by David Drake
The Alliance flagship had already been a distortion when Daniel’s mind cleared enough from the fog to take in his console’s readouts. During transition he had been chatting with Stacey Bergen and three of his uncle’s old shipmates about Palmyrene skill in the Matrix.
The other old-timers ranged from amazed to incredulous at Daniel’s stories. Captain Reese—he’d left the RCN for the merchant service and retired when he lost his left arm to a collapsing antenna—said that if the Palmyrenes were really that good, they would have coursed all over human space instead of being stuck in a backwater like the Qaboosh.
Stacey’s judgment was that pilotage was an interesting skill and certainly impressive, but that a Palmyrene captain would take a month to sail a route that a proper astrogator could manage in a week. For all that, Stacey would have liked six months to spend on a Palmyrene cutter while he tried to pick up some of the tricks.
It was a perfectly reasonable conversation, one of the sort Daniel had listened to frequently before he went off to the Academy. But Uncle Stacey and all his friends were dead, dead for years. It had been a harmless illusion; but the next time Daniel reentered sidereal space, he thought he would prefer feeling that he was being flayed with hot knives.
“Posy Three, go ahead with your information,” said von Gleuck’s voice. He sounded tense, but there were many possible reasons for that—and it could simply be that his head was splitting from a bad transition. “Cinc over.”
Rather than speaking, Daniel pointed his right index finger toward Adele. She nodded to his image and said, “Commander, the Palmyrene Fifth Column within Calvary has by now been eliminated by the Founder’s Regiment. The Founder had a full list of traitors and their probable locations, so there shouldn’t have been any difficulty. The Founder’s Palace is being guarded by the best of the militia units. I don’t imagine they’ll even be attacked, but they should be able to shrug off any panicked attempt by somebody who eluded Major Flecker’s troops.”
Adele paused to gather data for the remainder of the briefing. Though the details of her display were a blur except to Adele’s own eyes, Daniel saw the field from the upper right corner shift into the center of the hologram to replace the previous one.
Von Gleuck seized the momentary silence to blurt, “Good God! Who are you, please? Is this Lady Mundy, over?”
Daniel called up the navigational packet which the Z 46 had transmitted when von Gleuck accepted—to give the thing its right name—the RCN offer of alliance. The information consisted of 36 points in space—literally points in vacuum, none of them close to heavenly bodies—each within a light-minute of Zenobia. In addition, there were six points some thirty light-minutes out. Force Posy could displace with no communication beyond a single numerical preset.
It was exactly the sort of preparation Daniel—and Vesey, and probably Cory as well—had separately computed on the run back to Zenobia from the waypoint where they had intercepted the convoy. It reinforced Daniel’s existing high opinion of von Gleuck as a fighting officer.
“Yes, this is Officer Mundy,” Adele said, frowning slightly—either irritated at being interrupted or more likely chiding herself because she hadn’t given proper identification before speaking. Her lack of ceremony hadn’t disturbed von Gleuck, but obviously the source of such information was important. “Now, as you will have guessed, the Palmyrenes intended an invasion with their own troops as well.”
Very likely von Gleuck had guessed that, at least after the Horde arrived. He would have noted that the transports were Cinnabar registry. For a politically astute officer—as von Gleuck was—it would be obvious why Daniel had been so close-mouthed about his plans.
The Z 42 extracted a careful twelve thousand miles from the Z 46. Daniel was sure that she would be signalling the flagship, but he was equally certain that von Gleuck would leave those communications to a subordinate while he was listening to Adele.
A few Palmyrene cutters—not nearly as many as had disappeared from the swarm about the Piri Reis—extracted in the region above Zenobia. Daniel frowned as he realized something. He touched his display, extending the course that the Princess Cecile had been following beyond the point he took her back into the Matrix. Five of the six cutters were within fifty miles of where the Sissie would have been if she hadn’t inserted. They had tracked her through the Matrix.
That was truly amazing. Uncle Stacey—Uncle Stacey’s ghost—might be right about the Palmyrene skills being inferior to real astrogation, but Daniel knew that they would be very effective in the close-range combat in which the Sissie had made a name for herself.
“The troop transports,” Adele was saying, “are on Diamond Cay, cut off from Calvary and the main continent. Their Cinnabar captains have been warned to remain where they are on penalty of being declared traitors to the Republic. While they may bow to threats from the Palmyrene troops, that won’t happen quickly, and by now the Founder’s troops should have overrun the Palmyrene base on Zenobia.”
“Lady Mundy . . . ,” said von Gleuck. “You have done all this? A Palmyrene base? I have been on Zenobia for eighteen months, and all this comes from a clear blue sky. You are all I have heard, and more. Cinc over.”
Most of the cutters which had entered the Matrix were now back in close company with the Palmyrene cruiser. They must have realized their prey was gone, so they had returned to the Autocrator without extracting into sidereal space.
Daniel wished he had more knowledge of Palmyrene equipment. He realized for the first time that the cutters’ instrumentation must be extremely basic—a fact that his hallucination had put in the mouth of Uncle Stacey. Indeed, a captain conning his ship from the hull couldn’t use the sort of sensors that spacers from civilized regions took for granted.
It was quite wonderful that the cutters could track the Sissie to her orbit above Zenobia, but they probably wouldn’t have been able to locate her by any other means. Whereas Daniel had crisp, complete information regarding the Horde’s dispositions across the entire electrooptical band, accurate to one minute at this distance.
But if there was a battle, it was going to be a knife fight. The Sissie had been lucky thus far, but that could not possibly continue. Both the Piri Reis and the Turgut had good sensors; in particular, the cruiser’s Pantellarian optics were at least as good as those of the most modern RCN warship. The cutters may have returned to the flagship not only for orders but for information.
“Yes, well,” said Adele with a hint of irritation. “This was really a task for the Resident, not the Fleet, but I’m afraid Resident Tilton himself is much of the problem. As I was saying—the problem on the ground is contained for the time being. If the Palmyrenes are able to bring their heavy ships into the atmosphere to provide fire support and to land crews for the transports, they may still be able to bring off the coup. I don’t know how good Palmyrene infantry is, but I have very little confidence in the Zenobian militia. It would be much better if the infantry didn’t get off Diamond Cay.”
The Horde vanished into the Matrix like water soaking into cloth. Starting with the cruiser and destroyer, the displacement rolled across the assemblage. It was complete within thirty seconds.
Daniel started to say something; he didn’t have time to. Von Gleuck’s voice said, “Break. All Posy elements, this is Cinc. Execute Course Pack Two. Cinc out.”
“Prepare to insert!” Vesey said. “Inserting!”
The Princess Cecile shimmered into the Matrix, leaving Daniel’s mind hanging for a moment in sidereal space, under the hard separate gleams of the stars.
CHAPTER 23
Zenobia System
Daniel’s mind reentered, meshed with—the process reminded him of registering a transparency over another image—his body. His limbs felt cold, and his eyes didn’t focus for a moment.
“Ship, this is Six,” he said. The effort of speaking brought him fully back to himself. “I expect the wogs to come after us this time—probably just a few cutters, but
maybe the whole fleet. Gunners, after the second destroyer appears, hit everything that extracts. Missileers, we may have a heavy cruiser close aboard in a few minutes. I won’t pretend I’m looking forward to that, but I want you plotting trajectories to each anomaly as it forms. If it’s a cutter, switch to the next.”
Daniel’s lips were dry, but he felt a leaping excitement that nothing but battle could give him. This was a terrible situation: the Sissie was facing opponents who could clearly beat her at her own game, precise maneuvers in the Matrix and point-blank engagements. But by the gods, if any ship could pull it off, it was this ship and this crew!
“If either of the heavy ships appears,” Daniel continued, “launch as soon as you have a solution. Chazanoff, I’m not usurping your authority as Chief Missileer, but if the target Fiducia is solving for turns out to be the Piri Reis or Turgut, he doesn’t need to ask your permission or mine either one. Acknowledge, over.”
“Roger, Six!” said Fiducia.
“Roger, Six,” said Chazanoff. The chief’s response wasn’t so much an echo as a dull counterfeit of his mate’s.
Daniel grinned. He knew exactly how Chazanoff felt. If Captain Leary hadn’t had more to do in the early seconds following extraction than any three people could manage, he would be computing missile attacks himself.
And directing the gun turrets also, of course, as Sun and Rocker well knew. Daniel handled the plasma cannon skillfully, but he couldn’t pretend he was actually better than the Sissie’s gunner or gunner’s mate: they practiced constantly while the corvette was in the Matrix, running imagery of past engagements as well as simulations. Even so, it would have required a real effort of will for Daniel not to lock out the gunnery consoles and lay the pippers on target himself.
The Z 46 arrived less than thirty seconds after the Princess Cecile. She was shaking out additional sails.
Daniel was running the corvette with a minimum rig: topsails on A and E rings only. If the Piri Reis did appear close alongside, he was going to regret not having a full suit of sails to absorb the initial wracking salvo of plasma bolts. A single hit from the cruiser’s 15-cm weapons could dish in the Sissie’s hull at five thousand miles, and the multiple hits likely if the Palmyrene gunner knew his business would finish the corvette at much greater range.
But the more probable danger came from cutters, and the best defense against them was the corvette’s gunfire. Daniel had decided to give his plasma cannon the best field of fire possible by limiting the arcs that sails would block.
Besides, fewer sails meant fewer riggers on the hull to handle their problems. Daniel would much rather have kept his entire crew inside, but the Sissie was going to have to maneuver with precision to survive. Woetjans was on the hull—it was the bosun’s job, and she wouldn’t obey orders to stay inside while some of her personnel were facing danger—with four of her most experienced riggers.
If something jammed, that team would clear it; and if they had known that a hail of rockets and plasma bolts would scour the hull clean, they would still be out there. It was their job, and among the Sissies, duty was more important than life.
It made absolutely no sense at all, except to other people who were or had been members of a crack combat unit. Then it made all the sense in the world.
The Piri Reis, then the Turgut, extracted within a hundred miles of one another and about thirteen thousand miles above Zenobia. Instants later, the Palmyrene cutters began to appear about their heavy vessels like ripples shimmering on a pond.
The Alliance flagship was only a thousand miles distant: Daniel had brought the Princess Cecile closer to the rendezvous point than he had the first time because he expected that the little squadron would be better off tight together to supply supporting fire. A single ship might be mobbed by a score of cutters and have her rig blown off by rockets.
Space-time dimpled between the Sissie and the Z 46. The second Alliance destroyer—
But it wasn’t.
“Target!” Daniel shouted, highlighting the cutter which crystallized out of the infinite possible.
“I’m on it! I’m on it!” Sun cried. That wasn’t quite true, but the rumble of the dorsal turret rotating the necessary thirty degrees was comforting proof that he would be shortly.
Another anomaly four hundred miles away made the stars beyond it quiver. “Targeting!” Rocker said as the ventral turret turned also. “Targeting, I’m on it!”
The first anomaly became a Palmyrene cutter, sharp and squarely broadside to the Princess Cecile but with her axis cocked up by fifteen degrees. The corvette was drawing ahead under 1 g acceleration in parallel with the Z 46, but the cutter’s rocket basket pivoted to lead her target expertly.
The Palmyrene captain stood in his pulpit in the far bow. If I boosted the magnification, his face would be as clear to me as the scratches on his visor allowed, Daniel thought.
The middle of the cutter’s hull went bright, then exploded outward. A single rocket spat out of the conflagration. It vanished from the image area and from the Sissie’s concern. Sun’s second plasma bolt stirred the luminous gas cloud, but its energy could add nothing to the holocaust.
The recoil of the two shots was echoing through the ship. Daniel hadn’t noticed the Whang/whang! when the guns fired.
His thumb mashed a key, locking Rocker’s firing circuit. “Ventral, hold your fire!” he ordered. “That’s the Z 42, over.”
Two more anomalies shimmered on the display. They were forward and aft of the cutter, each within two hundred miles. Sun and Rocker divided the targets, but only when the ventral guns had slid off the Z 42 did Daniel free Rocker’s console. The Sissie faced enough enemies already without accidentally putting a plasma bolt into an Alliance destroyer—particularly since Daniel was sure that the Alliance gunners were at least as jumpy and ready to shoot as Rocker was.
“Posy Cinc, this is Three-Six,” Daniel said. “Over.”
His gunners, and possibly his missileers—though the Princess Cecile would be reduced to glowing debris in a matter of seconds if the Piri Reis extracted alongside with her nine 15-cm guns cleared for action—would handle incoming attackers as well as human beings could. Tactics, or at least advice on tactics, was the job of Captain Daniel Leary.
“Cinc to Three-Six,” von Gleuck responded so promptly that Daniel suspected the Alliance commodore had been about to initiate the call. “Do you have an attack plan, over?”
The Sissie’s turrets fired in such close conjunction that Daniel wasn’t sure which gunner had gotten on target first. Two cutters bloomed into fireballs. The Palmyrenes were clearly keying on the corvette rather than on the Alliance destroyers.
“Sir!” said Daniel. He realized as the syllable came out that he was being artificially bright, much as he must have sounded when addressing instructors at the Academy. “So long as we remain within observation range, the Palmyrenes won’t be able to land on Zenobia. I therefore recommend that instead of attacking, we—”
A Palmyrene rocket detonated with a deafening crash. It must have hit squarely over the bridge. The air was suddenly hazy with dust and flocking shaken from the insulation. A bank of lights in the port-side ceiling went out, then flickered on again at half their usual output.
“Bloody hell!” Daniel said. “Ah, sorry, sir. That Force Posy shift location every time the Piri Reis inserts, but that we not initiate attacks un—”
A second rocket hit, this time in the Sissie’s ventral rigging from the sound of it. Shrapnel tinkled spitefully, ricocheting in the angles between the hull and the outriggers withdrawn against it.
How many riggers did that kill? But this was battle, and people die in battles. By the gods, the wogs will pay the score before this is over!
“Until one of the heavy ships tries to land and we can catch them in the atmosphere, over.”
Two plasma bolts from the Z 46 roiled the gas cloud to which Rocker had already reduced the cutter that had attacked from the Sissie’s underside. Daniel s
uspected that when von Gleuck had a moment, he would well and truly ream his gunner for shooting when he did. He hadn’t just been late, he’d been pointlessly late. He’d triggered his 13-cm guns in sheer frustration at not having a real target while the Princess Cecile was making excellent practice on the wogs. On the Monkeys, that is.
“Three, this is Cinc,” von Gleuck said. “From your reputation, Leary, I’d have expected you to suggest a headlong charge to destroy the cruiser and the Monkey Queen herself. If we kill her, then we’ve won, not so, over?”
Daniel grinned, though without the expression’s usual warmth. There was a sort of beauty to the idea, but—
“Cinc, this is Three,” he said aloud. “I’m not sure that a salvo of ten missiles—” the number of launch tubes in their small mixed squadron “—is enough to guarantee destroying a cruiser, let alone killing the Autocrator aboard her. I am sure that if we go down their throat while they’re waiting unhampered for us, there’ll be no one left between Zenobia and whatever remains of the Palmyrenes. Over.”
Nine of the dozen cutters which had sortied now reappeared close to the Piri Reis. The other three were debris clouds still dusted with sparkles of plasma.
Daniel wondered if he would have been willing to make that—perfectly accurate—assessment if he hadn’t had the reputation of being a hell-for-leather daredevil. How many officers over the millennia had been willing to die—and fail—because they were afraid to be called cowards?
His smile spread wider. Sure, I’d have said the same thing. It’s my duty, after all.
There was a pause of seconds, a chasm of silence in the present tension. Then von Gleuck said, “Roger, Three. Cinc out.”
The PPI highlighted movement in bright amber. Daniel moved his cursor quickly, certainly, and brought up a direct visual image: the destroyer Turgut was braking to enter Zenobia’s atmosphere while the cruiser stood guard in orbit.
