Flagship (A Captain's Crucible #1)

by Isaac Hooke

  Miko ran some calculations.

  "At least half," the tactical officer said. "Assuming the aliens don't change their course dramatically and cause the missiles to exhaust their propellants."

  "Even if they don't, they'll still have to micro-correct their trajectories. Remember, I want to use ordinary missiles this time. No nukes." In theory, the missiles would leave debris, whereas nukes completely vaporized everything in the blast radius if detonated prematurely.

  Miko nodded. "We could use that to our advantage. Time and direct the different waves to account for any predicted micro changes. Use the expected debris as a sort of mortar noose."

  "Now you're talking," Robert said. "But we still need to get close enough to ensure they don't change their course too drastically. And I'm certainly not going to let them come to us. I want to minimize our potential exposure to their damn particle beams." He rubbed his earlobe. "All right. Here's what we're going to do. I want the entire task unit moving forward. Angle thirty-five degrees away from the enemy, inclination twenty degrees. Include the Selene, Grimm, and Marley in that order. I want us moving forward at the speed of our slowest members. And make sure those latter three ships give the incoming targets a wide berth."

  "Plotting course change and increasing speed to three-fourths," the helmsman said.

  Miko retransmitted the order to the rest of the task unit. He glanced at Robert. "The Marley can only manage seventy percent speed."

  "Helm, adjust speed down," Robert said. "Can the fighters keep up?"

  "Yes sir. The Avengers, too. Barely. Should we increase speed to shake them?"

  "No." He glanced at Lewis. "Ops, have you been able to determine the location of the enemy weapon mounts?"

  "According to the CDC," the ensign said. "The particle beam turret is positioned on the nose. They appear to be able to direct the beam within a thirty-five degree angle in all directions. Just underneath it is the gamma ray and EMP launch port."

  "Both ships have the same weapon mounts?" Robert said.

  "Yes sir," Lewis said.

  "What about the fighter launch tubes we spotted earlier on the capital ship? Does the smaller ship have them?"

  "The launch tubes are restricted to the capital ship," Lewis said.

  "They might have more fighters in reserve, ready to throw our way," Robert said. "Ensign. We haven't seen the aft regions of any of their ships yet, have we?"

  "I made scans of the second group when it flew by at the two hundred thousand kilometer mark. It appears there are only thrust nozzles in that area."

  "All right, good. So that leaves particle beam weapon on their noses, capable of thirty-five degree firing vectors. Plus a gamma ray weapon that can potentially fill our breached decks with radiation."

  "Sir," Miko said. "The Marley is reporting back that two of its engines are inoperable. They'll only be able to travel at half speed, now."

  "Damn it," Robert said. "Have the fleet match their speed."

  "Enemy fighters are continuing to harass the task unit," Ensign Lewis said.

  "Come on Avengers," Robert muttered. "Do your job."

  He studied the 3D display. It was time to update their course. "Helm, adjust trajectory. I want us passing twenty thousand kilometers off the port bow of the nearest target. Miko, have the task unit match our course. And continue to keep our most vulnerable vessels shielded behind our warships."

  The minutes ticked by as the two opposing groups approached. The enemy targets continued to periodically fire their gamma weapons, inflicting dosages of radiation ranging from minor to moderate depending on the existing damage to the targeted hull areas. Those gammas were usually followed by a burst of relativistic electrons, but the ship-wide electronics held up. However the sick bay was quickly filling up with the radiation poisoned.

  The enemy closed to the one hundred thousand kilometer mark.

  "They're slowing down," Lewis announced.

  Robert regarded the tactical display overlaying his vision.

  "What are you doing?" he said softly. Louder: "Can we get a tracking view of the target? Maximum zoom."

  "Targets are picking up speed again," Lewis said.

  The zoom view became available. Robert saw nothing out of the ordinary, so he canceled it.

  A few minutes later the targets passed the seventy-five thousand kilometer mark.

  "Launch half the remaining missiles fleet-wide," Robert instructed Miko. "And a quarter of the mortars. Divide them between the two targets, and time them to arrive at the enemy ships in successive waves. I want the mortars directly in the paths of the targets. Force them to fire their particle beams. Then have the missiles move in. Time and direct the different waves so that any missile debris becomes part of a mortar noose, as we discussed."

  Miko took a few moments to come up with a firing solution. Then he said:

  "Launching weapons."

  The missiles broke away from the task unit, heading diagonal to their main direction of travel.

  In another five minutes the targets closed to fifty thousand kilometers.

  "Both targets are altering trajectory," Ensign Lewis said. "They're braking rapidly and veering to the left. It appears they're trying to cut us off. They've moved out of the path of the mortars in the process. The missiles are changing course to pursue but it looks like the weapons are going to run out of propellant before reaching the target."

  "I fired too soon," Robert said. He stared at the display. He realized that the capital ship was pulling ahead of the smaller one, leading the way.

  The commander could fire more missiles and mortars at it... no. He had wasted enough as it was. He might need the few that remained, yet.

  "It's a close encounter they want, is it?" Robert said. "Prepare to fire Vipers. Let's give them a broadside they won't forget."

  "We only have five turrets working on our port bank, sir," Miko said.

  "That's fine." He was happy to have any working at all. The starboard bank was still completely disabled, and he was beginning to doubt it would ever come back online. "Instruct the fleet to concentrate fire on the damaged portions of the capital ship's hull."

  "What about the smaller ship?" Miko asked.

  "I haven't forgotten it," Robert said. "We'll target it the next pass." If there was a next pass.

  He stared at the 3D display.

  "Flyby will occur at the ten thousand kilometer range," Miko announced.

  Robert rubbed his sweaty palms together. The fleet was twenty thousand kilometers to the enemy targets.

  "Come on..." Robert said.

  Fifteen thousand kilometers.

  "Come on..."

  Ten thousand kilometers.

  "I'm detecting a thermal—" Ensign Lewis began.

  "Fire," Robert said.

  "Firing," Miko returned.

  White lines appeared on the tactical display, sourced from both sides as the dueling ships exchanged fire. Then the lines vanished and both fleets continued on their separate ways.

  There was no change in the number of dots on the display. No wait... two of the task unit's blue dots had vanished.

  "Tactical, what happened?" Robert said.

  "We lost the Linea and the Selene," Miko answered.

  Robert closed his eyes.

  Ensign Lewis spoke: "I'm detecting the launch of several lifepods from the wreckage."

  "That's something, at least. Tell me we hit them good in return."

  "We did," Lewis said. "According to this, our concentrated Viper blasts blew a hole right through to the other side of the capital ship's hull. They're not making any attempt to turn around for another pass. In fact, they're accelerating away. The smaller ship is joining it."

  "Enemy fighters are pulling away, too," Miko said.

  Robert watched the Avengers pursue the fighters a short ways but the enemy quickly outran them. If they reversed course now, the Callaway and other fast ships might be able to run down those fighters before they reached the capital sh
ip, but the commander decided to let them go. His fleet had its own wounds to lick. Plus more pressing concerns:

  "Helm, full stop. Tactical, recall fighters." Robert stared at Task Unit One on the display. "Time to do whatever we can to help the Hurricane."

  There was a blinding flash on the external video feed, which he had kept running in the upper right of his aReal overlay. "What the hell was that?"

  He no longer saw Task Unit One on the tactical display. Nor the second group of enemies that were assailing them. There were no blue or red dots in that area whatsoever.

  "My aReal seems to be malfunctioning—" Robert began.

  "It's functioning," Miko said. He sounded stunned. "I'm receiving reports from my counterparts throughout the flotilla, confirming our readings. The Fortitude... it detonated, sir. They activated the planet killer. The second enemy group, and the closest members of Task Unit One, they're completely gone. There's no wreckage. Nothing."

  Robert was quiet for several moments. He blinked rapidly. "Status on the remaining ships from Task Unit One?"

  "Only a single ship remains," Ensign Lewis said. "The Salvador."

  "Why isn't she showing up on my aReal?"

  "She appears to have comm node damage. She's limping away from the detonation site. The wreckages of the Devastator and the Halberd reside four hundred thousand kilometers behind her. I'm detecting lifepods in their general vicinities."

  "What about the Hurricane?" Robert asked.

  Lewis shook her head. "Lost with the Fortitude."

  Robert sat back. "Five thousand human lives. Gone in the blink of an eye." More than that, if the escort vessels were counted.

  A part of Robert had wanted the admiral to lose, but now that it had happened he hated himself for ever having such thoughts.

  Sure I wanted him to lose. But not like this.

  He had imagined a surrender. Not the nearly complete destruction of Task Unit One.

  "We're the flagship, now," Ensign Lewis said. Shock, disbelief, anger... her tone conveyed those emotions and more in that moment.

  "Status on the remaining two enemy craft?" Robert asked, forcing himself to focus.

  Lewis didn't reply.

  "Ensign!" Robert said.

  "Remaining two craft are continuing to retreat," Lewis finally answered.

  "Do we have an update on their heading?"

  "They appear to be making for the far Slipstream, 1-Vega," the ensign said. "To rejoin the remaining alien vessel in the system."

  At least Robert wouldn't have to worry about the threat from that angle. For the moment.

  "Maxwell, current location of Jonathan Dallas?" Robert said.

  He was expecting the AI to reply with the usual: "Unknown. Last known location the brig."

  But instead Maxwell said: "Jonathan Dallas is no longer aboard the Callaway."

  twenty-two

  Jonathan lay on a hospital bed. The heart rate monitor beeped incessantly beside him—his hands and feet throbbed painfully in time. He felt nothing at all in his fingers and toes. Beside him lay other patients whom he didn't recognize.

  The nurse came. She wore a white clinical mask, obscuring the lower half of her face. She unwrapped the gauze that covered his right hand. The fingers were black. Seeing them, Jonathan felt suddenly very hot. He broke out in sweat and dry retched.

  "You suffered minor frostbite to your nose and ears," the woman was saying. "But the damage was the most severe to your fingers and toes. We're going to have to amputate and replace them."

  "I don't want them replaced," Jonathan said.

  The woman turned toward him and lowered her clinical mask.

  It was Famina. Behind her floated the Dominion, split in half down the middle.

  "I tried to help you," Jonathan told her.

  "Wake up," she told him.

  "I tried to—"

  "Wake up!"

  He opened his eyes.

  Stars filled his sight, the peripheries of his vision constrained by the rim of a helmet. A cooling undergarment pressed into his body.

  What—?

  And then he remembered.

  He glanced at the oxygen level indicated on the HUD. He had floated out there at least half a day, judging from the amount of O2 remaining.

  The slow beeping of the heart rate monitor from intensive care continued in the background. Except it wasn't a heart rate monitor: the tone accompanied the flashing "air release malfunction" message on his HUD.

  Abruptly the warning ceased, as did the beeping.

  Apparently whatever was blocking the vent had cleared.

  Jonathan tried the release. Sure enough, he could now vent oxygen again. Not that it mattered. He had no use for emergency propulsion, not when he had no idea where the Callaway even was. He was quite literally lost in space.

  The HUD's rear-view camera overlay wasn't working, so he issued a spurt from the side vent to turn around, not sure what he expected to see. He rotated a full three hundred sixty degrees and then issued a counter spurt to halt the spin. He repeated the motion in the vertical direction. Not unexpectedly, there was nothing out there.

  He fumbled for the PASS mechanism—Personal Alert Safety System—at his belt, and confirmed that it was on. Not that it mattered: the spacesuit version of the device wasn't powerful enough to transmit farther than several hundred kilometers or so. And the weak thermal signature of his suit wouldn't even register as anything but background noise beyond a few kilometers. Space was a very big, very vast, place. If the Callaway was looking for him, they likely had at least a five million square kilometer area to deal with: it would be like trying to find an individual bacterium on a grain of sand on a beach.

  Yes. He was screwed. Famina, why did you wake me up to this?

  He sighed. At least he still wore his aReal, with all its terabytes of locally cached content. He had told Robert he wanted to retire in VR. Well, it looked like he was going to die in VR instead.

  It was a fitting end for a former Vaddict like himself, he supposed.

  He pulled up the app browser and perused the list of programs and simulations. He navigated into the "memories" section, which contained the VR recordings he'd made over his lifetime. He scrolled through nostalgically-named entries like My First Time On The Bridge and My First Promotion.

  And then motion drew his eye to the star-studded backdrop of space beyond the HUD.

  A lifeless Avenger class fighter drifted by. An incredible coincidence, not only because it passed so close, but because its speed was only a few kilometers per second different from his own.

  Thank you, Famina.

  The fighter was one of the unmanned versions—it was missing the cockpit bulge that would have been present otherwise. The vessel looked relatively intact, save for a gaping hole under the front starboard side, precisely where the AI system was located. It was possible the fighter was still mostly functional, and merely inactive because of the damaged AI. With luck, it had a working communication node Jonathan could link his aReal to.

  Even so, getting to the fighter would be tricky. If he didn't want to use up all his remaining oxygen he'd have to precisely time his emergency venting.

  Taking a deep breath, he released the first spurt and headed toward the craft...

  twenty-three

  Jonathan paused outside the bridge entry hatch. Would his crew accept him? They had seen how capable Robert was in command. He had, too: he'd spent the night under observation in sick bay, and he'd used the time to watch archival footage from the latest battle. Robert had commanded admirably. More than admirably. A part of Jonathan felt he should permanently abdicate and let his first officer remain in command.

  I have no business in the captain's chair.

  Jonathan took a deep breath. He reminded himself that Robert had not cleanly won the previous engagement. The first officer had damaged the enemy, yes, though at the cost of two warships. And arguably it was the detonation of the planet killer that had routed the enemy. Sti
ll, Jonathan doubted he could have done a better job.

  But when the time came, he would certainly try.

  He stepped onto the bridge.

  "Welcome aboard, Captain," Robert said. "Maxwell, as acting commodore of the fifth task group of the Seventh Fleet's second task force, I hereby restore Jonathan Dallas to his previous position as captain of the flagship Callaway."

  "Affirmative," Maxwell said. "It is good to see you again, Captain."

  Jonathan ignored the AI, nodded at Robert, and took his place at the Round Table. The officers smiled and nodded in greeting.

  He had come home.

  "Ops, status report," Jonathan said.

  "Roughly half the lifepods from the Linea, Selene, Devastator and Halberd have been collected," Ensign Lewis said. "Rescue operations are ongoing in the wreckages of said crafts."

  "Robert, have you been working with the other captains to assign them suitable berths and crew positions?"

  "I have," the commander said.

  "Good. Anything else?" Jonathan asked Lewis.

  "I don't know how much the commander has told you..." Lewis began.

  "Absolutely nothing," Jonathan said.

  "Well," Lewis said. "We discovered some drifting wreckage from one of the alien ships, near the Halberd. A wing segment of some kind. We dispatched a drone team to investigate and discovered one of the aliens on board. We believe it's injured."

  "I asked the Lieutenant Commander of the MOTH platoons to come up with a capture scenario," Robert said. "And our chief scientist is working on a containment plan as we speak."

  "Is that wise?" Jonathan asked his first officer. "I watched the footage recorded by the Centurions before the MOTH chief blew up the deck to expel our intruder. Though it looks harmless, that dark mass packs a mighty punch." He was lucky the intruder hadn't fired at him and Bridgette like it had done to the robots. Then again, he hadn't threatened it with plasma fire. "Do we really want something like that aboard?"

  "Our chief scientist analyzed the footage, too, and she's positive she can build a container that will hold up to those attacks," Robert said. "Besides, if the alien is injured, we have an obligation to help it. It has rights as a prisoner of war. We can't treat it any differently than a human being."