As the seconds ticked down Vango abruptly realized what must be done, if it was not already too late. He opened a channel to his wing commander, the highest he could reach, to request a flash priority broadcast to the fleet.
Two Alpha One must have been on the ball because he immediately granted Vango’s request.
Without time to prepare, he just said what came into his head. “All ships listen. We need to turn off our suicide bombs and just aim for the enemy. No fratricide, and at these speeds we’re doing more damage by impact.” And he almost went on, and if we miss we survive to try again, but he stopped himself, worried that saying so might seem cowardly or self-serving.
But he really did believe this was the best tactic. Now he realized why the Meme didn’t bother to put warheads on most of their hypervelocity missiles: they were cheap, and nearly as damaging at speeds this high.
“This is Wing Commander Reardon, acting fleet commander,” Vango heard over the voice net. “Do what that man said. He’s right. The bombs aren’t working.”
His communication came too late for over a hundred pilots, who detonated themselves in the path of the enemy, to minor effect. When the explosions ceased, Vango saw the cloud of Aardvarks tighten up into a stream, a line that threw itself into the enemy’s path.
Only a small percentage of the attack ships were actually able to maneuver into the path of the Destroyer. Most flashed past at enormous velocity. In the vacuum of space, a miss by a meter was the same as a kilometer, unless the hapless ship happened to get caught in the enemy’s fusion wake. Vango sincerely hoped no one disregarded orders and detonated his or her warhead, as the river of thousands of Aardvarks now packed themselves so tightly that doing so would take several friendlies along.
But discipline held, and no matter how the Destroyer twisted and turned, trying to use its fusors, eventually the dead armor was stripped away by repeated impacts, like shotgun blasts tearing through zombie flesh. Soon the dying heroes tore great gouges out of the enemy ship itself.
Whether out of desperation or cunning, the Meme changed tactics again. Turning once more sideways, it rolled and spun, drive still blasting. This provided at least two benefits to the enemy that Vango could see.
First, it threw off the aim of the entire fleet, as the Destroyer’s thrust vector was now perpendicular to its path of flight. He was not sure that would matter much, as the cloud of Aardvarks now impacted the enemy more by luck than any particular skill.
Second, it allowed the use of a lot of the thing’s fusors even as it spun to present different parts of its armor to each successive impact. The blasts of plasma flame reached out ten kilometers to destroy some of the tiny ships before they could strike, and limited the possibility of repeated collisions tearing their way through a single place.
Even as he analyzed the battle, Vango’s hyperaware mind and psychomotor skills guided him in to his own rendezvous with death. Suddenly he had to reflexively reduce the zoom on his VR display as his real position overtook his apparent viewpoint. Now, at thousands of kilometers per second, he became just another part of the suicide stream, a fire hose blast of individual ships hoping to do their duties by dying well.
Five. He held the caret showing the intersection point steady on the enemy’s path, and set his maser to continuous fire. One advantage of such a weapon was that it had little effect on friendlies, its wavelength optimized for Meme flesh.
Four. He edged the caret over to the side a bit, Kentucky windage based on his instinct about the effects of the impacts of the ships in front of him.
Three. The Destroyer, the caret, and the target projection drew together, jittering around like beetles shaken in the bottom of a jar, but inevitably getting closer.
Two. The ability of his computer system to help him failed. He couldn’t bring the three icons closer together with any consistency. The best he could do was hold them as near to each other as possible.
One. He aimed Lark at the middle of the variables, and waited. In truth, he was not sure what he hoped: to die, or to live.
Zero.
Minus One. No impact. Lark missed, and Vincent Markis failed to die.
He felt his vision blur and he took a great shuddering breath as his body’s physical reaction bled over into the VR. Not dead…I failed. Shutting down the virtuality for a moment, Vango found himself back in his suit, snot streaming from his nose and his heart triphammering in his ears. He reached up to try to wipe his face but his visor prevented it, so he opened up and tried to use his gloved hand. Eventually he gave up and shit it again.
Laboriously employing the manual controls, he turned around and brought his engine down to minimum burn, aiming back along his path. Checking his fuel, he realized he had only seven percent remaining.
There was no way to reengage. If the Destroyer made it through the gauntlet, none of the fleet had the means to do anything about it. Ergo, his job was done. He could relax.
But he wasn’t going to make it home, either. Not unless the refuelers found him, so he set out to make that as likely as possible.
One more time into the VR, he thought. One more time, then I unplug and go to sleep. Then he remembered that he would have to stay linked in or he would just wake up in a few days. It was the virtuality system that controlled his consciousness, made the time go by faster, and reduced his need for food and oxygen to a minimum. Without it, he wouldn’t make it more than a few weeks.
Like the general. That feat still amazed him. If there really was an afterlife, he hoped to shake the man’s hand there.
Anxiety crept up on him again, hints of paranoia to be stuck here inside this little tube instead of part of Lark in open space, flying free.
Hell. I guess it’s better than dying, and maybe with the information sent back they’ll be able to treat VR addiction somehow.
So Vango gave up, linked in, and became well again.
Examining the situation, he found the Destroyer beyond the reach of the fleet and still accelerating, though with less fury. Zooming in, he could see a great deal of damage done to the giant ship, but he knew that such was only temporary.
Living ships healed.
Fleet Aardvark count stood just above sixteen thousand, out of more than thirty thousand at start. Some wings, especially First Wing that had detonated most of its suicide bombs, had been hit hard. Others had lost only a few. Vango wondered what the point was now, to have built all these little ships with each pilot in his or her isolated world. No chance of sitting down in a mess or wardroom, no drinks with friends, no gyms or bunks or lovers’ trysts.
Then he remembered that larger ships would have been spotted, would have been targeted by the enemy’s hypers, and wouldn’t have been able to keep up. Relatively overpowered for their size, only something like the Aardvarks had a chance to engage.
And they’d gotten one of the bastards. Whether there had been two originally or the original had divided, hoping to double their power before taking on Earth, didn’t really matter; either way, they had done their job. At a cost of some fifteen thousand heroes, they had taken down a Destroyer.
“All right ladies and gents,” Dick came over the comm, “form up in standard squadron flight ranks, according to the plan I just uploaded. Our squadron lost five, and they’ll be missed, but we got one of the bastards and that’s something. Now we’re going home.”
“How?” came the question from one of the attack ship drivers, quicker than the others who echoed her. “We’re all way over bingo fuel. By my calculations we’ll make it back to Saturn’s orbit in about thirty years.”
“At least our families will have something to bury,” commented some wag.
“Hold up, hold up,” Dick overrode them. “There are three refuelers on the way, with grabships, spares and processing plants to turn some of these iceballs into hydrogen. They’ll be here in a month or two. All we have to do is sit tight, link in, and go to sleep.”
Vango asked, “Are the refuelers’ positions upl
oaded?” He’d tried to call up the info but had been unable.
“No,” Dick replied. “We don’t even have their plots, in case the Destroyer could somehow hack our systems or capture and interrogate a pilot. All I know is, they are over a month behind us, cruising in silent mode.”
“So no chance of that son of a bitch seeing and killing them on the way in?” Vango made the icon of the receding enemy pulse and highlighted the curving track of its predicted course, which looped back toward Earth.
“I can’t know for sure, but it only makes sense they should be somewhere around here.” Dick drew a circle around an area of space between them and the edge of the solar system. The Destroyer’s track came nowhere near. “So we’ve already done our bit. Nothing to do but wait. All of the intel is being pumped back home, and will get there at lightspeed long before the enemy. They’ll adjust strategy and tactics accordingly. If all of us out here beat one and drove the other one off, then I have every confidence the entire strength of EarthFleet can kill the other.”
Positive murmurs and chatter filled the squadron net, but Vango wasn’t listening anymore. Never the type to take things at face value, he began working on a report, including some very pointed questions, such as: Are we sure there were only two?
And then, overwhelmed, he adjusted his time sense to forty to one, giving him one or at most two subjective days to live through, and went to sleep.
Chapter 58
Destroyer 6223’s freshly assigned Second Forward Fusor One looked around his control room with satisfaction. Despite the frustration of Commander trium’s plans – really One’s plans – the Fusor trium had been transferred from control of the dead second ship’s rear fusors to control of half of those of the new, larger Destroyer’s forward weapons.
“This is more satisfactory,” One said. “Our molecules are rising.”
“The two-ship concept failed,” said Three.
“It is you who fail to understand,” One replied. “This has worked out well both for us and for the Empire. We have advanced our trium, and the True Race had an additional Destroyer to sacrifice when the unexpected Human attack came. Now we have destroyed or avoided their pathetically slow forces and have absorbed most of the substance of 6223-2. Our ship is larger now than when we traveled between stars.”
“But not as large as it could have been,” Two interjected. “Still, all in all, our lot has improved.”
“Thank you for that resounding endorsement,” One said.
“I only wish to maintain accuracy in our assessments.”
“Yes, accuracy is important,” Three chimed in.
One’s gelatinous body shook with irritation. “You could be promoted three ranks tomorrow and still find bad news.”
“I am concerned,” Two said. “You and Command both claimed these Humans would be pushovers. Yet they mounted a significant attack a great distance from their home system. Their forces are slow, but numerous, and if their fusion missiles were more accurate they could easily have killed us. Perhaps we should seek reinforcements.”
“Now you aspire to Command? Perhaps you should forward advice upward on how to proceed. I am sure Commander One would be happy to taste your words. Many things could kill us. Running into a comet could kill us. Larger forces of the Empire are undoubtedly on the way. We cannot hasten that day. We can only try to eliminate Species 666 while we can, or do as much damage as possible. We live for the Empire.”
“We live for the Empire,” the two others repeated, and both subsided in their holding tanks, effectively ending the conversation.
One wondered whether he had been too harsh, but decided not. Three was skilled enough but always worried, but he was surprised at Two’s doubts. The road to advancement was never simple or easy for one of the Pure Race.
Some time later, after much of the routine of their first day on the job had been dispensed with, One called another conference, after ensuring the enemy remained far behind.
“I wanted to pass on what I have found out regarding our future,” he began. Two put on an appearance of guarded interest, while Three seemed worried, as usual.
“Please go on, One. Your observations are always insightful,” Two said.
“Agreed. I have been reviewing the routine reports from all sections, available on the intraship informational web, and I have deduced that we are circling around to enter the enemy solar system from a significantly differing direction.”
“What good will that do?” Three asked. “Our drive cannot be concealed.”
“Perhaps. But before we enter their system, we will be conducting certain operations among these comets around us. I have not been able to determine their exact nature, but we are already slowing our headlong flight in order to match velocities with some of the free-floaters.”
“What about the enemy!”
“Calm yourself,” Two said sternly. “They no longer pursue us, but have turned back for their system. However, they will not get home in time to affect our plans. They are low on fuel and expendable munitions. Machine technology cannot easily resupply, but we are undoubtedly pausing for Destroyer 6223 to consume material.”
“Well said, Two,” One replied. “However, there is something unusual about our projected course. One short stop should be sufficient to resupply ourselves. One long stop would allow us to continue to grow the ship and keep our consumables topped off. Instead, it appears we plan to stop in no fewer than sixteen different places.”
“What could be Commander’s purpose?”
“What indeed?” One said. “What do you think?” He enjoyed the power that greater knowledge and a greater intellect gave him to lord it over his subordinates.
“In Commander’s place, I might employ stellar bombardment tactics,” Two mused. “The recent engagement showed that we are closer in force parity than first thought. Perhaps he seeks to complicate their defense plans.”
“Excellent, Two. That is precisely what I came up with already. Aside from consuming as much as possible, growing and laying in stocks of weapons and auxiliaries, I suspect he will place bombardment modules on all available free-floaters.”
Two rippled his integument, the equivalent of a human clearing his throat. “We should prepare for this eventuality using your deductions. This will allow us to be more efficient than others when the time comes. We might even file a suggestive report to increase others’ effectiveness – but not enough to outdo us.”
“An excellent idea. I see you are finally absorbing my mental processes,” One replied. “If we can figure out how, perhaps I – I mean we – can submit another report that will impress Command in some way. Once we conquer this species, the higher our status, the greater our options. Perhaps we can gain command of a ship again, something larger than a Survey craft.”
Two sloshed in agreement, while Three turned his main eyeball away, as if unsure. One resolved to keep a secondary eye on that one, in case his nerve broke. He seemed to be growing less dependable, though he had performed adequately during the battle.
Some Meme rise to stressful occasions, One thought, and some Meme seem to have only so much fortitude before they crumble. Three seems one of the latter.
It remained to be seen about Two.
Chapter 59
This is your virtual briefing.
The text window popped up as Vango Markis stared out like a god over the solar system. With nothing else to do as he cruised back home, he had been running tactical plots of where he thought the Destroyer went and what he could do about it if he was in command.
A stylized clock counted down with a time-sped blur, presumably to allow him to mentally prepare himself, then the universe went away, leaving him staring at a screen. Obviously whoever had intruded on his waking dream was making sure he paid attention. Then words appeared.
Your A-24 Avenger II is now being automatically processed by the EarthFleet Auxiliary Ship Gladstone. When completed, your A-24 Avenger II will be fully fueled and armed, and all bat
tle damage repaired. If any issues occur, you will be informed.
“Huh,” he said to himself, and then the slide changed.
Your A-24 Avenger II service has been completed. All systems read nominal. Good luck, Flight Lieutenant Vincent Jonah Markis, and good hunting.
The screen of words disappeared. Hastily Vango dialed down his time sense back to realtime as he realized that the servicing had actually taken hours if not days, though it flew by in seconds for him. Back in his virtuality, he moved his viewpoint outside his ship to see the Gladstone and two other auxiliaries frantically servicing Aardvarks.
Grabships, with their two huge padded waldoes extending from the nose like mechanical arms and hands, seized the little warships one by one and maneuvered them into enclosed docking bays like big missile tubes. As soon as one had been placed inside, the door shut and presumably the atmosphere was restored to allow the maintainers to work in relative comfort.
He tried to move his viewpoint inside the Gladstone but encountered a null zone of no data, so instead he waited until one of the docking bays opened its doors. The Aardvark he viewed flew gently backward and out, pushed by a low-speed ram, and a grabship, well, grabbed it as soon as it was clear, hauling it off to set it in position several kilometers away. Attack ship drives were too hot to use near the motherships.
Other Aardvarks cruised, lined up in precise rows pointing toward the distant solar system. Occasionally an attitude jet flared, keeping a ship on station. Vango’s display told him they were about three months from the solar system at their current slow speed, but he had to believe that once everyone was topped off they would accelerate to shave off time.
Plague Wars 06: Comes the Destroyer Page 27
