Thurston commanded his forces from a simulated bridge in one corner of the auditorium. I had a good view of him from my seat.
“Shields,” Thurston said, in a voice that seemed far too calm considering the situation.
“Should we take evasive action, sir?” a crewman asked.
“That will not be necessary,” Thurston said as he paced the deck.
“Shall I signal for frigate support?” the crewman asked.
Admiral Thurston did not have the tactical advantage of watching the battle on a three-dimensional display. From my omniscient seat, I could see every aspect of the battle. I knew that Klyber had already launched a second wave of fighters. Thurston, with nothing more than a battle map that displayed in-ship radar readings, could not know what a forceful assault Admiral Klyber had planned.
“He’s sunk. Klyber’s going to end this fast,” Lee whispered.
“Shhhhh!” I hissed. A few of the people sitting near us gave Lee and me some chilly glares. On the other side of the room, where the officers sat, a loud cheer erupted. They wanted blood. “Bet the boy never saw anything like this at the Academy,” one overexcited officer blurted in a voice that carried. With that, the officers became silent.
I glanced back at the 3-D display to see what all the cheering was about, but I was more interested in watching Admiral Thurston. He looked too young to command a ship. With his spiky, rust red hair and pimples, he looked like a teenage boy pretending to stand at the helm.
“A very aggressive attack,” Thurston said, cocking a single eyebrow. “Either he intends to win early or he wishes to back us into a . . .”
I looked back at the full-battle display in the center of the auditorium. Klyber’s fighters were closing in on the al-Sadat . Thurston showed amazing patience for a man whose ship was about to be attacked by 140 armed fighters. Warning lights flared along the ceiling and floor of the mock bridge. The sirens near the helm console blared so loudly that they choked my thoughts.
I doubted Thurston’s grasp of the situation. Just behind that initial wave of fighters, half of the Central SC
Fleet was in position for the second wave of the attack. Klyber had an unfair advantage—the Kamehameha, a thirteenth fighter carrier. She might have been old and small by carrier standards, but the Kamehameha still bore a complement of sixty fighter craft.
“Send the Washington and the Grant to sector 14-L. Tell them to launch fighters on my orders and power up shields on my mark,” Thurston said as he studied his battle map.
“Sir, we are undefended,” the crewman said.
“Prepare our pilots,” Thurston said in a voice that made the order sound like a compromise, “but do not give the order to launch.”
“Enemy fighters’ ETA is less than one minute,” another crewman yelled.
“What the hell is he doing?” Lee asked.
“Tell the captains of the Washington and the Grant to launch fighters . . . now!” Thurston’s voice was emphatic. He looked so much like a boy in puberty that I expected his voice to crack, but he remained very much in control.
Two events happened simultaneously. Klyber’s fighters arrived and commenced a meaningless attack. His Tomcats buzzed around the hull of the al-Sadat, but their pilots seemed uncommitted. Instead of firing missiles, they seemed more interested in flying defensive patterns. As they circled, the gun batteries lining the hull of the al-Sadat flashed green.
At the exact same moment, a much more important event took place on a distant part of the map. The Washington and the Grant launched fighters as two of Klyber’s carriers and a complement of frigates entered the sector.
“Order the fighters in sector 14-L to attack the enemy carriers,” Thurston said. “Have the Harriers concentrate their fire on their shield stations. The Tomcats can pick off any fighters they manage to launch.”
“Yes, sir,” the crewman said, a new note of excitement evident in his voice.
“Instruct the captains of the Washington and the Grant to attack the frigate escort. We can’t allow those frigates to sneak up on our fighters.”
“Yes, sir,” the crewman responded.
Unlike the al-Sadat, which had its shields up, the carriers from the Central SC Fleet had lowered their shields so that they could launch their fighters. Thurston’s Harriers fired missiles at the shield antennae on those carriers, quickly obliterating their best defense.
I watched as the tiny fighters moved in on the carriers like a swarm of ants. Their missiles would do little good against shielded carriers, but Thurston had timed the attack precisely right. Red lights appeared along the edges of the Central Fleet ships showing that their shield stations were destroyed. Having destroyed the shield antennae, Thurston’s fighters suddenly became a serious threat. Not far away, Admiral Klyber’s frigates were completely mismatched against Thurston’s carriers. In less than two minutes, the Washington destroyed five Central Fleet frigates and the Grant annihilated three more. Any frigates that survived this attack would limp away from the fight. Somehow Robert Thurston had peered into Klyber’s mind and uncovered a weakness. The bulk of the Central Fleet’s frigates fled back toward the protection of the fleet; but the Inner Fleet’s Harriers and Tomcats continued to pummel the carriers, cutting off any hope of escape.
“How did he do that?” Lee asked.
Nobody shhhhed Lee that time. We all wondered the same thing.
Thurston began pouring out a steady stream of commands. “Have the Grant send out bombers,”
Thurston said. “We need to finish those carriers before the rest of their fleet can regroup.”
“Hail the nearest frigate,” Thurston said. “Tell the captain that we require assistance.”
“Only one?” the communications officer asked.
“One will suffice,” Thurston said.
Until that moment, I had not noticed the toll that the al-Sadat ’s cannons had taken on the Inner Fleet’s fighters. They began their assault with 140 Harriers; now fewer than 50 of those fighters remained. As I tried to count the fighters, two large flashes lit up a far corner of the map. Thurston’s bombers made short work of the trapped carriers.
“Excellent,” Thurston said. I still expected his voice to crack. It didn’t. “Recall the attack wings to the Washington and the Grant .”
Thurston’s fighters broke off their attack as Klyber’s ships stuttered back to their end of the field.
“They’re running!” the communications officer yelled, no longer trying to conceal his excitement. “They’re leaving their fighter escort stranded!”
“It would seem so,” Admiral Thurston said.
I stopped to consider the tides of this battle. The Central Fleet had begun the fight with thirteen fighter carriers, sixtyfive frigates, and nine hundred fighter craft. The fleet still had eleven carriers. According to the scorecard at the base of the holographic display, Thurston had destroyed more than three hundred of Klyber’s fighters.
The war was won. I waited for Thurston to send his ships in for a final assault, but he sat silently watching his battle map.
“Admiral, the Central Fleet is preparing to evacuate,” a deck officer said.
“Yes, it is,” Thurston said.
“Shall we attack?”
“No. Let them go.”
A stunned silence filled the auditorium. Moments later, a door near Thurston’s mock helm slid open, and Admiral Klyber, flanked by several aides, stormed in. “You allowed my fleet to escape, Admiral Thurston?”
“Yes, sir,” Thurston said.
“Explain yourself,” Klyber demanded.
Robert Thurston sighed. “In its current configuration, the Inner SC Fleet is designed to win battles, Admiral, not wars.”
“You had my fleet at your mercy,” Klyber snapped. “You should have finished us.”
“If we pressed the attack, we would have joined you in a battle of attrition—my twelve carriers against your eleven,” Thurston said. “If we went in for the kill, I would hav
e lost ships unnecessarily.”
Klyber smiled. “Sensible decision, Admiral. How would you reconfigure the fleet?” Klyber sounded interested, but there was something dangerous about the way he stared at Thurston. Sharp teeth hid behind his smile.
“Fighters and frigates are excellent ships for repelling enemy attacks,” Thurston said. “Having neutralized one-third of your fighters, I would need battleships and destroyers to finish your fleet.”
The simulation took place in the largest briefing room on the Kamehameha , an auditorium capable of seating three thousand people that was only used for important occasions. A more-than-capacity crowd had packed in. Once the seats were filled, lines of people squeezed in along the walls. We had come for theater-in-the-round.
Klyber asked several more questions. When he finished, Thurston’s three-man crew stood up from behind their computer consoles and applauded. Klyber and his aides clapped as well. Soon the theater erupted in applause.
Our new fleet commander nodded to his crew and walked briskly from the stage. He strode out of the auditorium without so much as a sideward glance. The applause, however, continued. If his legend was to be believed, Klyber had never lost a combat simulation, not even as a freshman cadet. Of course, good records have a way of becoming unblemished when there is little chance of verification. Whether or not he was truly undefeated, prior to that match, Bryce Klyber was generally considered unbeatable in simulated space battles.
Over the next three weeks, the seemingly tireless Robert Thurston visited all twenty-five carriers in the Scutum-Crux Fleet. He took on all but one of the captains in simulated battles. (Captain Dickey Friggs of the St. Ignatius complained of fatigue and said he was in no condition for a fight.) The simulations always ended quickly and decisively, with Thurston on top.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Admiral Klyber’s campaign to legitimize Robert Thurston succeeded in every corner of the fleet except one. Walking toward Bryce Klyber’s office on what would turn out to be my last visit, I saw signs of open disdain toward the new fleet commander.
Everywhere else in the fleet they called him Admiral Thurston; but on the command deck, he was
“Bobby, boy genius” or sometimes simply “the boy.” In the time that I spent waiting to meet Admiral Klyber, I heard jokes about “the boy’s” voice changing, his testicles dropping during battle, and a pretty good one-liner about him offering spiked milk and cookies to his officers so that they would let him stay up past his bedtime.
Sitting in the waiting room, I listened to the bits of humor in silence. What kind of jokes did they tell about clones? And another question—If Thurston hadn’t wowed these people with his strategic skills, what would impress them?
The door to Admiral Klyber’s office slid open, and he entered the doorway. “Corporal Harris,” he said. As I followed Klyber into his office, I heard an aide whisper, “The admiral’s pet clone.” It took real effort to pretend I had not heard it.
“Your mercenary friend is making quite a name for himself,” Klyber said, as we crossed his office.
“Freeman is walking a very fine line. He does a lot of piecework in this arm. According to the local authorities, some of his clients are worse than the hoodlums he brings in.”
Klyber sat down behind his desk. I looked over his shoulder for a moment and stared out the viewport behind him. The Kamehameha had entered an odd phase of its orbit. I could not see Terraneau, just the blanket of space and an occasional frigate.
“Sit down, Corporal,” Klyber said, pointing toward one of the chairs before his desk. As I took my seat, he asked, “What do you think of Rear Admiral Thurston?”
“He knows his way around a combat simulation,” I said.
“I’ve never seen the like,” Klyber agreed. “I hear there is a rumor going around that I let Thurston win. I would never stage a loss, not even to improve fleet morale. I don’t see how my losing could possibly boost morale.”
“No, sir,” I said. I had not heard that rumor, and I doubted that anybody outside SC Command had. Rumors like that only existed among ass-kissing officers vying for a promotion. As far as I could tell, Thurston’s victories had gone a long way toward improving ship morale. Once the topic shifted to Thurston, Klyber spoke in short bursts. He leaned over his desk as he spoke, then sat back in his chair and drummed his fingers on the armrests of his chair when I answered his questions.
“That was a very unorthodox move, leaving a capital ship unguarded during a fighter attack. Moves like that can cost an entire battle.”
“Did he tell you how he knew where to send the Washington and the Grant , sir?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Klyber, sounding aggravated. “Yes, he did. He said that my flash attack meant that I wanted to put him in a defensive posture. He said my opening attack was either the wasteful move of an amateur strategist or an obvious attempt to herd an enemy out of position. The cocky little prick told one of my aides that he gave me the benefit of the doubt.”
Klyber paused, giving me a moment to respond; but I did not say a word. “Thurston read my attack as a move to spread the battle to three fronts. The bastard was exactly right.”
“He figured that out from your opening attack?” I asked.
“Apparently so,” Klyber said.
“Luck?” I asked.
Klyber smiled, taking my question as welcomed flattery. “I thought it was luck, but he’s taken every captain in the fleet. The captain of the Bolivar managed to last the longest—twenty minutes; but he spent most of the simulation running away.” Thinking of this match brought a wicked grin to Klyber’s narrow face. “I sent a video record of the match to the Joint Chiefs. Che Huang may have something to say to Captain Cory about his tactics.”
“Are you going to act on Thurston’s suggestion about adding new ships to the fleet?” I asked.
“You must be joking,” Klyber snapped. His demeanor changed in a flash. His eyes narrowed, and he pursed his lips so hard that they almost disappeared. Sitting with his back as rigid as a board, he said,
“You give this man entirely too much credit. He won a simulation, nothing more than a game. That is a far cry from proving yourself in battle.”
Knowing that I had touched a nerve, I nodded and hoped the moment would pass.
“We don’t need new ships,” Klyber continued. “Unless you have been briefed about some new enemy that I don’t know about, the Unified Authority is the only naval power in the galaxy. We are the only ones with anything larger than a frigate.”
“Yes, sir,” I said. I thought about the three dreadnoughts that attacked the Chayio , but had the good sense to keep my mouth shut.
Klyber stared angrily at me for another moment. “I would not give that frontier-born mongrel the satisfaction,” he hissed. Having said this, Admiral Klyber relaxed. His shoulders loosened, and he leaned back in his chair.
“People feel the same way about clones,” I said.
A glimmer of Klyber’s earlier humor showed in his smile. “I wouldn’t hold my hopes out for a seat on the Linear Committee,” Klyber said, “but, all in all, I think a clone is more readily welcomed into proper society than a prepubescent from the frontier. After all, clones are raised on Earth and are entirely loyal to the Republic. Can anybody really know where a frontier-born’s loyalties lie?”
“But no clone has ever become an officer,” I said.
“As I have said before, we may be able to change that, you and I.” He turned to look out of the viewport. None of the other ships from the fleet were visible at the moment, so he turned back toward me.
“It’s been forty years since the Unified Authority has seen a full-scale assault, Corporal. That is about to change. I am placing your platoon on point. If you perform well . . . Let’s just say that I will be able to open new doors for you.”
Klyber did not tell me the details at that time. Polished brass ran through his veins, and I was still a corporal. The details became apparent soon enough, however.
Admiral Thurston cut the orders the following day.
We filed into the briefing room and sat nervously. People spoke in whispers that steadily grew louder as we waited, and more and more Marines packed into the room. By the time Captain McKay began speaking, four platoons had squeezed into a holotorium that was barely large enough for one. McKay strode up to the podium alone. Sitting one row in, I was close enough to see the way his eyes bounced around the gallery. Then the lights went out. The holographic image of a dark planet appeared. The planet spun in a slow and lop-sided rotation. No sunlight showed on its rocky surface. It did not appear to be a moon, but I saw no signs of plant life or water.
“Naval Intelligence has traced the location of the Mogat separatists who attacked our platoon on Ezer Kri,” McKay said. His voice was low and commanding and tinged with poorly concealed excitement.
“The insurgents have set up on a planet in the uninhabited Templar System called A8Z5. For purposes of this mission, we shall refer to A8Z5 as ‘Hubble.’”
McKay spent the better part of an hour laying out the tactics we would employ to invade Hubble. When he finished, he opened the meeting for questions.
“Excuse me, sir,” a Marine from another platoon asked. “Is that a moon?”
“Hubble is a planet,” McKay said.
“God,” Sergeant Shannon whispered, “what a pit.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
I knew the paradise Hubble once was and the hell it had become. One hundred thousand years ago, Hubble, the garden planet of the Templar System, had lakes and forests, mountain pastures and ice-capped peaks. Colorful birds once flew across its skies. During our briefing, they showed us video footage of the very spot on which the battle would occur. It was a paradise. But Hubble no longer had a sky, per se. The noxious, oily gases that passed for its atmosphere could kill a person as surely as a bullet through the head. A thin film of gas swirled overhead, blurring my view of the stars. No sunlight warmed the planet’s rock and powder surface. No plants grew through the hard crust that covered so much of Hubble’s scaly ground.
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