“It's not me boss! Honest!” The junior officer replied, hands up. “Something's going on with the computers, they started running stuff in the background.” He had been known to screw the tactical computer up by running sims that were too much for the grafted piece of shit to handle.
“What the hell's going on? Some sort of computer glitch?” the XO demanded, coming over to their stations.
The tack officer's mouth worked as he pecked at the keyboard with a little more force than required. He wiggled his track ball, clearly frustrated. “Yes, you could say that sir, something's going on. A recompile or something, I'm not sure. Maybe a patch in progress.”
“It's not us, at least I don't think it's us,” the engineering rating said looking up from his station. “The computer is scheduled to do that sort of thing on graveyard when no one's busy.”
“Well, someone screwed up somewhere,” the JTO snarled as his screen futzed. His display went from normal to flickering with the colors all screwed up, to blank after a moment. “What the hell? I just lost my feed!” he snarled.
“Implants?” the XO asked.
“With the network screwed sir? We wouldn't know what we're supposed to look for sir,” the tac officer said.
“Tactical, where's my feed,” the Captain growled, looking up from the main display.
“We've got a hell of a computer glitch skipper, I'm trying to pull CIC's feed now,” the tactical officer replied, tapping at his keyboard. When he didn't get a response he swore, slapped at it, then picked up the phone next to his station. He tapped out a three digit code for CIC but didn't get anything but a loud squeal. “Well, whatever's got the computer in a snit has the phones down too,” the Tac officer snarled, slamming the receiver down.
“Of all the times for this to happen, right when a battle is about to happen. We've got front row seats...” a rating muttered.
“Talk about the timing,” another sighed. They were used to issues on their ship, it was normal to have something or other go down. Logistics had improved greatly over the past decade, but they still had a long ways to go.
“What's going on?” the Captain asked. “Get engineering on this pronto.” He turned and pointed to a rating. “You, get to engineering, get Roberts on this or I'll tack his worthless ass to the wardroom bulkhead and use it to play darts.”
The rating scampered out fast. The Captain turned a scowl on his bridge crew. “Is it just lagging?”
“It's laggy, but, well, it's freezing a lot,” the helm officer replied. He jiggled the controls. “No, we're definitely lagging sir,” he replied.
“Fix it.”
“Sir, I don't even know what the problem is!” the tac officer said. He glared at the ops officer.
The ops officer raised his hands in defense. “It's not me. I just checked, diagnostics are now running. But we're not running any maintenance, so I'm not sure what the hell is going on.”
“Could it be another virus? We picked up that one from that porn module,” a rating muttered. The officers frowned.
“Someone had better not have been playing with their damn winky at a time like this! Shit!”
“Anything?”
“Not a damn thing,” the engineering rating said, clearly frustrated and now a little afraid.
“Reboot. Or reset or something.”
“Sir, the computers control everything from our life support to the power plant. We can't just shut it all off.”
“Shit.”
“We can reset parts of the network,” Fitzgerald said, frowning. His brow concentrated then he scowled. “I just tried it while you were talking. It worked for a few seconds but I lost my screen again.”
“Fix it!” the Captain raged.
“We're trying sir,” the XO said, trying to manage his skipper and the rapidly deteriorating situation. The lights flickered. He like everyone else on the bridge looked up with a sudden trepidation of fear.
“Well try harder!” The Captain snarled. “Before we run into something, like oh say a stray missile! Can you at least give me a situation report?”
“Last check is we're still on our previous heading,” the helmsman reported.
“Shields were up. Crew were at battle stations. Missiles loaded in all tubes, all weapon turret capacitors charged,” the tac officer replied.
“Sensors went offline but I've got an estimated plot here,” the sensory officer said, holding up a piece of paper with notes written on it.
“Reduced to paper and pencil. What a way to run a warship,” the Captain muttered. He turned on the ops officer.
The small wiry ops officer hunched his shoulders. “Still working cap,” he said.
“Working he says, he doesn't even know what the damn problem is,” the Captain muttered. “Not worth the cost of a pulser dart,” he snarled. That made the ops officer flinch. “Or the damn paperwork involved,” he snarled, pounding his arm rests in frustration.
“I'm trying to run a list of running programs and services now sir. I'm not... damn it!” The ops officer swore, tapping at the PC hard and then hitting the on off switch on his station. “I keep losing it. It runs fine for about ten to twenty seconds but then when my station syncs with the net it freezes and crashes.”
“Well, that's not good,” a rating said. “If the entire network is like this...” he looked up as the fans died and the lights went out. After a moment the emergency lights came back on.
The Captain came over and shoved the ops officer aside. He stared at the blank screen and then slapped the top, then side of the station. When that didn't work he punched the side hard. The screen futzed briefly with a scrambled screen then blanked again.
“Sir, that doesn't help,” the engineering rating said patiently. “It just addles it.”
“I beg to differ, it made me feel better,” the Captain snarled, looking around. “I'm going to knock some heads next if I don't start seeing some results!” he growled.
“Still won't work,” the rating muttered, shaking his head. He turned away from the basilisk look the Captain shot his way. “Captain we're getting buffer over runs in the memory. I've isolated my system from the general net and run a quick scan anti-virus. It's some sort of rabbit eating up the free memory then tearing into the memory for our operating system.”
“So it is a damn virus!”
“But from where? Did Kilwalksi screw around again? If he did I'll damn well cut off his balls and ram them down his throat then shove his own dick up his own ass.”
Most of the bridge staff winced at that threat. The Captain was deadly serious. Usually something like that would get a laugh, but in their culture, it was something that sometimes actually happened, granted, usually to a prisoner or slave, but still, it could and did happen. And if it could happen to one person, it could happen to others. Others like themselves if they didn't get the situation sorted out. Suddenly everyone was intent on the task.
“I tossed that virus out the lock like you said,” the ops officer said, shaking his head.
“You sure? You didn't pass it on to someone to do it for you?” the Captain asked, eying the ops officer.
“No sir, did it myself. Told Kilwalksi if he brings another on he's next. Made sure he saw me flush it too,” he growled.
“Ah,” the Captain nodded in approval. “Someone find Kilwalksi anyway and find out if he had another of those damn flash sticks,” he said, looking to the security guard. The guard nodded and passed the order on to a second. The second moved out of the bridge at a trot.
“Sir,” the communication's rating said looking up. The Captain and XO looked up in irritation.
“What?” they demanded in unison when the rating froze. “Spit it out Jersey!”
“Sir, we received a lot of data from flag, could it have been in there? It blew through my firewall like it wasn't there.”
“Crap. Find out. Do we have external communications?”
“No sir. We might be able to rig a whisker laser,” the rating said t
houghtfully.
“Get on that. Until then,” the XO said turning in place. “Drop the network into local station only. Take the central net offline. Ops go through the stations one by one. I want physical breaks between the damn network and your station if necessary! Get on that.”
“XO?” The Captain asked.
“Divide and conquer sir. We're screwed either way, but at least this way we might get the damn virus out of some of the sub systems. Work from system to system to clean it out.”
“Frack! That'll take forever!” the Captain snarled, fist clenched.
“It'll take as long as it takes sir,” the ops officer said. He turned to the JTO. “Get a runner to the weapons mounts. Tell them to sever the link to the computer network and then clean their systems. Then have them go to local control.”
“Sir, they could fire on friendlies,” the JTO said hesitantly.
“Sucks to be on the receiving end. Get a radio from someone. Security,” the XO said, turning to the remaining security rating. “Get some radio's from the boson and hand them out to people. We'll form a radio network. Verbal only. Pass orders that way,” he said. He rubbed at his implant.
“Going to jack in?” the Captain asked. Only a handful of officers and ratings had implants.
“Not if I can help it sir,” the XO replied. “Whatever's tearing our network up could turn my implants and my head into mush.”
“Enemy action?” the Captain asked softly, leaning closer.
“He said from the Flag. Last time I checked, flag was in the vicinity of the station. It's possible skipper.”
“Someone find out. Communications, lay a whisker laser on the Flag. I don't care if you have to go out a lock to do it. And someone get me an engineering feed. Tell Roberts I want a verbal update of systems and progress on fighting this damn virus every ten minutes.”
“We're fighting blind,” the XO said.
“I wonder if it's just us, or the whole fleet?” the Captain muttered.
...*...*...*...*...
War raged on three fronts, cyber war, the coming naval battle, and soon, the Marine battle.
The Horathians however began to regain their balance and fought back. Some fought back with desperation, they had nowhere to go, it was fight or die. As fights raged in cyberspace the Horathians cut back on broadband channels and only communicated with whisker lasers between ships. They took a scorched earth approach to their own computer networks, anything compromised was either shut down or beaten to death and replaced with hardware from stores. But that took time.
Clio used her updated intel to fashion a new attack. She hated viruses, but didn't mind using them when she wasn't on the receiving end. She updated her template with the latest passwords they had stolen, along with headers and other information. When she was ready she launched a second wave of worms, but frowned when she didn't get a return notice. She tried again, but there just wasn't anything there. “We're calling, but no one's home it seems.”
“I think they cut us off.”
“Talk about cutting off their nose to spite their faces,” Urania said.
“Well, it was fun while it lasted,” Clio said, sounding disappointed and a bit put out. Definitely pouty. If she had had a lower lip it would have been jutting out quite a bit.
“That's our bit for the war effort,” Thalia replied. “I'm going to go see what other mischief we can get into, then see if the Stewards or Averies or Templeton need my help.”
...*...*...*...*...
“Sir, we seriously need to rethink this situation. It might be wise to get out of here, we're a sitting duck and the fleet is no longer prepared to receive the enemy,” Captain Maul said, trying to keep his temper with his stubborn boss.
“No.”
“Sir, if we get out of position, we can reform and...”
“I said no,” the admiral said mildly, still holding his back to the Captain. He stared at the plot, as if that would give him salvation. The ship had finally lit off her drive, she was coming in from the direction of the planet. They were fairly sure the ship was going to use the planet as a brake, maneuver around it and then hammer the fleet.
But that was only one possibility, the tactical officer had suggested that the ship could do the slingshot maneuver to pick up speed and a new heading, cut through their force, hit targets of opportunity, and then barrel right through and out the other side. Then cloak, maneuver, and come back in from a different angle.
“No, we make our stand here. If we maneuver she'll just adjust her heading. We've got the station on one flank, she can't come in on that side. The moon is on the other. She's got to come on the two axis, the Y or the Z. We'll be ready for either.”
“Very well sir,” the Captain sighed. He frowned. At least he'd gotten his objections on the record for the bridge recorders.
Chapter 34
“Stick to the plan,” Lieutenant JG Martha Huert said. She nervously checked her intervals. “Close it up Sticks, I don't want you to get lost in the outer dark.” It had been a long nerve wracking ride in, but it was about to pay off. All the thoughts of wanting to stretch, take a shower, get out of the dirty diaper and stinky clothes... all that crap was minor now. Showtime.
Their target was a destroyer, the light tin can, an Arborth class. They were in stealth, coming in opposite the planet and the incoming Firefly. It was beautiful, they were coming in right up the enemy's six and they didn't even know it.
“Thanks boss, didn't know you cared,” The Veraxin Ensign retorted, moving his cobra fighter in closer. “I feel all bloated.”
“Here that gang? Sticks is preggers,” Joker quipped over the whisker lasers.
“Not for long, he'll be giving birth soon enough,” Martha “Hurt locker” Huert replied, checking her own torps. She couldn't wait to unload them, they slowed her craft down. Bloated indeed, she thought. They had something special, courtesy of admiral Irons. Each Cobra was sporting a pair of mark 2013 medium torpedoes, the largest and heaviest torps their general purpose fighters could carry.
Other medium torpedoes had a fusion warhead, usually in the forty kiloton range. Admiral Irons had personally redesigned the torpedo however. One of the things torpedoes always suffered from was creep, everyone was trying to stuff more gear into each shell while keeping the weight and balance the same. Which was a problem, for something to go in, usually something else, something most likely critical had to come out.
Generations of torpedoes had suffered from that, many had lost penaids or decoys, one generation had suffered by loosing it's long range sensors and was damn near myopic until someone had gotten wise and ended their production.
Fusion warheads were generally 'clean' warheads, you could direct the energy with force emitters for a brief period of time, directing what would normally be a spherical boom into a direction. A general direction at least, turning it into a blowtorch.
But they lacked enough excessive neutrons to kick up an electromagnetic pulse. Only if the bomb's electrons hit the hull of a ship did an EMP go off, and that was usually due to the interaction with the electrons stripping apart the metals and kicking off a chain reaction of neutron release.
The first twenty five generations of torpedoes had used fission warheads until some engineer had created an EMP generator. Then they had moved on to fusion warheads.
What the admiral had done was turn back the clock, he'd stuffed in a one megaton fission bomb into the great gaping hole the fusion warhead had left behind, then with no need of the EMP generators, he'd lovingly used the space to toss in a couple of bow force emitters and even improved the sensor and AI computer to boot.
The completed torpedo wasn't pretty, but she was cheaper and easier to make than the mark 2012 omega, or the mark 2011.
She was a bastard child, a fat slightly flattened missile with three emitters on her nose, but she would do the job of a heavy torpedo... hopefully.
...*...*...*...*...
“Fighters coming in on our six o'clock!
Four fighters coming in!” the voice from the CIC reported.
“Four? Just four?” Admiral Cartwright demanded. “That's it?”
“Targets?” the Captain asked, also looking up. He was tense. Four fighters could take out an equal number of gunships or other craft if they got lucky. And he noted, the ships were already maneuvering to face the new threat. He frowned. Firefly was still a half hour out.
“Targets are... Viper and Cutlass sir!”
“Get on them!” the admiral snarled. “We'll squash them like bugs! Firefly finally made a mistake!”
...*...*...*...*...
“What the hell are they playing at? They're fighters, they can't think they can hurt us?” the tactical officer demanded, waving a hand to the fighters. “It's got to be some sort of trick!” he said.
“If it's a trick they're either brave or suicidal to attempt it,” Captain Virilin of HMSS Viper said, scowling blackly. “Could they be remotes? Are they planning on a kamikaze run?” he demanded.
“I don't know sir,” the tactical offer said, clearly flabbergasted.
“Well, figure it out!” Virlin demanded. “Helm, get our ass around, turn our flank on them. Let's see how they like a wall full of point defense lasers!”
...*...*...*...*...
“Getting near release point,” Hurt locker reported, checking her lidar. She was nearing the one million kilometer release point. “Sticks you ready?” she called, not bothering to glance to her left. She could see him just fine through her implant feeds.
“All green lady, let's bring on the hurt,” he replied eagerly.
“I intend to,” Martha replied, eyes narrowing as she focused on her implants. The destroyer grew and grew, but she ignored the incoming fire. Chaff missiles spat from their fighters, they exploded in a fine dust of aluminum and gas ahead of them. The chaff cloud served several purposes, it blinded the enemy lidar and radar, and it defused their point defense lasers. Of course it did the same to the Cobra's as well, so after a moment of enjoying the cover they jinked up a bit to pass it by before the process started over again.
Jethro: First to Fight Page 64
