“Fire by salvo,” said a woman’s voice.
The flashes were continuous now, a curtain of sparks winking against the cooler background of expanding plasma. Against the pulsing background lights it was difficult to perceive one area as different from any other, and so it took him a few moments to see the looping coil of missiles that were again in pursuit of Beacon, all jumping out of the long arm of cooling plasma that he had noted earlier. It took another moment or two for Martinez to perceive that Beacon was in genuine danger.
His pulse thundered suddenly in his ears. Martinez banished the virtual display with an angry wave of his hand and jabbed with his thumb the bright square on his display labeled transmit, all ships.
“All ships: concentrate defensive fire to aid Beacon! Beacon is the subject of a focused attack!”
No sooner had defensive weapons begun to weave a pattern of protective energies near the frigate than Beacon’s own lasers struck an attacking missile a slightly off-center blow that sent it tumbling, spilling out a spray of antimatter that flung itself into space like beach sand being flung from the hand of a child. The result was a sheet of blazing particles drawn across the night, a sheet that completely obscured a pack of attacking missiles from the ships that were trying to aid the frigate.
Beacon was on its own, and its trained Daimong crew destroyed four missiles before the fifth and sixth engulfed the frigate within their fireball. Martinez gave a roar of pure rage and smashed his couch arms with both fists. “No!” he shouted, then chanted, “damn-damn-damn” before realizing he was still transmitting to all ships, and angrily punched at the display to give himself a moment of private, scorching fury.
He had promised himself a one-sided victory like Hone-bar, where the loyalist forces suffered no casualties, and now he had broken that promise. The fact that he had not spoken the promise aloud in the presence of another person made no difference: the most important promises are those one makes to oneself. He wanted to seize Bleskoth by the throat and shriek, You made me break my word!
It was the absence of Beacon within the squadron’s defensive fire pattern that caused the next casualty. Through the gap came one of the Naxid decoy missiles, now turned to an attacker with an overlarge radar signature. In spite of its being a seemingly easy target the missile led a charmed life, darting and rolling by pure chance behind plasma screens created by less lucky attackers.
Martinez wasn’t aware of the intruder until it got perilously close to Celestial, when it was destroyed by the light cruiser’s concentrated defensive fire at the last instant. Hard radiation slammed the ship, and the superheated fireball flashed toward its hull. Martinez shrieked out another long, frustrated string of damns as the cruiser disappeared into the burning plasm, and he turned his attention to the enemy with thoughts of revenge on his mind.
It was only then that a new realization dawned, that there seemed to be many fewer missiles in the display. The defensive batteries were picking the attackers off: no friendly ship was under immediate threat.
No new aggressor missiles had flown out of the plasm screen in the last couple minutes. Why have they stopped firing? he wondered, and then the answer dawned.
“My lady”—Martinez began, and then remembered he’d shut down his comm line. He called up the private channel between himself and the squadcom. “My lady,” he said after he made the connection, “I think the fight’s over. We’ve won. They’re all dead.”
His words coincided with one of the random course changes dictated by Starburst Pattern One, and as the engines cut and the cruiser rotated, Michi and Martinez stared at one another in the sudden weightlessness, floating in their cages, eyes locked, amid the sudden silence.
“Congratulations, my lady,” Martinez said. “It’s a victory.”
Lady Michi held his gaze for a moment, and then touched her transmit button. “All ships,” she said. “Cease offensive fire.”
Martinez went to the virtual view, and the first thing he saw was Celestial sailing out of the cooling plasma sphere, its engines still a brilliance in the night. A silent cheer rose in Martinez’s throat. The cruiser hasn’t been destroyed after all, and the propulsion systems, at least, still worked.
“Comm: message to Celestial,” Michi said. “Ask Captain Eldey for a status report.”
Martinez turned his attention to the Naxids. Their ships should be flying out of the cooling plasma cloud at any second.
The Naxid squadron didn’t come. There was one Naxid ship only, the cripple that had lost its engines on the approach to Okiray and was flying on a different trajectory from the rest. All the other Naxids had been wiped out, and Chenforce hadn’t even noticed when it happened.
The single surviving Naxid ship wasn’t capable of maneuver and wasn’t firing missiles—probably it had used them all up, except perhaps for a handful to be used defensively. It might well drift on forever into the cold gulf between the stars, like Taggart and the Verity.
A suitable punishment, Martinez thought in his anger. Let them starve to death.
“All remaining missiles,” Lady Michi said, “target on that lone ship.”
From her tone Martinez knew she, too, was in the mood for vengeance, but that she thought starvation too good for the Naxids. Orders pulsed out to the remaining missiles from the last salvo, and these reoriented and began a furious burn for the sole remaining enemy.
The Naxids had to have known the fate that awaited them. Apparently they had no missiles, or at any rate no missile launchers that worked. Their point-defense lasers flashed out and the missiles began to die. Michi simply fired more. The lone survivors of Light Squadron 5 died a good half-hour after their comrades, after fighting with a bravery and skill that no other Naxid would ever see or celebrate.
Martinez watched the ship die without finding in himself the sympathy he’d displayed for the crews of the wormhole stations. The enemy warship was nearly as helpless as the relay stations, but it had helped kill a lot of his comrades, and he watched its death agonies with bitter satisfaction.
“All ships reduce deceleration to one-half gravity,” Michi ordered. “Prepare to retrieve pinnaces and remaining missiles.”
“Message from Celestial, my lady, by radio,” reported Coen. “Lieutenant Gorath reporting.” Celestial had remained silent since Michi’s initial query, though since the cruiser had continued to maneuver according to the dictates of Starburst Pattern One, it had been clear that there were survivors and that there would probably be communication as soon as the means were restored.
“Lieutenant Gorath believes that four forward compartments are breached,” Coen reported, “and that Captain Eldey and everyone in Command is dead. The ship is maneuverable. Lost sensors are being replaced. Communication and point-defense lasers non-responsive. One missile battery is believed destroyed, but it’s too hot to go out there right now to make certain.”
“Signal Lieutenant Gorath—Well done,” Michi said. “Tell her we stand ready to provide any assistance she may require.” She turned to Martinez. “Captain Martinez, please tell all ships to make a complete visual sensor survey of Celestial and send the results to Lieutenant Gorath.”
“Yes, my lady.” Locked in Auxiliary Command, the Torminel officer had nothing but remote sensors to inform her of the state of her ship, and most of the sensors had probably been knocked out. Pictures would undoubtedly help.
The squadron ceased deceleration, rotated, and began acceleration again toward Protipanu Wormhole Three, still nearly five days away, and then the crew stood down from action stations. The few surviving missiles were retrieved by the ships that had fired them. Of the fourteen pinnace pilots that had been shot into space to shepherd missiles toward the foe, eight weathered the battle, one of them Beacon’s sole survivor. These returned to their ships, all save for the deeply traumatized Daimong cadet who was brought aboard the flagship to replace a pilot who had been killed. The cadets’ berth would smell less sweetly, but Martinez suspected the cadets wou
ld not complain. They would know how easily Illustrious itself could have been reduced to radioactive dust cooling in the solar wind.
Martinez knew he would not enjoy seeing the Beacon cadet’s pale, startled face, though not on aesthetic or olfactory grounds. The Daimong would be a reminder of his own failure to protect the Beacon and fulfill his promise to himself of another victory without casualties.
Martinez left the Flag Officer Station, returned the vac suit to its storage closet in his quarters, showered, and dressed. The comm chimed with an invitation to dine with the captain, and he accepted.
In his head he kept seeing the arm of fire reach for Beacon. If he had been able to keep his mind properly focused on its significance he would been able to foresee the missiles that would have raced out of it, and had the squadron’s defensive fire ready to concentrate in that area.
Bleskoth, you bastard, he thought. The Naxids’ destruction of the Beacon was a personal affront. It was a deliberate attack on the value that Martinez placed on the quality of his own mind.
There was a soft chime from Martinez’s comm, and a light flashed on the display. It was a reminder he’d set for himself, and normally he would remember what it was, but now he was too tired for the recollection to come into his mind. He ordered the comm to deliver its message and was told that Wormhole Station 3 should at this moment have been destroyed, though it would take ten hours for the light from the explosion to reach Illustrious and confirm the kill.
The wormhole station had been destroyed hours before any of the light from the battle would have reached it. No observer would be able to send the results of the combat on to Naxas or to the Naxid fleet. They would have to wait for Chenforce to pop out of the other side of the wormhole at Mazdan, and even then they wouldn’t know how Bleskoth’s squadron had been destroyed.
With two of their squadrons annihilated, here and at Hone-bar, maybe the Naxids would start to suspect that the loyalists had developed a new superweapon that could stamp out large forces at a single go. Martinez tried to console himself with the grim hope that the Naxids would spend a lot of time and money trying to figure out just what the weapon was.
Alikhan arrived, full of praise for the behavior and skill of Illustrious’s petty officers and weaponers, then he helped Martinez change into full dress for the captain’s supper. At Fletcher’s table Martinez was placed between Michi and Chandra Prasad. Relief and victory made the talk loud and joyous, a joy fueled by wine and toasts offered by the officers. When it came time for Martinez to raise his glass, he offered briefly, “To our comrades on the Beacon,” and for a moment the cheer at the captain’s table ebbed.
For the rest of the supper he remained silent unless spoken to, and without difficulty ignored the press of Chandra’s leg against his own.
After the meal, Martinez returned to his room and tossed each item of clothing to Alikhan as he removed it. “The ship’s doctor brought something for you, my lord,” Alikhan said, and indicated a packet on the tabletop.
Martinez opened the packet and rolled a thick capsule into his hand, a sleepsniff. “Why did the doctor bring this?” he asked. “I didn’t tell him to—”
“He brought it on the squadcom’s orders, my lord,” Alikhan said. “She wants you to get a good night’s sleep. She told me I’m not to disturb you in the morning until you call for me.”
Martinez looked at the object in his hand.
“You and Lady Michi, I think you’re a good team,” Alikhan said.
Without words, Martinez raised the sleepsniff in his two hands and broke the capsule under his nose. The bitter taste of the drug coated the back of his throat as he inhaled.
“You’ve been very busy these last days, my lord,” Alikhan said as he collected the broken capsule and dropped it in the cabin’s waste slot. “I’ll bet you haven’t even taken a look at the Maw.”
“The Maw?” Martinez repeated dumbly. He could already feel the drug stealing over his mind.
“I’ve always found it an impressive sight,” Alikhan said. “I’m sure you remember from when Corona was in the system.” He turned on the video over Martinez’s bed and switched the overhead tactical display to the feed from the cruiser’s outside cameras. “There we are, my lord. Sleep well.”
“Thank you,” Martinez said. He slid into his bed and Alikhan turned off the room lights as he made his way out.
Martinez stared up at the Maw, the ruddy luminous circle of supernova ejecta that dominated Protipanu’s sky. The picture feed was fantastically detailed, and he could make out details of the Maw’s architecture, luminescent swirls, mysterious dark clouds, smoky pillars.
He closed his eyes, and saw the faint glow of the red ring on the insides of his eyelids.
Much better, he thought, than seeing Beacon die all night, over and over.
It was his last thought for many hours.
With the red light of the Maw leaking through the view port, Lieutenant Shushanik Severin sat in the hushed silence of the control room and watched the Naxid squadron destroyed in ripples of distant fire. Knowing approximately when the battle was about to take place, he had brought his crew and his lifeboat back to the Protipanu system, drifting through the wormhole with engines dead and every passive sensor combing the darkness for the signs of combat.
When he’d left Protipanu three days earlier he’d steered straight for the Seizho wormhole station. The station had been abandoned, but it was still full of supplies, and for two days his crew had luxuriated in warm beds, unlimited hot showers, shaved chins, and giant meals.
His superiors on Seizho, Severin suspected, didn’t quite know what to do with him. He had disobeyed orders when he moved the wormhole, and so they would be justified in instituting disciplinary action; but on the other hand his action had prevented the system from being attacked by a Naxid squadron, and he had returned to Seizho with a load of intelligence and a field promotion from no less than Squadron Commander Chen. They decided, apparently, to follow Lady Michi’s lead, and sent congratulations and a series of commendations. Severin was to be awarded the Explorer’s Medal, and his crew the Award of Righteous Conduct.
Other news was less encouraging. The Naxids had taken Zanshaa.
His crew was surprised that, with the fall of the capital, the war would actually continue, but as soon as Severin heard the news he realized at once what Chenforce was hoping to accomplish: a massive raid into the enemy heartland while the Naxids were pinned down defending the capital. Severin approved. The plan had a devious flair that he found very much to his taste.
Returning to Protipanu had been his own idea. He hadn’t asked permission, merely informed Seizho that he was going. He would be on the other side of the wormhole before any objections reached him.
Now, as the sensors showed him ten enemy ships vaporized and seven loyalist survivors burning for Wormhole 3, Severin was pleased that he’d made the decision. He could inform the empire of another loyalist victory, ten enemy ships destroyed at the cost of a single warship. It might not reverse the blow that was suffered by the loss of Zanshaa, but it might help to boost the morale of the population and give any defectors second thoughts.
And Chenforce had used some interesting tactics to accomplish its victory. Severin was going to have to think about those.
Severin made certain that the lifeboat’s computers had successfully saved and duplicated the recordings of the battle, and then ordered the maneuvering jets to turn the lifeboat’s bow toward the wormhole, then the engine startup countdown resumed.
While he waited for the engine to fire he sent a message to the loyalist squadron. Knowing there were no longer any Naxids in the system to overhear, he used radio and sent his message in the clear.
“This is Lieutenant Severin to Squadron Commander Chen,” he said into the camera, and allowed a grin to break out on his face. “Congratulations on your sensational victory!” he said. “I’m in the system temporarily as an observer, and as soon as I return to Seizho, I’ll t
ransmit a full record to the authorities.” He paused, his grin fading, and then added, “I hope you’ll forgive my presumption in mentioning this, my lady, but I suggest that you double check the location of Wormhole Three as you approach. The Naxids may have moved it, the same way I moved Wormhole One.
“I’ll have left the system by the time this message reaches you. My best wishes for the success of your mission go with you. Message ends.”
The message was sent flying into the darkness just as the engine fired, and Severin instinctively raised a hand to keep his face from being splashed by a rain of cold water. There was no splash of water: the condensation had evaporated days ago.
Severin laughed. Life wasn’t simply good, it was interesting. And interesting was the best thing of all.
SIXTEEN
Ten days after the fall of the ring, the first message came to Zanshaa from the Naxids. Sula stepped over the empty iarogüt bottles in the hall and entered the backup apartment at Riverside to find Spence and Macnamara watching the wall video.
“It’s been going on for most of the last hour,” Macnamara said. “The Naxids are changing the administration of Zanshaa.”
The video showed a Daimong announcer, who was reading the same announcement over and over. The choice of a Daimong was a good one, Sula thought—that fixed face couldn’t show emotion, and if there were emotion in the voice, only other Daimong would detect it.
The Sundering Page 38
