“All crew,” said the Captain, tapping into the internal com through his link. “All crew. Prepare for acceleration tanks. Emergency acceleration in ten minutes.”
“What’s going on sir?” asked the exec over the link, at the same time as the helm and navigator turned back to look the question at him with their eyes.
“Can’t say just yet, exec,” replied the Captain. He looked around as the floor units opened and the acceleration tanks rose from below. “When I can say you will be the first to know. Just know that we have orders from the Admiral to do exactly what I’m ordering.”
The tanks rose to the full height of their cylindrical forms and their doors opened. A bit of fluid came up from the floor and then stopped, as each tank made sure it had an uninterrupted flow from the liquid storage units.
“Everybody make sure you’re jacked into your systems,” ordered the Captain. “All repair bots on remote. Then everyone into the tanks.”
There was some grumbling on the bridge as crew members began to walk to and back into their battle armor cubbies. Backing up into the retaining arms, they opened the seals on the armor and allowed the cubby to pull it from them, stripping them down to their skin suits. Some of the crew left their gloves and helmets attached to the holders at their battle stations, while others brought the attachments with them and placed them in their holders within the cubbies.
The skin suited crew then climbed into the acceleration cylinders. The doors slid shut and sealed as crew members fitted breathing masks to their faces. As the doors became seamless parts of the cylinder walls the liquid started to flow in again, until each and every crew member was covered and floated upright in the tank.
The Captain got up from his chair as the last crew sealed into the tanks. He made sure that his link was working in interface with all of the ship’s systems he needed to interact with, got out of his armor, and climbed into the tank. He jacked into the ship’s command and control system as soon as he pulled the breathing mask on and the tank started filling with liquid.
Sergiov was accelerating at two hundred and fifty gravities, her maximum safe increase. That acceleration limit was based on the power of her inertial compensators, which could absorb about two hundred and fifty-five gravities on all of her crew accessible areas, giving her just a little bit more of a safety margin if needed. The grabber units of the ship, the ether paddles as they were known by physicists who worked on the theories of such things, were capable of more than three hundred fifty gravities of acceleration. This gave the ship a reserve so she could maintain capabilities through damage to the space propulsion system.
The crew was enhanced through nanosystems above and beyond the normal populaces’ enhancement, with increased blood flow to the brain and venous compression in the legs forcing blood back to the heart. They could take up to ten gravities for minutes at a time without blackout, though it was still dangerous to leave an acceleration couch. And the tanks, floating the crew’s bodies in a liquid cushion, would allow them to handle an additional thirty-two gravities.
The Captain monitored the ship’s systems while he floated in the liquid, assuring that everyone was safe and secure in the tanks. When the last red crew icon turned green and he was sure all were where they needed to be he sent the command through the circuit. Sergiov’s grabber units increased the force of their pull on space as the reactors fed them more power. The gravities built up until the battleship pulled two hundred sixty gravities, then up to two hundred seventy, then two hundred and eighty.
The crew was still linked into their systems, ready to fight the ship if need be. If it became clear that danger was imminent the ship would be powered down to normal safe max and the crew would leave the tubes, armor up, and assume their stations.
But so far so clear, thought the Captain as he plotted the vector curve that his ship would take out of the system. Now all he had to wait for was the reaction of the enemy to see how exciting this little cruise might get.
* * *
“I wonder what the hell’s going on?” asked Lieutenant SG The Prince Sean Ogden Lee Romanov, moving to his armor station and pulling the unsealing straps. He backed up into the cubby unit and felt the armor lock into the retracting arms. The armor opened up and was pulled off of him into the cubby.
“I’m sure the Captain will let us know when we need to know,” said CPO Gorbachev, her own armor peeling off into the storage unit. She stretched her arms over her head and waited for the tank to rise up from the floor.
I just hope it’s not something to do with me, he thought as he put his gloves and helmet into their carriers in the cubby. It would be just like them to do something to protect his hide even at cost to the group. I’m a serving officer, he thought. But he kept his thoughts to himself. His subordinate would just think he was bitching or moaning. She’s so good at just obeying orders without question, he thought, then reconsidered. It really wasn’t a fair assessment. He had known the woman long enough to know that she thought out commands, and what they might mean to her. But she was a professional, and knew her place in the scheme of things. While he had been raised an Imperial, with ideas as to his own value and how others should treat him. Which was not always the way the navy treated him.
“I’ll talk to you in a bit, sir,” said the CPO as she stepped into her tube and sealed it behind her.
The Prince stepped into his own tube and sealed it, then seated his breathing mask as the liquid bubbled up around him. He waited a few minutes, making sure that he was jacked into the laser ring system. The system came up clear and he could look at all of the laser emitters and the storage ring, noting that they were in perfect order and ready to go. He tried to branch off a little further into the net, to get the overall tactical situation that generally all of the crew were able to gather. And ran into a wall. Much of the awareness of the net was blocked to him. He couldn’t see the path the ship was on. When he attempted to find a reason for that block he ran into a security block.
The last klaxon sounded outside the tube and he knew he was trapped there for the duration of emergency boost. Unless he could figure a way to hack the system, get the tube to let him out, and somehow miraculously survive thirty gravities of acceleration. Instead he tried to hack the block, using all of his IDs, including his Imperial Family code. To no avail, as the system continued to lock him out.
They’re doing something they don’t want me to know about, he thought, clamping down hard on his mouthpiece in anger. He attempted to get through to the Captain, and ran into the same block. The ship went through higher acceleration as he worked, and was up to full emergency boost by the time he realized he would not be able to get the commander’s attention.
They don’t want me to know or be able to do anything about it, he thought. And I’m trapped.
He beat a hand against the hard transparent plastic of the tube, cursing to himself in frustration. There was nothing he could do. They were doing something to protect him. Not a serving officer of the fleet. But the youngest son of Emperor Augustine. And there was nothing he could do.
Chapter 16
People have asked through the centuries why the Terran Empire needs an Emperor. There was even a War of Independence fought over this question, and the establishment of the separate Terran Republic. But one thing has become clear over the years. A people need a leader they can look to, they can fight for, they will even willingly die for. And the head of a Royal Family supplies the best figurehead of all. More so than any president, premiere or prime minister in history.
Speech by the Emperor Augustine I at the opening ceremony of the Imperial Thousandth Anniversary.
“One of their large vessels is doing something,” said the tactical Subcommander of the flag vessel.
Low Admiral Hrisshammartanama looked up from his meal and stared at the tactical display, noting the one ship blinking with a changing vector arrow. To the left and below the ship a smaller dot was also changing vector.
“What�
�s the current range?” he growled around a mouthful of roast meat animal.
“About one hundred and sixty million kilometers,” said the tactical Subcommander, glancing with a twitching snout at his superior.
“Under nine light minutes,” growled the Low Admiral. “And they still have not fired a missile at us.”
The junior officer looked at him blankly for a moment, while the Admiral waited for a comment.
“Missiles are most effective at range,” he said, his eyes wide with exasperation. “They would do well to get them up to high velocity by firing at long range. Yet they wait. I wonder why.”
The tactical Subcommander continued to stare and say nothing, while the Low Admiral wondered to himself about the thinking processes of younger officers.
“Well, I guess we should do something to stir them up,” said the Low Admiral. “Have all the ships in the force fire a salvo of missiles at the enemy formation ahead. And another salvo at their orbital platforms.”
“We might hit the planet if we fire at their orbitals,” said the other Lord, looking intently at his commander. “The priests won’t like that.”
“The hell with the priests,” growled the Low Admiral. “We won’t try to intentionally harm the planet with its precious life,” he said with an upturned lip, showing a tusk in the sign of a sneer. “But we are not attempting to take this planet for our own use, but only as a temporary base of operations. The systems we will settle will be taken by other forces to establish our presence in this border region. I want those orbital platforms hurt, if not destroyed. And longer range missiles come in faster.”
“Aye, my Lord,” said the tactical officer, turning back to his board. “Two salvos will be fired.”
The Low Admiral grinned again before he attacked his food. He would sweep the humans from this system before another day had passed. How could they hold damage to a planet against him if he accomplished that?
* * *
At two hundred million kilometers to the port of the alien force were seven ships that had so far escape enemy detection. The task force commander watched as the clock ticked down, then gave the order. Within a million kilometers of the Fleet Carrier Sargasso Sea, her two accompanying light carriers and the four escorts waited the assembled strike. Over four hundred strike and attack fighters were arrayed in space, sliding sideways in the General direction of the local star with the same velocity as the ships that had launched them.
“Go,” ordered the senior Captain in charge of the Fleet Carrier. Her orders were transmitted to the waiting fighters and the strike commander, the senior wing commander from Sargasso Sea’s fighter compliment. That worthy signaled the rest of the strike, waited a few seconds, and then ordered her own pilot ahead at nine hundred gravities. The first part of the human counter strike was put into motion.
* * *
“They’re firing sir,” called out the tactical officer.
Admiral Sir Gunter Heinrich looked up from the message he had been reading to stare at the tactical display. Hundreds of red arrows had blossomed among the larger red arrows of the enemy fleet. The vector arrows were starting to open some distance, piling on acceleration above that of the seventy-one thousand KPS of the launching ships. But they would still take some time to move a significant distance away from the force.
“We were expecting this any time,” said the Admiral to Flag Captain Myra Lamborgini, who was standing near his chair trying to look nonchalant, in the best tradition of the Fleet. She nodded her head as she watched the plot alongside of him.
At least we don’t have to walk the decks while sharpshooters from the rigging of other ships shoot down at us, he thought. He could sit in his chair and cringe all he wanted, and most of the crew wouldn’t know.
“The fighters should be on their way,” said Captain Lamborgini, looking intently at the plot. “They’re eleven light minutes out, so we should be seeing their IR signs, soon.”
“And the enemy will see them a few minutes later,” said the Admiral, looking up at her. “I guess we can’t let them launch unchallenged,” he continued. “Even though it’s still almost two hours before we have them in close range.”
“Missiles are better at long range,” she said, parroting the old military adage.
“I wanted them to be part of the layers of attack,” said the Admiral, pouting. “I guess I don’t get everything I want.
“Tactical,” he called out, looking over at the Commander’s station. “I want a salvo of capital missiles from every ship that carries them. Battleships and battle cruisers. How many will that give us?”
“Five hundred and sixty-two, sir,” called out the Commander. “Leaves us with seven thousand ninety-eight in the group, not including the smaller missiles from the destroyers and cruisers.”
“Order a salvo on the enemy, then,” said the Admiral, tapping a finger against his temple. “Better make that two of them.”
“Yes sir,” said the Commander. “That will give them something to think about.”
“I would wish it were enough to blow them out of space,” said the Captain, her eyes boring into the tactical officer at his station.
“That would be too much to wish for,” said Heinrich. “We know they have technological superiority over us in some areas. We may be superior to them in others. But I don’t think we can come to any kind of conclusion that they will have a hidden weakness to our weapons. No. They will take some punishment and give some punishment, and we will have a fight ahead of us.”
The green icons of missiles appeared on the tactical display. The first salvo went out over a ten second period, the ships not fully synchronized on their launch. Salvo two took an even longer time to dispense. Soon it too was on its way, and two waves of missiles accelerated away at five thousand gravities. They would actually be losing speed for over twelve minutes as they killed the velocity the launching ships had imparted to them on the wrong vector. And they would never be traveling as fast when they reached their targets as the missiles launched from his heavy cruiser force or the orbital forts.
And probably won’t do as much damage, thought the Admiral as he watched the numbers appear below the enemy missiles. Thirty five minutes flight time from launch, or about twenty-six minutes from time of detection. And they were essentially chasing his force as he was accelerating away from them. His own missiles would reach the enemy in about forty-two minutes, taking into account the opposing force’s velocity toward the missiles. That was a plus, as they would come in faster relative to the enemy than they could under their own power against a stationary force at the same flight time.
Now we wait, he thought as he looked at the numbers again. Never the most pleasant thing to do while objects were flying at significant fractions of the speed of light, aimed at taking your life. But all he or any of the other members of the group could do at the moment. That, and making sure that everything they could do to stop the enemy missiles was done.
* * *
“We’re picking up objects on an intercept vector to starboard,” called out the tactical officer. “Infrared signatures indicate over four hundred.”
“Missiles?” asked Low Admiral Hrisshammartanama, looking up from his force tactical screen.
“I don’t believe so, my Lord,” said the officer, looking over his own readouts. “They are accelerating at about nine hundred gravities. Well below the capabilities for missiles that they have so far shown.”
“Must be more of those small attack craft they hit our scouts with earlier,” said the older Commander who served as the Low Admiral’s staff officer. “That means at least sixteen hundred missiles when they get closer to us. Much closer.”
“Can we hit them at a distance with our own missiles?” asked the Low Admiral.
“Uncertain,” said the Commander, scratching at a horn in a sign of contemplation. “They are very small, and can dodge much quicker than a larger vessel. But maybe some missiles actually armed with our countermissile warheads mig
ht take out some of them.”
“Mate a salvo with those warheads and send them at them,” ordered the Low Admiral. He looked over at the tactical Subcommander. “How long before our missiles hit their main body?”
“About nineteen minutes, my Lord,” said the young Lord, his snout wrinkling.
“You have a worry, young Lord,” said the Admiral, baring his tusks with a sarcastic smile.
“It’s just that I’m wondering why they don’t,” stated the officer. His eyes went wide as he looked at his board. “We have incoming from the main enemy force. Over five hundred incoming.”
“Estimated time of arrival and velocity?” asked the Low Admiral, leaning forward in his chair.
“They will be traveling at one hundred two thousand KPS relative to the star,” said the tactical officer. “One hundred fifty-nine thousand KPS closing with our speed. About point five three c. ETA five minutes, twenty-seven seconds.”
“Response, sir,” said the Commander/staff officer.
“None at this time,” said the Admiral. “Let’s not throw away our firepower until the main effort. I’m sure we’ll be able to take care of this.”
“Second salvo coming in,” called out the Subcommander. “Total over one thousand missiles.”
“As I said,” continued the Admiral. “We’ll weather this attack and wait until we’re closer. I think this enemy is attempting an elaborate maneuver. Let us not do what I believe they expect. We will wait.”
The other officers nodded their assent. But what else could they do, when their master had spoken.
* * *
“Missiles at two minutes out,” said the tactical officer on the flag bridge.
Admiral Gunter Heinrich felt himself tense involuntarily even though there was really nothing for him to do in this situation. The ship’s captains and squadron commanders were in place to deal with the situation, and at this point he was merely an observer. An observer nervously watching the tactical plot as the enemy missiles bore in at one hundred twenty thousand KPS relative to his ships.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2 Page 25
