In order to minimize his exposure, SystemLord had brought his ships close in order to reach each other with fusors. The tough armored skin of the Destroyers could easily withstand the sun-hot gouts of plasma for brief moments, as an Underling would pass a finger through a candle flame.
His own ships would be killing fields.
On those armored ship skins he had seeded fast-growth polyps over a thin layer of nutrients, giving the Destroyers a sheen of life guaranteed to attract the Scourge. It amused him to think how the ravening hordes would be irresistibly drawn to it, only to be burned, burned, burned, slight but sweet revenge for the damage done to the Empire.
If he must fight, he might as well enjoy his enemy’s misery.
Now, eight great vessels hung in the void, seven surrounding his flagship where they could cover it with fire from all angles. The ships were close, very close in space terms, just far enough apart that thermonuclear explosions would not reach more than one at a time.
“The Scourge has many ships,” his Survey One said.
“Cease your imprecise communication if it adds no information,” SystemLord said. “My plan is flawless. As long as all execute properly, you have nothing to fear.”
“I hear and obey, SystemLord,” the other answered. And then, a moment later, “They are firing.”
A blizzard of energy weapons reached for his ships, most of them missing but enough impacting that the naked polyps began to die. No matter: that was their function. “Begin acceleration away from them, gently. Extend the time before they try to board us.”
“It will be done.”
His spherical ships turned as one, pointing engines toward the enemy and igniting them. The rate of the following swarm’s closure diminished, and the fusion torches themselves became weapons. The enemy avoided them, of course, which channeled them into denser zones.
“We should fire fusors,” Rear Fusor One said.
“Not yet,” said the Meme commander. “The more densely packed they are, they more efficient our fusors.”
“Already their lasers and plasma torpedoes impact us.”
SystemLord’s communication molecules expressed derision. “Our armor can withstand direct thermonuclear blasts, and you are frightened of packets of plasma fired in magnetic bottles?”
“SystemLord…there are many weapons.”
“How many?”
“Approximately six hundred thousand have struck us since they came within range. Our armor has been ablated by over seven percent in certain locales.”
Shocked for a moment at the high number, SystemLord refused to let his subordinates know. “Very well. Begin the spiral motion. Increase acceleration and selectively target the largest enemy clusters. Do not be profligate with fuel!”
Immediately upon receipt of his orders, each Destroyer began a slow spin around its axis and induced a slight wobble. Now, the great jets of its fusion engine described continuous helixes, dramatically widening their threats to the pursuing swarm. At the same time, fusors flared, reaching out to wash dozens, even hundreds of enemy craft from space.
Yet, hundreds of thousands followed.
“Rear armor ablated by sixteen percent,” Command One said. “We must increase our weapons fire.”
SystemLord considered One’s words but said nothing. As painful as it was to lose some rear armor, every moment drew this swarm further into space, away from the mothership and its other, equally large swarm, which had already turned to rejoin its fellows.
“Twenty-two percent,” Command One said, more stridently.
“Increase spiral motion and power to the engines. Increase fusor fire to fifty percent of maximum.”
At his order, the Destroyers spun even harder, faster, with fusors like flamethrowers spurting outward. Thousands of small Scourge vessels fell, but tens of thousands continued to follow.
The swarm closed in.
“SystemLord –”
“Maximum spiral. Fire at full effect.”
Tens of thousands more Scourge were vaporized, crisped, blotted from space by temperatures of a million degrees or more, but even the ravening fusors of eight dreadnoughts could not be everywhere at once.
“Armor ablated by more than fifty percent and rising. They are landing,” Destroyer Command One reported in a near panic. “They are disembarking troops and drilling into our armor.”
SystemLord ordered, “All vessels close in and sterilize our skin.”
The seven outer vessels stabilized their spins, still belching fusor fire at a prodigal rate. Ignoring the landings on their own outer hulls, they closed in around the flagship and focused their blowtorches on its surface. The tough armor, even damaged as it was, resisted the heat of the friendly fire, and uncounted Scourgelings and their Soldier leaders died.
In moments, SystemLord’s vessel was free of enemy, though not without great gouges and pits of damage. A few of the Scourges had managed to activate nuclear suicide charges, blowing craters in the tough ferrocrystal-infused outer covering of the Destroyer.
“This ship will retreat, maximum acceleration. The others will work together to scour their skins in turn.” In moments, SystemLord’s vessel streaked away, leaving the seven others of his command to fight. The stingships he had held in reserve swooped in to cover his retreat.
In another species this action might have been deemed cowardly, but Meme had little sense of honor or self-sacrifice. As SystemLord, he was entitled to preserve his life, ruthlessly sacrificing others if necessary. However, he did not intend to throw away his forces.
As soon as his own ship was far enough away, he ordered it halted to observe and supervise. His seven remaining Destroyers engaged the swarm in a complex dance, allowing waves of assault craft to alight on their skins, then presenting these landing zones to their fellows’ fusor fire. According to SystemLord’s plan, they repeatedly ambushed the Scourge.
This strategy was not without cost. First one, then another of the firepower of his dreadnoughts trickled away, until the two became hulks overrun by hundreds of thousands of Scourgelings eating them from within. SystemLord had known that as soon as the enemy penetrated to his ships’ soft insides, they could not be stopped. Interior defense forces for Meme ships were simply too few.
Escape pods blasted away from the two doomed ships, his subordinate Meme flushed down tubes and distilled into missile-sized drones containing only their essences. They could be rehydrated later, as long as their memory molecules survived.
Many of these were shot down by the eager enemy fighters, but some ran the gauntlet, and SystemLord directed his ship to launch recovery craft. Loyal subordinates of the Pure Race were not resources to be wasted.
For long moments the battle hung in the balance as the swarm’s numbers dwindled, and then they abruptly broke off the attack. All Scourge craft still flying – mostly fighters and gunships, which had never tried to land – turned tail and ran, leaving the remnants of their assault forces to die. SystemLord spat frustration as one more Destroyer ceased fighting and flushed its crew, though at least all the pods escaped to be recovered.
Five Destroyers remained, several of them badly damaged, but living ships needed only time, materials and energy to heal. SystemLord reminded himself, and then told his crew, that it could have been far worse. His plan had not resulted in the stunning victory he had hoped for, but neither had it brought disaster.
As the enemy swarm retreated toward its mothership, he redistributed crews, regrouped his surviving ships around the carcasses of their dead fellows and told them to eat. That their food included the remaining enemy Scourgelings that even now ate those dead Destroyers in turn mattered not one whit. Food was food.
Chapter 41
Archon Yort screamed blazes of light as the half-swarm attacking the enemy nests took horrendous casualties. The assault had started out well enough, but the closer his forces came, the more died. By the time the loss rate became untenable, it was too late. The physics of pursuit committed
him to action.
When his Mandibles finally came to grips with the enemy, progress improved. The skins of the enemy nests, while tough, were not impervious, and his forces reported successful burrowing, using everything from suicide explosives to the diamond-hard teeth and claws of millions of Scourgelings. Yort reminded himself that almost half a billion of his infantry had begun the assault, five hundred million jaws and two billion claws.
He could afford to lose millions and still win.
One enemy ship suddenly retreated at an alarming rate, and he wondered why the others did not do the same. It never occurred to him that any enemy would voluntarily engage in battle with his swarms. That seemed to make as much sense as offering one’s own limb to feed an enemy. Yet, these nests remained, frying his Mandibles in great swaths of flame.
Yort exulted at first one and then another of the nests expired. Now the real power of the Race showed through. It really did not matter how many infants were lost, as long as they achieved victory for their Archons. And once his other half-swarm joined the battle, the nests would fall quickly.
So closely did Yort watch the grinding battle that it took one of his officers actually touching him to get his attention. The Archon jerked and swung a saw-toothed limb at the offending servant, who scuttled out of the way. “Archon,” the creature flashed when it had his attention, “we are under attack!”
“I know we are –” Yort’s sneering retort cut off in mid-sentence as he examined his displays. A large mechanical warship, fully as large as his own mothership’s armored core, had appeared out of nowhere. Shaped like a decorative crystal teardrop with its sharp point forward, the vessel seemed utterly alien, like nothing either his own race or the Jellies would build.
Before he could say anything further, alarms blinked and strobed.
“Archon, the enemy is firing large numbers of energy weapons and high-speed physical projectiles. Our lattice has taken catastrophic damage!”
Yort snapped, “They are fools. The lattice is of no consequence. The core must survive. Engage with all weapons and move away at maximum. Instruct all swarm elements to return immediately, emergency speed!”
“Archon, the enemy is launching a swarm of their own.”
On the displays, Yort saw small craft resembling Claws, Lances and Mandibles spewing from the rear of the teardrop, but far, far fewer than he expected. “That is hardly a swarm,” the Archon said. “That is barely a cluster of, what, perhaps a thousand elements?”
“Yes, Archon.”
“If they think to board, we will defeat them. Alert the breeding pens. All infants more than half grown are to be driven to defensive positions inside the armor. Cadre are to exchange training weapons for combat versions and take charge of the infantry. All others are to arm themselves as appropriate. And awake the Constructs.” Yort laughed. “A thousand elements? Do they think my core is empty of defenders? That they will simply devour us? Have no fear, my subjects. We will repel them, and then our returning swarm will eat their single warship.”
Chapter 42
“Dropping, mark.” Okuda’s words heralded Conquest’s appearance less than a thousand kilometers from the last Scourge mothership, point-blank range for her heavy weapons and easily close enough for her secondaries. Now the ship had recharged capacitors and could be profligate with firepower.
“Fire when ready,” Captain Scoggins said, and Conquest lashed out with lasers and particle beams. “Don’t hit the core too hard,” she warned.
“Got it, Skipper,” Ford singsonged as he coordinated the firing. “Keeping the primaries away from the core.”
On the displays, Absen could see the enormous lacy structure of the mothership carved away in spiny chunks like melon rind under the knife. His plan was to remove those intervening layers before sending in his assault forces, simplifying their lives enormously.
The enemy returned a weak spray of intermittent laser fire from scattered locations, nothing to present any threat to a capital ship. Probably the Scourges had never envisioned fighting without their swarms. Those lasers were quickly silenced by the overwhelming firepower of the dreadnought.
Once the lattice floated as wreckage and the core was revealed like the pit of an avocado, the display blazed with sudden flashes from the core. “Incoming fire – not sure what it is,” Fletcher said, his voice rising a notch. By the time he finished speaking, Conquest’s hull showed hundreds of impacts from…something.
“Evasive,” Scoggins snapped.
“Captain,” the AI said, “the weapons are concentrated plasma packets contained within magnetic bottles. The Meme Intel data references these as ‘plasma torpedoes.’ They cannot penetrate our armor but they are doing some damage to surface systems, especially the bolt-on point defense lasers.” She referred to the thousands of self-contained modules recently grafted onto Conquest’s outer surface to beef up her capacity to repel assaults.
“Counterfire,” Scoggins ordered. “Move in and take out the launchers.”
“On it,” Ford replied. As he and the Michelle coordinated pinpoint takedowns of the enemy plasma launchers, Okuda advanced Conquest on fusion drive.
In moments, the dreadnought had completely stripped the enemy core of weapons. Bereft of its swarms – the untouched mothership almost two hours away and the remnants of the one that attacked the Meme more than thirty minutes distant – the exposed core maneuvered frantically but sluggishly, obviously not designed for a ship-to-ship battle.
Absen caught his flag captain’s eye, and then Scoggins said, “Knock out their drive and thrusters. I want that bastard helpless as a hogtied calf in one minute. Then secure from evasive maneuvering and prepare for Bughouse. Come on, people, we’re on the clock!”
Keying his own internal comms, Admiral Absen brought up Vango and Bull. “Gentlemen, Bughouse is a go. I say again, execute Bughouse. Absen out.”
The holotank depicted two enormous sections of armor slowly, ponderously pulling back from Conquest’s stern, nearly in the shadow of her great fusion engines. Over a hundred grabships under AI control lifted off million-ton plates, revealing makeshift launching tunnels leading to the ship’s huge interior cargo bays.
Not made for assault operations, this was the best Absen and his staff could come up with to allow some five hundred assault sleds holding over five thousand newly recruited Marines to quickly egress to space. As soon as they could, the boats streamed outward to assemble in ranks in the shadow of Conquest’s great bulk.
As they did so, four hundred ninety-six StormCrows took off from the standard flight deck under precise AI control, two per second. Once they cleared the ship, the pilots took over and immediately turned toward the mothership core. As Conquest ceased fire from its capital weapons, the fighters moved in to strafe the surface of the enemy.
***
With Crows mounting newer, hotter lasers optimized against the Scourges, Colonel Vango Markis and the rest of his fighter pilots sliced away the remnants of latticework, plasma cannon mounts and every other anomaly on the surface of the flattened sphere. Hopefully that would render the Scourges blind, deaf and dumb, trapping them inside their own armor.
Then they went to work on that armor, probing the damaged portions, looking for easy ways in. The core’s protection was thick, but not in Conquest’s class. The StormCrows did not launch their nukes, but they did keep carving with their lasers.
As Vango fired another bullet of coherent light into a deepening gouge, he called, “Keep digging holes, boys and girls. Looks like this is only about one hundred meters of composite armor, and the jarheads are going to need all the help they can get punching through.”
“Sure, boss,” his wingman Raiderette said. “Sure you don’t want to get out of the way and let the big boys do some digging?” She referred to Conquest’s weapons.
“Not precise enough. We can’t afford to punch through and vaporize the interior if we want to capture the FTL drive system.”
Vango could hear
the irony in her voice. “Sounds to me like we’re the lonely fan in this shitstorm again, sir.”
“Shut up and keep blowing, Lieutenant.”
***
Bull ignored the assault sled’s motion as it slammed him from side to side. His Avenger suit was locked down to the interior, and wouldn’t release until they landed or he deliberately overrode it. The last thing a boat needed was a dozen thousand-kilo golems flailing around damaging its relatively delicate interior.
Checking his HUD, he saw the half-thousand assault sleds turn in a coordinated wave and accelerate toward the drifting mothership core. Conquest’s reinforced aerospace wing seemed to be having no trouble with the point defense and he’d been assured they had at least twenty minutes until the enemy fighters showed up, retreating from getting their asses kicked by the Meme. Never thought I’d be cheering the slimy blobbos, he thought, but they did good work today.
Dialing up the division channel he said, “All right, First Div Marines, this is Colonel ben Tauros. I’d say shalom but nobody’s gettin’ any peace for the next few hours. We got a short flight and a hard fight, so remember your training, listen to your leaders, and kill every bug you see. Remember, though, if you find some fancy unknown machinery, don’t touch it and don’t blow it up. The whole reason we’re puttin’ our asses on the line here is to get the technology. Good hunting. Ben Tauros out.”
Switching to the lead pilots’ freq, he said, “Bull here. How’s the LZ looking?”
“Jes’ fine, Colonel, sir,” Warrant Officer Krebs came back. “Y’all be shittin’ in tall cotton pretty soon.”
“Shut up, Krebs. Butler, you there?”
The other flight warrant replied, “Yes, sir. LZ looks clear. Don’t think the bugs ever expected to be boarded. With a hundred thousand fighters, who would?”
Conquest of Earth (Stellar Conquest Series) Page 18
