“You’re planning a contingency for if we face more than just the Scout Marauders,” Laurent said with a nod, “good.” He then pointed at my screen, “However, heading down the middle’s not a problem if we were facing two to four Medium Harvesters, but we just ran into a pair of Large Harvesters. With our damage it’s probably better if we plan to skirt the edges in the event we run across Larges—or worse, Heavies.”
I shot a look at him out of the corner of my eye and after assessing his demeanor, I slowly nodded. “It’s your ship, Captain,” I said, waving a hand over at the main screen and then leaned back in my Command chair, “fight her how you think best.”
“Thank you, Admiral,” Laurent replied, looking pleased at my show of trust before bracing to attention and slowly advancing on the Tactical Section to consult with Eastwood.
Seeing McCruise and her squadron swing off to one side, and Archibald and his Cutters going wide on the other, my fingers started tap-tap-tapping on the arm of my Command chair. The urge to get up and start issuing more orders was nearly overpowering.
Two things stopped me, though: Laurent had only just come fully on board and I didn’t want him and more of his accusations of ‘loyalty tests’ to start cropping up again, which might just happen if I ‘appeared’ to be second guessing him too hard on the bridge of the Gift. The second, which had to always be a consideration when I was surrounded my actual trained officers, was looking like a military fool.
By limiting the orders I did give, I could pick and choose and hopefully avoid most of the pitfalls of sheer idiocy that I occasionally stumbled into.
“Alright, bridge staff; officers, prepare your sections for combat. Operators, ready your consoles; we’re going to blow straight through those Marauders like a lawnmower through tall grass,” Laurent said in a loud, carrying voice.
The bridge replied in what could only be called a hungry growl.
As I watched, the two wings of my fleet converged on the hapless Bug Marauders.
“Contact!” exclaimed a Sensor Operator, “I have one additional contact half a degree further and above the ellipsis than the Marauders.”
“Type and speed,” snapped Laurent, “what have we got here, people?”
There was an extended pause while all the sensor operators turned their instruments on the new Bug warship, and heads conferred with the new Warrant Officer for their sections.
“We’ve got a Medium Harvester on long range sensors, Captain,” the Sensor Officer finally confirmed, “I say again, one Medium Harvester is lagging behind the Marauder Squadron at extreme range.”
“Speed is standard for a Medium Harvester maxing out its engines, Sir,” the sensors’ officer confirmed, “there’s no way a Large Harvester with engines matching our threat profiles could pull those kind of gee forces.”
“Good work, Sensors,” I said, inserting myself into the operation when it became clear that Officer Laurent was just going to stand there chewing on his upper lip.
“Yes, keep it up, Sensors,” Laurent said belatedly, “and keep your eyes peeled for more of those Bug Heavies.”
“Yes, Captain!” the sensor Warrant said, turning back to his console with renewed vigor.
Glancing around the Bridge I could see that I wasn’t the only person on the bridge looking at the main-screen, even though I was arguably the only person with a job description that meant I was actually supposed to be looking at that screen.
I suppressed a smile and turned back to watch as Archibald and the half dozen Cutters slashed through the right edge of the approaching Marauders.
“Bugs are now firing on the Cutters, Admiral,” the sensors’ officer said jumping out of his seat.
“I can see that, Sensors,” I observed, as on the main-screen the Bugs started firing like a chain reaction as soon as a Cutter came within range of their weapons. “They’re still firing in every direction,” I observed with a derisive shake of the head.
“Only the smaller ones,” Laurent corrected, speaking in my ear.
My heart rate skyrocketed and I had to suppress a start of surprise. “You snuck up on me,” I replied as mildly as I could, when the heat slipped back down from my throat and settled back inside my chest.
Laurent grinned and then his expression turned serious again, the moment of levity forgotten as the Cutters sliced and diced two of the Scout Marauders into spewing wrecks of Bugs’ and ships’ guts.
“Their Harvesters seem to have decent enough fire control,” he said grimly, as one of our Cutters—targeted by three separate Bug ships simultaneously—lost its shields to an overload. The craft seemed to hesitate before jetting off on a new course directly away from the rest of the Scouts, as well as from the protection of its Squadron mates, at half its previous top speed.
I suppressed a wince, after a year and a half…or was it two years by then? Anyway, after so long away from Capria and learning the ropes of deep space, I was only now able to understand what it must be like to be on a ship as it was shot up by the enemy.
“She’ll need repairs,” Laurent observed steadily.
“I’ll send her back to Gambit for an overhaul,” I remarked as calmly as if I was back at the Palace, sipping tea with courtiers, instead of in the middle of yet another dirty, nasty battle against genocidal Bug ships who would like nothing more than to launch a marine force to try and convert us into biomass for their breeding and feeding chambers.
“There goes McCruise,” Laurent said, and although he tried to hide it, I could hear the suppressed tension in his voice.
I quirked a smile and nodded easily. “She appears to be coming in right on target without any problems,” I commented, looking at the main screen critically as the Heavy Destroyer led the small formation. The lighter Corvettes were guarding the top and bottom of her larger ship as she abruptly took her ship into a screaming turn that unleashed the fury of her destroyer’s broadside at point blank range. Meanwhile, the Corvettes broke formation around the destroyer and ran down the extended line of Bug Marauders, continuously firing as they went.
“Yes,” Captain Laurent agreed, clenching his hands with obvious emotion as Marauders broke in two, or began venting atmosphere without even breaking the shields of our fellow warships.
“Nice,” I agreed with a smile, and then stopped myself abruptly; there was no real need to agree with the Captain.
“Those Bugs are going to rue the day they ever ran into us, Admiral Montagne,” Laurent said in a suddenly louder voice, while I was still thinking about my reaction a moment earlier.
“Not if we squash every last one of them, Captain Laurent,” I said, coming back to myself with a sudden jerk and kicking myself for needing the new Captain to help remind me that crew morale on the bridge was a vitally important thing that needed constant tending.
Laurent grinned as McCruise burst a final Bug ship in two—one which had already been damaged by the slashing attack of the Corvettes—before roaring past the six remaining ships. Two of those vessels were already leaking copious amounts of Bugs and atmosphere from the myriad rents in their living hulls.
“There are always more Bugs out there to kill, Admiral,” Laurent said in a raised, sly tone. “I’m sure the terror of our passage will get out to the rest of them, one way or another.”
“The Imperials would argue that they’re not sentient enough to think for themselves and thus are probably unable to transmit complex information—like differentiating one human ship from another, for instance,” I said archly.
“Right, of course,” Laurent said with a sigh, “because the larger the concentration of Bugs on a ship, the greater their intelligence seems to climb.”
“I’m shocked, Captain,” I deadpanned as the Bugs seemed to mill around for half a minute before one of them started chasing after McCruise, and the other five turned to engage our still rapidly-approaching Heavy Cruiser, “are you saying that the Imperials deliberately deceived us about Bug intelligence, or are you trying to imply someth
ing about the Imperials themselves?”
“Far be it from me to speak poorly of the beloved Imperial Senate and their mighty Triumvirs,” Laurent mocked, and I could see several incredulous looks being cast our way as the Captain and their Admiral stood there debating the intelligence—or lack of it—shown by our former, Imperial masters.
I was about to say something else when we ran out of time for our little debate.
“Gunners, pick your targets and prepare to fire-at-will,” Officer Eastwood barked, holding a recently replaced, shiny new microphone to his mouth.
“Shields, be ready to receive strikes on both sides when we pass through them,” Laurent said, speaking in such a normal, matter-of-fact voice that one would almost think he had done this sort of thing all the time—meaning, charging straight through a formation of enemy ships which were determined to kill and devour every other form of life they stumbled across, sentient or otherwise.
“Aye, Captain,” the Ensign at sensors said crisply, “we’re ready.”
“Good man,” the Captain said with an appreciative nod, his hands going around behind his back as he wandered over to the Tactical Section in the moments prior to engaging the enemy.
As I watched on the main-screen, the symbol for our ship and the bug ships interpenetrated.
“Right through them and straight on to the Harvester, without fail, Mr. DuPont,” I instructed the Helmsman mildly.
“Yes, Admiral,” the now-seasoned Helmsman drawled in reply.
“Fire,” yelled the First Officer, who was still managing the Tactical Section after our last 1st Shift Tactical Officer failed to cut the cheese—or was it, ‘cut the mustard?’
The Little Gift, an old, Heavy Cruiser from an even more aged design, punched right through the middle of the Scout Marauder formation.
“Shields down to 75% and falling,” bellowed the high, tenor voice of Ensign Longbottom at the shields section even as our Turbo lasers lashed out, piercing one Bug through from one side to the other while another Marauder was destroyed in a chain reaction that sent its liquefied innards spraying out into space in a small, irregular blast wave.
The Bugs poured fire out into space in every possible direction. It was yet another demonstration of their lack of fire discipline in the smaller vessels, as their shots scattered wildly with seemingly no rhyme or reason. The gun deck thundered in response, and a wave indicating our return fire was clearly visible on the main screen.
“All Heavy Laser batteries shall continue with counter fire until we’ve cleared the firing range of those Scout Marauders,” shouted Eastwood, pounding the base of his microphone on the table.
“Shields to 59% and falling,” exclaimed Ensign Longbottom.
“We got another one,” cried the Sensor Officer, his crew of operators breaking out into a cheer.
“Steady on, Sensors,” I said in a loud, carrying voice, “the last thing we need is to miss a new Harvester because we just blasted a few Scouts!”
The Sensor team quickly took their chairs and resumed work. “Sorry, Admiral,” their supervising Officer said looking shame-faced.
“No need to apologize,” I said smoothly, “let’s just ‘try’ to stay focused on the bigger picture, Warrant.”
“Yes, Sir,” the Warrant acknowledged, hunching his shoulders and staring down at his console as his face slowly turned red.
I opened my mouth in frustration; this wasn’t exactly how I’d been hoping the other man to respond, but I silently put my teeth back together. There was no point in beating a dead horse any further. Maybe I should have let the Captain take the lead on this, I wondered.
“There goes another one,” Eastwood called out, pumping his fist in the air. It was the same fist holding his microphone, and I had to shake my head. Back when Laurent was running Tactical, we never had this level of display, I thought with a general feeling of disapproval for First Officers everywhere.
Then we were through them, the main screen showing we had just left three Scouts behind us with varying levels of damage for the rest of the fleet to clean up.
No sooner had we cleared the firing range of the Scout Marauders than another Murphy-touched Sensor Operator jumped out of her chair. “Contact,” she screamed in a shrill voice, “I’ve got multiple ships coming out from behind the Harvester!”
My eyes widened with surprise. “Get me those readings, Operator,” I demanded, grabbing hold of the arms of my chair and straightening my back.
“Yes, Admiral,” the woman at Sensors said in a firmer voice, but it was another Operator who spoke up next.
“I’m reading a trio of basic Bug Scouts moving into supporting positions around the Medium Harvester,” the man said pointedly, and I could see the triumphant look he shot the other operator.
She had just started to stiffen in response when the Warrant Officer cut in. “Good work, both of you,” the Sensor Officer said, turning around to me, “the boards are confirmed Admiral: three Scout class Bug ships in supporting formation.”
“Good work, Sensors,” I said genially as I relaxed back into my chair. Three Scouts was vastly better than three more Harvesters lying in wait until we had closed in for the kill, “please make sure to keep a weather eye out for more of those Harvesters.”
“Aye, aye, Sir,” the Officer said smartly, and his section echoed him, looking more determined than ever.
“Steady on, Sensors,” Laurent said after a moment, and then once attention was focused on him turned toward the Helm, “continue on course for the Medium Harvester at full speed, Mr. DuPont.”
“Maintaining course and speed without deviation, Captain Laurent,” our Helmsman said, straightening in his seat, “steady on to the target.”
“Good man,” the Captain said with a nod and then returned back to the slightly elevated—by about a foot—command dais.
On screen it was easy to tell the exact moment the Harvester saw us, because it abruptly flared its engines and came around in a long, sweeping turn until it was directly on course for us.
“We should be able to take this Medium Harvester fairly easily, yes?” I asked in a low voice.
Officer, now Captain, Laurent looked at me with barely concealed horror. “Knock on wood, Sir,” he said, reaching around to wrap his knuckles on a strategically placed piece of wood screwed into the side of the chair.
“Of course,” I said wearily, and then gave the wooden piece a firm double knock.
Ritual of bad luck aversion now hopefully completed, I looked over at the Captain for the answer to my original question.
“We stack up favorably against a Medium Harvester,” he finally said with faintly sour look.
“Then let’s hope our stack continues to be bigger than theirs,” I said with a smile.
Laurent groaned, and the next few minutes passed quickly until we were within range of the Harvester.
“Bring us broadside on that Harvester, and do it smartly, Mr. DuPont,” Laurent’s voice cracked like a whip, “let our momentum carry us forward!”
“Aye, Captain,” DuPont said tightly and activated the dual joy sticks on either side of his pilot’s chair. Seconds later the grav-plates under us gave a stomach-turning wobble, and our orientation toward the Bug Harvester radically changed.
“Hold steady and await my order to roll the ship,” Laurent ordered, his voice suddenly sounding as coolly lethal as cold space itself, “these Bugs are about to be blasted out of this universe.”
Inside, I wanted to cheer and pump a fist, but being both an Admiral and a Prince meant I probably had too much dignity. Unfortunately, before I had come to the decision that my dignity could probably survive it, the moment had passed.
The Bug ship came charging forward and our turbo-lasers lashed out with a lethal kiss which lit the Harvester up square on its nose.
Our long-range weaponry lashed out with punishing force for a long minute, until we reached the outer range of the Bug forces. I was more than a little surprised to see the sm
aller Scouts only firing in our direction with the occasional, random shot to its rear, before such considerations were last in a cloudy belch of Bug-spawned fire-and-forget missiles.
“Turbo-lasers overheating; I’m allocating point defense lasers to anti-missile defense,” Eastwood reported, sounding a bit more professional that he had to date.
“Roll the ship…now, Mr. DuPont,” Laurent barked.
“We’re taking fire! Shields back down to 80%…68%, 63% and falling,” called out our new Shields Officer in a crisp voice.
The grav-plates adjusted, once again causing a regrettable stomach-rolling, and the ship rolled and lashed out with every weapon available as it came to bear on the target.
“What’s wrong with the grav-plates, Damage Control?” I snarled as I rounded in time to catch her eye glare at her. “Rolling the ship takes much less power than running the engines at full power!”
“Verifying, Admiral,” the engineering Rating said, calmly turning to look down and start tapping away on her console.
“Find out and fix it, whatever it is,” I said sharply,
“the last thing we need is to be turned into bloody, human smears during a critical power fluctuation!”
“On it, Admiral,” the Damage Control watch stander said, even now with only the faintest edge of tension in her voice, “so far everything on internal sensors reads within tolerances. I’m manually confirming with both the DI and Main Engineering.”
The Tactical section gave a cheer and my head whipped back around to the main screen; things sounded positive, but that was generally the best time for the enemy to throw a monkey wrench into the Murphy-benighted works.
Looking up, I saw the Harvester appeared to be bleeding from multiple rents in its starboard side, right before it rolled to present an undamaged facing to us.
“Shields down to 39%; reallocating energy from secondary generator in the port side facing to compensate for spotting,” reported Ensign Longbottom, his red hair plastered to his forehead as his fingers flew over his console.
“If and when you hear the order to roll again, you are to compensate for the new shield facing without waiting for a response,” Laurent instructed the Ensign urgently—too urgently, if I was any judge from the way shoulders hunched around the bridge as people instinctively hunkered down as if about to receive the blow to themselves personally. Not that any amount of flesh between you and a Bug blaster was going to save you from being annihilated where duralloy had already failed, mind you, but I suppose we all do these things.
Admiral's Revenge (A Spineward Sectors Novel:) Page 21
