due to the lack of his support. The frigates charged blindly ahead.
Curiously, the first cutters the frigates encountered were sailing away from them. The alien ships, a scant 3ls out, were easily destroyed by combined fire.
Next came cutters heading toward the frigates but in numbers too small to avoid annihilation as well. Sixty-three seconds after first contact, Pepperbox appeared, followed shortly by Docent. Both ships were sailing at a reduced speed with a long trail of Parasite cutters in their wakes. Further behind the pair, Smoothbore staggered, askew, toward Waypoint Gamma. Sporadic pulse turret fire from Docent and Pepperbox raked the trailing Terran destroyer.
Captain Stone ordered a slight course adjustment to his squadron that would take him to within 0.05ls of Docent. His horror-struck navigation officer reflected on the questionable sanity of the order but the small formation teetered around its central axis and pointed in a bid for its own, apparent ramming attempt.
* * *
Brewer had scarcely heard the contact report before the frigates raced through his dwindling fleet. Only Pepperbox remained with Docent. Most of his squadron had fallen to Parasite destroyer fire or their own unleashed power cores. Less than a minute ago, Smoothbore’s captain had sent a frantic plea to be targeted and destroyed. Both Docent and Pepperbox complied with the final request but each pulse turret focused on their sister meant fewer for their enemies.
As Smoothbore finally flashed from existence, Stone’s squadron blasted a path of destruction through the final waves of the alien cutters. Brewer watched its progress on the plot. The frigate squadron was smaller than an instant before. Somewhere in the madness of the last second’s dash, Doglock had found eradication. Directly under Brewer’s gaze, the sterile symbol of Blunderbuss pulsed once and faded out.
Brewer slammed his hand down on his communications panel. “Arquebus, kill that final destroyer!” His own squadron was too busy fending off the remnants of the cutters clawing toward his two ships to spare fire. The order given, he analyzed his frigate squadron’s course and the state of the Parasites. There were fewer than a hundred cutters remaining and although they were tenaciously pressing their attack, it was clear it would fail.
Brewer reactivated the comm channel and ordered in a calmer voice, “Docent and Pepperbox, reverse your course and follow the frigates. Captain Stone, once that destroyer has been eliminated, maintain course but reduce your squadron’s speed to point-zero-three-C.”
The frigates broke the last Parasite destroyer apart before it could bring its vengeful weapon to bear a second time. After executing a one hundred eighty degree rotation, the ships touched off their main drives for less than a second. The effect reduced their velocities to well within a safely navigable speed. Docent and Pepperbox closed on the frigates, 3ls ahead.
The mission became a mop-up operation as the remaining cutters homed in on targets without the numbers required to overwhelm the surviving human vessels. From the flag bridge, Brewer created a fleet-wide channel and patiently waited until representatives from each ship had joined. When the last sailor connected, a junior officer from Pepperbox, Brewer took stock of his fleet.
“Will we retain control over Docent and Pepperbox?” he asked bluntly. It was strange to be asking about his fate in such a detached manner.
Pepperbox’s representative nodded. “We have control over the primary systems and our marines are pushing the infected crew into manageable pockets.”
Captain Dawson looked less certain. “I believe we will, although our weapons capabilities are going to be compromised. A lot of gunners are infected now.”
“Secretary Brewer,” Stone stated, “you are aware that our course will take us out of the Beta Field soon.”
Brewer ignored the abrasive man. The fleet was down to five ships, including two crippled destroyers. The Republic’s fleet of redemption was a fractured shadow of its former self.
“We need to change course,” Stone insisted.
“No,” Brewer answered. “We need to seize the advantage. Captain Stone, where is the main body of cutters and destroyers that pursued you?”
“I…” After a brief pause, Stone resumed. “Best guess is either looking for us inside the Beta Field near Waypoint Alpha or orbiting right at the edge of the belt if they didn’t enter.”
Brewer nodded. “What are the best speeds Docent and Pepperbox can maintain?”
The pause was longer this time. Finally, Dawson answered, “Docent can probably reach point-two-C. Pepperbox?”
“I believe we can sail faster. Maybe point-two-three-C. We’ve blown most of the cutters that attached to us off our hull.”
Brewer drew in a long breath. “Fleet speed will be Docent’s best speed. Captain Dawson, I want every fraction you can muster from your drives.”
“Where are we going, sir?” Stone asked.
“We’re going to go kill the final two carriers.”
* * *
The vestiges of the Expeditionary Fleet charged from the Beta Field. They exploded upward and outward from the asteroid belt, arcing toward their quarry’s last known position. The tactical plot on Docent’s flag bridge cleared almost immediately. Three light-minutes ahead, in clear space, were the two remaining Parasite super-carriers. Sensors in the entire Terran fleet searched desperately for their escorts. The area around the carriers was clear.
“Go, go, go,” someone on the flag bridge urged, oblivious that the fleet was already straining under vicious forces of acceleration.
“Check around Waypoint Alpha,” Brewer ordered. The fleet’s speed topped out at .21c and Docent’s computer recalculated the time to intercept the Parasite carriers as fourteen minutes, seventeen seconds.
“Mr. Secretary?” It was Captain Dawson, calling him from Docent’s bridge.
“Go ahead.”
“Sir, a large infected contingent is heading toward the flag bridge. I have a squad of marines outside your door but we’re losing our battles, sir.”
“Thank you, Captain Dawson,” Brewer answered stiffly.
“Sir,” Dawson continued, “I called to ask if you want those marines to pull back. They won’t be able to stop what’s coming and when they become infected, their knowledge of breaching portals, along with their weapons and explosives, will be used against your anti-intrusion door.”
Brewer rocked back. Damn. By placing marines in critical a
ccess points, all we’ve done is give our enemy the means to exploit them. “Can the marines rig explosives in the passageway and trigger them remotely as the infected pass by?”
During the ensuing pause, Brewer saw that a sensor sweep near Waypoint Alpha had come up empty. The four Parasite destroyers leading the ten thousand-strong cutter force had obviously chased the frigates into the Beta Field.
“They can’t,” Dawson said. “They don’t have the equipment for that.”
Next time, Brewer almost promised himself before stopping. “Pull them back then. We’ll hope the infected don’t have the materials they need to breach our door until we’ve completed our mission.”
Docent’s opticals returned to the carriers. Each bore damage from the initial missile attack. One had been torn open from her bow, down her starboard beam to amidship. To Brewer’s eyes, it appeared more like a broken, ghost ship than a functional platform. The other vessel shared similar rents typical of gravity missile attacks but was obviously operational. He watched his fleet race toward its prizes. Ten minutes until weapons range. He edged closer on his seat. In another minute and a half, his ships would be close enough to the super-carriers that even if cutters emerged from the Beta Field, they could not stop his attack.
“Two light-minutes and closing,” his sensor officer stated nervously. The ships were thieves in the night, dashing quickly under a spotlight toward their goal.
We’ve done it, Brewer thought triumphantly. Nothing could prevent his fleet from reaching the unarmed carriers now.
“New contacts!” Michaels cried out, pointing at the tactical plot. Hundreds of new cutter symbols were appearing from the ether by each of the carriers. “How?” The man’s pungent disappointment was tangible.
