Still, Canopus reached on, second after second, sweeping closer and closer to the enemy squadron, the occasional flicker of flame from an enemy hull testament to another triumph for Schmidt against impossible odds, the area being damaged now far less important than the fact that Canopus continued to strike back against her enemies. The sensor display faded as the exterior pickups died, one after another, wiped out by the rain of rock being unleashed by the enemy ships, but Sirius still dived after them, now almost close enough for her defensive fire to protect Canopus.
Admiral Yoshida, on Regulus, had a decision to make. To focus on Canopus, to complete the destruction of the lumbering hulk, or to open fire on Sirius, spread the destruction around, giving Mike and his crew a bare chance of survival. He chose neither, his first real mistake of the battle, splitting the fire evenly between the two ships. Sirius flashed in towards Canopus, shrouded by the green halo from a hundred particle cannons opening up, taking some of the impacts for her sister ships, moving to block at least some of the fire.
Ten seconds to go. The enemy ships were behind them now, but were opening up with a final wave of devastation, as though they had chosen to save their worst shots for last. The few exterior pickups showed a nightmare on the outer hull, black gouges and air-ruptured decks venting atmosphere into space. Mike looked up at the sensor display, his heart filling with dread. Yoshida had saved everything up for one final salvo, ready to finish Canopus off in a single spasm of destruction.
“All hands,” he said, “brace for impact!”
At one instant, the time-on-target fire slammed into the hull. Urgent wails echoed throughout the bridge, and he heard the dreaded clarion cry of the decompression alarm. He began to unstrap his restraints, screaming for his crew to evacuate, then heard an angry crack from above him, looking up just in time to see the support strut on the ceiling buckle and fall.
And then, all was merciful darkness.
Chapter 24
“Good God!” Kani said, looking at Canopus. “Rear Guard Leader to Wing Leader.”
“I saw it,” a mournful Duval replied. “Looks like our base ship has had it, people. I'll contact Sirius, see if they'll have room for us on their decks.”
A young pilot, unknown to Kani, yelled, “Let's get the bastards! Vector...”
“Belay that,” Duval said. “We've got a job to do, and those are our people up ahead on those shuttles. We protect them at all costs. Got that? All costs.” A light winked on and Kani knew that they were on a private frequency. “Win, I've got a job for you.”
“Go ahead, Leader,” he replied.
“You're low on fuel, and Castro's fighters aren't much better off. That's going to leave you hurting in a dogfight.” He paused, then added, “You know what I'm about to ask.”
“You want me to take Castro's squadron-and-a-half and engage those auxiliary cruisers ahead. Hit them before they can reach the shuttles.” He looked up at the tactical display, and added, “Going up against fixed defenses is a difficult enough task at the best of times, Phil, and with only limited fuel for the approach...”
“I know,” Duval said. “I know what I'm asking, Win, but I need someone to lead those pilots in. Most of them don't have much combat experience, and they're going to need the best combat commander available if they're going to make it through.” Win could almost hear the smile spreading across his friend's face as he added, “And I'm afraid I'm busy right now.”
“Wouldn't matter anyway,” Kani quipped back. “I'll do it, Phil. Just give those fighters something to think about for thirty seconds or so, and I'll set up for an attack run.” He glanced across at his status monitor, and asked, “What the hell is happening over on Hoxha? She's tossing off escape pods, and as far as I can tell, she hasn't suffered much more than a scratch. Canopus' salvo didn't do that much.”
“Orders from Sirius,” Duval replied. “I think Meg Bishop kept it nice and simple. Surrender or die. Words that even the most fanatical member of the Directorate could understand. Don't worry about her. Focus on Trotsky and Kropotkin. They're all you have to worry about now.”
“Will do. Good luck, buddy.” Throwing a control, he said, “Reader Guard Leader to Castro Formation. We're going to attack the capital ships. Form on me in double-arrowhead formation, Commander Ramone as the second leading fighter. At combat range, split in two and engage. Go for offensive systems, watch out for their point-defense turrets, and make every shot count. We're all the stands between their mass drives and our people on those shuttles.”
“We'll never break through the interceptor screen,” a voice on the verge of panic replied.
“Relax, pilot. Our friends from Canopus are going to handle those for us. You just worry about setting up your attack run. I want two new stars in the sky when we're finished. Kani out.”
He threw a control, bringing up the strategic view, looking over the battlespace while his computer ranged his fighter into position, adjusting his trajectory to send him into formation. Canopus was drifting, spinning end over end, leaving a trail of debris behind it, the occasional flicker of an internal explosion testament to the damage it had suffered. It was a miracle that the ship was still in one piece, but somehow he didn't expect it to hold together for much longer. One more hit in the right place would be enough. Sirius, flying behind it, showed signs of the battle, but Canopus had screened her sister ship from the worst of the damage.
Up ahead, diving toward Admiral Yoshida's formation, Polaris and the three Commonwealth cruisers raced through space. His heart was filled with a mixture of joy and trepidation at the sight of the ships, knowing that he was fighting on the same side as his comrades once more, but also knowing that there would be consequences for his delayed return to his people. None of which would matter if they lost the battle.
Fighters swarmed around the battlespace like bees from a shattered hive, any pretense of tactical formation long since lost as the fighting collapsed into chaos, individual squadrons and flights taking their own initiative to act as the Federation chain-of-command started to fracture. Some were moving out of the battle altogether, perhaps out of cowardice, or perhaps a simple desire to stay out of the fighting, to delay having to make a decision about which side to join until the final possible minute.
He looked up at the two ships, the auxiliary cruisers ahead, bearing down on the shuttles fleeing the doomed Canopus. Castro was closing fast, racing towards them with crimson fire raging from her engines, but she couldn't get there in time. Yoshida had judged the battle well, had thrown plenty of distractions in the way of the rebel fleet, as though he was expecting greater numbers than he'd faced.
“Ramone, this is Kani,” he said. “You take your formation to Kropotkin. I'll take out Trotsky. Make it one nice, quick pass. As long as we do enough damage, Castro can finish them off for us.”
“Copy that, Leader,” Ramone replied, guiding his nine fighters to the right, ranging towards his target. Up ahead, their two opponents raced forward, boosting their engines as hard as they could, straining to gain speed. A blue-green halo erupted from the particle defense cannons, a weapons system designed to knock kinetic projectiles out of the sky, but just as effective against fighters and their missiles. Back on the Commonwealth ships, there were three squadrons of dedicated bombers that would make short work of smashing through the defenses. With the fighters they were flying, the job was going to be just that much tougher.
Every defensive system, no matter how well-designed, had weak spots, and the hastily-converted auxiliary cruisers were no exception. His hands danced across the sensor controls, probing for spots where there fire was weakest, trying not to telegraph his intentions to the gunners on Trotsky. They could, at least to a degree, adjust their firing pattern to compensate for his movements, so he kept his fighter dancing around, altering his trajectory by miles at a time in order to keep them guessing, keep them refocusing their beams.
&
nbsp; Then there was the question of guiding his missiles to their target, but that would require even greater finesse. He reached across to his targeting controls, narrowing the focus of his particle beams as tightly as he could, ready to burn a hole in the enemy defenses. It would take split-second timing, perfect attitude control, and one mistake would see him destroyed before he could possibly react. Behind him, the rest of his fighters fanned out, picking their own path through, the tactical computers of the squadron meshing together to avoid duplication of attack pattern, an additional tool that could keep the enemy guessing.
Theoretically, they could run the entire attack with the computers, avoid human intervention completely, but the enemy had computers as well, of the same design as theirs, and left to themselves, they couldn't help but come up with the same answers. Move, counter-move, a cosmic game of chess waged across the battlespace, with human beings to provide the random element that provided the best chance of victory.
Twenty seconds to target. He looked at the shuttles, burning their engines as hot as they dared, racing towards Hyperborea and safety. Periodic updates from the surface fed across his heads-up display, one victory after another as the planet fell to the rebels, threw off the yoke of Federation rule. They were winning the battle on the ground. Now they only had to win the battle in orbit.
As he dived towards Trotsky, he released his grip on the stay-fire controls, allowing the computer freedom to use the firepower of his fighter as it willed. He'd planned the attack, plotted the strike, but only the computer could execute it in time. He looked up at the flaming curtain hovering in space before him, the deepening colors of the defense perimeter, waves of energy surging around as the enemy gunners struggled to predict the detail of their attack.
It would all be over in a matter of seconds, each of the fighters racing to place its missiles where they could do the most good. Over to the right, Ramone was already launching an attack on Kropotkin, eighteen tiny points of light racing towards the cruiser, tissues of flame bursting into space where they slammed through the defense perimeter to slam into the hull, pin-points of damage that crippled the ship's offensive systems. One down, one to go.
The nose of his fighter dipped down towards Trotsky, his under-slung particle cannons ripping out towards the energy barrier, puncturing a hole large enough for his missiles to race through. All around the enemy ship, the rest of his fighters followed, one of them miscalculating his approach at the last second, Trotsky's beams catching him on the engine manifold and tearing him apart. Another saw his missiles destroyed as a quick-witted gunner swung his beam around, the shrapnel raining down on the fighter, sending him spiraling out of control, mercifully clear of the battlespace.
He pulled away, throwing his throttles full-on, trying to get clear of Trotsky before their retaliatory strike could have an effect, kinetic projectiles hurled through the air all around him, the gunners using their last moments to take final revenge. He sideswiped to avoid a swarm, then heard an anguished whine from his hull, instinctively dropping his mask into place, oxygen flooding into his system. Damage reports flickered across his heads-up display, and he cursed in frustration. A shot right into his engine, neatly ripping the rear of his fighter away. There was a slow pressure leak, but he'd have an hour before he'd have to worry about that. One way or another, the battle would be over long before them.
Using the last of his thruster control, he pivoted the fighter to face Trotsky, watching as the missiles completed their trajectory, slamming into precisely-calculated coordinates on the side of the enemy ship. He allowed himself a smile, knowing that both auxiliary cruisers were no longer a threat, but his smile turned into a frown as his sensors picked up a fighter heading his way at high speed, one rogue interceptor breaking away from the main formation and diving towards him, bearing the flashes of 'Trotsky' on the side.
A blinding glare of light illuminated the sky, and he saw Kropotkin explode, ripped in twain by a salvo of shots from Castro, the friendly ship at last getting into the fight. The battle was almost won, even if he might not live to see it. He watched as the fighter flashed towards him, weapons hot, his sensors setting up a targeting solution. Kani didn't have the power to lift a finger to shop him, could only sit back and watch the approach.
He had seconds left to live. Reaching over to a little-used control, he tapped a button to send soft music through the ship, an accompaniment to his imminent demise. His would-be murderer was an artist, flashing in with practiced ease, a quartet of stripes down his side to advertise his four kills. His death would make the pilot an ace, even if the kill was, in Kani's opinion, rather cheap.
Briefly, he contemplated ejecting, taking his chance out beyond his ship, but debris swarms from the destroyed Kropotkin and the kinetic rounds pumped into the sky by Trotsky made his chances of survival minimal. Better to go down with his ship.
The enemy fighter cruised into firing range, swung around towards him for a clean kill, then kicked its engines to maximum, racing past without launching his missiles. A second later, he saw why, as Trotsky threw its escape pods into the void, a message screaming to the rebel fleet that she and her pilots had surrendered, in order to escape the death that Castro was about to unleash on them.
Kani smiled, looked at his power readings, and focused his sensors on Polaris. Now the big event was about to begin, and he'd have the best seat in the house to watch.
Chapter 25
“Anything from Canopus at all?” Curtis asked, turning to the communications console.
“Nothing conclusive, Commander,” the technician replied. “Some chatter, distress messages, and there are a few shuttles heading away from the ship, but that's all.”
Turning to Saxon, he said, “I want rescue shuttles ready to go as soon as we get past the enemy formation. Have Sirius move in to provide whatever support they can.”
“That won't be much,” she replied, looking up at the monitors. “She's struggling with her own damage control right now. Nowhere near as bad as Canopus, but she can't maneuver with any speed, and she's already sending casualties down to Hyperborea.” Glancing down at a datapad, she added, “Last word reported that the Administration Building had been taken, but that the Governor is still holding out in the power station.”
“One minute to firing range,” Rojek replied. “Enemy ships are moving into formation against us, standard diamond pattern. I have the sensor logs from Sirius. We're going to have some nice windows to punch holes through. Recommend immediate fighter launch.”
“Make it happen, Lieutenant,” Curtis said. “The mission is simple. Blow those bastards all the way to Hell.” Turning to the rear station, he continued, “Send one last message to Admiral Yoshida. I will accept an unconditional surrender at this point. Nothing less than that.”
Nodding, the technician punched in commands, but looked back with a frown, saying, “No response, Commander. Just the usual acknowledgment.”
“Once the Rubicon is crossed,” Saxon said, “there usually isn't any going back.”
“Norton,” Curtis ordered, “keep us in tight with the rest of the formation. I want as near to a perfectly-meshed defensive pattern as possible.” Turning to Hudson, he added, “Keep an eye on our fighters. We're going to need them to fill in any holes. Bombers can proceed at will. I want there to be nothing left after this other than expanding cloud of debris.” Looking around the room, he continued, “I know that these are our people, that they wear the same uniform that we do, but they have made a choice to continue in the service of an immoral, illegal regime dedicated to the oppression of the citizens it is sworn to protect. They made their choice. We made ours. But if it makes you feel any better in the middle of the night when the ghosts come to visit, the decision to engage is mine.”
Moving to his side, Saxon said, “We've got transmission feeds relaying the battle all over the Federation. Maybe a billion people are watching this right now. So m
ind your language.”
Looking up with a smile, he replied, “Thank you, Major.”
“Thirty seconds to combat range,” Norton said, her hands resting lightly on the controls, contenting herself with pin-point course adjustments to guide Polaris to its target, keeping in tightly to the Commonwealth ships drifting in behind them. Curtis looked at the three stately cruisers, relics of a long-ago war brought back into service for one last battle, gleaming as though only just out of spacedock. That he was no fighting on the same side as his erstwhile enemies seemed strange, but the crews of those ships had the same goals as his. To go home, and to live in peace and freedom. Neither of which their own government could guarantee. Disaffection in the Commonwealth ranks had been rife for decades, growing worse by the year. All it had taken to swing them over to the rebellion was to offer a realistic alternative to their current course.
“Target analysis complete,” Rojek reported. “Ready to fire.”
“Ten seconds, sir,” Norton said, the familiar glare of the defensive systems rising from the enemy ships, now with noticeable gaps where Canopus and Sirius had punched holes, wreaking damage on the formation that could never be repaired in the time. Yoshida had tried to cover all the bases, but he had not, could not have considered that a Commonwealth cruiser squadron would arrive.
“Fire at will,” he said, calmly, and sat back on his chair to watch the action. This was space combat at its most raw, least elegant, a collection of ships throwing everything they could at each other. The time for tactical and strategic finesse was over. The battle was about to be joined. From above, he heard the familiar pounding of Polaris' mass drivers hurling projectiles into the fray, his screen suddenly filled with tens of thousands of kinetic warheads being thrown into space all around them, smashing themselves into pieces in the enemy defensive net, each one getting a fraction closer to its target.
Starcruiser Polaris: Terrible Swift Sword Page 17
