It was all useless, of course. Unless the trading station itself had some fairly significant armament, the Odurans had no defense worth looking at. Kenning’s corvettes could mop up the entire group alone if it came to it, and from the way the three ships under his command were edging forward, Jacob didn’t think that Kenning would be hesitant to do it. If anyone with any brains was in command on the Oduran side, a signal for surrender would be coming in long before the flotilla reached railgun range.
Five minutes later, the Communications officer sat up in surprise. He glanced at Jacob and hesitated until he received a gesture of permission. The Oduran signal, from the beginning, played out over the bridge’s speakers.
“This is Carl Mendoza of the Oduran Reflection Project. I have been placed by President Banks in command of this outreach outpost, and the surrounding vessels are under my responsibility and authority as well.” The speaker paused, and Jacob could picture Mendoza drawing in an unsteady breath. He was likely going to be held responsible for the destruction of the trading post no matter what happened, and the next words were going to be difficult for anyone to say, no matter their rank or official status.
Nevertheless, Mendoza’s voice was firm as he continued. “We will not resist your occupation of this station. The League has established this outpost in the hope of finding com—”
The words cut off with a jarring screech of static. Jacob jerked in his chair transmission died, and his eyes widened as the number of ships in the projection suddenly multiplied. Each one glowed red as the ships riftjumped in, and the odds went from favoring the Celostian flotilla to being heavily outnumbered in a heartbeat.
Cruisers, destroyers, frigates and corvettes all flashed into sudden existence, and Jacob found himself looking at a sizable Oduran flotilla. At the center of the flotilla was a giant vessel, larger than any cruiser. It was a broad, armored turtle hurtling through space, with banks of railgun turrets and missile launchers lining its flanks. The layers of cerrafiber that sheathed it were thick enough even a plasma lance would have trouble penetrating. Along its dorsal armor were sigils that identified it as a Banner class dreadnaught, and unless Jacob was completely in the wrong, it was General Al-mustafa’s flagship. The Oduran commander had come early, and had brought along an entire task force for the ride.
He braced himself when the Odurans instantly opened fire. Railgun shells, missiles, torpedoes, even plasma lances filled space, but to his astonishment not a single shot had been aimed in his direction. For that matter, none of the ships in the Celostian flotilla had been targeted; it was as if the Odurans remained completely ignorant of the enemies closing on them at full speed.
Instead, the ships around the trading post received the full brunt of the attack. Three of the larger vessels disappeared in sudden, violent explosions as railguns tore them to shreds. A fourth managed to stagger out of the barrage of gunfire only for a torpedo to slam into it amidships. The unarmed merchant crumpled as if it had been made of tin foil, and then a vicious wash of plasma obliterated it. Only the fifth and final merchantmen, the modified Hatchet class frigate, survived. It had been crippled by the attack. As it drifted closer to a Brute class cruiser, helpless and unable to maneuver or fire back, two brilliant beams of thermonuclear fire converged on it. Both plasma lances cut a swath of destruction through the already weakened hull, and they left an eviscerated, burning wreck in their wake.
Skiffs, shuttles, and smaller merchantmen died as the Odurans’ fire swatted at them, wiping them away as if they were a cloud of gnats. A few managed to evade the shots long enough to bring their sails fully online, but their evasive maneuvers only delayed the inevitable. Frigates and corvettes, already at full power, swept down over them like hawks and picked them apart with ease. Jacob felt his stomach twist with disgust and shock as he realized the Odurans were even shooting escape pods, tearing them apart with casual bursts of their point defense turrets.
Even the trading post failed to escape the holocaust. The missiles fired by the Oduran newcomers curved around, tracking on the facility half-hidden in the Wayward comet’s wake. Blast after blast backlit the vaporous cloud, filling it with fire and fragments of exploding missiles. Whatever technique the Odurans had used to fasten the station in orbit, it failed under the relentless barrage, and the facility now tumbled free. Jacob had only a few heartbeats to appreciate how it must have originally looked; a stubby, sleek platform with multiple docks and plenty of storage space and communications towers.
Now, however, it had been riddled with missile fire, and flaming atmosphere trailed behind its tumbling path like a mane. As Jacob watched, another half dozen missiles curved in towards the mauled station, and detonated so close its remaining superstructure might as well have been a cobweb. The fragments spewing from those explosions swept across the station, ripping open compartments, severing supports and chewing holes in the station’s core. For a moment, the station was backlit by those blasts, an uncertain, wavering silhouette in space.
Then the station’s fusion plants let loose, and the entire facility disintegrated in a series of volcanic eruptions of plasma and shrapnel.
The entire massacre lasted only a minute. From start to finish, the newcomers had broadcasted that same, harsh jamming signal, and now that their prey had been silenced those jammers were starting to fall quiet as well. Jacob found himself letting out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. They’d jammed their own communications lines, not the Celostian frequencies. What benefit would that have produced? For that matter, what could possibly have convinced the Odurans to slaughter their own tradesmen?
There was no time to ponder that question. The Odurans had jumped in only a minute out of railgun range, and their formation was now a disheveled mess. Though they now far outnumbered the Celostian task force bearing down on them, the mission still had a chance to succeed if they struck now, while the enemy was still disorganized and unable to concentrate their firepower. Even as those thoughts raced through his mind, a signal came through from the Badger. Jacob punched the button on his console, and Admiral Nivrosky’s voice came over the circuit, hard and unwavering.
“All task force units, engage the enemy immediately. Repeat, all units open fire as the enemy comes into range. You are to place priority on disabling or destroying the enemy dreadnaught. Admiral Nivrosky out.”
Then they were on the first of the Oduran ships. A small group of frigates and corvettes had swung out to chase down a small trading craft, tearing it mercilessly apart with close range railgun fire. Their eagerness had put them closest to the Celostian task force, and the signal jamming meant their awareness of the threat had been delayed. Now the whole batch of them was directly in the path of Squadron 43.
Jacob smiled grimly at the projection as the Odurans fell within range. He tapped a control. “Captain Hull to Squadron 43, open fire on incoming Oduran light craft, then proceed to the next set of targets. Hull out.”
It was too late to avoid the destroyers completely, but that didn’t mean the Odurans didn’t try. Corvettes swerved wildly. Others shut down their DE rigs in an attempt to alter their speed and vector. Still others increased their speed, perhaps attempting to run by the destroyers on their way to the Celostian units behind them. Frigates responded more slowly, their greater size making the adjustment harder. Then, when it became all too clear the engagement was inevitable, the Odurans opened fire in a hail of railgun shells and missiles.
Jacob felt Terrier shake as the destroyer’s gun decks responded. Patterns of shells bracketed the onrushing Oduran craft, and Jacob saw streaks of light begin to illuminate his projection as Countermeasures picked up incoming fire. He gripped the arms of his command chair, pressing himself back into his seat. Flashes of hits Wolfhound had taken in Reefhome danced before his eyes, and then the shells arrived.
Terrier shook as railgun shells exploded all around her. Some managed to penetrate her defensive screen in short bursts that bounced off the cerrafiber armor. Others
exploded just short of the ship, speared at the last moment by a burst of thermonuclear fire from a defense turret. None of them had nearly as much of an effect as the three shells that broke through the swirling waves of shell fragments, the streams of plasma, and the uncaring emptiness of space to slam directly into the destroyer’s hull.
The first two shots came from a frigate maneuvering off Terrier’s starboard side. Both shells struck aft of the arms containing the gun decks. They ripped into the starboard armor like wrecking balls. Explosions tore chunks of the ship into smoking craters. Shockwaves shuddered throughout the ship as the destroyer continued forward. As severe as those hits happened to be, neither had managed to severely weaken the destroyer’s offensive capability. The officer’s mess was likely open to space, and the training deck was nothing but a smoking ruin, but his crew and weapons were still intact.
Such was not the case with the third blow. It came from directly ahead of the Terrier, fired by a corvette that had taken the dubious strategy of speeding up and maneuvering suicidally close to the Terrier. It flew past the shattered ruins of its fellows, slipped between the frantic lashes of plasma energy spraying from defensive turrets, and struck cerrafiber weakened by showers of shell fragments, with all the relative velocity of both ships lending it extra force. In the best of circumstances, such a hit would have been a severe blow. With conditions far worse than ideal, it was devastating.
The Oduran shell pierced the layers of cerrafiber armor, shattering them. It plowed through plates of hardened ceramic alloy and carbon nanofiber nets. It punched a ragged hole in the hull metal beneath, passed a few more centimeters, and detonated, turning Gun Deck A into a tiny pocket of hell. Fire and shrapnel vomited out of the breached compartment, and the three guns assigned to that fire control station went still.
Jacob felt lead sink into his gut at the sight of the damage reports from the blasted area. Isaac, the officer in charge of the guns, should have been near Gun Deck A in central fire control. Even as the shockwaves rolled up the ship to the bridge, Jacob felt himself shake inside as he realized his friend might have been killed by that blow, and that he had died still believing Jacob had turned on him.
Grief welled up, but Jacob shoved it aside. A quick check showed Beagle had survived the same devastating barrage, though the ship had taken damage. Craters pockmarked the underside of the second Hunter class craft, and flaming atmosphere was leaking from the area that held the ensign’s quarters. Still, Leon had apparently managed to avoid severe damage, and his ship was still tucked in alongside the Terrier.
Bad as it had been for Jacob’s ships, the Odurans had fared a hell of a lot worse. Corvettes and frigates sported better acceleration and maneuverability, but armor was severely lacking. Shells punched through their hulls like they were paper, and at least one shot hit a Hawkbeak class ship in a fusion reactor. The ship fountained plasma, evaporating hull plates, armor, and crew as the super-hot substance spilled over the length of it. Two other corvettes tumbled out of the other side of the engagement, just as terribly damaged. A frigate went with them, its superstructure broken and ruined.
The remainder of the Oduran ships staggered on, their formation ruined and their ships in tatters. Those who weren’t nursing wounds from their run past the destroyers were still completely isolated from their opponents and struggling to turn and fight the Hunter class ships now diving away from them. Their obvious desire to avenge themselves on the ships under Jacob’s command almost brought a smile to his face, given how foolish their maneuvers were now. The cost they had paid to achieve that effect was enough to keep him somber, however.
Jacob’s former targets were still coming around when Celostian corvettes and frigates came sweeping in behind his destroyers. Their angle of attack was different, but their velocity and maneuverability were both higher. Unlike Jacob’s ships, they had the leisure of selecting their targets from an already disoriented, scattered pack. Jacob watched in satisfaction as an Arrowhead and a Knife lined up a run on an isolated Hatchet class frigate. The corvette made first contact, sprinting past the blade shaped vessel firing its single railgun. It managed to score two glancing hits, shaking the point defense crews up enough for the Knife’s follow-up salvo to rip through the Oduran ship. Other firing runs by the rest of the Celostian ships managed to kill another corvette outright and cripple the last of the frigates. The lone remaining ship, a solitary Bullet class corvette with a crater on its prow, turned and dove. Its crew was probably hoping to lose itself in the clash shaping up below.
Jacob turned his attention back to the course his destroyers were following. Directly ahead was another group of ships made up of a Brute class cruiser and two Crossbow class destroyers. It was an effective formation; Brute class cruisers were notorious for their close range firepower, while the Crossbows normally sported multiple missile launchers. Keying the command communications circuit, Jacob snapped out orders.
“Squadron 43, focus on the destroyers and stay clear of the cruiser. Terrier, hit the one to port. Beagle, take the starboard side. Hit the cruiser with sailjammers, then form up on the far side.”
Even as the words left his mouth, missiles streamed out of the Crossbows, aiming for some distant target below them where the main body of the Celostian task force was plowing through the waves of Oduran craft. Jacob gritted his teeth at the casualties those weapons would cause, but at least they hadn’t realized the danger his ships presented to them. A missile volley straight into his squadron’s teeth would be devastating.
Unfortunately, the cruiser seemed to have realized how much of a threat the Hunters could be. Heavy railgun batteries and plasma lances swept out to greet the destroyers as they moved in for the kill. None of the lances came close enough to make contact, but Terrier shuddered as more shells impacted on the armor.
Ensign Remmers called out from his station. “We have more casualties in Engineering. Gun Deck A continues to be offline.”
Flint’s voice was tight. “Transfer control of any operational guns to Decks B and C. All weapons target the enemy destroyer.”
Both destroyers opened fire, and a rain of heavy railgun shells pounded the Oduran craft. Their captains tried to swerve out of the way at the last minute, but the maneuver was too little, too late. Armor plates shattered and fragmented. Flames streamed from the wounded ships. Terrier’s target reeled away. One of the branching arms had snapped off where it had met the central hull. Beagle’s opponent fared far worse, with its entire forward sections ablaze. Jacob’s ships had shot past the enemy, and he watched with dread as the cruiser’s rear batteries swiveled to target his destroyers’ vulnerable DE sails.
Then four torpedoes slammed straight into the Brute class ship, staggering the bulky craft with a terrible blow. A glance at his console told him the projectiles had been launched by the Crown class cruiser Henry, and he sent a mental prayer of thanks for the timely assistance. The Celostian cruiser closed with its wounded opponent, the two ships exchanging fire in a rain of railgun shells.
Jacob turned his attention forward again. An opening in the Oduran formation would have allowed him a straight line at the enemy dreadnaught. In spite of the incredible defenses the flagship must have offered Al-Mustafa, the general had clearly decided discretion was the better part of valor. The dreadnaught turned to run, giving Jacob’s ships a clear shot at her DE sail rigs. If they could close, they could cripple her and allow the rest of the Navy to catch her before she jumped again.
Just as he was about to give the orders, Al-shira’s voice crackled over the communications line from Badger. “Captain Hull, you have incoming enemy corvettes from the rear. Repeat, you have incoming enemy ships from behind you. Watch your backs!”
“Damn it!” Jacob caught sight of the Oduran ships, arcing up from the main fight. Their greater speed had allowed them to turn up and into his course. That meant they would have those same clear shots at his own DE rigs he had wanted on the dreadnaught, and his ships would end up just as crip
pled. “Terrier, Beagle, prepare to reverse course and decelerate on my mark. Engage enemy corvettes as they close to close range. Three, two, one, mark!”
His stomach jumped into his throat and he rose, almost weightless in his restraints as Terrier flipped end for end. The Helm officer had performed the maneuver perfectly, and as the DE sails reengaged, the corvettes found themselves lined up directly in the gunners’ fields of fire. Though their guns had to still be cooling from the firing run on the destroyers, every gun opened up again, sending a flurry of hurried bursts towards their enemies. The corvettes scattered before the sudden assault. Their own responding shots were badly off target, and the few that were well aimed were intercepted by defense fire.
As the corvettes swept past, Jacob saw the dreadnaught had gained a small screening force. Two Club class destroyers and three Hatchet class frigates filled the opening he had meant to dive through. Worse than that, a Scythe class cruiser had joined them, the large craft already rolling to present the lines of missile bays along its dorsal hull. That ship alone had the firepower to wipe out his squadron if they did not close quickly, but even then the escorts would be more than a match for his ships.
Yet there was no choice. If the dreadnaught was going to be stopped, he had to give the order. “Squadron 43, resume original course and accelerate. Attempt to pass close to the cruiser and target the frigates as we pass. We’ll punch through and try to hit the dreadnaught as she runs.”
Flint jerked visibly. His voice seemed almost on the breaking point. “Sir, if we close with them—”
“I know, Commander. Follow your orders!” Jacob met the man’s eyes for a moment, keeping his face firm as Flint studied him. Then Flint turned to the Helm officer and gave a sharp nod. Again the ship switched directions, this time crushing Jacob down into his seat as they flipped, and both destroyers accelerated madly toward the enemy ships. As quickly as they carried out the maneuver, though, it was too late. Missile targeting alarms began to blare as the Scythe’s missile bays opened, and Jacob fought the urge to close his eyes against the barrage he knew would come.
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