Falcone Strike

by Christopher Nuttall

  Maybe they just know the other is reliable, she thought, after a moment. She’d learned the difference between someone reliable and someone likable very early on and, in her training, the former was always preferable. They rely on each other even though they detest each other.

  An alarm sounded. “Captain, a hyperspace gate is opening,” Roach said. “I’m counting seven starships . . . no, twelve. Three destroyers, one cruiser, and eight freighters.”

  Kat tensed as the display updated. “Sound red alert,” she ordered. Alarms howled through the ship. “Bring the ship to battle stations, but keep the cloak in place.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Roach said.

  The XO hurried onto the bridge and took his console. “All ships report ready, Captain,” he said after a moment. “They’re red and hot.” Kat nodded, running through possible options in her mind. The cruiser looked to be modern; the destroyers were probably refitted . . . and the freighters were very much a mixed bag. It was unlikely, though, that any of them lacked a hyperdrive. They’d be grossly inefficient if they needed to travel without a larger ship to open the gateways into hyperspace for them.

  But that might suit the enemy fine, she thought, recalling just how many ships had limped across the border. You can’t run away if you’re restricted to STL speeds.

  “Lock weapons on the enemy warships,” she ordered. If the cruiser happened to be looking for trouble, they might detect the cloaking fields. “Target secondary missiles on the freighters. If they start preparing to escape, I want them destroyed.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Roach said.

  Kat nodded. “Take us into firing range,” she ordered. “And prepare to fire.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Weiberg said.

  “Watch them carefully,” Kat added. “If they sweep us, fire at once; don’t wait for orders, just fire at once.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Roach said again.

  Kat smiled, then keyed her console, hastily checking her calculations against the tactical computers. How long would it take for the enemy to recycle their hyperdrives and jump back out? Long enough for them to be caught by her missiles? It wasn’t standard procedure to keep the drives warmed up, not when it put a great deal of wear and tear on the system, but this was wartime. She could see advantages in keeping her drives ready to open a gateway, even if it meant they would have to be replaced sooner rather than later. It all depended on just how para noid the enemy was feeling.

  “Entering firing range,” Roach reported. “There’s no sign they’ve detected us.”

  Unless they’re very cool customers, Kat thought. A cloaked ship couldn’t raise shields without breaking the cloak. If someone had picked up the flotilla on passive sensors, they might just wait until the ship slipped into point-blank range and then open fire before the incoming ship could realize it was under attack and raise its shields. But would someone with that sort of nerve be left running convoy escort missions? She took a breath. “Attack pattern beta,” she ordered. “Fire at will.” Lightning shuddered as she unleashed the first spread of missiles, aimed right at the enemy cruiser. The display updated rapidly as the other ships fired too, launching enough missiles to overwhelm an enemy force twice the size of the one facing them. Kat hadn’t been inclined to take chances, but as the enemy ships struggled to react, it rapidly became clear that they’d been caught completely by surprise. Their point defense was barely effective and they didn’t even launch a single missile in response.

  If nothing else, they’ll be more paranoid after this, Kat thought. And the wear and tear on their sensors will make it all worthwhile. Cold hatred burned through her gut as the enemy cruiser twisted in a desperate attempt to escape the inevitable. Seven missiles slammed into its shields, knocking them down before they could even solidify; three more slammed into its hull, blowing it apart into an expanding ball of plasma. Kat watched the cruiser die, then turned her attention to the destroyers; one of them, with a captain and crew who were clearly on the ball, managed to launch a broadside of their own before they were smashed to atoms. But they’d had no time to target the missiles properly, let alone set up a tactical assault program. The entire spread was wiped out before they could even lock onto their targets. “All four warships and the courier boat have been destroyed,”

  Roach reported. Kat hadn’t seen the tiny starship die. “Missiles locked on enemy freighters.”

  “Communications, send the surrender demand,” Kat ordered. “Tactical, prepare to open fire if they try to escape.”

  “Aye, Captain,” Nicola said. Roach echoed her a moment later. “Message sent.”

  Kat rolled her eyes. She’d originally intended to record the surrender demand herself, but Davidson had pointed out that the Theocracy’s soldiers and spacers wouldn’t want to surrender to a woman. It sounded absurd to her—her gender had no bearing on her ability to command a starship—yet if it prevented unnecessary bloodshed, she could cope with it. And besides, if the enemy was so foolish as to deny themselves the talents of half of their population, she might as well take advantage of it.

  There was a certain kind of advantage in being constantly underestimated. Princess Drusilla certainly took advantage of it, she thought with wry amusement. They never anticipated she could actually steal a freighter, let alone make a run for the Commonwealth.

  “No response,” Nicola said.

  “Two of the freighters are powering up their drives,” Roach added. “Target them with active sensors,” Kat ordered. She didn’t need to refine her targeting data any further, but even civilian-grade equipment couldn’t fail to pick up the sweep. It was a threat, a clear warning that she was prepared to open fire on a defenseless freighter. But then, defenseless or not, it was part of the enemy’s war effort. “And repeat the surrender demand.”

  “No response,” Nicola said.

  “Target the two runaways,” Kat ordered. They’d make their escape into hyperspace if she hesitated any longer. “Fire!”

  “Aye, Captain,” Roach said. He tapped his console. The freighters, protected only by civilian-grade shields, were rapidly blown into atoms.

  “Targets destroyed.”

  “The remaining freighters are signaling their surrender,” Nicola said.

  Kat allowed herself a sigh of relief mixed with concern. It was possible that the enemy ships had chosen to surrender, but equally possible they were planning a trap. A crew of fanatics wouldn’t hesitate to blow their drives once her Marines were onboard, killing everyone and leaving her with fewer troops. The safest course of action would be to simply kill all of the remaining freighters, but she needed the ships and their computers intact. And besides, destroying surrendering ships would be cold-blooded murder.

  “Inform the Marines that they are cleared to depart,” she ordered. “Communications, inform the enemy that they are to cut their shields, drives, and active sensors. If they comply with our orders, they will be taken into custody and transferred to a POW camp, where they will be held until the end of the war. Any resistance, however, will be met by the destruction of the offending vessel.”

  The XO opened a private channel to her implants. “They may not be safe when they return home if we take them as POWs,” he said. “We may want to offer them a permanent home.”

  Kat frowned. The idea of butchering one’s own personnel was strange and alien to her, but it fit in with the Theocracy’s system. They wouldn’t want anyone who’d seen a different society to return to the mainstream, certainly not a society as irreligious as the Commonwealth.

  No, the XO was right; it was much more likely that returning them to their homeworld would sign their death sentence.

  “See to it, if they’re willing to cooperate,” she sent back. “The Marine intelligence officers can interrogate them, then make a few offers.” She closed the channel, then turned to watch as the Marine shuttles slipped closer to their targets. None of the freighters seemed anything but conventional; Kat couldn’t help feeling nervous as the Marines close
d in, then docked on the hulls. A single mistake now could lead to disaster. She would have preferred to deal with the freighters one by one, but the Marines had different ideas. The enemy couldn’t be allowed time for second thoughts, let alone a chance to put those thoughts into action. Rigging a freighter to blow, unlike a warship, would take time. Unless they already have a selfdestruct system, she thought. It would be just the sort of thing they’d have.

  There was no point in trying to issue orders, she knew, as the Marines swarmed into the enemy ships. They’d treat everyone they encountered as a potential enemy, at least until they knew better; the crew would be bound, stacked against the wall . . . or stunned, if they tried to put up a fight. At least the Marines might avoid the horrors she’d seen on pirate ships. Kat forced herself to wait, despite her growing nervousness, as one by one the Marine units reported in. The enemy ships had been secured. “Captain,” Davidson reported, “two of the ships are crammed with janissaries.”

  Kat sucked in her breath. “Can you control them?”

  “They’re unarmed and unarmored,” Davidson assured her. “We can keep them under control, if necessary; hell, they were practically being treated as prisoners anyway.”

  “Good,” Kat said. “Do you have a head count?”

  “Five thousand on this freighter; I’m presuming a similar figure on the other ship,” Davidson reported, after a moment. “Fucked if I know how they fit so many into a handful of holds.”

  “It’s astonishing how many people will fit into something if you squeeze,” Kat muttered, recalling evacuation drills during her first cruise. Officially, shuttles were rated to carry no more than twenty people, but more could be crammed in if there was no other option. It was uncomfortable, to say the least, yet if there was no choice . . . they’d just have to cope with it. “Can you handle them long enough for us to come to a decision?”

  “I believe so,” Davidson said. “The system here is set to drop sleeping gas—or outright poison—into the compartments, so we can put them to sleep if necessary. It’s more like they’re transferring prisoners than soldiers.”

  The XO entered the conversation. “They train their soldiers to be extremely violent,” he said softly. “Perhaps they fear to let them off the leash when they’re away from occupied worlds.”

  Kat winced, remembering the reports from Cadiz. Davidson was a hardened Marine, yet he’d still had nightmares over what he’d seen as the Theocracy occupied the planet. Anyone who refused to cooperate was beaten, raped, or killed; the enemy soldiers had carried out their orders with gusto, using extreme force against even minor targets. As a terror tactic, she had to admit it was workable, yet it needed to be controlled. What was the point of using terror as a weapon if you couldn’t turn it off on command? “Or maybe they just know they have too many people crammed together,” Davidson said tartly. Boot camp tended to separate those who could handle close confines from those who couldn’t. “I’d be surprised if they didn’t have a riot or two.”

  He cleared his throat. “Orders, Captain?”

  “Keep the soldiers on the ships, for now,” Kat ordered. Ten thousand enemy soldiers, assuming the estimate was accurate: keeping them would be a major headache, but slaughtering them all would be coldblooded murder. “What do the other ships hold?”

  “Weapons and food supplies, mainly,” Davidson reported. He sounded more than a little perplexed. “One of them is apparently crammed full to bursting with ration packs. There’s enough food on the freighter to feed a small army.”

  Kat exchanged a glance with the XO. Ration packs? It made no sense. There wasn’t a world in the Commonwealth that couldn’t feed itself, or support an occupation force if necessary. If the Theocracy was tying up a freighter with ration packs, it was wasting space it could be using for weapons, ammunition, spare parts, or anything else an advancing invasion force might need. It definitely made no sense. “Transfer the crews to our ships, then the techs can go to work,”

  Kat said. They’d have to move the freighters before the enemy realized what had happened and sent a battle squadron to the dull red star, but her most pessimistic estimate suggested it would be at least a week before the enemy could react. “Tell your intelligence staff to offer them a chance to switch sides, if they like. They don’t have much of a future in a POW camp, no matter who wins.”

  The XO grinned at her, but said nothing.

  “Aye, Captain,” Davidson said. “I think we managed to take some data from the ships; a couple of crews purged their databases, but the others remain intact. The techs can give us a better idea of just what we’re facing.”

  “Good,” Kat said. “And pass a message to your men from me. Well done.”

  She closed the channel, then looked at the XO. “Pass the same message to the rest of the squadron,” she added. “They did very well.”

  “The next time will be harder,” the XO reminded her. “They’ll realize we’re out here soon enough.”

  “I know,” Kat said. Surprise had given them a one-sided victory. A squadron of modern destroyers would be hard for the squadron to handle, even with Lightning’s heavy firepower. “But let them enjoy it, for the moment.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  William wasn’t sure what he’d expected when he boarded the Theocratic freighter. A smelly death trap, like the pirate vessels he’d seen, or a starship held together by spit and baling wire, like far too many commercial ships whose owners were running short of money. Or, perhaps, something akin to the Royal Navy’s fleet train. Indeed, his first impression was that there really wasn’t any difference between one fleet train and the other. But the more he explored the hull, the stranger it became.

  “They’ve placed religious slogans everywhere,” the Marine said as he led the way onto the bridge. “They’re even written on the command chair.”

  “I see,” William said. The bridge was larger than he’d expected for a freighter, but the command chair looked hideously uncomfortable. A pair of inspection hatches had been removed, allowing the Marine techs to access the enemy computer system. “Have you found anything useful?”

  “Quite a bit,” one of the techs said. She was a young woman, wearing a uniform that marked her as an Electronic Warfare specialist. “They wanted to purge the system, but they made the mistake of basing it on a commercial design; the purge was simply ineffective and they didn’t try to destroy the datacores physically. Any military system would have been reduced to dust in seconds.”

  She smiled as she sat upright. “I don’t think they had much beforehand, to be fair, but they do have quite a few pieces of data,” she added. “This ship moved between a dozen worlds before it ever left enemy space, which it first did a couple of days after the Battle of Cadiz.”

  They outran their fleet train , William thought. Intelligence had suspected as much, but it was nice, if a little pointless, to finally have confirmation. They had to call a halt long enough to rearm their ships and make repairs.

  He shrugged, then peered down at the datacore. “Can you tell us anything useful about enemy space?”

  “I’m hoping we can put it together, in time,” the tech said. “Anywhere this ship went, I think, has to be important. They were carrying weapons, so it’s probable they picked them up at their last destination”— she activated the star chart projector—“here. Logically, that star system is either a supply dump or a manufacturing center.”

  “Probably the former,” William grunted. The Theocracy wouldn’t want to risk placing a production node so close to the front lines. Hell, the Commonwealth had wanted to follow the same logic. “Is there much else?”

  “There’s a great many religious texts,” the tech said. “I honestly couldn’t find anything resembling manuals, let alone teaching aides; I think they were only ever expected to eat, sleep, and study religion while they were off duty. I’ll forward everything we get to the intelligence staff, sir. They’ll probably be able to draw more from it.”

  “Carry on,�
�� William said as Davidson stepped onto the bridge. He turned to face the younger man, who saluted. “What can you tell me about the crew?”

  “All male, all largely uneducated,” Davidson said. His eyes darkened with disapproval. “I don’t think they could actually repair anything, if they ran into trouble. The best they could do is swap one component for another—and God help them if they didn’t have a replacement on hand. I had a look at the ship’s paperwork and it’s long on exhortations and short on anything actually practical. Honestly, sir, if I saw this lot applying for a spacer’s certificate, I’d probably die laughing.”

  William wasn’t surprised. A spacer’s certificate required a technical education, which required an understanding of the basis of science and engineering. It contrasted oddly with the Theocracy’s insistence on religious education, where questioning was flatly against the rules and probably harshly punished. They’d squared the circle, William realized slowly, by making the system as simple as possible, which would work as long as the crew had spare parts on hand. The idea of making a missing component would not only be beyond them, it would likely be beyond their comprehension.

  “They must have a repair crew with better education somewhere,” he mused out loud. “A group who can actually produce newer and better pieces of equipment.”

  “Or maybe they don’t,” Davidson said. “Is our tech better than theirs or not?”