by Peter Grant
The captain rubbed his hands together eagerly. “Navigator, calculate our course change to pass within firing range of Secundus Two – let us say three million kilometers.”
The Navigating Officer was already hard at work on his console. “Just a moment, please, sir… We need sixty percent thruster power for seventeen minutes. That will change our trajectory without emitting large light signatures from the throats of our thrusters. I know nobody is likely to detect them this far away, so in theory we could change course faster using full power; but why take a chance, sir?”
“I approve of your caution, Navigator. The fewer chances we take, the better. Very well. Change course, get us on trajectory, then report to me our estimated time of attack.”
“Aye aye, sir!”
Privately, Vrioni regretted not being able to blaze toward his victims at top speed, but he understood the reason. Butranti had needed to get in and out of the system as fast as possible without being detected or identified. Her early target identification had given him time to alter course toward them. His sensors and fire control systems would be capable of far greater accuracy at one-tenth of light speed than at higher velocities. His job was to cause as much death, damage and destruction to the enemy as he could. For that, accuracy far outweighed speed in importance.
BROTHERHOOD SHIP SARANDA
Fifteen hours behind Ilaria, the courier ship Saranda loafed through space at one-tenth of light speed, far slower than her maximum velocity of four-tenths Cee. Lieutenant-Commander Malaj chafed under the unbearably sedate rate of progress, but he understood why it was necessary. Once Ilaria signaled her estimated time of attack, he would chase after her, accelerating fast. He would time his arrival to pass through the Mycenae system at maximum velocity, with his drive shut down to avoid detection. In passing, he would note every ship in the system, and later compare notes with the two vessels that had preceded him. By subtracting his count from what they had detected, they would be able to see how much success her attack had achieved.
I hope she will avenge the Patriarch in the blood of our enemies, he thought bitterly to himself. He had lost friends aboard the two destroyers that had attempted to attack the system two years before. Soon, very soon now, they would be avenged as well.
HCS JEAN BART
Newly-promoted Captain Frank Haldane walked into the Operations Center aboard the depot ship that currently served as Mycenae station flagship. The duty officer called, “Station OC on deck!”, and began to rise, but Frank waved his hand.
“Relax,” he called genially. “I’m just checking what’s going on out there.” He crossed to the Plot display. “What can you tell me?”
“Everything’s routine, sir.” The operator highlighted each icon in the display as he named it, changing the range scale from short to long as required. “Here in orbit around Secundus Two we have this ship, plus the corvette Manchineel giving half her crew liberty aboard us; Bowhead, our big warehouse freighter, plus her defensive missile tender in close formation; De Ruyter, our sister ship, working up; the repair ship, Vulcan; the arsenal ship, Narwhal, plus her attached corvette, Datura; and the courier vessel Zaqar. On patrol in the inner system are corvettes Castor and Hellebore, and in the outer system, Hemlock and Mandrake. NOE has their depot ship, Amelia, in orbit around Primus Four, along with a replenishment freighter, plus two of their patrol craft. A third patrol craft is half a light-hour out from that planet on local patrol, while the fourth is guarding their asteroid mining installation one light-hour from us, sir. They have several small asteroid mining boats near her.”
“Good report, spacer. Thank you.” He studied the pattern of icons, each reflecting the current position of a ship as denoted by its identification beacon and gravitic drive signature. “Is the system surveillance satellite on line?”
“It is, sir. That display is next door, if you’d like to check it, but we’ve got the datalink working now, so it feeds all its information to this smaller display for quick reference. We only use its larger display if we pick up an unexpected long-range target, and we want to track it more accurately.”
“That’s good. I must thank the techs for their hard work.” He glanced at the duty officer. “Any word from Narwhal and Datura about the datalink upgrade?”
“Vulcan reported last night that she’d finished the installation aboard Narwhal, sir. They’re testing it in orbit today, and tomorrow they’ll go out to the far reaches of the asteroid belt to practice against multiple targets. Vulcan says Narwhal should see a threefold improvement in remote programming speed for her missiles, sir.”
“Excellent! If it works, the tech who thought of it is going to be a lot better off. Commodore Cochrane pays well for good ideas like that.”
“Yes, sir. I haven’t met anyone who doesn’t like our incentive program.”
“Send a signal to Vulcan. Invite Commander McBride to join me for lunch, and bring that tech with her. I’d like to know more about how he came up with the idea.”
“Aye aye, sir.” The Duty Officer turned to the Communications desk.
Frank gave a last glance at the Plot display, then turned and headed for his office. He had plenty of headaches awaiting his attention. As he walked down the corridor, he grinned ruefully to himself. The Commodore had said he needed ‘broader command experience of multiple units’, but he’d assumed that meant tactical command – not administration.
“Oh, well, they do say there’s no peace for the wicked,” he muttered to himself as he entered the anteroom. Unfortunately, his Chief Petty Officer assistant heard him.
“You got that right, sir! These requisitions need your approval, and I…”
BROTHERHOOD SHIP ILARIA
Sub-Lieutenant Alban Sejdiu cursed beneath his breath as the clumsy, poorly-trained Kedan spacer fumbled, dropping the expensive powered torque driver on the deck instead of placing it in his extended hand. He bit his lip to hold back a volley of oaths.
It wouldn’t help to yell at the trembling spacer, who was already convinced that Albanians in general hated him. Too many of them defaulted to screaming and intimidation, instead of teaching by example and being patient with these men. After all, they hadn’t asked to be here. They’d only just been taken aboard Ilaria in their home system, without so much as a word of explanation. They had no idea they’d be serving far from home for at least a year or two, if not longer. Most of the wages they earned, plus a ‘commission’ for their services, would go into their senior officers’ pockets, not their own. In their shoes, he would hate to be treated like that. Therefore, it would be better to give them reason to like him, and come to him with their problems. The more they did that, the better the results he’d get out of them.
He spoke slowly, so the translation software in the computer strapped to his arm could turn his words into the Malay dialect spoken on Keda. “My friend, that was clumsy. Those drivers are expensive, and need to be treated with care. Have you got grease on your hands?”
The hapless spacer turned them palm-up. Sure enough, both were smeared with grease from the framework on which they’d been working.
“You see, my friend? That is why we give you those rags.” He pointed to the shop rag tucked behind the belt of the spacer’s utility coveralls. “Wipe your hands constantly, to keep them as clean and dry as possible. When that gets too dirty, throw it away,” gesturing to the disposal slot in the bulkhead, “and take another from the box. That will help you hold on to your gear. Understand?”
“Yes, sir!” The man’s gratitude at his soft-spoken words was almost pathetic.
Alban smiled at him. “Good. Now, let’s try that again. Pass me the driver, please.”
The spacer hurriedly wiped his hands, then bent, picked up the tool with exaggerated care, wiped it clean, and passed it to him as if it were an egg in danger of breaking. Alban took it from him equally carefully, and checked it quickly. Fortunately, it seemed to be still in working order.
“Thank you, Mahmud.”
His Albanian petty officer assistant looked on, mouth curling in disgust, but said nothing. He’d already been sharply corrected, more than once, by this jumped-up young sprog, for treating these idiots as they deserved. He wasn’t going to risk another shouting match. The Chief had already warned him he’d be disrated, if it came to that. This one had influence beyond his rank.
Alban opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the sound of the power pack in the base of the hulking missile cell in the hold next door, spooling up to a high whine. He hurried over to the capacitor ring console, followed by the rest of the Kedan spacers under training. This might not be the most important job aboard Ilaria, but it was his job, and he was going to do it to the best of his ability. After all, he had the example of his illustrious great-grandfather to follow. As a direct descendant of the Patriarch, he could do no less.
HCS JEAN BART
“It just seemed logical to tie the datalink function into the battle computer, sir, rather than the communications system.” The Petty Officer Second Class technician shrugged his shoulders, uncomfortable at hobnobbing with two senior officers over a meal. “The battle computers are a whole lot faster and more powerful, and they’re not usually so busy they can’t handle another program or two. That speeded up signal processing, which in turn allowed greater throughput. I don’t know that it was any sort of special insight, sir. It just seemed logical when I thought about it.”
“It was,” Commander McBride assured him. “Once we’ve tested and debugged it under operational conditions, I think it’s going to get you a nice fat incentive award from the Commodore.” She poked her fork into another slice of meat, cut off a suitable portion, and began to load it with mashed potatoes and gravy.
“I’m getting more and more impressed with those corvettes’ systems, the more I learn about them,” Frank said as he sipped his glass of water. “They seem a whole lot more capable than most of the other small warships I’ve come across. I think Kang must have standardized on a powerful battle computer across their range, rather than have a small, medium or large version depending on the class of ship.”
“Yes,” Sue agreed. “I –”
Alarms shrieked atonally throughout the mess hall and down the corridor. “General Quarters! General Quarters!”
Afterwards, Frank could never remember the mad dash down the corridor to the OpCen. He burst through the door, panting, and lunged for the Command console. The duty officer had already vacated his seat, and was standing next to it, staring at the Plot display.
“Tell me!” Frank ordered crisply as he slid into the chair.
“Eighty-plus missiles launched three million clicks out, sir, still launching,” the Plot operator reported crisply. “No ship gravitic drive signature, but a probable single source.”
Eighty-plus launches? Still launching? Frank thought as he reached for his microphone. That’s got to be a destroyer, or something larger – and he’s come out of nowhere. He must have coasted in from far outside the system, never using his gravitic drive, otherwise the satellite would have detected him.
He pressed the button. “System Command to all ships. All defenses to automatic. Weapons free! Weapons free!” He knew his command was unnecessary, because every ship would already be preparing to fire; but at least he’d done something to justify his existence.
Even as he spoke, a starburst icon suddenly appeared in the Plot, at almost exactly the point where the missile traces originated. The operator exclaimed, “Nuclear explosion near launch point! It must be one of the mines, sir!”
Only then did Frank remember the hundred-odd autonomous space mines, deployed in a random, constantly changing pattern around Mycenae Secundus Two. They were leftovers from the early days in Mycenae. They had been bought to defend NOE’s asteroid prospector robots. No longer needed for that task, they now maneuvered independently within a three-million-kilometer radius of the planet, except for the approach and departure lanes, which they were programmed to avoid.
One less mine now, he thought, his mouth twisting with satisfaction as another icon appeared on the plot. The operator almost screamed, “Bogey! Unknown gravitic drive signature at launch point!”
BROTHERHOOD SHIP ILARIA
Alban listened to the Captain’s voice, crackling over the compartment speaker. “Commanding Officer to all hands. We are about to avenge the Patriarch! Do your duty, and do it well! Stand by to fire!”
He felt a thrill of pride. He, a direct descendant of the Patriarch, would have a hand in exacting retribution for his death. How fortunate he was!
His thoughts were interrupted by a rapid sequence of whining sounds from the compartment next door, as each missile tube’s mass driver abruptly fired its heavy weapon out of the pod into the black vacuum of space. As soon as each missile moved far enough away from Ilaria to be clear of her gravitic drive field – even though it was not in use at present, the precaution was automatic – he knew it would power up its own drive, swerve onto its pre-programmed course, and accelerate toward the enemy, its warhead ready to wreak destruction upon them.
The eight Kedan spacers huddled in a group, not understanding the ear-splitting whines coming from next door. They stared intently at their officer. Alone among those on board, this one really seemed to care about them. They had better jump at his command, and do everything he told them, for fear they might be reassigned to someone less sympathetic and understanding.
The mine had been drifting in space for years, interrupted only by regular visits from a cargo shuttle to replace its fusion micro-reactor cartridge and check its systems. It kept tireless vigil, seeking any gravitic drive signature lacking an authorized beacon to indicate that the ship was friendly.
Suddenly, only about half a million kilometers away, missile gravitic drive signatures began to blossom. It could not find any ship signature, but its electronic brain knew that if missiles were being launched, they had to be coming from something larger. The mine’s computer instantly brought up its array in active rather than passive mode, flooding nearby space with radar emissions. Almost at once, it found the launching vessel, and locked onto it as it drew nearer. The computer calculated at blinding speed. Yes, it would pass within extreme range.
A cartridge kicked out a laser cone assembly containing twenty-five rods, very carefully aligned to cover a destroyer-size ship from bow to stern at a range of twelve thousand kilometers. The instant it had deployed, a five-megaton thermonuclear warhead blew the mine and the laser cone assembly into radioactive molecules. In the instant of their destruction, each laser rod emitted a powerful beam, streaking across space.
The cone was almost twice as far from the target as its designed range; but its target was much, much larger than a destroyer. More than half the laser beams smashed through Ilaria’s hull. They did not destroy any critical systems, but they penetrated compartments, shattered equipment, and killed crew members.
The attack, coming out of nowhere, completely unexpected, stunned Ilaria’s bridge crew. One moment, they were exulting in the destruction they were unleashing on an unsuspecting enemy; the next, the enemy had turned the tables.
Captain Vrioni screamed, “Evasive action! Hard-a-port! Drive to full power!”
At the Helm console, the operator instantly thrust the power slider from zero to maximum. The giant gravitic drive in the stern began to spool up, radiating its unmistakable signature from the drive field antennae carefully spaced along and around the ship’s hull.
Sub-Lieutenant Sejdiu spun around as a laser beam smashed through the outer hull of the compartment next door, sending a loud boom through the plating. It speared through the missile pod from one side to the other. Its remaining missiles froze in
their tubes as the pod’s power pack was destroyed. Fragments of wreckage flew in all directions.
Three of them were large and heavy enough to penetrate the bulkhead separating the missile compartment from the capacitor ring control room. One punctured a neat hole, but did no further damage. A second punched into the shoulder of the Albanian petty officer, almost severing his left arm in a gush of blood. He collapsed to the deck, screaming. The third fragment knocked a section of pipe loose from the bulkhead. It flew across the compartment, and struck Alban’s head a glancing blow as he tried to duck. Bright lights seemed to burst in his brain as he fell forward, out cold.
The eight Kedan spacers heard the shriek of air as it vented to space through the holes in the bulkhead, drawn into the missile compartment and then out through the damaged hull plating. They knew they had only seconds to live – but salvation was at hand. The lifeboat they had just been working on stood ready. Without a second thought, they ran for it. They had to pass the console as they did so, and two of them caught the young officer beneath his arms and dragged him with them. The others ignored the screaming, struggling, writhing petty officer. Anyone who treated them like that did not deserve rescuing, as far as they were concerned.
They rushed through the airlock and sealed the inner portal, threw themselves into the lifeboat, closed its hatch, and hurriedly strapped themselves in. The senior spacer, not much better educated than his fellows, peered at the pilot’s console. There were dials and switches and controls he did not recognize; but all spacers knew what the red button marked ‘EMERGENCY LAUNCH’ meant. All lifeboats used it, by interplanetary convention. He reached out, flipped up the safety cover over the button, and slammed his fist down on it.
