Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword

by Richard Tongue

 “If you're waiting for me to intervene, you're going to be waiting a while. Jack Smith, sir. I think I can operate the controls for you.”

   “Be my guest,” Petrov said, gesturing him over to the panel.

   “Traitor,” his comrade said, standing by the door. “When this is over...”

   “When this is over, I'll be home with my wife and kids, and you'll be in an internment cell,” Smith replied. “Here it comes. On Screen One.”

   All eyes turned to the display as it flickered into life, showing the enemy fleet hovering in orbit, the moons drifting through space beyond. As they watched, a familiar pattern emerged on the fringes of the system, new contacts snapping into view.

   “I guess the cards have been dealt,” Cordova said. “Let's see what we've got in our hand.”

  Chapter 18

   “Emergence successful,” Kenyon said, looking up at the screen. “So that's Hyperborea. Hardly seems worth it.”

   “One of only four worlds known where humanity can live without extensive life support,” Mike replied. “I'd say that's worth it. Castro?”

   “Coming in now,” Schmidt replied, throwing controls. “Sensors harvesting data for tactical update. First assessment has six ships in orbit. Four Starcruisers, two Auxiliaries. Regulus is holding at the heart of the formation, almost certainly the flagship. They're moving into intercept, preparing to launch fighters.” Turning to him, she added, “We're getting a signal, sir. Admiral Yoshida, for you.”

   Nodding, Mike replied, “I was afraid of that. Put him on.”

   The viewscreen flickered, the tired face of Yoshida looking back at him across the vastness of space. Behind him, a pair of black-jacketed Political Directorate enforcers stood at parade rest, technicians swarming around the cramped control center.

   “I never thought I'd be talking to you under these circumstances, Mike,” Yoshida said.

   “Nor I you, Admiral.” He paused, then added, “You know I'm right, sir. You know that this is the only way. The Federation is on the verge of collapse, one that will lead to a transformation that could lead to something wonderful, something that we can be proud of. Why fight it? Why not be a part of it instead, help to make it happen. The Fleet will follow you.”

   “Mike,” Yoshida said, sadness filling his voice, “You can't win. I have you outgunned three, four to one. Even if Polaris arrives in time, my forces are more than a match for yours.” He leaned forward, and said, “There's still a chance for you and your crew to get out of this in one piece.”

   “And book ourselves a one-way ticket to Triton? No thanks, sir.”

   “We want Canopus intact. Castro's less important. Transfer your crew over to Castro, leave everything you can behind, and go. The Commonwealth, the Halo Stars, I don't care. Just go, and don't come back. That's my offer, and it's a lot better than you'll get otherwise.”

   Frowning, Petrova whispered, “He doesn't think he can win. He isn't certain about it, at least. Maybe he knows something we don't.”

   With a smile on her face, Hammond turned from her station, and said, “I do. We're getting reports of riots on the surface. Two labor camps have successfully rebelled, fighting in all the others.”

   “I'll be damned,” Mike said, a smile on his face.

   “It gets better. Most of the reports are coming through on ColSec frequencies. I'd say we're looking at a full-scale defection in progress.” Turning to Petrova, she continued, “One Mikhail Petrov is prominent in the message traffic, ma'am.”

   “Papa?” she said, her eyes widening. “He's with us! With the rebellion! I should have known!”

   Yoshida's face reddened, and he said, “I won't pretend that the current insurgency on the surface isn't a factor in my leniency, Commander. I suggest you take advantage of their sacrifice to save your crew while you can.” Leaning forward, he added, “You have no way of winning today. Take your chips off the table while you can.”

   “I'm sorry, Admiral. I truly am. I never wanted it to come to this, but you're leaving me with no choice. My orders are to act in support with the rebel forces currently conquering Hyperborea and establishing a defensive orbital perimeter. You have one minute to withdraw. Canopus out.” Turning to Schmidt, he said, “Scramble all fighters in the fleet. They're to proceed in dispersed arrowhead formation, in defense of the fleet. I want firing solutions on the leading elements of the enemy flotilla as soon as you can get them.”

   “Aye, Commander,” Schmidt said, as Canopus rocked back on itself with the launch of forty-eight fighters from her tubes, the four squadrons racing ahead of the formation, merging with the two others launched from Castro. Mike looked up at the strategic display, momentarily awed by the mass of firepower under his command, seventy-two fighters and two cruisers. More than he'd ever commanded before, save in training simulations from his sojourn in Staff College.

   And yet, ranging up ahead, Admiral Yoshida had three times as much force at his disposal, six capital ships and more than a hundred and twenty fighters. He was facing the most experienced fleet commander in the Federation, a veteran of the Uprising and the ongoing not-quite-a-war with the Commonwealth. There was something strange about the formation, though. Very conservative, and pushing the auxiliary cruisers to the fore. Mike looked across at Schmidt, who nodded.

   “You've seen it too, sir,” she said. “He's using them as a shield. Other than that, it's right out of a textbook. I'd have expected more from the Hero of Sutter's World.”

   “Don't underestimate him,” he replied. “Though you might have a point. Get me Castro.”

   A second later, the speaker barked, “Ortiz here. What's up?”

   “Those two ships,” Mike said. “Trotsky and Kropotkin. What do we know about them?”

   “The officers will be from the Political Directorate, likely, or their relatives. Crews are probably a collection of troublemakers and idlers, skimmed off every command from here to Proxima Centauri. I'm not surprised he's sending them in first. Hell, their officers probably volunteered to get into the fight first. Anything to gain face back home, and they're expecting this to be the battle that ends the revolution.”

   “Lots of message traffic between Regulus and Trotsky,” Hammond said, looking up from her station. “They've changed the codes, so I can't read it, but it's a lot higher than even combat norms.” She looked up at Mike, and added, “Lieutenant Petrova might be right. They've broken formation, broken orders, just to get the first few shots in. The fighters will still be ahead of them, so they'll be well-screened.”

   “Maybe,” Mike replied, unconvinced. He looked at the rest of the formation, slowly spreading out, and his hands danced across the controls, sending the view spinning around, increasing and decreasing the magnification to properly examine it. Frowning, he entered a series of codes, bringing up a projected Polaris. Right now, it was coming in on a vector that could be countered by two of the Starcruisers, backed up by three squadrons. All the other potential approaches were similarly blocked. Everything was perfect. Too perfect.

   He looked up at Hyperborea, gleaming in the starlight, a halo of orbital stations surrounding it. Right now, they were distracted, engaging enemies on the surface. That didn't matter; Yoshida didn't need them.

   “He's hiding something,” Mike said. “This isn't the Admiral Yoshida I knew. Not the man who wrote the manual on unconventional warfare. He'd never use book tactics, not against an enemy who knows them as well as he does.”

   “Maybe that's the very idea,” Schmidt replied, gesturing at the monitor. “We're going to have trouble if Polaris is late, even fighting a conventional formation.”

   A smile crossed Mike's face, and he said, “That's it. He's hedging his bets. He knows that reinforcements are on the way, but he doesn't know how many.”

   “Neither do we,” Kenyon noted.

   “True, but he doesn't know that. He'd be assuming a carefully-constructed battle plan, n
ot that we were making all of this up as we go along.” Tapping a control, he said, “Duval, you read?”

   “I read you, Actual. Go ahead.”

   “Alter formation, Phil. Spearhead. Right through the fighters. Don't try and engage them, don't try and block them, just dive right through and head for those two auxiliaries.” Looking up at the monitor, he added, “When they break, make for orbital space and start playing merry hell with the facilities. Anything military is fair game.”

   “Can do, sir. And on the current enemy approach vector, we won't suffer many hits on the way, but that'll leave you and Castro exposed.”

   “Let me worry about that, Commander. Smash those stations. Canopus out.”

   Shaking her head, Schmidt replied, “He's right, sir...”

   “Look at the board, Lieutenant. If this turns into a numbers game, we lose. I need to keep the enemy forces distracted for a while. Signal Castro.” Turning back to the helm, he continued, “In sixty seconds, I want a course change. Take us towards the second moon, into the sensor shadow.”

   “They'll know there isn't anything there, sir,” Kenyon protested.

   “Right now, yes. But given that our turrets are going to be knocking out their monitors, that's a situation that won't last for long.”

   “I have Castro, sir,” a harried Schmidt said.

   “Bill,” Mike began, before Ortiz could say a word. “Make for Polaris. They should be entering the system any time now. There's something here that isn't right, and I'm going to use Canopus as the lightning rod to find out. Execute immediate course change.”

   “That'll...”

   “We've got to divide the enemy formation,” Mike pressed. “This way we can split it into two, maybe three pieces, and keep Yoshida guessing about what we're planning. Get moving, Bill. Canopus can take care of itself, at least for the moment. Out.” He looked up at the sensor display, nodding in approval as he saw the auxiliary cruiser lurch out of formation, moving to the side. The first flights of Duval's fighter wing were sweeping through the enemy, ripping into the heart of the formation as though it wasn't even there.

   That had caught the enemy commander by surprise, but he'd rallied quickly, peeling off two squadrons to chase after Castro, leaving the others to dive for Canopus. None of them had moved back to protect the orbital facilities. Mike frowned, punching in controls, and shook his head. There were two reserve squadrons on the surface, but they'd be target practice for the forces he'd sent into Hyperborean Orbit. Either the enemy wing leader had decided that the fighters could wait, or he'd assumed Mike was playing a bluff.

   Until that realization, he had been. Now, it was a different story.

   “Altering course,” Kenyon said. “Maximum acceleration. We'll be on the far side of the moon in four minutes. She's pretty close.” Glancing across at a monitor, she added, “So are the fighters. Contact seventeen seconds after closest lunar approach.”

   Nodding, Mike looked back at the cruisers. A hundred fighters could make a substantial mess of Canopus if they pressed the attack, but his defensive armament would yield a bloody payment for the destruction. That wasn't Yoshida's style. He was using his fighters to probe, to pin, not to attack in their own right. It was the capital ships that he was really worried about.

   “Damn,” Schmidt said, as they altered course. “Ranging on Castro, sir.”

   “What?” Hammond asked. “Why? They can't just ignore us, can they?”

   Mike's face dropped, and he rose to his feet, saying, “Behind the moon. There's a second force behind the moon. And we're heading right for it.” He turned to Kenyon, and said, “Reduce maximum altitude as low as possible. I want to be scraping craters, Lieutenant. The lower the altitude, the more cover we'll have on the pass. Schmidt, begin defensive salvo as soon as we get close.” Gesturing at the monitor, he added, “You'll only have maybe two hundred degrees of arc to worry about, so plan your attack accordingly.” Stepping forward, he added, “How close can you get us, Lieutenant?”

   “It's small, not too jagged,” Kenyon mused. “I'd like to try for two thousand feet.”

   Shaking his head, he said, “Make it a thousand.”

   Her eyes widened, and she replied, “There are higher peaks down there, sir.”

   “And we have full topographical charts at our disposal, but I need more from you than that. We should get a nice boost from the swing-around. Enough that they won't be able to catch us from a standing start. I need a course to intercept the enemy cruiser squadron.”

   Kenyon's face paled, and she turned to him, saying, “I think I can do it, sir, but it'll put us on a course that will give them every chance to pound us to pieces.”

   Looking at his watch, Mike said, “In less than eighty seconds, the rest of our fleet will arrive. I need to be on a course that will allow us to do maximum damage to the enemy before they can intercept our forces. If I'm reading the trajectory plot correctly, this should allow us to do just that. Understood?”

   “Aye, sir,” she replied. “Implementing course change now.”

   “Are you sure about this?” Petrova asked. “We could follow our fighters, move to hit Hyperborean orbital space.”

   Looking up at her, he replied, “Yoshida-san wouldn't leave his flank open like this, not unless he was completely sure of himself. I don't know what he's going hiding back there, but I do know he's counting on something dealing with Canopus.”

   “Signal from Commander Duval,” Hammond said. “He's cleared the Federation fighter flotilla, and moving in towards the orbital stations. First contact in eight minutes.” She paused, sighed, and added, “You were right, sir. Detecting two ships behind the moon. One Starcruiser, one auxiliary, holding station.”

   “Rest assured, Lieutenant, that I take no satisfaction from that,” he replied, sitting back in his chair. “Hold course, helm. Nice and easy.” He looked up at the countdown clock, and asked, “Any sign of warp distortion?”

   “Nothing yet, sir,” Schmidt said. “They're cutting it fine, Commander.”

   “They'll be here,” he replied. Quietly, he added, “I hope.”

  Chapter 19

   Sirens called out into the gathering gloom as Kani, wearing a borrowed flight jacket and helmet, raced down the road to the military starport, waving a forged ident card that on any other day would have caused him to be stopped and searched. Paradoxically, the security alert and the attack warning made his life a lot easier. Nobody had time to question one more pilot running to the flight line, and with his helmet in place, nobody could recognize him.

   The field was total chaos, barked orders being ignored by harried technicians as they struggled to ready the defense fighters for battle. Pilots sprinted around, trying to find their place, hastened briefings roaring from the speakers. No one was paying any attention. Enemy forces were attacking. Rebel forces rising all across the planet. Only panic ruled the field now.

   He sprinted for the nearest fighter, waving at one of the other pilots as though he belonged there, climbing quickly into the cockpit before anyone could stop him. He glanced around at his fellows, all reservists who probably hadn't trained together for years, scrambled at a moment's notice in the desperate hope that everything would work out at the last minute. One look at the tactical display told him why. Upwards of seventy fighters were heading into orbit, racing towards the orbital facilities. A swarm of escape pods were racing down to the surface, the panicking civilians desperately fleeing the doomed facilities.

   “Angel Leader to all Angels,” a gruff voice said. “Keep this easy, keep this slow. We're not going to stop them, but we might be able to hurt them long enough for our forces to intercept them.”

   A younger voice answered, “Why should we die because some Fleet bastard made a mistake? These birds are thirty years old, and we're outnumbered five to one!”

   “Belay that talk, mister,” the squadron leader snapped. “Just
do your job. We've got launch clearance. I'll see you in the sky. Leader out.”

   Kani looked around at the controls, similar to the fighters he'd flown in the Commonwealth and of similar antique vintage, and reached for the launch thrusters, firing a series of experimental pulses to kick himself clear of the ground, then tipped the nose up and run the throttle as hard as he could. The fighter didn't have anything like the boost to clear the atmosphere by itself, but a pair of boosters had been strapped to the back. Belatedly, he checked the center of gravity, and his eyes widened at the ineptitude of the ground technicians. With a sigh, he settled his hands on the thruster controls, then lightly tapped the firing control.

   The surge of acceleration slammed him back into his couch, his vision starting to blur as the fighter's course moved into a lazy spiral. His hands gripped the thrusters, struggling to hold his trajectory, and a quick glance at the sensor controls showed him that the rest of the squadron was suffering the same problems. One of them had already aborted back to the surface, not even trying to work through the nightmare the ground crew had inflicted upon them. Two more were diving low across the ground, unlikely to clear the mountains ahead, and most of the formation was scattered all over the sky, their courses wildly divergent, spinning into infinity.

   “Leader to Pilots! Get your butts in gear!”

   “Shut up, you bastard!” the younger voice from earlier said. “Jerry's going down, and Dexter's right behind him. I signed up to fight, not to crash into the ground before we even got into battle. When I get back down to the surface, I'm going to kill the bastard who did this to us!”

   Kani settled down his course, and said, “Angle up nine-one degrees as soon as you finish your primary burn, and run your throttles at one-oh-five. That should get us into some sort of formation, on an approach path for the rebel fighters.” Reaching down to his tactical controls, he added, “Unless anyone has any objections, I'm assuming command of the squadron.”