by Tim C Taylor
“I…”
She glared at the Littorane responsible, taking small satisfaction despite the circumstances that she wasn’t the one acting indecisively right now.
“Holy water of the gods,” the alien hissed. Then, recovering his composure and pulling the tattered remnants of professionalism about him, he continued with more confidence. “Several of them now, Admiral, homing in on us magnetically… They’re mines.”
Mines? Who in hell uses mines these days? “Show me! I don’t care how, just show me!”
No wonder the defenders were hanging back. They were no more than bait, luring the oblivious attackers in, and she had blithely charged forward, bringing her entire flotilla into the trap.
Show her they did. Once her officers knew what to look for, having realized that the mines reacted magnetically, they uncovered a vast minefield, one that enclosed the whole of Khallini-4 in a protective shell.
“Mader Zagh!” Indiya breathed. “There are thousands upon thousands of them.”
“More likely millions, Fleet Admiral, many millions,” Kreippil said. The Littorane admiral was studying a screen of his own. “The spread isn’t especially dense,” he commented. “We’ve attracted the attention of four so far, but all are some distance away… The problem is that three are in front of us, one directly so, and the other two are converging on that one, pulled by magnetic threads. No sign of engines involved, just a net of magnetic force spread between the mines, presumably so as not to sacrifice any of their payload. Individually, each masses sufficient tonnage to be a threat; combined… I’d imagine they utilize proximity triggers rather than relying on impact. I wonder if the detonation of one will trigger a chain reaction… That’s how I’d do it. It would have to be compartmentalized, of course – no point in setting off the entire shell when the threat is concentrated in just one area.” His neck gills were opening and closing rapidly as he spoke, in a manner that Indiya had come to associate with excitement. “Ingenious. I’d like to capture one if we can.”
“I’m more concerned with surviving them than collecting them,” Indiya replied.
“As you say, sir.”
Having recovered from the initial shock, Indiya was now assessing her options. The flotilla had penetrated deep into the shell but none of the mines had yet been detonated. It struck her as highly unlikely that not one of the ships would have blundered close enough to set off an explosion if proximity were the trigger as the admiral surmised.
She had to do something, but it had better be the right something… “Admiral,” she said, “do you think that raising the shields might risk setting them off?”
“Impossible to say without studying one of the mines. It’s curious that none have gone off as yet, though.”
No help there then; it was her call, which was as it should be: risk changing the conditions, or continue to trust in luck or whatever other factor had seen them survive this far. She felt Kreippil’s gaze boring into her as she dithered, but she refused to be rushed. The White Knights’ shield technology was based on displacement. The destructive forces hurled against a shield were instantly transferred to a higher dimension connected to observable spacetime via D-Branes, into which energy could be dumped. The problem was that there were limits. The process relied on an energy gradient, and heat dissipated in the higher dimension far more sluggishly than in real space. Once the region heated up to a critical level, dumping became impossible, causing shield collapse. She had little doubt the minefield was designed to overwhelm ships’ shields and obliterate the vessels within – why bother with such an elaborate endeavor otherwise?
“No shields,” she said, decision made. Of course it was a risk, but weighing up the options she concluded it was the lesser of two. Against every expectation they had come this far without mishap. By changing the conditions, she might well bring about the destruction of her entire command.
Was that approval she detected in Kreippil’s eyes?
If the atmosphere had been tense before, then it was doubly so during the next few minutes. Nobody spoke, nobody made a sound, as if afraid that the slightest disturbance might trigger the three mines that loomed ahead of them, haunting their future.
Indiya’s attention remained glued to the screen, as she watched the flotilla penetrate ever deeper into the minefield and begin to creep towards the inner edge of the shell. All the while she half-expected an abrupt glow that would signify detonation, and couldn’t help but wonder how much warning she would get should the worst happen, whether realization would set in before her body was blasted to atoms, if she’d have any time for regrets and fear or if she would simply be wiped from existence in an instant.
The three mines ghosted upon them, the stress mounting with each passing second, but they slipped past without incident, one within touching distance of the hull without ever making contact, without going off. The sense of relief was palpable, and moments later the flotilla emerged on the far side of the field and Indiya felt able to breathe again. A strange ululating cry arose from some of the Littoranes, quite startling in pitch and volume, which Indiya could only assume was a cheer, while others bowed their heads and appeared to be mumbling prayers of gratitude. She couldn’t blame either.
“The Goddess is merciful,” Kreippil murmured. “She protects her anointed one.”
Indiya grunted noncommittally, wondering what had just happened. How had they survived? Was it merely a case of the mines failing to function as intended, or did they have other agencies to thank?
No time to ponder that now, the defending fleet was reacting to their unexpected survival, accelerating towards them once more. The two forces were nearly in range of each other.
“Concentrate, people,” Indiya snapped. “The real battle still lies ahead of us.”
Her words had the desired effect, focusing attention, and within moments she heard the report she had been waiting for: “Enemy drones deployed, sir.”
“Very good. Launch our own, launch all drones.”
“Aye aye, Violet One. Drones away.”
She watched on the screens as the horde of automated craft blossomed from both fleets. This was what warfare in space had evolved into under the White Knights – a clinical contest between two opposing swarms of robotic craft, exchanging lethal blows until one side was vanquished, the organic instigators of the mayhem sitting back and observing, unaffected until the resolution of the drone versus drone battle. Only then were lives at risk, as the commander of the beaten drone force was faced with the choice of surrendering or gambling on his ships’ shields and point defenses being strong enough to withstand everything the opposing ships and their surviving drones could throw at them. Indiya had seen nothing yet to suggest this was a dilemma she would have to contend with. Now that the minefield had been successfully negotiated, the enemy was even more on the back foot and she felt confident of victory.
After the stress of that fraught crossing, it was a relief to watch those around her settle back into tasks they had been trained for. The ops room resumed an air of calm competence as her alien officers set about their business, tracking the drones and looking for any unexpected change in the enemy’s deployment.
Indiya watched as the two clouds of automated craft converged and her screen started to register the flicker of combat joined. Drones were little more than mobile energy cannons, programmed with limited avoidance, straight forward targeting capabilities, and simple priorities: protect friendly ships and attack the enemy’s. They were cheap and easy to manufacture and expendable as a result. Her flotilla’s greater number of heavy-duty vessels meant that they carried more drones, which made the outcome of the battle inevitable, or so the texts insisted.
As a rule, the competing drone fleets occupied each other, but every now and then one would slip through and attempt a direct attack on the ships, which were closing on the scene of the battle the whole time. This was where point defense came in, picking off any threat before it could test a ship’s shields.
Twic
e the Vengeance’s guns spoke and both times found their mark without the shields being troubled. So far, Indiya was fully satisfied with the performance of ship and crew. The real test might well lie ahead though: if the drone battle wasn’t decided in the next few moments, the flotilla would encroach on the theatre of combat, which was when things could start to get messy.
There was no question they were winning, the enemy drones diminishing far more rapidly than their own. With each passing moment the number of hostiles shrank, allowing friendly drones to concentrate their fire. Victory, when it came, did so not as a drawn-out process but rather an escalating tumble, a rush that saw the final opponents obliterated almost before Indiya was ready for it.
“All ships close; prepare to engage the enemy.”
Her command was superfluous – her captains knew what to do. She spoke in part for her own benefit and in part for the officers around her: to reassert her authority but also to bring a touch of humanity to proceedings after the clinical but victimless destruction they had just witnessed; a reminder that from here on in lives were on the line; this was where the dying began.
True to their programming, the drones locked onto whichever enemy was nearest and pressed the attack, while Indiya’s ships continued to advance, combining maneuvering thrusters with main drives to bring them within range of specific targets. It would be energy weapons only for now – railguns would be ineffectual at this distance and were generally reserved for point defense, while she preferred to keep her missiles in reserve.
The enemy would respond in kind, of course, but they were outgunned if not outnumbered. Destroyers and warboats comprised the bulk of the fleet – the latter particularly vulnerable as they lacked shields and would have carried only a limited number of drones. The crew on the boats must have been saying prayers even before battle was joined. It was the two capital ships that most concerned Indiya. With them out of the picture mopping up the rest should prove relatively straight forward.
The drones had already engaged, bombarding the enemy ships, steadily degrading their shields. Indiya watched the flicker of combat, as the drones pressed their attack and the enemy’s point defense whittled down their numbers. With half an ear she listened as one of her officers reported the steady degradation of specific ships’ shields. A couple of the destroyers were already in trouble, their shields dropping below 50% effectiveness. She knew that other captains in her fleet would have noted this and be targeting those vulnerable ships even now.
Kreippil’s calm voice rose above the rest, counting down the seconds. “In range in three… two… one… now.”
“Fire all batteries!” Indiya commanded.
It wouldn’t be all batteries. Those to portside and the forward placements in the prow had been brought to bear; those to starboard would have to wait their turn, but that still meant that two thirds of the ship’s formidable power was now in play. They and two of the heavy destroyers were targeting one of the capital ships – neither had been successfully identified, either constructed since the Littorane databases had been last updated or id tags deliberately masked – while Cleanser of Doubt and Storm of the Gods engaged the other.
“Exalted One,” one of her officers said.
Indiya decided to put the title down to an over-enthusiastic translator system. “Yes?”
“There’s something odd about the ship we’re engaging.”
“Go on.”
“It’s been targeted by a small swarm of drones, and now by our own batteries, but its shields are still showing as 100% effective.”
“What? How is that possible?”
“I… I don’t know, sir. All other enemy vessels are showing shield degradation as anticipated, but not this one.”
The enemy fleet was taking casualties – warboats being swept aside like annoying insects, and Indiya wasn’t at all surprised to see the survivors being withdrawn. It seemed madness to even involve such ill-equipped ships in combat at this level, and she suspected they had been intended only for show, to add to the bait that lured unsuspecting aggressors into the minefield. There was no question which side was winning, a fact underlined when one of the Littorane officers voiced an exultant “Yes!” in a surprisingly human reaction, as one of the compromised enemy destroyers lost her shields and exploded. The officer’s enthusiasm brought a sharp reprimand from Kreippil, but Indiya had to fight back a smile. She didn’t mind a bit of enthusiasm at this juncture.
The mystery capital ship with its unruffled shields, however, that she did mind.
Her message alert sounded. It beggared belief: someone was trying to reach her now, at the height of the battle? She ignored them, killing the signal, dismissing the idiot from her thoughts; though they would certainly be remembered come battle’s end.
She focused her tac screen on that one vessel, ignoring the wider conflict for the moment. The drones that had first engaged it were gone now, dispatched by the enemy’s point defenses, but the batteries from three ships of the line continued to pound her shields, which still showed zero degradation.
“There must be a fault with the reading this end,” she murmured
“No, sir, I’ve checked,” said the Littorane officer who first alerted her.
“Then check again!”
“Yes, Your Eminence.”
In her heart she knew the systems were working fine, but her head still refused to accept what her eyes were reporting.
“Sir,” another officer said, “the enemy have launched missiles.”
Either they had identified the Vengeance as the flagship or simply picked the largest of the three ships attacking them, because the missile swarm centered exclusively on them. Indiya watched as the missiles spread out and started to jink and dodge in pre-programmed evasion. Each zigzagging course would be different, meaning that point defense was going to have its work cut out.
This looked to be a soberingly heavy barrage, prompting her to ask, “How many incoming?”
“Seventy-three missiles,” Admiral Kreippil responded. “Each massing around ninety tons.”
Indiya cursed silently – that was a heavy salvo, both in terms of number and mass; it was more than her ship’s entire arsenal and likely to be all that the enemy carried, which suggested they were going for broke. “Mainly shieldbusters, no doubt,” she muttered – missiles designed for maximum energy release, intended to saturate an opponent’s shield and collapse it.
“We’ll know soon enough, sir. Impact in two hundred and thirty-five seconds.”
Evidently not all the attacking missiles’ mass was given over to their payload. They were coming in fast and nasty, agile for all their size, suggesting that their drives and penaids had been souped up as well. To their credit, point defense did her proud, accounting for more than three quarters of the incoming eels, but sixteen still got through, expending their formidable energies against the shields in a spectacular display that lit up the monitor screens.
“Shield efficiency down to 18%,” the admiral reported.
18% was a lot closer to critical than Indiya would have liked, but that ought to be fine, so long as no more missiles came their way.
“Second wave launched,” the admiral reported.
Frag!
“Not as many this time.”
Thank goodness for that.
“Wait, there’s a third wave launching immediately behind the second.”
Another? “How many?” Indiya was staring at the display but the admiral’s board would make the calculation quicker than her eye.
“Forty-five in the second wave, twenty-three in the third.”
The sheer volume of missiles was frightening. ‘Eels’ the Littoranes called them. She’d put the strange name down to a mistranslation, but in such numbers they did resemble silvered fish. The missiles currently in transit roughly equaled all that her own ship carried, so where had that first salvo come from? The enemy must have sacrificed numbers in their drone fleet to accommodate this many – no wonder vic
tory in that initial element of the battle had been so straight forward. Combined with the mines and the impossible shield strength, it spoke of a shift in tactics, a whole new strategy for conducting warfare in space. Time enough to consider that later… assuming there was to be a later.
“Admiral?” she said. Kreippil was monitoring the progress of their own assault on the defending flagship – the Vengeance’s energy beams pounding the opponent’s shields, though Indiya hadn’t loosed any of her missiles as yet.
The Littorane’s gills were opening and closing more rapidly than Indiya had seen before. “Nothing,” he snapped. “By the spawning grounds of Sareth, I’d like to know what’s powering those shields. They’re still registering at full strength.”
Impossible, was her immediate thought. With everything that had been thrown at them, the shields ought to have been saturated long ago. Furn and Finfth had once tinkered around with a radically different approach to shields, she recalled, one that didn’t involve displacing lethal force but simply resisting it, allowing the energies to dissipate into the vastness of space. They had abandoned the experiment, however, declaring the concept feasible in theory but impossible in practice due to the enormous energy demands that powering such a shield levied. Had those defending Khallini-4 somehow solved that? Had they succeeded where Furn and Finfth had failed?
If so, how were any of them going to survive this?
An unknown Littorane burst into the room, water dripping from his body where he had clearly swum through submerged corridors. “Fleet Admiral Indiya, I must speak with you…”
“Get the hell out of here!” she raged, furious at the intrusion.
“Sir,” said Kreippil, sounding a little affronted, “this is a senior priest, attendant to the Mouth of God.”
The Night Hummer! She had all but forgotten they had one of the things on board.
“What?” she snapped, still not about to forgive the incursion.
“A message for you from the one called Finfth…” Finfth was with Arun aboard Storm of the Gods – another concession to spreading the command structure to minimize risk. She had also forgotten the Hummer’s ability for instant communication, the very reason it was here. “He says you must stop attacking with energy weapons,” the priest continued. “Use projectiles only.”