The defenders fired first. Marcus saw the missile wakes in the aether headed for ships that were still blurry specks. At this range they’d run out of power and coast before hitting their targets, easy prey for the targets’ guns. Marcus waited.
When the target came into effective range he fired sixteen explosive warhead missiles. That was the Fieran default. He wanted whoever was operating the defenses of that destroyer to relax and expect a routine engagement.
Marcus watched the salvo as it faded into the mist. Sparks marked counter-missiles intercepting them.
He ordered the spacers to replace one of the missiles with a jammer in the next salvo.
That missile launched fifteen seconds ahead of the others in its salvo. When it closed to where the destroyer could try to intercept it the jammer began broadcasting a storm of static and fake signals. The salvo made it closer to its target before being destroyed.
The next salvo was led by an EMP missile. As it closed on the target it detonated, releasing an electromagnetic pulse to disrupt all the sensors on the destroyer.
After the rest of the salvo detonated Marcus saw a halo of white around the destroyer—the telltale sign of escaping air and water vapor forming a fog in the aether around the ship.
The destroyer began retreating as the next salvo raced toward it. This one was led by a jammer, was half armor piercing rounds, and left the target moving slower as it passed out of range.
The spacers cheered. Marcus picked a new target.
The enemy had been targeting other ships with their missiles. The only warning they’d turned to Azure Tarn was the interceptors firing continuously instead of their normal bursts.
Half a dozen holes sprang open to the aft side of the hatch. The aether in the hold echoed with the wheet of high speed objects and ring of bouncing metal fragments.
“Ernie! Ernie!” cried a spacer.
Marcus turned. Blood was pouring out of a foot long slice in Sokol’s pressure suit. His friend’s hands were over the wound but blood squirted through the fingers.
“Move him to the back,” said Gunner Hines. “There’s nothing you can do.”
Marcus said, “We’ll make the bastards pay for that,” which felt stupid. He was going to hurt the Censorials as much as he could, he hadn’t been holding anything back. But he had to say something.
The next target received an EMP missile in the first salvo. Word would spread. He wanted to get all the use he could out of the trick before the enemy figured out how to beat it.
Marcus watched the display as the missiles closed on the target. The EMP missile disappeared. Counter missiled at extreme range? He sent a simple salvo while calculating how to penetrate a wary defense.
His attack began with two anti-fighter cluster missiles scattering their submunitions to catch or distract countermissiles. A jammer followed close behind, clearing the way for an EMP missile which flashed near the enemy ship. That let the dozen missiles following score a few hits, though Azure Tarn’s sensors weren’t good enough to tell how much damage had been done.
“Load two jammers and two EMP, then mixed explosive and AP,” he ordered.
The spacers sprang to obey. Gunner Hines approached Marcus and touched helmets.
“Sir, this fancy shit is slowing our rate of fire.”
“It’s no use throwing missiles that get intercepted.”
“Yes, sir. But it doesn’t work as well when they expect it. Plus being the fancy shooting ship will bring us attention.”
Attention in the form of a missile detonating off Azure Tarn’s bow. The concussion wave blasted through the open hatch. Spacers were thrown about, the missiles they were carrying caroming off the bulkheads. Marcus and Hines were slammed into the deck.
Marcus came to floating through the hold. Everything was still bouncing about, he’d only been out a moment. Stars flashed in his vision. He hoped his radio still worked. “Bridge, five percent gravity in the hold, please.”
“Bridge, aye,” replied his father’s voice.
He fell gently to the deck, along with his crew, loose missiles, and debris of unknown origin. Hines was sitting up and cursing. Someone was screaming on the radio.
“Sir! Shang’s leg is broken.”
Marcus lurched over to check. The spacer’s pressure suit was intact but the shin bent where it shouldn’t. He switched off Shang’s radio to stop the screaming. “Put him in the airlock. I’ll have someone take him in.” He switched channels. “Hold to Bridge. Please send someone to pick up a casualty at, uh, the aft inner airlock.”
“We’ll add him to the pile.”
He wondered who else was hurt. Not his mother. He would have been able to tell that in his father’s voice. Or would the man be able to hide it? Maybe he could the way Marcus’ head was hurting.
A missile with sparks coming from a cracked drive unit was rolling across the deck. Marcus scooped it up and pulled the shutdown pin. Once it was calm he shoved it into an empty pallet.
Looking out the hatch he saw a ship at almost point blank range. A friendly ship, another auxiliary. The blast had rolled Azure Tarn far enough he couldn’t see the enemy.
The two remaining spacers were coming back from the airlock. He set them to securing the rest of the stray missiles.
Hines was fiddling with the right hand missile launcher. Marcus went over to see what the problem was. A missile had hit base-first and cracked the launch tube.
“Should I ask MacGregor to bring his welding gear?” Marcus asked.
Hines chopped his hand down. “It’s dead. Missile’s energy cell discharged through it. Probably not even worth salvaging for parts.”
“Hell.” Inadequate, but stronger words were just as useless. His head hurt too much to think of anything better anyway.
Some of the loose missiles were intact. They were loaded into the working launchers. More explosive warheads made a full salvo. Marcus picked a different target.
“Bridge, we are ready to resume firing. Uh, please cut hold gravity and face us toward the enemy.”
The artificial gravity was turned off immediately. They kept facing the Fieran fleet. Marcus noticed the hatch was warped. That would slow down their next atmospheric entry. Assuming Azure Tarn survived to reach a planet again.
A few moments later they started turning. Marcus watched for his target. When it was in view he fired. The spacers started loading. They weren’t moving as fast as before. Marcus realized he wasn’t either. His head ached. The calculations for the next salvo were going step by step instead of his normal racing pace.
The pressure suit had a first aid kit built in. Marcus pressed his chin against the ‘pain’ button. A pill popped into his mouth. He washed it down with a sip of recycled water. “If you’re hurting from being knocked about, take something.”
His crew responded with a couple of “aye, sirs” and “If I need to, sir,” from Gunner Hines.
Programming the attack order for a mix of explosive warheads and armor piercing didn’t take long. The spacers were still loading missiles when Marcus finished. He took a missile off a pallet and brought it over.
Inserting the missile in the chute was finicky work. Spacer Cortez took it from Marcus and slid it in. “Thank you, sir. Help me get another?”
As they started toward the pallet Hines arrived with a missile under each arm. “Take this one, Cortez.”
Marcus braced himself with two handholds for the firing. In his current condition he didn’t want the aether wake of the missile launches throwing him about. The rest of the crew held on hard too.
As the aether buffeted him a surge of joy hit him. No, not real joy. Just his headache going away as the pain medication started working.
When the waves faded he pulled himself to the display. “Load two jammers and the rest armor piercing,” he ordered. First, a new target.
The program flowed out. The checker reported no errors. Marcus set it ready then carried missiles.
Gunner Hines said, “You
lot will be so spoiled the next time you’re on a cruiser. The only time you touch a missile there, is if the feed jams between the elevator and the launcher.”
The spacers laughed and kept hauling missiles.
Finding a different target for every salvo wasn’t hard. The Censorial fleet seemed as thick as when they first came in range. Meanwhile Marcus could see gaps in the Fieran formation whenever he peeked around the coaming. Some of them were probably getting more ammo. He’d seen a couple of destroyers jump back in.
Attack patterns were harder to vary. He’d developed a dozen and just varied them by the distance to the target. Rotating among them balanced the ammunition usage. He would run out of every kind close together.
Except for the decoy missiles. The Censorials weren’t fooled by a warship seeming to appear in the middle of a missile salvo. He hoped he’d ruined someone’s pants though.
When there were only enough left for three salvos he notified the captain.
Jammer, EMP, explosive fired.
Cluster, jammer, armor piercing fired.
Double EMP and the mixed remaining missiles fired.
“Last one away,” transmitted Marcus. Then a choir was singing veiled words in his head. The aether mists faded to black. Stars appeared. Aether rushed out.
One of the spacers was curled up. Hines held him by the shoulders. “Deep breaths, Luo. Deep breaths. Keep control.”
Marcus chastised himself for not reminding them to take their anti-nausea meds. Vomiting in a suit could kill a man faster than they could get him to the airlock.
Cortez looked to be fine. Marcus tossed him a blower. They started cleaning out the blobs of aether clinging to the launchers.
“All hands,” said the captain, “we are third in line for the ammo freighter.”
Chief MacGregor came down to inspect the damage. “This’ll take days,” he said, looking at the holes on the port side. “I’ll start here. Let’s get the gravity back on.”
While the chief engineer welded a plate over the biggest hole Marcus helped Tets tape plastic in place over the others. Hines and the spacers stacked empty pallets by the open hatch.
The freighter was a massive ship. Its hatch could fit around Azure Tarn’s bow. An extension tunnel fastened onto the hull around the hatch. As the freighter’s doors opened air rushed into the hold.
Marcus stretched his arms over his head. In vacuum every movement had to overcome the resistance of the pressure suit joints. Even aether didn’t have enough pressure to help. A full atmosphere of pressure made it almost like moving in clothes.
Deckhands came forward to collect the empty pallets. The supercargo shouted, “What’s that noise?”
“Air leak,” answered Marcus. “We haven’t finished repairs.”
MacGregor had started welds on each side of the metal plate. Air was whistling through the gaps.
“Jesus. How can you think with that racket?”
“It’s quieter than a missile launch,” said Marcus mildly. “Hey, those guys can’t be here like that. They need breathers.”
The deckhands carrying pallets were in ordinary coveralls. They wouldn’t last a minute if the tunnel lost its connection.
“Why?”
“We had aether in here. If they breathe some in . . .”
The supercargo shook his head. “We’ve been doing this all day, haven’t had any trouble.”
Marcus threw up his hands. “Your crew.”
Chief MacGregor and his mechanic slapped some plastic over the patch panel. It took a moment for Marcus to hear the sounds of boots and forklifts after the whistling stopped. Firing missiles must be bad for his ears.
When the empty pallets were clear a forklift moved in. It bounced a little at the gap between artificial gravity fields.
A deckhand touched Marcus on the elbow. “Sir, what happens if I breathe in some aether?”
Marcus looked at the kid in disbelief. Had he never been to hyperspace? Must be a war recruit. “At first it’s like having some extra mucus in your lungs. Then in an hour or a day the aether sublimates to heat. Your lungs become cooked meat. If you’re already in a hospital they can transplant in new ones. If you’re not . . .” He shrugged.
The deckhand paled, put a hand over his mouth, and scampered off.
The freighter had only one pallet of jammers. Marcus accepted it without complaint. The rest of the load was two thirds explosive warheads, one third armor piercing. They closed the hatch and undocked as soon as the load was transferred. Didn’t even want a signature.
His pressure suit stiffened as the air blew out of the hold. Marcus looked at the freighter. He didn’t envy them. When the Censorate came through to normal space that was going to be an eye-catching target.
“All hands. We’re not returning to the battle in hyperspace yet. We have been directed to join a normal-space formation. Continue damage control efforts.” His father sounded pleased by that.
Marcus didn’t mind more time for repairs either. He turned to Hines. “Let’s see if Chief MacGregor has any ideas on our dead launcher.”
***
The barbarian fleet had been shrinking for hours. Admiral Pinoy held the distance and kept pounding at them. Then with impressive simultaneity it vanished.
A few remaining ships—with bad jump generators or just confused crews—promptly disintegrated under the full Censorial barrage.
The officers on the flag bridge were too disciplined to cheer. But there were a number of cheerful noises.
“Operations, all squadrons will report readiness to transition to normal space,” said Admiral Pinoy.
“Aye-aye,” replied the Ops chief.
The admiral turned to Intel next. “Update on attrition simulation?”
“Sir, losses are almost exactly as predicted for this engagement.” Intel sounded quite proud of their work.
Reports were streaming in to Ops. “Sir, they want time for repairs,” said Commander MacIver.
“Of course they do. Let’s have a look.” The admiral bent over the summaries.
After some discussion and queries to a few commodores to check their reasons, Pinoy announced, “The fleet will jump in three hours.”
Governor Yeager checked the clock. He looked back to see Pinoy had caught him looking.
The admiral joined him. “Your excellency, we will fight the last battle under your command. Fiera will be the anvil I hammer that fleet on.”
“Thank you, Admiral. I am concerned, what if they try a mobile defense?”
The operations staff had expected that while crossing the bubble between the tunnel and Fiera’s star. They still debated why the enemy hadn’t. Dispersing to conduct hit and run raids on the Censorate fleet would have let the barbarians do more damage while taking fewer casualties.
“If they do, sir, the fleet can go directly to the target. I’ll bombard their planet until they surrender. Or until it’s lifeless. The prisoners say there are two other inhabited worlds in the bubble. I’ll bombard them next.”
***
Azure Tarn went to full alert when the regular navy ships jumped back. She had to move about five kilometers as the formation reshuffled. Orders came down to attack the enemy on sight.
Then they waited.
Hines made it over an hour before complaining. “Dammit, we’re just sitting here and they’re repairing their ships. We should be doing something.”
“We are doing something,” said Marcus. “Look out the hatch. Supply ships are all over. Everybody’s doing repairs. The chief would be working here if those holes mattered for combat effectiveness.”
The NCO leaned around the coaming to look at the Fieran fleet. “Yeah, I see supply ships moving.”
Then he ordered Cortez and Luo to restack the pallets closer to the launchers.
Marcus would rather have the spacers rested, but keeping Hines from stressing out was also important. Plus he didn’t want to undermine the NCO’s authority. If Marcus caught some shrapnel Hines wou
ld be in charge of the weapons.
After an hour of making the spacers rearrange pallets and recite malfunction procedures Gunner Hines declared a break.
“How are you doing, sir?” Hines asked.
“I have eight attack profiles ready to go. Which leaves me nothing to do until the enemy arrives.”
“Lot of that going around, sir.”
Getting the deck of magnetic cards from his cabin and getting a game of spades together would be unprofessional. It was still tempting.
Cortez and Luo were playing some game with an imaginary board and arguing over whether a move was legal.
Spacers didn’t have to worry about setting a professional example.
Officers had to worry about . . . everything.
And sometimes had to not worry about things. Like whether his parents would survive the battle. Or if Wynny was safe . . .
Wynny . . . even if they won, would he ever see her again? There’d be an angry Censorial fleet between them. The Concord would want peace negotiations. They wouldn’t make a concession just so one junior officer could dally with one enemy subject.
And if there was a hint she mattered the Censorate might take her as a hostage.
Brooding wasn’t something that finished. It was just interrupted. A wall of Censorial ships appeared, blurry outlines becoming crisp as the aether they’d carried with them dissipated.
Marcus selected a target. The three working launchers spat out their missiles. No roar of displaced aether, no shock waves from thrusters turning on, no being flung about. “I want to fight all my battles in vacuum.”
The spacers laughed and started loading. Not fighting the aether would help their rate of fire too. Marcus wondered if this would tilt the battle. Regular navy ships had their missile launchers in gun ports, secure from the aether. Being in vacuum wouldn’t matter to them. But the Fieran fleet’s many, many auxiliaries just became more effective.
He fired the next salvo. A waiting spacer slammed a new missile into the chute as soon as the launcher stopped firing.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 20