Exodus: Empires at War: Book 7: Counter Strike

by Doug Dandridge

  “The other ships are gone,” said von Rittersdorf, staring at the plot in shock. Ling dropped off the plot as he said that, and in a rush of fear he realized they were next.

  “Helm, course eighty-five degrees spinward, sixty degrees up ecliptic. Full emergency power. Now.”

  The Helmsman was well trained, and didn’t hesitate when a command was barked at him in that tone. Lasardo was an instant behind the Helm, hitting the warning klaxon. Full emergency power was ten gravities above what the inertial compensators could handle. The maximum it was thought that the crew could handle for any length of time outside of the tanks. And there was no time to get into the tanks.

  Komorov boosted at five hundred and thirty-five gravities to the spinward direction of the galaxy, and up to the ecliptic, the top of the disk of the Milky Way. She was still moving forward at point nine three light, but using the boost to change her vector. The bridge crew were pushed back into their chairs, blood pushed from their brains, eyes starting to blur, reaching into a blackout stage. The new, improved humans were able to handle more of those kind of forces, while their skin suits helped to push the blood out of their legs and back up their bodies. Still, it was hell on the bridge crew, and any others who had been able to get into acceleration couches.

  Those who hadn’t gotten to their couches in time, almost half the crew, were not so lucky. They were thrown in the opposite direction of the boost at ten gravities, their bodies only stopping when they ran into something they could no longer continue through. The skin suits were also light weight impact armor, stiffening, providing some protection. Still, there was a spate of broken carbon reinforced bone, torn muscles, some skull fractures. Even a few deaths that could be reversed if they were treated in time. Altogether, an unpleasant experience. But better than being turned into vapor.

  The Captain was barely able to see the plot as the three missiles translated into hyper and oriented toward the destroyer. Link, dammit, link, he thought, trying to get through to the ship’s computer system. His thoughts were blurred, unclear, the acceleration trying to pull him into complete darkness. Link. And then he was in, immediately recognizing the minds of several others of the crew. Not many, but hopefully enough. Including his Tactical Officer, who was already starting the defensive systems to firing.

  The missiles, if they had been coming straight in, as planned, would have hit the destroyer head on seconds after launch and blown her out of hyper. As it was, the missiles, despite their acceleration advantage, were coming from a slow start, no more than point three c, the limit of Caca translation technology. Now they were heading past the destroyer, and would need to change their vectors and pursue, not the easiest of tasks for a missile. One went off on closest approach, more than five light seconds away, too far to physically damage the destroyer, only able to send the merest hints of radiation into the Komorov. Her lasers fired, four blasts, eight, twelve, and the other two missiles detonated in hyper, their plasma quickly fading in catastrophic translation back into normal space.

  The Captain maintained weapons alert status while he tried to maintain his connection with the ship. He waited several minutes, about as much as his people could stand, before sending the order to reduce acceleration to maximum normal, five hundred and twenty-five gravities. The relief as immediate. He could breathe again, really breathe. His muscles were sore, but a few movements proved they still worked. There was some bruising on his hands, blood accumulation from the accel that should soon clear.

  ”Medical,” he said over the com. “Report.”

  “The Surgeon is out, sir,” said the Chief Pharmacist’s Mate over the com. “Skull fracture. We’re stabilizing him now.”

  “We have casualties all over the ship, Chief. I need to get those people taken care of.”

  “We’re on it, sir,” said the Chief.

  And you’re undermanned, with too much work ahead, thought the Captain, looking at the holo, waiting for the next missiles to appear and strike them down. But you’ll do the best you can, which is all any of us can ask.

  The bridge crew waited with sweating faces and anxious expressions as the ship continued to change its vector, accelerating here, decelerating there, getting the hell away from the enemy. Minutes passed, with no further signs of the Caca.

  “Get me HQ on the com,” said the Captain. A moment later the holo showed a middle aged woman, a single star on each of her collars. “We’ve lost contact with the enemy, Commodore. I think the Cacas are using one of our tricks against us.”

  “I guess we couldn’t count on them to be stupid forever,” said the straight faced woman. “Much as we would have liked.”

  “What are your orders, ma’am? Do you want us to try and regain contact?”

  “No, Captain,” said the woman, shaking her head. “The only thing you could accomplish now is to give us a momentary location, and then they would take you out. We’ve got another force waiting ahead of them. We’re hoping they’ll gain contact.”

  “And us?”

  “You are to report back to the Conundrum screen. And be careful.”

  The Commodore didn’t have to say why. One ship, in space that was mostly still under enemy control, with enemy patrols. The odds were against them. And it’s not like we haven’t been through this before.

  * * *

  CAPITULUM, JEWEL.

  ‘Well, we expected they would start learning some things from us, just like we have with them,” said CNO Sondra McCullom, looking up from her flat comp into the eyes of the Emperor.

  “Not really what I wanted to hear,” said Sean, knowing that his wants had nothing to do with the reality of the war. “Do we have any idea what they did?”

  “From the little bit of data we retrieved from the Lisboa, and the more complete records from the Komorov, we think they dropped mobile launch platforms, much like the mines we used against the Fenri. Some of their ships moved ahead of their main force, dropped these platforms, which decelerated to translation velocity, dropped out of hyper, and waited. They tracked our ships coming in and launched when the vessels were right on top of them. Our ships didn’t have a chance.”

  “And the ships they dropped back?”

  “We believe they were a combination decoy and tracking force. Our ships were looking at them the whole way, and they got the chance to pick up data about their new weapon.”

  “And now we have to rework our own tactics for scouting out the enemy. Shit. And we’re sure to lose a lot of ships before we get it right. At which time they develop something new.”

  “That’s war, your Majesty,” said the CNO with a shrug of her shoulders. “It’s a shit deal, but it’s what we have. We just have to keep developing new weapons and means of deployment faster than they do.”

  “And that’s all there is to it, Admiral?” asked Sean, shaking his head. “We also have to keep throwing the best people our Empire has into the meat grinder, and for what? People converted to plasma, or blown to bits on the surface of a planet.”

  “We possibly get to keep our species as a going concern,” said the Admiral, pointing her finger at the Emperor and emphasizing her point. “We get to keep our Empire, and the civilization that supports it. Not guaranteed, but even a good chance is better than none. And if you run out of people who are willing to put themselves into the crucible, look no further. I’ll step down from here and head up a battle fleet in a heartbeat. Hell, I would lead a task force, even a battleship if that’s all you can give me.”

  “I need you here, Admiral McCullom,” said Sean, giving her a quick smile. “Someone has to listen to my complaints, and you are it.”

  Sean looked at the holo being projected by his flat comp. “So, how are we standing as far as fleet replacements are concerned?”

  “Everything we can get ready will be good to go by the time of the offensive,” said the Admiral, pointing to her own comp holo. “That’s assuming that the damned star actually lights up in a month or more. If it goes off sooner, we wil
l of course not have as much ready.”

  “And the allied fleets?”

  “Crakista and Elysium forces are all at their staging points already, though we are expecting some more ships for each force. We have assigned them to task groups with their own commanders, as per their requests, and your orders. In two cases this has resulted in groups that are mostly either Crakista or Brakakak, in order to give their high admirals a command commensurate with their rank.”

  “Good,” said Sean, reaching for his glass of soda. “I want their commanders to feel that we trust them. And what about the Margravi and Klashak?”

  “We have passed some of their task forces through to the Donut, while they upgrade their systems to our standards.” The Admiral looked away for a moment, chewing her lip in thought. “Are you sure you want them included in this operation. My staff feels they would be better suited to continued screening of Laharan and Fenri space, and letting us withdraw more of our own units for operations against the Cacas.”

  “No. I want this to be an alliance operation. I want the Cacas to realize that they are not just fighting us, but most of the governments of this region. I want them faced with a united front. So no, they stay.”

  “Yes, sir. You’re in charge.”

  Yes, I am. And I will be blamed if our allies let us down in combat.

  “Anything else?” he asked, looking at a holo of one of the new superheavy battleships. “I hope we have three more of these ready to go.”

  “Those three will be ready for combat at the end of this week,” acknowledged McCullom. “I would like more time for shakedown, but I understand the need. In another month I can get you three more, and then we have to wait for another four months for more to come off the lines. By then we will be into full production, a hundred ships a year.”

  A hundred of the most powerful units either side has deployed so far in this war, thought the Emperor, wondering if that would still be enough. But it will have to be, while we keep commissioning battleships and superbattleships.

  “And we have word about the pirate operations going on in Sector VII,” said McCullom, her expression grim. “It seems they are capturing humans, as well as our cargo, and selling them to the Vergasa.”

  “Shit. Now those assholes.” Vergasa was a smaller star nation, not more than fifty inhabited systems, sitting a hundred light years outside of human space toward spinward. The large, furry creatures did not allow anyone else in their territory, and were said to use slaves for much of their grunt work, much like the Fenri. “What can we do to get them back?”

  “The only thing I can think of is an expeditionary force. Invade, take out their military, and take our people back.”

  “And get us into another war?” said Sean, grimacing. “As if we don’t have enough to handle already. Even if they are a small fry.”

  “I think the only other choice would be to see if the Ministry of State can buy them back,” said McCullom. “Then, if we win this war we’re already in, we can go in there and take back what we couldn’t purchase.”

  “I really hate the idea of letting our people rot in slavery,” said Sean, closing his eyes and trying to come up with something he could do. “Let’s do this. I want our ships in sectors VII, VIII and I to keep on those pirates. But I also want them interdicting any traffic across their sectors heading out into unincorporated space. They are to search any ships they come across, even those with Imperial registry. And any with stolen goods and people aboard are to be impounded.”

  “That might cause some trouble with our allies,” said McCullom. “If any of the ships happen to carry their registry.”

  “The Ministry of State will deal with that. I’ll personally apologize to anyone we inconvenience. But I want these orders followed, to the letter.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “In fact, I have a meeting with the Cabinet in one hour. So anything else of vital importance before I leave?”

  “No, your Majesty,” said the CNO. “And may I ask how the Empress is doing?”

  “She’s doing fine, if still a little shook up,” he said, still troubled by what had happened on their wedding day. “The arm has almost healed completely.”

  “Will she still need the position at the Medical Center?” asked McCullom, raising an eyebrow.

  “No. I think not,” said Sean, shaking his head. “She has another job now. Full time, unless I’m mistaken.”

  “Very good,” said McCullom with a smile. “Then we will not hold that position open for her.”

  She’s not doing anything but be the Empress, thought Sean, walking from the room. Which was OK with him, since he trusted security better when the bystanders could be controlled, unlike a hospital, even a military one.

  The underground tram took him to the office building a block down from Parliament. The megascraper had one of his public offices, and was near to most of the government office buildings that housed the headquarters of the major departments. Offices were also assigned to the ministers in the building, as well as to key subordinates. Underneath resided the massive databanks of the civil government, fed by the processing offices in the building.

  Sean moved from the basement to one of the cabinet meeting rooms on the upper floors, accompanied by his augmented security detail. He was getting used to the security, much as his father and mother must have. And, after what had just happened, at the wedding, and at the Donut, he was happy to have it.

  The Ministers were already waiting for him when he walked in the room, only a pair of his security agents coming through the doors with him. There were already guards in the room, as well as the complete security details of everyone involved in the meeting on the floor.

  The Ministers all came to their feet as he entered. Sean stopped for a moment, looking out the huge steelglass window that overlooked the city, giving a view of the river all the way down to the coast, and all the huge buildings built along the banks. Fifty kilometers out in the bay was the long shape of Peal Island, home to the Naval Academy that he had graduated from. It was almost lost in the mists of distance, but was still as familiar to his vision as the day he had walked to the landing field as a newly minted ensign. Things were so much simpler back then, he thought with a slight smile on his face. The whole Universe was in front of me, and I had the hopes of every ensign as they walked from those halls.

  “Please be seated, ladies and gentle beings,” he said, nodding to the gathered Ministers. All of the high rankers in the room took a seat, Lord T’lisha lowering his bulk onto the special bench built for his species.

  “Samantha will not be joining us today,” he told the gathered Ministers. “She will be spending more time with the Empress, preparing her for her duties. She will resume her duties as Regent when I return to the fleet.”

  The heads nodded at the table. No one questioned his leading the fleet on the next op. He had already explained to them about his dream, and by now everyone in this room was a true believer in his gift.

  “Even though Samantha has done a fine job as my Regent, I am still the Emperor, and all decisions must originate with me.” And it frees Samantha of any blame of anything goes wrong, the least I can do for her. “So, let’s get it clear right now. If there is anything I need to know, bring it out now, so I can sign the paperwork.”

  “I have received a message from the Admiralty,” said Lord Garis, after looking around the table to see if anyone had needed to speak first. “Are you sure you want to stop the shipping of our allies? They might see this as an insult.”

  “I want to interdict any possible slave trade of our citizens,” said Sean in a forceful tone. “That is why I want your Ministry to make it clear to them that we are not trying to insult them, but only to protect the citizens in our space. They all have to know that not every one of their freighter skippers is a saint.”

  “The Crakista might just be,” said Garis with a smile. “I have never met a harder bargaining people, but honest to a fault.”

  �
��But not all of their skippers are Crakista,” said Sean, pointing a finger at the Minister. “Even their leadership must realize that. They allow their minority species to conduct themselves within the laws of their Empire, and they must know that not every sentient in the Empire is a, saint, did you say. I will talk with their leadership over wormhole com, if necessary, but I will not allow their ships free passage without checking them out.”

  “Understood, your Majesty. I just wanted you to be aware of the difficulties we might encounter.”

  And that’s why you have the damned job, thought Sean, looking at the older man. Though I have to admit that you’re damned good at it.

  “Lord Halbrook,” said Sean, looking over at another middle aged human, one who had served his father for many years. “What can you report on the income front? Is our income matching our expenses?”

  “Of course not, your Majesty,” said the man with a frown. “With a war of this size and intensity, there is no way that we can pay for everything. We still haven’t paid off all the bonds on the Donut, and now we are tasked with finding the funds to pay for an unprecedented military expansion.”

  “So we will be running in the red for a while?”

  “Maybe more than a while,” said the Minister. He looked over at Lord H’rressitor, the Gryphon Minister of Commerce and Industry. “Despite the Minister’s efforts at increasing our industrial capacity, and the goal of reaching full employment within the next five years, we can only raise so much in taxes. We are in danger of going bankrupt.”

  “And if we don’t win the war, going bankrupt will be the least of our worries,” said the Emperor. “Raise corporate income taxes if you must.”

  “They’re already at fifty percent,” said Halbrook, grimacing. “The owners and shareholders are going to raise hell.”

  “They’ll raise more hell if we lose this thing. I remember reading one time that on old Earth, taxes reached as high as ninety percent during wartime. And the industrialists still made a fortune. They’ll pay more taxes and love it, as the wealth comes rolling into their coffers. So raise the corporate taxes to seventy-five percent. And sell more bonds to the workers. With more people working, they can afford to give up some of that income. And see about investing some more of my assets into production. The Emperor’s largess is doing no good sitting around in banks, or in untapped resources.”