“I can’t tell you,” cried the woman. “I can’t tell you.”
Angel hit her with another jolt of pure agony, staring at her hard eyed as her body arched and quivered. He was a cold blooded killer, but took no pleasure in what he was doing to the Countess. But she had the information he needed, and he would do what it took to get it.
“Ready to talk,” he said as her breathing began to slow toward normal. His sensor units were telling him that the Countess’ blood pressure was failing rapidly back to normal, and he hoped that she didn’t have a heart attack or a brain embolism due to the stress of the induction unit. It wouldn’t directly damage her internal systems, but it could put enough stress on her that her heart damaged itself or some other organs.
“You don’t know what they’ll do to me,” she said between ragged breaths.
“I do know what I’ll do to you, and I really doubt that they, whoever they are, can do anything worse. So tell me what I want to know, or the pain will continue.”
The Countess shook her head, refusing to speak, while Angel hit her with jolt after jolt. He was wondering if he would have to resort to real physical damage, cutting off bits and pieces, when she shook her head and cried out. “Stop. Oh please, stop. I‘ll tell you what you want.”
Angel smiled as he turned on the recording equipment. The confession he was about to record might not be admissible in an Imperial Court. That really didn’t matter. He was recording it for the Imperial Intelligence Agency, so they would have a record of every word she said. They could use her confession as they wished, hopefully to round up more of her co-conspirators until the entire conspiracy collapsed. They wouldn’t need to prosecute and punish Zhee. He would take care of that matter himself. She would die alone, then disappear into an unmarked grave. As far as he was concerned, a fitting end for the woman who had put her own petty ambitions ahead of the safety of the human species.
Chapter Seventeen
Better three hours too soon than a minute too late.
William Shakespeare
IMPERIAL SPACE: SEPTEMBER 6TH, 1002
Winston tried to get a good night’s sleep before what promised to be an ultimately stressful day. Despite the influence of his implant on his reticular activating system, the night was restless, and he awoke feeling exhausted. He didn’t feel that he was made for this. A merchant spacer might have one or two life or death situations during his career, if he was unlucky. He had been through a half dozen in the last week, with one more coming.
The Petty Officer finally gave up the idea of sleep when he tapped into the time function of his implant and saw that he only had an hour before he had to be up anyway. Instead, he got out of his rack and headed for the shower, soaking in hot water for twenty minutes, then getting into a fresh uniform and heading for the enlisted mess.
The Fleet was known for serving good food. Maybe not as good as first class on the liner he had served on, but easily as good as the chow served to that crew and the passengers, and plenty of it. Eggs, potatoes, bacon, sausage, and hot rolls, as much as one could eat. Washed down with good coffee. He still didn’t feel like eating, and had only finished part of his plate before he got up and started toward the discard window.
“Belay that, PO,” said the Senior Chief of the Ship, walking into the mess and eying Winston. “You’re going to need those calories today, and a suit may give you nourishment, but not a full belly. So sit back down and eat up.”
Winston, nodded, retaking his seat and swallowing another forkful of egg. Most of the other men and women in the compartment were shoveling the food down, a few conversations buzzing in the background, the majority silent with their own thoughts. The Day of Battle the old hands called it. Most ship to ship actions occurred with little warning, but sometimes crews had a great deal of time for preparation. The Day came, rolling toward them like a steamroller, and there was nothing they could do about it.
“At ease,” yelled a commanding voice as an officer strode into the mess. It was Zhukov, the lord and master of the vessel. He walked up to the line and pulled a tray, then proceeded to get a full breakfast.
Winston wondered why the man was slumming in the enlisted mess, when he could have had a specially prepared breakfast in his cabin, or at least the comparative luxury of the officer’s mess. Instead, here he was, asking a table of spacers if he could sit with them, then engaging them in conversation.
“Watch and learn, Winston,” said the Senior Chief, pointing with his chin at the Captain. “The Old Man knows everyone is stressed out, and that he has the final word on whether or not we live or die. And he wants them to know that he is human, and that he cares, and that because of that he will try to make the best decisions possible to bring us all through this.”
“And how much of our coming through will be due to him?” asked Winston, feeling as helpless to control his own fate as he ever had.
“As much as anyone on this ship,” answered the Chief. “There’s no way he can control everything. He can’t control the orders he receives, or what action the enemy takes. He can try to resolve the orders in the best way possible, and react to enemy action as best as he can.”
“How do you handle it, Chief?”
The Chief was silent for a few moments, obviously thinking about how to answer. “I’ve been in this Fleet for thirty-six years. Maybe two of those have involved wartime service, including this one. If they had been thirty-six years of wartime service I’m not sure if I would have made it this far, but stranger things have happened.”
“How are things going today, Senior Chief? Petty Officer?”
Winston was ready to jump to his feet as he looked up and saw the Captain standing by their table, looking him over. A hand motion from the Captain told him to be at ease.
“Just another day in the Fleet, sir,” said the Chief with a smile.
“And you, PO?”
Winston almost told the Captain exactly what he thought. That he didn’t like the idea of attacking a capital ship with a destroyer, no matter how much support they had. That he didn’t like the idea that someone else held his fate in their hands. But he couldn’t say that. The Captain had enough on his mind, and whining about his own fears were not going to help anything.
“Fine, sir. I’m sure we’re going to give the enemy hell today.”
“Of course we are, PO,” said the Captain with a smile that did not reach his eyes.
Winston realized the man was also afraid, but would go ahead and do his duty no matter the cost. And that did more to motivate the former merchant spacer than any motivational speech he could have given.
“We go to action stations in an hour,” said the Captain. “I know you people will do your jobs, so I can do mine.”
With that the Captain turned away and walked off the mess deck.
“He has much more to worry about than the rest of us, doesn’t he?”
“You betcha,” said the Chief. “Who do you think has to record those messages if your ass gets vaporized?”
“That makes me feel so much better, Chief,” said Winston with a laugh. “I really would prefer to help him avoid that task in my case. Any hints?”
“Don’t get in the way of a particle beam,” said the Chief straight faced. “And hope that we don’t eat a missile.”
“And prayer?”
“I have no reason to believe there’s anyone listening,” said the Chief with a frown. “I’ve seen men and women pray, and I’ve seen them call out to their mamas. As far as I could tell, neither added a second to their lives. So my advice? Call to mama, because at least I know she’s real.”
An hour later the dread call came over the intercom while the implants of everyone aboard sent them the same message.
“Battle stations, this is no drill. Repeat. Battle stations, this is no drill.”
* * *
The Lord of Millions looked over the tactical plot, trying to find a way out of the trap he found himself in that would not leave his ship cr
ippled. The enemy had him boxed, and good, with four forces closing in on him through hyper. Maybe if we were in normal space, he thought, dismissing that idea as soon as it came. His ships were over an hour from being able to decelerate down to hyper translation velocity. And the only benefit, besides ridding himself of the risk of a catastrophic combat translation, was it would allow him the use of his entire missile magazine. The problem with that? It would do the same for the enemy.
The force commander was sitting on the bridge, the most protected part of the ship, though he knew even that wouldn’t save him if the ship ate a couple of missiles. He didn’t fear death. Fear was an emotion that lived small in the hearts of Fenri, replaced by rage. There would be regret, mostly that he hadn’t served his people better. He had killed one human planet, and taken a half dozen ships, which didn’t seem like enough for the sacrifice of three thousand superior Fenri lives.
“Following enemy force will be within missile range in fifteen minutes, my Lord,” called out the Master of Battle.
The Lord looked back at the plot. The following force, three light cruisers and six destroyers, massing just over three million tons, was the second most dangerous of the four. Ahead, having just entered sensor range some minutes before, was the most dangerous of the enemy forces, a pair of heavy cruisers, three million two hundred thousand tons of heavily armed and armored warships. To one side and slightly up toward the top of the galactic disc was force three, a trio of light cruisers with a single destroyer, while to the other side was the weakest of the forces, a quartet of destroyers.
In most situations the logical move would have been to break toward the weakest force. But with damaged grabbers there was no way he could alter his vector enough to make that work. All of the other forces would vector in on his ship, hitting him with missiles before he had an opportunity to open up the range, something that would have been difficult even if his ship was fully operational.
“Orders, my Lord?” asked the Master of Battle, looking back at the force commander with a questioning face.
The Lord of Millions contemplated the question for a few moments more, looking into the eyes of the officer, a female, and seeing no fear there either, only the eagerness to join battle. And he wondered. Was the innate aggressiveness of his species really an advantage? The ability to face any opponent with no emotion but the rage at being challenged. The primates they were fighting went into combat with a large dose of fear, but in no way would he call them cowards. They fought just as fiercely as his people, and with a whole lot more forethought. He dismissed those thoughts in an instant, not having time for them.
“Target all missiles on the cruisers straight ahead,” he finally ordered. If we can take them out, we have a good chance of outfighting the rest of this gaggle of humans.
* * *
Once again Sean found himself in the War Room, as close to the actual action as he was bound to get these days. Once again he was watching ships of his Fleet going into combat, and wishing that he could be there with them. All he could offer was his long range support.
The ships appeared on the holo plot with the designations Fleet HQ had given them. Force Alpha was the largest and trailing force. Force Bravo, the two heavy cruisers, Vincenzo and Harbin, commanded by the senior officer, Captain Xerxes Papillon of the wormhole equipped Vincenzo, was directly ahead. Force Charlie was to one side, and consisted of three light cruisers and a destroyer, one of its cruisers equipped with a Klassekian com tech. Force Delta was the destroyer quartet, with no means of instantaneous com other than short range grav pulse.
“We are getting this, how?” he asked McCullom.
“The following force has a pair of Klassekian com techs, your Majesty. One of the heavy cruisers has a wormhole, one it was carrying for deployment to Fenri space, while one of the flanking units has a Klassekian as well.”
“So we can get a message to them.”
“Yes, we can. Do you wish to send one, your Majesty.”
“Yes,” said Sean, thinking of what he was about to say. Nothing flowery, or poetic. Just the heartfelt wishes of one naval officer to the officers and men about to go into battle.
“Go ahead, sir,” said one of the other officers at the table.
“Men and women of the Fleet about to engage the Fenri battle cruiser. This is your Emperor speaking. Not as your monarch, but as a naval officer, proud of your courage and devotion to duty. How I wish I could be there with you, but we all know that is not possible. Know that this is the last of the Fenri raiders. When you have destroyed these ships, the threat to our civilians that they pose will be ended. All I can say to you is, give them hell. Sean Ogden Lee Romanov, Sean I, out.”
“Well said, your Majesty,” said Admiral Mary Innocent, true admiration in her eyes. “Short, and to the point. And everyone there will know that their Emperor is with them.”
“Bullshit,” growled Sean. “They’ll know their Emperor is safe, over a thousand light years away. But maybe it will help to know that they are the focus of the Empire at this point. Not the main fronts, not Bolthole, but these small ships going up against what to all intents is a privateer waging war on our civilians.”
“Enemy will be within missile range in eighteen minutes,” called out the Captain of Vincenzo over the com. “All tubes loaded, laser rings charged, particle beams spinning up.” There was a moment of silence, then some chatter from other ships. “Force Bravo,” said Papillon. “You are to decelerate to bring your force within range at the same time as we are. Charlie and Delta, increase accel. I want to hit these bastards with everything incoming at once.”
Acknowledgements came back, verbal from two of the forces, grav code from the last, the same as they had received.
“All forces are on line for attack profile,” called out another officer aboard the heavy cruiser.
The timer clicked down, heading for the point where the ships could fire with a good chance of getting their missiles into the target. The missiles from Bravo would have the fastest closing speed, almost at the speed of light due to the motion of the intercepting forces. Alpha would have the least chance, even though their missiles would be coming in at just over point nine-four light absolute. Closing speed would only be a little over point zero five light, making them almost sitting ducks against the defensive fire of the Fenri battle cruiser. Hopefully they would still serve a purpose, since the Fenri would have to fire on them or risk being hit anyway. The two side forces would have to fire on the same angle they were approaching at, trying to vector their missiles in at where the target would be when they got there.
“Fenri ships firing,” shouted out one of the officers on the com, while icons blossomed on the plot, coming from both the battle cruiser and her light cruiser consort. Twenty-four from the battle cruiser, another ten from the light cruiser. And all on a heading for the heavy cruisers ahead. A moment later another thirty four missiles were off, soon catching up with the first wave to form one large mass of destruction. Now the heavy cruisers would have capital ship killers coming in at them near light speed closing. It was a smart strategy by the Fenri. Not only were the two heavy cruisers the most combat capable of the ships opposing them, they were also right in their path. If they could take them out, the Fenri improved their odds considerably against the rest of the force.
Sean looked on in approval as the cruiser captain held his fire. The Fenri were probably hopeful the human commander would fire as soon as he saw the incoming. Instead, he was waiting for the window to open where everyone could bring their missiles in at once.
“Force Alpha launching,” came another voice on the com, coming through one of the light cruisers. They were the first to launch, since their birds had the longest flight time to reach the target. Five minutes later the side forces fired, timing it so their birds would reach the Fenri at the same time as Force Alpha’s. At enemy launch two minutes out from Force Bravo they were forced to fire, a few minutes before they really wanted to. Their weapons would ar
rive well before those of the other forces, but now Captain Papillon was working on the principle of use them of lose them.
Sean could feel the tension around him as officers watched the battle that they could do nothing about. In some ways that tension was worse than if they were actually there doing something.
* * *
“We’ve launched,” said one of the Marines on Winston’s damage control party.
The Petty Officer nodded as he felt the vibrations running through the deck that told of the magnetic accelerator tubes throwing their missiles into space. That meant they were firing, but told him nothing about what the enemy was doing. He tried linking into the tactical feed and entered without a problem. Not every captain let his crew monitor the battle, but Commander Zhukov believed in being open with his people.
The plot showed missiles already on the way to the heavy cruisers, and none of the other humans ships firing. He wasn’t sure what was going on. The one thing he did know was the enemy wasn’t firing on his ship, and that brought a sense of relief. Followed quickly by guilt as he thought of the spacers on the ships that were targeted.
The ship shuddered again, firing the second wave of four missiles through the forward tubes. It continued to cycle until all sixteen of the hyper capable missiles in her magazines were gone. The plot showed that the entire group of missiles, one hundred seventy in all, were heading toward the enemy. It looked like an overwhelming attack to him, and he mentioned the same to one of the spacers on his team.
“It may look like overwhelming to someone who doesn’t know better,” said Spacer Ramirez with a laugh. “Our missiles will be coming in so slow from their perspective they will be able to pick them out of space like one of us swatting flies.”
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 10: Search & Destroy Page 26
