by Blaze Ward
“Flight Deck,” he said firmly. “Enemy squadron has fired everything they have at us. Crash launch Jouster. Break. All guns except primaries to defensive fire until otherwise ordered. Tactical Officer has command. Damage control parties stand by.”
Ξ
Jouster always got a rush from the acceleration pushing him back into his seat. The launch rails literally flung you clear of the ship like an arrow, away and slightly down to clear the bow of the ship in case you had to maneuver. Normally, he redlined things from there, the faster to get to the bad guys.
Today, he held his throttle medium, left the yoke centered, and focused on his scan board. He felt like a small dog on a short leash. Probably looked like one, too.
They had launched missiles earlier than he had expected, but almost to the second when Keller’s simulation had predicted. It was kind of eerie.
The wall of missiles coming at him was absolutely frightening to consider.
Someone over there was just plain paranoid. Twelve melee fighters, each firing two missiles. Except two had failed, so twenty–two missiles inbound. Plus four strike fighters that had each fired six more as fast as they could separate. And each of those had launched cleanly, so twenty–four more.
Jouster considered forty–six missiles incoming and did the math in his head. That was enough firepower to blow a couple of Republic dreadnaughts into space kibble, let alone one Strike Carrier. He sure hoped she knew what she was doing. This was cutting it awful damned close.
His targeting computer beeped. Not like it needed much of a firing solution for what was about to happen, but it was still nice that the locks were solid.
He thumbed the launch button and felt his craft shudder under the jolt as both missiles jumped away from him.
As he watched his scanners, the two missiles each opened like flowers, shedding their warhead casings to reveal internal arrays of micro–missiles. He hated the Shot missiles. Any single one of those sub–missiles was enough to cripple a fighter like his in melee and they were a pain to kill. They were, however, medicine for what evil ailed him today.
His scanner threatened to overload as his two missile tracks turned into eight. Overhead, Auberon had launched two more of the sub–munition killer missiles.
Sixteen going out. Forty–six coming in. It still didn’t seem fair.
Two bright flashes of light, followed by two lesser bolts as Auberon opened up at long range with the big Type–3 Secondaries and then the Type–2’s. Those were for engaging other warships, not missiles, although the Type–2 was a lovely thing to kill fighter craft with.
Other fighters.
At the right edge of his screen, he saw Rajput start to speak as well. Four of her missiles inbound suddenly turned into sixteen warheads as she brought her forward wing batteries to bear at extreme long distance. From his left, the two S–11 Orcas spoke as well.
Holy cow, was that every single Shot missile in the squadron? It must be, these guys only launched eight combined, and those two battle sleds held nine launch rails each. So they must still have something for the dance.
Jouster watched the wall of miniature missiles converging with something like awe. He remembered to close his mouth. Twice.
Thirty–two friendly signals from the left. Sixteen from the right. Sixteen in front of him.
Wow.
It was a vision of hell. There was no other way to describe it.
It was even bigger than the time he had been part of the Wing that got in the kill shot on the old Imperial Battleship Klagenfurt. She had gone up like a supernova.
This burst of light was so bright it hurt his eyes, even from this distance.
As his eyes cleared, an alarm sounded on his console. One of the Imperial missiles had gotten through all that mess intact.
Impact in four seconds. Right on Auberon’s nose.
Jouster punched the throttle to the top and brought his thumb to the firing stud.
Chances of shooting an incoming missile at this speed?
None.
Do it anyway.
He pulled back the yoke and centered himself on the missiles flight path.
Chances of it hitting me on this path, or mistaking me for Auberon?
Pretty good.
And I owe her for the chance to go out fighting.
Jouster held the firing stud down and watched his guns cycle.
He imagined he could see the onrushing missile, a gray bullet with Imperial flags down both sides, but at the approaching speed, that was unlikely.
He took a deep breath.
Impact in one.
Nothing.
A flash of light in front of him, turning into a ball of fire he was about to fly through. Flew through. His whole fighter craft rattled.
What the hell?
“Jouster, this is Auberon,” he still heard Keller’s voice. He must be in hell now. “What is your status?”
Status?
Jouster realized he wasn’t dead.
His shields were degraded almost to tissue paper as he barrel–rolled away from the heat and into the clear. They would be minutes recovering.
“Auberon, all systems nominal,” he replied, lizard–brain training, at least, still working.
Up ahead, the sixteen assholes who had just fired a shit–storm of missiles at him. He was feeling uncharitable. Too bad they were too far away for his Type–1’s to do anything.
“Roger that, Jouster,” he heard the Commander say. “Nice flying and thank you. You’ll owe Nina Vanek and Moirrey Kermode drinks after this.”
“What happened, Auberon?” He was sure he was supposed to be dead right now. Was this what hell looked like?
“Those two put an ace in the hole where the secondary observatory used to be. We still have exactly one of those missiles left, until we get back to base. Now, are you ready to tango, Jouster?”
“Any time, Auberon,” he said. Apparently, she didn’t hold a grudge as long as he feared.
“Break. Squadron, this is the Flag.” Her voice took on a new timbre. Hard. Ruthless. It had sounded mean before. Now it sounded like the Voice of Doom. He was glad she was finally mad at someone else. “Engage the enemy squadron with everything you have. Jouster, you are cleared from escort duties. Proceed to melee.”
“Roger that, Auberon.” Over there, there were a few people who owed him. Running from his Flight Wing was not going to save them long.
Chapter XXXIV
Date of the Republic March 17, 393 2218 Svati Prime system
Jessica watched the beginning of the dogfight long enough to assume the conclusion. First, the Imperials had launched everything they had in their desperate gamble to kill Auberon. Thank the Creator the planners over there were at least a little predictable. That trick would have simply vaporized Rajput.
Then, they discovered that they were about to be caught in a pincer as the two wings suddenly pivoted in and began to converge, with both Auberon and Rajput opening fire with the big Type–3’s from the edge of touch.
Hits with the big Secondaries were rare at this range, but a fighter just evaporated when they did. Two had already found that out the hard way before the rest turned and tried to flee, right across the bows of the Flight Wing, suddenly crossing their T from the left.
Enej Zivkovic got her attention more with the tone of his voice and his body language than anything. Not that he had any butt to speak of to get her attention, otherwise.
Her Flag Centurion was facing away from her, so she could watch his back and shoulders as he ranted into a sound–deadening microphone.
Today, he moved like a predator, a big cat stalking the last few steps. No, strike that, a small cat who just nabbed himself a canary.
She watched him key a line to Jež and lean back down into his seat with a contented air as he glanced over at her.
“Bridge, this is the Flag,” he said, suddenly realizing as he spoke that he had an audience. He sat up straighter in his chair and actually blushed.
“G
o ahead,” the First Officer said from his station. It was much noisier at the far end.
“Jež, please clear Cayenne to launch soonest with a full deployment of marines. St. Albertus Magnus has struck her colors and is ransoming the crew and vessel on good behavior until we arrive to take possession. Oh, and you should send along a navigator. I don’t trust theirs. Cheers.”
She watched Enej close the channel and smile at her. She recognized the smile. She had seen it on others recently.
“What did you do, Enej?” she asked quietly across the space.
“I told them, Commander,” he said as he pulled his jacket more properly straight, “that if they didn’t strike immediately, we would do the same thing to them we did to Ao–Shun.”
“Which was psychological warfare masquerading as mind games that amounted to exactly nothing.”
“Hey,” he said, affronted, “I’m not going to tell them that. Besides, technically, we did. Or we’re about to.”
She couldn’t stop the snort of laughter that escaped her mouth, although she did wipe it physically off and paste her command scowl more properly in place.
“They do have a Legal Affairs Officer over there, Enej,” she replied after a breath. “One whose job it is to argue those sorts of things.”
“I will happily stand in an Aquitaine Naval Court and make my case, once we tell them the truth.”
“You probably will, Centurion.” She watched him blink in surprise. A crestfallen look crept across his features. “However, you are in the right, so you’ll be safe.”
He took a breath and turned hastily back to his board.
“What else do we have, Enej,” she said.
“Not much, sir,” he replied, scanning his boards. “Two of the Imperial fighters managed to escape the Closing of the Red Sea, but they did so by redlining their engines and pretty much burning them out. One should make orbit with enough power to maneuver. The other one looks like he might miss the planet completely and drift into deep space.”
Jessica considered the slaughter she had already unleashed, plus what was coming. There was enough blood for one day.
“Keep a watch on both. Have Cayenne act as a rescue tug if they send out a distress call. And have Gaucho carrying a medical crew with him, as well as his boarding parties. They might be injured and they will most certainly be prisoners.”
“Aye, sir.”
Jessica watched the dogfight fade down into a pair of brief flashes of light. All of the green lights were still there. None of the gold ones were left. She checked the status and noted the damage. Bitter Kitten had three more kills, and apparently was holding her little fighter together purely by force of will, if the damage report was to believed. Everyone else had some level of mauling, but nothing critical.
“Time to Phase 3, Enej?” she asked sharply, not looking up from her projection. Cayenne might need to rescue Lagunov before they did anything else.
“Seventy–three minutes, commander.” The reply was just as tight. He was looking at the same data.
“Recall the fighter wing right now. da Vinci and the Orcas can escort Necromancer into position from here. I’ll notify Iskra.”
“On it.”
She pushed a button and sent her voice to the whole ship. Most of the crew would have some method of following the battle, but it didn’t have any commentary explaining why things were happening. That was reserved for her and the bridge crew.
“Flight Deck, this is the Flag,” she said calmly. Calm officer transmit their calmness to their crews. So did nervous ones. “Recalling Southbound and hers. Stand by for possible heavy landings.”
As always, Iskra Vlahovic’s message was a scrolling marquee reply. She almost never actually spoke into a comm unless forced to.
Damage Control parties already standing by. Thanks. Iskra
Jessica nodded. One less thing to worry about, if Lagunov could limp home.
She watched the planet swell slowly in her projection as Auberon drew closer.
“Giroux,” she said over the comm, “has that station done anything at all since we arrived?”
She sipped her coffee and waited as her sensors officer went backwards through his logs.
“Negative, sir,” came the reply. “After the fighters flew, she’d done nothing. No missiles, no Secondaries.”
Jessica considered her options. There was a possibility they were playing possum over there. There was also a chance that they had scrimped on fixing everything else so they could get the fighter squadron in place and maybe were out of missiles right now and hoping nobody noticed.
She keyed open a relay to Alber’ d’Maine. “Rajput, this is Auberon, what is your inventory on Primaries?”
She waited, expecting a delay while the counted. There was none.
“Full load, Auberon, minus one round discharged saluting the flag when we departed Kismayo last time out.”
She nodded.
d'Maine was an old school Command Centurion. A superstitious lot who had been taught to always fire one weapon at the beginning of a voyage to prove that they still worked, and always keep that reload empty as a sop to Lady Luck.
She would have filled his rack on the last run home, but it wouldn’t have done any good. He would have just fired it off again a day later.
Auberon was fully loaded. She didn’t believe in letting Lady Luck have any advantage.
She keyed the squadron–wide comm open. Let’s let everyone hear this.
“Squadron, this is the Flag,” she announced firmly. “Order the inhabitants of the Imperial Station to abandon ship immediately. Auberon and Rajput will pass into Primary range of the station in exactly twenty–two minutes, and remain in range for roughly eight minutes after that. You will engage the station with Primaries at that time and maintain fire until she is destroyed or we pass out of range. If she is still intact at that time, we will make another pass later to finish the job. Do not fire on any civilian vessels unless fired upon first.”
Jessica took a deep breath. War was hell, but there were no points for second place. She closed the general push and spoke across the space between them.
“Enej,” she said quietly. “Transmit that audio to the station and all vessels in orbit on as many channels as you think necessary. Put it on a loop as well.”
He looked at her with shock that slowly melted down to a grim nod as he went to work.
Nobody in his right mind would stay put over there now, knowing that they were about to be on the sharp end of something that took a Type–3 and jumped it up an order of magnitude.
That was how the Primary beam had been discovered in the first place. Someone had accidentally overloaded a Type–3 and blew it up, but not before it drilled a hole a goodly distance into the mantle of a nearby moon.
After that, they made them into weapons that fired like old–style cartridges. Insert a generator, overload it, toss the empty container aside to be melted down or reloaded back at base.
The people over there would have time to get out. Anybody left at that point was too stubborn to live anyway. And the civilian ships in orbit should feel safe enough to pick up survivors before those people had to test free–fall suits from orbit.
That was a good way to puke yourself empty.
After all, a barely–shielded station like that one would resist the Primaries about as well as a can of beans resisting a hammer.
Now, it was on to Phase 3.
Chapter XXXV
Date of the Republic March 17, 393 2218 Svati Prime system
She would have liked to have been up on the bridge with Jež and the rest, but she needed the much–better communication facilities down here on the Flag Bridge, so Jessica watched the scene unfold from her comfortable chair.
As usual, her command staff was present virtually, with Enej being one of the few people seated around the conference room table. In addition, three new faces were on–line. Anastazja Slusarczyk, commander of Necromancer, watched from one side while
her pilot maneuvered the GunShip into position.
On the projection of the system, it was like a bit of oil had been dropped onto a bowl of water. Other ships skittered away like bugs as the gunship approached.
Seated next to Jessica, Moirrey had been invited to join the group for this session. She was the most instrumental in what was about to happen.
The evil engineering gnome didn’t look the least bit cowed to be in such company, even though she kept mostly to herself. According to her personnel file, she did that anyway.
The final screen was Jessica’s Dragoon, Senior Centurion Phillip Navin Crncevic, commonly called Navin the Black by the crew, as if he were some ancient Viking come to life.
She hadn’t had much interaction with the man. He tended to stay down in the training and arms bays and work with his people, but she could see the reason for his nickname.
He was at least two meters tall, and felt like two of her wide at the shoulders, with big hands that looked like they should be holding a boarding axe right now instead of a clipboard. His skin was ebony black and the shaved skull made him look extra–fierce, although the barely–there van dyke showed itself to be all gray with age and maturity.
Probably a figure from nightmares for some of the civilian medical workers and contractors on the hospital ship.
Or he would be going forward.
“Crncevic,” Jessica said once everyone was organized, “any problems over there?”
She watched the man’s image shrug at the camera. It looked like a minor earthquake moving a small mountain.
“I would have said my daughter could have handled this lot,” he said with a voice that matched the frame, Biblical in depth and tone, “but she’s all grown up now and serving as a marine Cornet on Athena. Maybe my wife.”
“Is that the same wife who’s a retired drill instructor, Navin?” Jež chimed in with a tease.
The big man smiled. “There’s always that.”
“Maybe we should have sent your son, you old viking,” Tamara said. “The doctors over there probably would have appreciated having a librarian instead of a Norseman, anyway.”
Jessica held her command scowl in place as the Dragoon looked down at himself and back up at the camera. “Do I look Finnish?” She really wanted to giggle.
