Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2)

by Karl K Gallagher

  Or they’d been blown up. He’d tuned out the sound of the interceptor guns firing. Eventually they’d run out of ammo. And then . . .

  The launcher display signaled the receipt of new orders. Marcus kicked off the coaming. Spacers dodged out of his way.

  The message read, ‘ALL SHIPS SCATTER. TRAVEL INDEPENDENTLY TO RALLY POINT THREE.’

  “Captain to Gunnery Officer,” buzzed his radio. “How fast can you secure the hatch?”

  “Stand by. Need to fire one more salvo,” Marcus replied.

  He turned to his spacers. “Unload the explosive warheads. Load two jammers and two decoys.”

  While Hines supervised the spacers Marcus kicked over to the countermeasures dispenser. He shot out two units with delayed activation. Once Azure Tarn was clear they’d disrupt any nearby thruster fields.

  “Missiles ready, sir,” said Hines.

  Marcus waved. He programmed the decoys for routes ninety degrees apart, one straight back to Fiera, the other along the wall of the Bubble. The jammers went straight toward the enemy. Once they were away he started the hatch closing.

  “Gunnery Officer to Captain. Cargo hold hatch closing, not yet secure.”

  “Right. We are leaving.”

  ***

  Bridge Yeager fiddled with the helmet of his pressure suit as it sat in his lap. He could smell smoke and ozone. He could see the smoke. There was a haze in the flag bridge’s air. But none of the Navy men had put their helmets on so he wouldn’t be the coward who put his helmet on first.

  He wondered how many times men had asphyxiated because none of them wanted to be the first to put his helmet on.

  At least the gravity was working again. Yeager didn’t mind when they went to half weight. It was when it cycled up and down rapidly that his stomach wanted to turn inside out.

  One of his screens had the damage control reports for the flagship. He couldn’t follow most of the jargon. He did understand the casualty listings. Fire, vacuum, radiation, shrapnel—there were fewer men on the ship than there had been yesterday.

  The officer’s mess now held overflow from sickbay. Yeager considered if visiting the wounded would comfort them, or if he’d say the wrong thing and leave them worse off.

  “Enemy cruisers are now out of range for actively controlled fire,” said the Ops chief.

  “Cease fire,” said Admiral Pinoy.

  Another officer said, “Commodore Meckler requests permission to pursue.”

  “Denied. All fully operational ships will begin search and rescue operations.”

  That order sparked a flurry of activity.

  The battle seemed to be over. Yeager sat his helmet on the rack behind his head. He unfastened the straps of his seat. Then he stood. The muscles in his legs trembled. He felt weak from all the adrenaline he’d had in his system without being able to act.

  Admiral Pinoy had been acting. If strolling counted as acting. He wandered around the flag bridge, listening to conversations and glancing at displays. He hadn’t given any orders between exiting the tunnel and reaching laser cannon range of the enemy.

  Now he was just standing. The aide who’d been following him around with his helmet was empty-handed.

  Yeager decided he was in good enough shape to walk. He joined Pinoy at the back of the flag bridge. The admiral gave him a nod.

  “You’re letting them go?” Yeager asked in a low voice.

  “Your excellency, it’s a bubble. They have nowhere to go. We’ll continue on our course to their homeworld. Whenever they get in our way we’ll smash them.

  “But we’re not continuing.”

  Pinoy’s eyes were on a status display with more red and yellow than green and blue. “Most of our battleships can only proceed at half speed. Their armament is crippled. They’re only in that good shape because cruisers took turns physically blocking incoming fire. All our strongest ships need a day or more to make repairs. Some of them need another ship to provide power or life support.”

  “But you could send some out.”

  “We have scouts monitoring the enemy. They’re not attacking. I just want to watch for a counter-attack and map out the astrography.”

  Yeager hesitated. He didn’t want to criticize the professional in public. But taking Pinoy off the flag bridge for a private chat would be seen as criticism anyway. “Why didn’t you grant Commodore Meckler’s request?”

  “Only half his squadron is fully operational. I needed those ships for search and rescue.”

  “Why? I thought we were already picking up survivors from the destroyed ships.”

  Pinoy’s jaw tightened. “To rescue enemy spacers, your excellency.”

  “Is that something we should delay for?”

  “Drifting in hyperspace in a pressure suit, waiting to die, is a fate I will not leave even barbarians to.” The admiral paused before speaking again. “I will also point out we will gain information from interrogating them.”

  Yeager raised an eyebrow. “What would you expect to learn from common spacers?”

  “Logistics quality. Training patterns. Standard combat drills. Everything they have to be taught to be functional could be useful for us.”

  “Very well.” The governor paused a moment. “I’m just worried about time.”

  “Sir, I promise you’ll be looking at Fiera before our time runs out.”

  ***

  The retreat to the rally point was a nervous cruise for Azure Tarn. Marcus kept two men on watch in the hold at all times, ready to pop open the hatch and deploy countermeasures. The only time they felt needed was when a Censorial destroyer came close enough to ping them.

  “Guess we didn’t look important enough to waste a missile on,” muttered Captain Landry as the enemy ship moved off.

  “We could take a shot if we wanted to impress him,” offered Marcus. With the hatch closed his battle station was in the bridge jump seat to give advice on whether to engage. He was so sleep deprived he’d become punchy.

  “I can live with the disrespect,” said the captain.

  Marcus had the sense to not ask whether that referred to enemies who didn’t fire or subordinates who offered quips instead of useful advice.

  They arrived at the rally point. There was no formation. Radio traffic was dominated by ships looking for their units and others demanding that everyone stop broadcasting before the enemy heard them.

  Azure Tarn hovered at the edge of the mass of ships. Welly used the tightbeam to make contact with individual ships.

  “No sign of the Commodore,” she reported, “but I do have some gossip. It wasn’t just the Commanding Admiral who died in the battle. All six admirals in the Leadership Committee are dead.”

  That explained the chaos. No one was left with the authority over the different national fleets.

  “The Censorate has scouts out but their fleet is sitting still. A new Commanding Admiral was appointed—Admiral Royce. He’s Concord.”

  Marcus said, “Damn.”

  His father turned to look at him. “You know Royce?”

  “Only his reputation. At training school they called him the admiral most likely to court martial you. Regularly demotes officers who don’t meet his standards. Verbally abusive. They said he knows his shit though.”

  “A competent asshole may be just what this mess needs,” said Captain Landry.

  Royce’s presence was felt as soon as he arrived. The previous commander had organized the fleet by ship type, grouping ships from different nations together. Most had broken apart in the chaos of the rout. Royce ordered everyone to reform by nation, under the command of their senior officer. Those not quickly sorted found their seniors relieved until one satisfied Royce.

  Royce then sent ships out to chase off the Censorial scouts. Azure Tarn could see bright sparks in the aether mists as ships skirmished.

  The commodore of Azure Tarn’s squadron turned up, taking charge of his contingent of auxiliaries. All eight had survived the rout. Logistics freighters
brought more ammunition. The reorganized fleet formed up in a disk, ready for battle.

  Then new orders came down.

  “Yarten Rift?” asked Captain Landry.

  Welly confirmed that was where they were being sent.

  “Follow the Commodore, then.”

  Stars were surrounded by thick spherical shoals in hyperspace, sometimes split into multiple shells. Fiera’s sun Surtr was surrounded by a thinner shoal than most. There were a dozen rifts through the shell. Their squadron, with other Sulu Republic Navy ships, was to occupy a rift on the southern side and hold it against the Censorate.

  Formation maneuvers kept them busy. Once they were underway Captain Landry had time to fret.

  “Why are we falling back?” he wondered. “We’re just giving up a quarter of the Bubble without a fight.”

  Most of the bridge crew nodded.

  The training Marcus received as a gunnery officer included an overview of fleet tactics. “Battle in open space favors the more powerful fleet. If they crush us there the war’s over. In the rifts we can buy time to build more ships.”

  “Haven’t seen any new ones show up yet,” said Roger.

  “The missiles we loaded were probably built after we left Fiera,” said Marcus. “We can keep the fire going when the Censorials get low on ammo.”

  That seemed to boost morale a little. But even Marcus was discouraged by the need to retreat.

  Ten squadrons filled Yarten Rift. Azure Tarn and her fellow auxiliaries were tucked into one of the narrow ends where the shoals closed together. Marcus thought it was a good place for them. Not having room for evasive maneuvers didn’t matter for the clumsy freighters. The narrow approach let their interceptors cover all possible angle enemy missiles could come through.

  A day later a Censorial warship arrived. Azure Tarn couldn’t see it but the Navy warships relayed their tracking data. It stayed out of their missile range. Marcus kept his crew at two ready in the hold, two standing by on the upper deck, and two sleeping. He ignored Hines’ grumbling over putting himself in the watch rotation.

  He was still glad to leave the hold when Hines relieved him. Going through the airlock from the aether-filled hold to the upper deck always felt strange. The pastel-tinged mist—this time it was green—was forced out of the airlock as it was pumped full of air. He turned under the air jets to let them blast off any aether sticking to his pressure suit. Bits of pink and blue flew off and were vented into the hold. Then he could step out, take off his helmet, and live like a person for the rest of the day.

  More enemy ships arrived over the next two days. They stayed out of range. Tension grew. Off-duty crew gathered around the galley display, watching the latest update from the task force commander. Wishes that the Censorials attack “and get it over with” were greeted with chuckles.

  ***

  Chaplain Murphy didn’t know why he’d been invited to the Operational Planning Meeting. He attended staff meetings, of course. As chaplain he could provide a good feel for crew morale on Admiral Royce’s flagship. But this meeting was about how many ships were going where. Murphy said nothing the whole time.

  “Anything else?” asked Admiral Royce. His dress uniform was still unrumpled, unlike his sweat-stained subordinates.

  A commodore stood up. “Sir, I request more ships be assigned to Split-Pea Rift. It—”

  Royce cut him off. “Denied. Just because it’s the rift closest to the Tunnel doesn’t mean the enemy capital ships will come that way. The reserves will respond to where they’re needed.”

  He swept his eyes over the conference table. “Let’s get the work done.”

  Officers flooded to the door, some eager to start their tasks, more wanting to escape the admiral. Murphy stayed in his seat against the wall. He didn’t want to get in the way of those with work to do.

  When only a few knots of chattering officers were left Murphy stood. He felt a gaze and turned to see Admiral Royce pointing a finger at his chair. Murphy sat.

  “People, you have holotanks in your ops centers to work those problems,” said the admiral.

  The remaining officers scurried out. Royce locked the door behind them.

  Murphy worried. He wasn’t the most conventional chaplain. He spent more time wandering the ship to make himself available for casual conversations than holding formal services. He didn’t think that could be called dereliction of duty.

  But if anyone was going to court martial a chaplain for dereliction of duty, it would be Admiral Royce.

  The admiral turned a chair around and sat almost knee to knee with Murphy.

  “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It has been a damned long time since my last confession.”

  Chaplain Murphy stopped thinking of his own sins and attended to those of the man in front of him. “God’s blessings are upon you, my son. What are your sins?”

  “I’ve lied men to their deaths. I’ve deceived those who deserve trust. I’ve failed in my duty.”

  The normal expression of dull anger faded from Royce’s face as he spoke, leaving a man in pain.

  “What were your lies?”

  “The Split-Pea Rift task force is too weak for what they’ll be facing. I’m using them to bait a trap.” He twisted his hands together as if washing them.

  “The deception?” Murphy could tell the admiral was conflicted about confessing, he needed urging.

  “Everyone’s counting on the reserves to bail them out if they’re in trouble. But they’re not there. Most went to beef up the rifts. The rest . . .”

  Royce pivoted his chair to let him put his forearm on the long table taking up the center of the room. He drummed his fingers on the wood.

  Murphy let a few moments go by, studying his parishioner as the admiral stared at the blank screen on the wall. He switched seats, taking one at the table so he’d block Admiral Royce’s view. “Where?” he asked.

  Royce laughed. “I won’t tell you. It’s paranoid of me. But I’m terrified. We have all those conscripted civilians, and half the national fleets have no discipline at all. Give them a hint of hope, they’ll tell it to everyone they know.”

  The admiral ran his fingers through his greying hair. “I don’t know what the enemy can do. Pick up our transmissions? Certainly. Break our encryption? No idea. Their missiles are a hair better than ours, their drives much more efficient. We know so little about them.”

  “My son, I do not need to know your dispositions. Only your sins. How did you fail in your duty?”

  Royce’s cheeks flexed as he ground his teeth together. “My duty is to protect our planet. I can’t. I’m gambling—gambling everything.”

  That admission chilled Murphy’s spine. He had to swallow twice before he could speak. The words were those of a Fieran hoping to survive, not a priest. “What odds?”

  That drew a half-smile from Royce. “Don’t know. Even after all this fighting we can’t make a decent simulation. Too many unknowns.”

  Murphy jumped as Royce’s fist thumped the table.

  “We figured out one thing. They have a full squadron of carriers. Didn’t launch one fighter at the Tunnel battle. So they must be carrying vac buggies only. If we can hit the carriers in hyperspace—”

  The admiral snapped his mouth shut, fear on his face.

  “This is under the seal of the confessional, my son,” said Chaplain Murphy. “Now it is my turn to speak. My son, your sin is pride. You believe you could win this war like a chess match, making a mate with no lost pieces, if only you were clever enough or worked hard enough. God has not given you such an easy test. This is war such as Fiera has never known. You must choose the best option, even when there is no good option. To make your decisions that way is the first part of your penance.”

  Royce smiled thinly.

  “As further penance, you shall say an Our Father before bed for the next week, you shall eat two meals a day, and sleep at least five hours in every twenty-five.”

  “Been talking to my aides
?” asked Royce.

  “No more than I talk to everyone else. Please cross yourself and perform the Act of Contrition.”

  Royce made the gesture jerkily, drawing on old memories perhaps. “I beg forgiveness for my sin of pride, and all my other sins. I promise to do better.”

  Good enough, thought Murphy. “God the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of His Son, has reconciled the world to Himself and sent the Holy Spirit among us for the forgiveness of sins. Through the ministry of the Church, our God gives you pardon and peace, and I absolve you from your sins in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

  “Amen,” echoed Admiral Royce.

  The admiral walked over to the screen. It had enough of a reflection to let him restore his hair to rigid order with a small comb. A firm tug pulled the faint wrinkles from his braided jacket.

  When Royce turned back to Murphy his face was set in its habitual angry frown. “Chaplain, if anyone asks, you’ve been chastised for distracting spacers from their duties with your homilies. You’re quite good about that, actually, but we can’t have anyone thinking Old Iron Rod is going soft.”

  “Aye-aye, sir.”

  ***

  Azure Tarn was floating with her galley dome turned toward the enemy so they could watch the Censorate ships swan about, outside of range of their missiles.

  “Hey, there’s a new one,” said Tets. The off-duty crew were rested enough to not need sleep. They’d gathered in the galley for card games, snacks, and nervous speculation about the enemy.

  “Thicker than the others,” commented Soon. She had better eyes than most of the crew. To Marcus it was just a blur.

  He checked the sensor data relay. “It’s a cruiser. First one to show up here. The rest are all destroyers.”

  “Wonder how long it’ll be until another one shows,” said Tets. “We could do a drinking game, bet on when it arrives and loser drinks.”

  Gunner Hines hadn’t been part of the conversation. He sat on the floor of the galley, all attention seemingly on his maneuvering pack, disassembled for cleaning. At Tets’ suggesting Hines looked up. “No drinking when on alert,” he snapped.