William Keith Renegades Honor

by Renegade's Honor

  "Clear astern, Captain," the aft lookout station reported.

  "Right. Helm, astern, slow."

  The Gael Warrior resumed her backing and slid from the steel embrace of her port berth. In moments, the ship was clear of the station and drifting away stern-first under brief and gentle nudges from her maneuvering gravs. The white cliff of Alba Port's rim, broken by the canyons of other docking berths and bays, receded on the bridge screen, losing detail until the entire station could be seen, a broad, flat platter hanging motionless against the stars. The sharp, curved, blue and white horizon of Alba edged onto the screen toward the right. Numerals projected by the ship's computer continued to mark the Warrior's range from the station, now fifteen kilometers and increasing slowly.

  "Maneuvering, navigation has your course."

  "Vectors downloaded from nav computers, Captain. Course locked in."

  Commodore Severno spoke from behind Kendric's position. "We will hold our position until the squadron forms on us, Captain."

  "Very well, sir. Maneuvering, hold position."

  "Aye, Captain."

  Because of her bulk, the Gael Warrior had undocked first. One at a time, the smaller ships of the squadron slid from Alba Port's docks, drifting astern in various directions, then guided slowly toward the half-kilometer-long mass of the battleship. Kendric managed a sideways glance at Morganen's features as Gaidheal, the first of the destroyers, closed up, navigation lights pulsing. The Warrior's Exec appeared to be struggling with conflicting thoughts. Kendric wondered whether he was remembering that the Gaidheal had been his ship once, or were his thoughts darker and more bitter than that? He keyed a private commlink to Morganen's earpiece and spoke gently. "Relax, Commander. You'll spook the men."

  It was true that the Bridge Officers were not likely to do their best if they realized their senior officers were worried or upset. A commanding officer's image could be as important as the orders he gave.

  More than that, though, Kendric wanted to touch the man, wanted to establish a line of communication, a bridge...

  "Acknowledged," Morganen replied, the word bitten off sharply. Kendric closed the channel and leaned back. It worried him that he could make no bridge to Cara's brother. As Exec, the man could prove to be as big a headache as anything Severno could provide.

  A second destroyer took position on the Warrior's starboard side. She was the Iolaire, captained by a Commander Sean Burns. The squadron's light cruiser, Captain Iann Sinclair's Reannradh, took up station a kilometer astern of the Warrior.

  Kendric regretted that there had been no opportunity to get to know the other captains in the squadron better, but time had been pressing since his arrival at Alba Port. There'll be time enough for that at Trothas V...

  The other ships of the squadron maneuvered into position, the destroyer Galad astern, the corvettes Teachdair, Aichhheil, and Taisgealach far ahead. Two frigates, Damadas and Abu, above and below the squadron relative to the Warrior's orientation, completed the Gael Cluster's fleet of ten ships.

  "All ships are in position, Commodore," Commander Braden announced at last. The ships of the squadron had been reporting in, receiving their orders from Braden through the Warrior's battery of com officers. Under his direction, the ships had taken station on the Gael Warrior, aligning their prows with an invisible, mathematically defined point in the heavens.

  "Very well," Severno said. His words were slow and measured, perhaps a trifle self-conscious. "Proceed, Captain Fraser."

  "Aye, Commodore. Engineering, you may cycle up the compressor fields." Far below the bridge, buried within the heart of the metal mountain that was the Gael Warrior, liquid hydrogen was being funnelled into a series of compressor fields, gravitational vortices that flashed hydrogen atoms past the fusion point and held them, starcore-hot plasmas barely contained at the trembling brink of artificial black

  holes.

  Logan nodded from his bridge station. "We're cycling, Captain. Pressure and flux are nominal. Full I-K thrust at your command."

  "Helm, you may engage navigational program."

  "Program engaged, Captain. I-K Drive engaging in five...four... three...two...one...mark. We have thrust."

  Gravitationally compressed and accelerated plasma blasted astern at relativistic speeds, creating the characteristic pale blue cones of light stabbing into space from the Warrior's three main drive Venturis. In computer-directed unison, the drives of the other nine ships of the fleet ignited as though fired by the same touch of a button. At two Gs, the Gael Squadron accelerated outsystem.

  Aboard ships, the sensation of acceleration was screened by gravitational compensator fields. Kendric checked time and acceleration figures to confirm that the squadron was on course, entered the fact in the bridge log, then leaned back to watch Alba Port and the blue half-sphere of his homeworld dwindling away in an aft view projected onto the main screen. Only then did it occur to Kendric how smoothly the bridge crew had handled the minor emergency presented by the errant workpod as they'd cast free of the orbital station. There had been neither excitement nor confusion. His orders had been obeyed faultlessly and immediately, and what could have been a nasty accident— with the certain deaths of the pod's occupants—had been averted.

  It spoke well of the Gael Warrior's crew and of her prospects for a good tour of duty. He found himself smiling as the Gael Squadron continued to gain speed.

  Within one of the numerous, bubble-domed observation lounges that blistered the upper hull of Alba Port, two men watched the dwindling constellation of ten blue stars as it departed circum-Alban space. They were alone, except for their armed and armored Legionnaire body guards.

  Admiral Arada shook his head. "It would have been better, my Lord, if we'd been able to block Fraser's command. We run the risk now of compromising the entire plan."

  Overlord Gracchi considered the ten gleaming pinpoints of light for a moment, then shook his head. "Our agents have their orders, Admiral. In the long run, it will not really matter one way or the other."

  "Still, it's one thing to discredit a Gael militia officer. When Fraser is discredited, it will reflect on the Imperium."

  The Overlord chuckled, a grating sound. "Believe me, it won't matter. The only thing any one will remember about Fraser is that he is a Gael...a provincial. No one will recall his Imperial training."

  Arada shook his head. "They'll remember the Lion of Tallifiero, my Lord."

  "No, they will not. Admiral, you must remember that the people believe what we tell them. Even here, in the Gael Cluster, you will find that the locals are easily manipulated.. .and that they have remarkably short memories."

  The Overlord's smile was unpleasant. "No, young Fraser suits our purposes well. When he falls, no one will dare say it was inexperience that brought him down!"

  Indications are that the Trothans are expecting outside military intervention. What form this intervention might take is at present unknown. As the so-called "Trothan Home Defense Force" can realistically be expected to muster only a few ships—armedfreighters and the like—it must be assumed that they have allied themselves, through diplomatic or other channels, with some power capable of providing them with a respectable battlefleet.

  Their defiance of Caesar and of TOG makes no sense in any other context.

  —Personal memorandum from Franklin DuBois, Special Imperial Envoy to Trothas V, to Vice Admiral Julian Dio Graffen, Commanding Trothan Punitive Expeditionary Force, 30 Jun 6830

  As the countdown readout on the Warrior's main bridge screen flickered down toward zero, tension gathered, unseen but compelling. Even in the eldritch milkiness of T-space, the universe beyond the ship had a barren and empty feel to most of the Gaels aboard. The stars were a thin dusting of carbon black across white emptiness. Only the sun of Trothas commanded attention, a small and distant sphere, glowing black according to the strange laws that ruled this twisted view of creation.

  Kendric checked a shimmertau chronometer on his console. They had m
ade no effort to deceive the Trothans with their approach. The Gael Squadron had traveled a straight line all the way from the Cluster to Trothas, a distance of some 6550 light years. They had entered T-space at .000625c—about 190 kps. Their entry speed had determined their supralumic pseudospeed of nearly 10,000 lights per month. The squadron had been travelling in T-space for 472 hours—nearly 20 full days—to reach the Trothas system. Anyone who had observed their departure at Alba would have been able to infer their destination from their course and their T-space entry speed. It was common practice during military campaigns for ship Captains to approach their target using a great many short T-space jumps rather than one long one, the better to confuse spies watching for the ship's ultimate destination.

  Commodore Severno had employed no such subterfuge. "They know we're coming," was his answer when Kendric raised the question during a staff briefing. "I imagine they'll have other things on their minds by the time we get there."

  Kendric opened a bridge console-to-console channel. "Communications. Put me on intraship." After the Communications Officer acknowledged, Kendric's voice took on an echoic quality as it was repeated over the bridge general speakers and throughout the ship. "This is the Captain speaking. We're coming up to normal space transition in five minutes. Our shimmerdown tau will be 472 hours. All hands will note that on their perscomps, please.

  "We will be entering in possibly hostile space. The current tactical situation in the Trothas system is unknown. The composition of possibly hostile forces is unknown. For that reason, I am now sounding battle stations."

  The eerie clangor of the battle stations alarm shrilled through the Gael Warrior's passageways and compartments. The ship's computer voice intoned a solemn "Battle stations, battle stations" over and over, as the bridge lighting switched from white to red. The red light was easier on eyes forced to scrutinize phosphor screens for hours at a time and helped sensitize the lookouts' eyes to light and movement on their scanners.

  Kendric added a final command above the clamor. "All fighters prepare for immediate launch. Beta Flight will deploy first. Alpha and Gamma Flights will stay in reserve, ready for immediate launch."

  He took a moment to watch the hurried preparations in the bridge pit below him. Communications Officers pressed earpieces more tightly against their heads as they prepared themselves for the steady stream of messages that would descend on them at breakout. Ships could not communicate with other ships in T-space, any more than they could maneuver or fight. There would thus be an immediate need for coordination between the ten ships the moment they were again in

  normal space.

  The Weapons Officers, too, adjusted their earpieces and ran their hands across the banks of controls and pressure plates arrayed over their consoles. It was not likely that the enemy would be waiting for them at the exact point of breakout, but it was possible. Their training had taught them always to anticipate the possible, however improbable it might be. The Bridge Fire Control Officers were murmuring into their throat corns, confirming open lines to the gun crews and directors in other parts of the ship, to the Gael Warrior's massive fire control computers, and to the plot crew in their sealed and darkened tank buried in the bowels of the ship.

  The plot crew, under the command of "Ops" Director Commander Kelly MacCandless, would locate targets and identify friend and foe. The fire control computers, or FCCs, would calculate range and the vectors of target and attacker, creating a steady stream of "fire solutions" for each target in range. The digested mass of information would then be fed to the Bridge Fire Control teams.

  Ultimately, it was Kendric's responsibility as Captain to give any command to fire. In the thick of battle, however, it would be the individual FCOs who would decide when to shoot—and what to shoot at. Kendric smiled as he watched Commander Lee Fairfax, the senior FCO, pacing behind the backs of his men. Fairfax had never been in combat before, and was, no doubt, worried about what would happen...and how he would behave.

  He'll know very soon, Kendric thought. We all will. It's not something you ever get over.

  The maneuvering crew, Helmsman Kirkpatrick and his team, seemed almost relaxed as they approached breakout. Lieutenant Kirkpatrick was running through a checklist displayed on his board, assuring that the Gael Warrior would have maneuvering power when she needed it. Behind the Helm Officers was the Navdep gang. Commander Ayres, the Senior Navigator, leaned across the back of Lieutenant Commander Campbell's chair, checking numbers. They were doing nothing at the moment, but the tension hung over that team like a blanket. In another few minutes, they would be extremely busy working to verify that the Warrior had emerged from T-space in the proper place, and creating a plot for an escape jump, should the battleship emerge in the midst of a situation requiring a rapid departure.

  Kendric checked the other bridge departments by eye—-engineering, life support, and shields to his left, the scanner and lookout crews at their semicircle of console screens to the right. Everyone was silent, each person completely engrossed in his own set of tasks.

  The flicker of numbers on the main viewer dwindled away to zero. The black globe of the Trothas sun swelled against the white haze of tachyon space forward. Breakout!

  Jaime Douglass gave the impression of utter relaxation. Leaning back in his acceleration couch within the tightly restricted confines of his fighter's cockpit, his eyes were closed as though in sleep. It was a pose he adopted, one that never failed to impress the pilots in his flight or the flight techs in his bay. "Jaime Douglass could sleep through anything," was a popular saying among those who knew the young fighter pilot, and he enjoyed the dashing aura it added to his reputation.

  Jaime was, in fact, anything but relaxed. His heart was racing, and sweat prickled on his brow and at the back of his neck, sealed under his flight helmet where he couldn't wipe it away. Yet he was one of the Gael Cluster's most combat-experienced pilots, with ten engagements logged against raiders and smugglers along the periphery of one or another of the cluster systems.

  Even before the people of the Five Worlds had discovered that the universe was somewhat larger than they'd thought, there had been men with small, swift freighters who had sought to bypass the trade laws and restrictions between the inhabited worlds of the Cluster. Once the Cluster had opened to trade with the rest of the Galaxy, the problem had grown worse. Throgscale from Skye or scotch from Alba, for example, brought bigger profits if TOG merchant duties and import fees had not been paid along the line. Ever since the Treaty of Kinkaid, there had also been a brisk market for powerguns and hand lasers, weapons technology that had not yet been cleared by Imperial authorities for sale to the Cluster port markets. It had been just such a ship—a "runner"— that Jaime's squadron had been pursuing when they'd been relieved on their post out at the rim of the Alban system. Runners were difficult to track, difficult to catch...and often they shot back.

  Until now, Jaime had always been the hunter, the runner always the prey. The smuggler captain, however aggressive or desperate he might be, would usually rather try to run or hide rather than attempt a fight. Combat was inefficient and, worse, both expensive and risky. With enough holes in the freighter's armor, the ship's cargo might be lost. A few holes more and the ship might convert into an expanding sphere of gas, and there was certainly no profit at all in that.

  This time, Jaime was about to face someone who would be hunting for him. For the first time in his life, he was up against an enemy who would kill him if he could. A runner might score with a well-aimed or lucky shot in his attempt to escape, which would amount to Jaime's being killed almost by accident. Here, now, enemy fighters or capital ships would be coming for him in cold blood.

  The thought was unnerving, and it was what had made him break out in a cold sweat.

  A chirping alarm from Jaime's control panel announced breakout. Transition was accompanied by the silent flash of white incandescence that permeated every gram of matter aboard the battleship, including Jaime's closed eyelids.<
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  A thumping on his fighter's canopy brought his eyes open. A flight tech in orange coveralls and helmet grinned at him through his canopy. "Catching some shut-eye, Lieutenant?" The tech's voice came through Jaime' s helmet phones. "Better make your final drop check, sir! B ridge repeater shows us in the middle of a real tangle!"

  Jaime returned a thumb's up salute and scrolled down the preflight checklist displayed on his console display one last time. His Pilum was powered-up and ready, its compressor grav generators a gentle, background hum trembling through his seat from the bulkhead at his back. Certain that his ship was ready in all respects for launch, he keyed the display to pick up the bridge repeater—a view of the scene currently displayed on the bridge's main viewer.

  There was little to see save stars—too few stars—interspersed with computer-generated and colored symbols—brackets, circles, squares, lines, and arrows—that marked the location of targets as the Gael Warrior's plot crew located and identified them. By time-honored tradition, red marked the enemy, green marked the friends, and yellow the unknowns. The forward screen crawled with yellow symbols.

  He opened his tactical circuit. "Gold Leader to Golds. Looks like we're going to have our work cut out for us. Final communications check."

  The Gael Warrior's fighter group was now at full strength—72 Interceptors—with the arrival of the Gyrfalcons at Alba just before the Gael Squadron's launch. The group was divided into three flights, one launched from each of the Warrior's three cavernous Interceptor bays.

  Jaime was both squadron leader of his own, six-ship Gold Squadron, and Flight Leader for all four squadrons in Beta Flight. The position as Flight Leader was a normal one, for communications technology and Interceptor tactics reduced his position to liaison between the other Beta Flight Squadron Leaders and Group Leader Vincent Haldane.

  Haldane's was the tricky job, Jaime had decided, for he was squadron leader of his own Blue Squadron, Flight Leader of Alpha Flight, and Group Leader of the entire Battleship Interceptor Group.