by Mike Moscoe
When the comet reappeared, it was already transfixed by spears of light from the other guns. One blinked off just as this gun shot out its own spear. For two eternal seconds, Mattim did not breathe. Light, passing through the gossamer swirls of steam from the ships ahead, shone like a golden road. The comet rode transfixed at the end, more steam boiling off her.
Then beam and comet were gone.
Mattim shook himself; something like this could mesmerize. His job was to fight the ship. “Sandy, where are those tin cans? Now would be a good time for a missile run.”
“They’ve dropped below the enemy gun line, sir. They’re just…damn! They’re coming in, jinking like mad.”
“And their missiles are worse.” Ding interrupted her own bouncing to add to their problem.
“Secondary batteries, prepare to take the destroyers under fire as soon as they come in range,” Mattim ordered. “Hit them hard and hit them often.”
“Captain, please belay that order,” Guns snapped. “I’m targeting cruiser engines. I need the energy.”
“Secondaries, hold your fire. XO, what about our own engines?”
“We’re about to do a fleet flip, but the flag hasn’t ordered one.”
“Flip us. I’m not risking Ivan’s engines.”
“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, use thrusters to rotate us around our center. Do it…now.” Hands flying over his board, Thor echoed his orders, a few seconds before he followed them. Mattim’s stomach lurched, twisted, and left for points unknown as the spinning ship flipped end over end.
In the process, a lightning bolt passed where their engines would have been.
“Damn good, Colin, Thor.” Mattim applauded. “Damn good.”
“Forward batteries, fire.” As the enemy line passed, the forward batteries had been masked. For the last minute, only the aft and amidships guns had done anything. The forward battery came back with a vengeance. The red triangle glowed yellow on the board again, but Guns was shouting. “We got him up the kilt, we got him up the kilt. Sandy, is he slowing? Tell me, girl.”
“There’s a crazy wobble in his course, as if he’s missing on a few of his engines. I think you got him, Guns.” The cheer at that announcement damn near shook the entire ship.
“Those cans are closing,” Sandy continued. “Fifteen thousand klicks.”
“All power to the secondaries,” Guns shouted. “Lay it into them.” Now it was the turn of the twenty secondary guns. The crews of the four-inch lasers turned to with a will. Each destroyer had ten missiles, any one of which could vaporize the Sheffield.
“Hold course,” Ding ordered. “Let’s give them our broadside for a while. Slow rotation by half, the big guns are out of range, and we want to be steady for those buggers.” The colonial DD’s closed to ten thousand klicks, dodging and jinking all the time. Finally, they launched three missiles each and turned away. Four streaked for the retreating line of Society cruisers—two headed for the Sheffield.
“The admiral’s still headed away,” Sandy called.
“But they’ll have to start decelerating soon to get into orbit around the gasbag, and those missiles will be waiting for them,” Ding warned.
“What about the ones headed straight for us?” Mattim asked.
“That’s another matter,” Ding muttered. “Guns, can you take care of those little buggers?”
“Trying, XO. They’re a bit uncooperative.”
“Keep trying. Helm, take the spin off the ship. Now, when I tell you, I want you to turn into those missiles. Countermeasures, you got the icemaker powered up?”
“Yes, ma’am,” came the answer.
“Icemaker,” Mattim echoed. Had another critical part of his education been glossed over?
“Right now, those missiles are homing in on us, aiming for the middle of this nice long target. ‘Course, we’re throwing steam off. That messes up their picture, but they’re smart enough to accommodate it.” Ding stared hard at the main screen. It was expanding, showing only the Sheffield and two missiles in ever greater detail.
“In a moment, I’m going to turn close on to their course and spew ice chunks and decoys to port. They should mistake them for us and keep heading for the middle of it. With luck, one of those ice cubes will do a job on their warhead. Guns, in a moment I’m going to need you to check fire.”
“Charging the damn missiles. Way to go.” Guns didn’t look up from his station. “I never did like turning tail. Ready on your order, XO.”
“Helm, steer for the missiles, thirty degrees to port of their reciprocal. Guns, check fire, check fire. Countermeasures, Jezebel One, Jezebel Two.”
“Yes, ma’am’s” echoed from the comm links as an entire ship did the XO’s bidding. On screen, the green dot that was the Sheffield swerved into the paths of the oncoming missiles. A white shadow grew to one side. The missiles stayed on course.
“Good,” Ding breathed softly, the hint of a smile crinkling her lips. Was this the moment a naval officer lived her life for? Damn, I’d settle for a well-done bargain where we both win.
What Mattim did was settle into his chair, look unconcerned for the bridge crew, and struggle to keep his heart from racing. The gunfight had been wild and fast and over. This waiting could kill a man. “Sandy, you got any passive sensors on those beasts?” he asked.
“Visual only. They’re head-on. Not enough of a shift to notice.”
“Let me know the second you get any,” Ding whispered, eyes locked on the main screen. For a long moment, there was nothing. No one breathed on the bridge, probably on the whole ship.
“First missile, range opening to port. She’s going to miss us to port,” Sandy yelped.
“Put missile on visual,” Ding ordered. Half the main switched to a live view of space. A missile moved across it, tail now plainly visible—and offset—from the nose. “A miss,” she breathed as the missile entered the ice field. A moment later the missile started shredding parts as it hit first one then another bit of ice. At their relative speeds, it didn’t take much ice to rip its thin skin to shreds.
“Second missile is close, but it’s a miss,” Sandy said. It was passing close down their port side, but it was a lot luckier with the ice. Unscathed, it began a skewed U-turn.
“Guns, it’s yours,” Ding shouted. “Crew, prepare for maximum acceleration. Ivan, your engines good for five gees?”
“Zero to five in twenty seconds, Commander.”
The turning target suppressed its jinking program. Eight secondary batteries reached out for it, crisscrossing space around it. And threw it. The missile was suddenly an expanding ball of glowing gas. Then nothing.
“Guns,” Mattim breathed, “I think we owe a lot of people a beer bust. Like the entire crew.”
“I think you might be right, Skipper.”
Whatever the crew thought of the idea, they were too blown to do more than let out the breath they’d been holding. Mattim’s knees were shaking; he felt like collapsing. Since he was already sitting, he settled for swallowing hard and tackling a long list of things left to do. “Well done, XO, very well done.”
“Thank you, sir.” Now that the battle was over, Ding looked pale. She made no effort to rise either. Someone’s teeth were chattering. One of the guards. Ding sent him to sick bay.
“Captain has the conn. Thor, get us headed back to station. I imagine the admiral’s disappointed that we’re out of line. Sparky, any traffic from the flag?”
“We’ve been getting a steady flow of message traffic, each sharper than the one before. I’m only required to pass messages along to you within ten minutes. Allowance for if you’re in the head and stuff like that. The first one was four minutes ago.”
“Thanks for not jiggling our elbow. Anything I need to know?”
“No, sir, just get back in formation.”
“Pass it to my day cabin. I’ll use it for bedtime reading tonight. Captain off.” He turned to Ding. “You’d think the bastard has better uses for his time.” Mattim s
hook his head and got back to business. “Sandy, where are the hostiles?”
“Decelerating, sir, pulling back into orbit.”
“And our guys?”
“Decelerating, too.”
“Helm, put us on course to rejoin the squadron.”
The prodigal son was not welcomed back. Mattim suspected the admiral would have relieved him where he sat, but there was no one on board who didn’t share in his high crimes and misdemeanors and no way to transfer anyone. The squadron decelerated, facing backward as they accepted ELM0129-4’s powerful tether. To Mattim, it looked like the Sheffield was now the head of the line. He doubted the admiral shared his view.
With things reasonably settled down, Mattim released half the crew for a quick chow. Many needed a change of underwear or to clean up from burp bag overflows. The mechanics of orbits guaranteed them time. Gunners went about lavishing care on their lasers the way few had ever shown a significant other.
While some of the damage control crews carried sandwiches to the gun crews and engineering, the hull and armor team waited for the course to settle in, then sent squat robots out to examine the one large gash in the Sheffield’s armor. Insulated lines began showering a mist into the hole, slowly packing it with ice, less dense ice, but armor nevertheless.
Mattim got his team on net. “Guns, great going. The enemy flag will remember us. Engineering, solid performance. Sandy, you were wonderful on sensors. Okay, we done great. We’ve got an hour before we meet those bastards again. What do we need?”
“Guns is ready” was all Commander Howard had to say.
“Sensors are undamaged. I’ve got a couple of antennas that have been shaken up a bit by all the jostling, probably bum connectors, but I don’t see us fixing them any time soon.”
“Skipper”—Ivan’s gravel voice had somehow gotten even lower—“we’ve done a lot of bouncing around, changing acceleration and the like. It’s been a major drain on our reaction mass. I also don’t think the stuff we last took on has anywhere near the density required by Navy specs.”
“How far down are we, Ivan?”
“Forty percent. Normally I wouldn’t worry, but if we have a few more hours like the last, we could end up limping back.”
“Assuming we were in one piece.” Sandy scowled.
“Guns, suggestions?”
“Book says you must refuel at fifty percent, ‘barring unavoidable circumstances,’ whatever those may be.”
“Comm, send to flag, Sheffield at sixty percent fuel state. However, reaction mass is not at required density, request fuel scoop.”
“Yes sir, sending.”
“If we’re all heading for fifty percent, why hasn’t Smiley laid on a fuel scoop pass?” Mattim asked.
Once again, his XO seemed reluctant to offer an opinion. “Guns,” she said.
“Skipper, data would seem to indicate he’s made up his mind, one more firing pass, then we head for the jump.”
“Bit obvious, aren’t we?” Sandy drawled.
“I fear so,” answered Guns. “Possibly to our detriment.”
“Comm here, Captain. Flag says maintain station. Fuel state not critical.”
“Why am I not surprised? Thanks, comm.” Mattim leaned back in his chair. “Any suggestions?”
Heads nodded on the bridge. The net was silent. “Okay. I’m the captain of this ship and ultimately responsible for its safety. I read that somewhere. Helm, captain has the conn. Break from formation and do a fuel scoop pass. Use whatever fuel is necessary to get us down and back in one hundred seventy degrees of orbit.”
“Laying in course. We’ll need some three gees deceleration, sir.”
“Give the crew five minutes warning.” Mattim again tapped his comm link. “Comm, flag will be sending us more of the same messages. Pass them to my day cabin…uh, unless he threatens to shoot us. Pass that one direct to me.”
The fuel pass was smartly done. The flag, while frequently sending its displeasure, stopped short of shooting. As they climbed up, Sandy studied her boards.
“Skipper, I think I’ve found one missing destroyer.”
“Where?”
“She’s on a high, elliptical orbit. Active on radar and lasers. She’s got us and squawking. What she knows, the rest of those bastards know.”
“Pass it along to the flag, if they’ll let us get a word in edgewise. Comm, put this on a broad beam. Make sure all the squadron picks this up.”
“Yes, sir. Sending.”
Mattim leaned back in his chair. “So, they know where we are and we got no idea what’s up behind this big ice ball. Ding, Guns, any ideas of what you’d be doing?”
“They put on a lot of acceleration during that firing pass,” the XO mused slowly. “They’ll be high this time around, probably diving for a scoop run, maybe? Guns?”
“Agree with the high part. Not so sure about the scoop. That would depend on their fuel state. They seemed to be coming up from one last orbit. Unless he’s neurotic about fuel, I’d skip it this pass. Captain, sorry we can’t be more help. The skunks will be high and either coming down to our orbit or diving for a scoop.”
“If they’re high, when will Sandy catch them?”
“After the rest of the squadron. Remember, we’re low.”
“Hate to depend on the flag for anything.” Mattim rubbed his jaw. “Comm, send to Aurora on tight beam. Mattim to Buzz. We’re low, let us know when you topside folks spot something.”
“Sending.” There was a momentary pause. “Buzz says he’ll look sharp.” They waited. Damage control reported all repairs made. Even one of Sandy’s cable runs was replaced. Things were looking up. “Comm here. Aurora sends ‘Hostiles in sight,’ and passes their sensor picture to us.”
“Sandy?”
“Got it. They’re high, heading for our level. That’s strange. We ought to be getting an angle on their bow at this distance in orbit, but they’re keeping straight bow on to us.”
“No change in formation. The three cans are a bit further ahead, six cruisers behind in line. One of the cans is radiating. Just what you’d expect,” Ding concluded.
“Matt, I’m not so sure,” Sandy cut in. “This is all radar returns. Nobody’s using gravity sensors.”
“How soon until we get a look?” Mattim asked.
“Should acquire the picture in ninety seconds.” Sandy answered. They waited. As the enemy line swung into sight, Sandy went active. “I got ’em—radar, visual, and gravity. They may be head-on to the rest, but they ain’t to us. The two big bastards are in front acting like destroyers, and they got another cruiser with them! The cans are in rear formation this time!”
Mattim mashed his comm link. “Send our board to the flag.”
“Doing it, sir.”
“Any reply?”
“No, sir.”
For five long minutes the squadron continued in line ahead, the Sheffield playing catch-up.
At forty thousand klicks, the enemy’s lead ships did nothing—as a destroyer would. The flag’s targeting lasers came on, sweeping past the lead ships to concentrate on the six in line. “He doesn’t believe us,” Sandy muttered. From their perspective they could see the lead cruisers swinging around, keeping their narrow face to the squadron.
At thirty thousand klicks the Reply opened up on the lead “cruiser” in line. The two leading colonial “destroyers” were at less than twenty-five thousand klicks when they pinned the Reply in their combined beams. Hit, the Reply threw water like a fire hose and twisted out of line—toward the enemy.
The other cruisers of the squadron tried to take the new target under fire, but it took time to change firing solutions, especially at maximum range. Thirty seconds later, all three colonial cruisers snapped out at the Reply. Again she shed steam. It looked like her wobbling might jink her out of the lasers’ paths. It didn’t. The Reply burned.
“Guns, we in range of a target?” Mattim snarled.
“Not as close as I want to be.”
“Get their attention.”
“Fire.”
Lights dimmed. Arrows reached out from one electronic icon to spear another. Mattim steadied himself for the shock of return fire. The closest enemy was a light cruiser; it did not respond. For the last few seconds, it had been firing at will. Now it fell silent. Mattim checked the chronometer. Thirty seconds since the heavies last fired.
The enemy line lit up. It reached out, pinned the Reply in its focus, slammed it with all the power of bitter humanity. The flag expanded, gas shooting off in jets and streams.
Then it blew.
Chunks of hull rode the expanding gas out toward the stars. The explosion turned out and in and then was gone. Where a ship and six hundred people had been—nothing.
“Guns, pour everything we’ve got, mains and secondaries, into that cruiser. Get her attention. Don’t let her do that again.”
“Roger, Skipper. Can you get me more power?”
“Ivan, we aren’t at high gees. Feed the guns.”
“I got backup cables to the midship batteries. I’ll feed them off ship’s power. Next time they recharge, I’ll switch.”
“You hear that, Guns?” Mattim checked to make sure.
“Got it. Just a second. Just a second.” Light stabbed out from the Sheffield, reaching for the other ship as it turned its weapons on the Significant.
“Damn, they’re going to do it again,” Mattim snarled.
“Ivan, give me the juice,” Guns shouted.
“On the way.”
The four-inch lasers reached out, raking the cruiser, boiling off patches of the surface ice. When next Sheffield’s six-inchers spoke, they stabbed at the already warm ice. Slush streamed off into space, leaving fantastic patterns in the cruiser’s wake.
“We better start jinking,” Ding said.
“Do it. XO has the conn,” answered Mattim.
They dodged left as the cruiser fired—at them. Light streamed harmlessly by to port. Mattim hoped Pringle was grateful for the help.
“Good call, Ding.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard.
Now the XO danced with the enemy cruiser. She’d hold the Sheffield steady on a zig while their battery unloaded energy. Then, as the tenth second since the enemy last fired approached, she’d jink. Three times she dodged the lancing light. Three times the Sheffield slashed and cut at the enemy’s frozen armor. Some of what streamed behind the cruiser was not steam or ice.
