Edge of Conquest (The Restoration Armada Book 1)

by Hugo Huesca

  Vortex even announced that Clarke and the EIF had kidnapped an innocent Free Trader, the Beowulf, and spaced the entire crew when the Vortex had demanded Clarke’s peaceful surrender. They even showed the video feeds as proof. They had Clarke making demands, Captain Riley Erickson heartfelt plea for the Beowulf’s crew to be spared, Clarke’s brutal answer. They had shown a video of the spaced crew as they floated through space, bloated and lifeless, with the debris of their destroyed escape capsules floating behind them.

  In this day and age, videos meant little. Too easy to doctor. Delagarza suspected most of that evidence had been crafted lovingly in Vortex’s own computers during the past few hours. Hell, in their haste, they had missed a few details. They claimed Clarke had spaced the crew, yet the videos showed destroyed capsules behind them.

  I think I know who really killed those contractors, Delagarza thought. He recalled Clarke’s grave frown, and how it marked deep lines of expression in his forehead. The man was well aware of how much he was risking coming to Dione. He didn’t strike Delagarza as one of those hero-type insurgents that surfaced now and then in the newscasts before dying in a blaze of glory.

  People like himself, and Hirsen, Delagarza could understand. Their motivations were clear. They wanted to survive. So they balanced risk versus reward and decided accordingly.

  What did Clarke’s risk equation look like? Delagarza thought it imperative to find out. After all, when he reached Isabella Reiner and got her to the EIF, Delagarza’s own life would be in Clarke’s hands.

  Don’t bother trying to understand that kind of person, Hirsen advised. They’re not acting rationally, and if you look too closely into their minds, you’ll find out their insanity can be contagious.

  Funny, said Delagarza, I didn’t peg agent Daneel Hirsen for a jaded man.

  Daneel Hirsen has outlived a dozen men like Joseph Clarke, and will outlive a dozen more, said Hirsen. Now, let’s focus on the present, Samuel. Clarke and the EIF are still days away from Dione. We need Kayoko’s information before we get Isabella. And we need to find us a way off the planet.

  24

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Clarke

  The TRANSMITTING screen disappeared, leaving Clarke to stare at the ceiling of Hawk’s bridge. The gyroscopes in his g-seat had positioned his back to lay flat against the pull of the destroyer’s engines as the ship decelerated through its approach to planet Dione.

  Clarke let the tension escape through his shoulders. In a way, he had dreaded making that message more than reaching combat range. He had spent the many months of Alcubierre travel rehearsing it in his spare time, while the bulk of it he spent drilling Task Force Sierra through combat simulations of all kinds, and familiarizing himself with the crew and the ships themselves.

  They were as ready as they could be. Clarke closed his eyes and abandoned himself to the call of the force pulling his body into his g-seat, allowed his mind to run free of all sensations and worries until he found his center. He filled his lungs with a deep breath, opened his eyes, and dove into the confusion of voices on Hawk’s bridge.

  “Commander Alicante, what are our sensors telling us?” he asked.

  “Our escorts are sending an updated report right now, Captain,” Alicante answered. “Have a look.”

  Clarke opened a holo with a map of Elus Star System, its defenses, and the stream of civilian traffic buzzing around Dione’s starport—Outlander—like a swarm of flies attracted to an electrical lamp.

  Dione wasn’t the only place blinking with activity. Asteroids equipped with automated turrets, patrols hunting for pirates in all corners of the map, military space stations stationed in the orbits of uncolonized planetoids, communication satellites, all blind to Sierra’s arrival for at least a couple more hours, until the photons bounced from the ships’ hulls reached Elus’ defenders.

  This window of blindness would be crucial for Sierra’s victory. The Mississippi had proved the importance of striking first, and striking hard.

  Clarke focused on Sierra’s position in the map. An arrow-shaped formation of five destroyers, with Hawk leading the charge, and all escorts and auxiliaries hanging at the flanks, scouting Elus with their sensors and targeting lasers. The information they got about patrols’ routes and position was outdated by five hours, but every new bit of data allowed the Task Force computers’ to predict the defenders’ current position and routes.

  So far, everything was going according to the plan devised across many months of simulations. That would soon change, Clarke knew, but in the meantime…

  He opened a communication channel with the five destroyer commanders and said, “Take out all unmanned, immobile infrastructure. Let’s give Tal-Kader something to talk about after our message reaches them.”

  Sierra’s targeting computers produced a firing solution for all of Clarke’s highlighted targets and distributed the data to all ships.

  “Acknowledged, Captain,” said Alicante when the data arrived carrying Hawk’s targets. Alicante switched to the bridge’s channel. “Weapon systems, open fire on that asteroid and its macro-turret. Coordinates are on screen, use kinetic rounds. Get me a targeting laser on that satellite line and take it down with turrets.”

  Like shooting fish in a barrel.

  Clarke’s map updated with red blinking dots representing lines of fire originating from Sierra and spreading like a flood through Elus, headed for several dozen different targets. It’d take days until Sierra’s attack made contact with the farthest ones.

  “What about the military station?” asked Alicante.

  Pascari, who had access to all of Sierra’s communications, butted in. “Yes, Clarke, what about that military station? What are we going to do about it?”

  Clarke winced. Pascari knew the place was full of people. Edge’s citizens doing their jobs. Hell, not all the Defense Sailors were Tal-Kader’s. If lady luck had looked differently on Clarke, he’d be the one inside that station, with some other asshole taking aim at him.

  On the other hand, if Sierra ignored the station, it would fire at them, and the weapons it had were designed to take down battleships, if needed.

  Pascari was testing Clarke, making sure he was still up for what needed to be done.

  “Sparrow, this is Clarke. I’m sending you the coordinates to a military station orbiting a mining world. I want you to target them with your laser before shooting, for thirty minutes. Hail them, let them know we’re opening fire, and tell them the exact time your kinetic round will strike. Acknowledge.”

  “Aye aye, Captain,” came Captain Park’s response. “Targeting now.”

  Clarke nodded, although Captain Park couldn’t see him. The station was immobile, so it wouldn’t be able to move out of Sparrow’s shot. The targeting laser would trigger their alarms, and it’d let whoever commanded the station know that Sierra wasn’t joking around. The message would let the station know when its crew should go into escape capsules to avoid dying senselessly.

  It was all Clarke could do for them. If, for some reason, the station didn’t evacuate…it was out of his hands. But the prospect didn’t make him happy, nevertheless.

  “You can’t avoid bloodying your hands forever, Clarke,” Pascari told him through a private line.

  Maybe not, but when I do it, it’ll be because I absolutely have to, Clarke thought. Not because you want to kill of as many Tal-Kader’s men and women as you can to avenge Julia.

  He kept that to himself. He studied the patrols’ routes across the system. He dismissed the ones too far away to take part in the upcoming day’s battle. He focused on the ones closer to Sierra, and the ones closer to Dione.

  Most of them were no threat to the five destroyers, and no threat to their escorts by virtue of being protected by the destroyers’ superior range. But, not counting Vortex, there were two destroyers patrolling the main mercantile traffic routes in the inner system, surrounded by gunboats and other escorts.

  We need to take them out b
efore they have a chance to mount a defense, Clarke thought. Pascari was right, he couldn’t avoid keeping blood off of his hands forever.

  He highlighted the two destroyers on the map and asked the computers to trace targeting solutions to the ships’ predicted routes. It was a hard shot to make, since not only was their current position five hours outdated, but Sierra had to aim their cannons at the spot where the two destroyers would be when the shots arrived, not in the spot they were right now. And, of course, the ships would know they were under fire well before that, and they’d take evasive maneuvers.

  It was impossible. The computers declared they needed at least a hundred destroyers to cover a single patrol’s possible evasive actions.

  Sierra lacked Mississippi’s hyperdrive advantage, so they’d have to play this fight by the books. Closer patrols first, focus on the destroyers when Clarke could actually hit them.

  Falcon’s commander, Captain Rehman, sent Clarke a targeting solution to a gunboat group very close to Falcon’s effective kill range. “This patrol is four hours away from Falcon, Captain. I should set course to them and take them out before they become annoyances.”

  Clarke faced mixed feelings. On one hand, it had been a Tal-Kader gunboat which crippled Beowulf and killed Julia and Antonov. A part of him he wasn’t proud of was eager to return the favor. On the other hand, there was no strategical advantage to taking out that patrol.

  “Falcon, this is Clarke. Maintain your current route. Repeat, don’t break formation. Those gunboats are no threat to us. Have your escorts shoot a warning volley at them and hail them with a suggestion to stay away.”

  Clarke knew Sentinel was racing at their heels. Time was of the essence, and Sierra couldn’t waste time hunting small game. Their mission objective was to reach Dione, extract Reiner, and get the hell out of Elus until they could reunite with Independent fleet and the EIF. Nothing else mattered.

  Captain Rehman didn’t share Clarke’s big picture focus. “Hail them with a warning? We’re here to make war, not to beg and excuse our way to Dione!”

  “Complaint noted, Falcon. Your orders are still the same,” Clarke said, hiding the annoyance in his voice. Strange how the most risk-averse of Sierra’s officers suddenly became bloodthirsty when faced with a defenseless foe. “Don’t worry, Falcon, you’ll enter combat soon enough.”

  He opened a private line to Pascari. “Rehman’s been reading up on your combat philosophy.”

  “Rehman is a coward. I want us to reach those destroyers already. There’s a difference, Clarke.”

  “I suppose there is,” said Clarke. “It’s still going to be two days before we’re in range of them, though. Another two until we’re in Vortex range. You best get yourself comfortable in that seat.”

  “I’ve waited a lifetime for this. I can wait a bit longer.”

  Awareness of Sierra’s presence in the Star System spread like radial gravity waves, starting from the soon-to-be-destroyed communications satellites near Sierra and moving inwardly in Dione’s direction. Those satellites had time to take a good look at Sierra and send their reports to Elus’ garrison. Some of them reported to all patrols in the area.

  Gunboats and their escorts became aware of Sierra and immediately took evasive maneuvers. Some of them bravely (but futilely) took potshots at Sierra that didn’t come even close to hitting due to the several hour delay between their line of sights.

  A couple patrol ships came too close, prompted by Reiner-knew-what deliriums of heroism, and were dispatched by Sierra’s escorts, currently stationed at the formation’s flanks. A dozen escape capsules spread out of the patrol ships as their structure collapsed under the concentrated turret fire. Hopefully another patrol would come and rescue them once Sierra left their range.

  Clarke watched this all go by as hours trickled by, eventually becoming an entire work cycle, which he spent at his chair, save for the slotted non-acceleration relief windows. He ate tasteless nutritional bars and drank lots of coffee to remain awake and focused.

  The satellites exploded in silence, their tiny dots disappearing from his holo map without fanfare.

  An after-the-action report showed the military station heroically firing their entire arsenal in Sierra’s direction (again, to no purpose) before issuing a full-personnel evacuation. Sparrow’s bombardment took the station out shortly thereafter.

  The two destroyers’ patrols became aware of Sierra and changed course, headed either to Dione, or in rendezvous course with each other.

  A lot of information reached Dione all at once. First, the planet’s own sensors caught sight of Sierra. Then, Clarke’s message arrived at the public network. Then, reports from the satellites on Sierra’s force and composition, followed by visual confirmation that those satellites had been destroyed. Then, reports from the farthest patrols, along with requests for orders. Reports from the military station, requests to rescue its escape capsules…

  Clarke smiled. The Defense Fleet of his time had trained all officers and watchmen in how to parse and react to clutters of rapidly changing scenarios developing out of nowhere.

  Let’s see if Tal-Kader gives its people the same amount of training.

  From now on, combat would be fairer. Dione’s garrison was fully aware of Sierra’s presence and would take steps to defend itself. Clarke’s wouldn’t see their response for the following five hours. That time lag would slowly disappear as Sierra reduced the distance to the planet.

  He ordered minor evasive maneuvers for all the ships and then added, “Every ship gets one hour rest, non-acceleration, after course correction. I advise you use it, people. It’s the last chance we’ll get, and we need to be crisp for what comes next.”

  He used his hour to float to the mess hall and eat a quick meal of 3d printed, krill-based hamburger with a side of fries. The fries were real, flash frozen and stored by the tonnage. It gave them a mushy taste, but it was better than krill.

  Forty minutes later, he was back on the bridge. He strapped to the g-seat and asked Alicante for an update.

  “Vortex has opened fire. Torpedoes,” said Commander Alicante. “Perhaps to show Dione they’re still in control of the situation.”

  “Good,” said Clarke, “let them waste their ammunition.”

  Torpedoes were deadly at small ranges where the point defenses of a ship had less margin of error to shoot them down. At such distance, there was zero risk of those torpedoes hitting their mark.

  Still, Clarke’s modus operandi was to avoid unnecessary risks. He ordered three of Hawk’s escorts forward in the formation, so their point defenses would reinforce Hawk’s.

  “Captain Riley Erickson hailed us, too,” said Alicante. “COMMO says it’s a pre-recorded message, no virus, neither digital nor memetic.”

  “Patch it through,” said Clarke. What could Captain Erickson have to say to them? Asking for their immediate surrender, perhaps. Or a couple choice words at them.

  The message did not include Erickson at all. It was a simple recording of Vortex’s sensors. About five minutes of footage that showed an escape capsule gyrating over a starry background. The words Beowulf shone brightly in its hull as Vortex lights illuminated the metallic surface.

  Clarke’s hands tightened into fists as he realized what was about to happen. He didn’t see the round that destroyed the capsule. It came apart in silence, torn to pieces too small to recognize.

  “Motherfuckers,” Alicante said.

  The words “During their escape attempt at New Angeles, the terrorist organization known as EIF killed the crew of the Free Trader it took hostage during their mad rush to Dione…” hovered above the capsule’s debris. The message ended just as Clarke recognized what he was seeing. It was a clip from today’s newscasts at Dione.

  Hawk’s bridge went silent. Clarke didn’t see their reactions. He stared at the ceiling, his mind blank. He muttered three words:

  “Mann, Gutierrez, Lambert.”

  Those deaths are on your shoulders, Clark
e, he told himself. Don’t you ever dare forget those names.

  He opened a private line to Navathe and told her the news himself. He saw her back stiffen and her gaze go blank as she retreated into herself.

  “It’s my fault,” she said. “I gambled with their lives when I let Antonov convince me to smuggle him out of Jagal. I gambled with their lives and lost.”

  What could Clarke say to that? That it hadn’t been her fault, that it had been Tal-Kader’s? That would be hypocritical—he felt the same way she did.

  Sure, Tal-Kader—Captain Erickson—had pulled the trigger that killed Mann, Gutierrez, Lambert, and all other contractors. But that’s what Tal-Kader did. Clarke and Navathe should have known better than to rely on the corporation’s mercy.

  “Come to the bridge,” Clarke told Navathe. “You should be present when we kill Vortex.”

  That prospect was better than any attempt at quenching their guilt. Navathe nodded weakly and ended the message without saying anything else.

  Pascari’s reaction was different. “Open fire on those murderous assholes,” he said. “Open fire right the fuck now. I want Erickson dead!”

  Clarke wished with all his heart to follow that order. “We can’t,” he said instead. “Vortex has the planet behind it. We can’t risk to miss a shot and destroy a colony filled with innocent people.”

  Pascari’s string of courses weren’t directed at Clarke. Even the vengeful Pascari wasn’t mad enough to order them to take a shot against a populated planet.

  Clarke smashed his fist against the foam-based form of his g-seat’s armrest and let fury and frustration wash over him in a wave that threatened to drown his reason.

  Erickson’s trying to provoke you, Clarke thought. This is what he wants. To piss us off, make us commit a mistake. He’s planning something right now, and he wants us looking the wrong way.

  Clarke forced his feelings away, hid them in a distant part of his subconscious, where he could deal with them later. There was a battle going on, and he had people under his command whose lives depended on him keeping a level head and making the right decisions.