“This assumes no new surprises by the barbarians?” asked Pinoy.
“Yessir.”
“Very well.” Pinoy drew himself to attention. He made a crisp right face toward Governor Yeager. “Your excellency. I request permission to abandon the attack, jump to hyperspace, and return to the Censorate.”
“But-but,” sputtered Yeager, “we’ll win! You heard him. We’ll win!”
“That assumes nothing else will go wrong. And something has always gone wrong on this campaign. Even if the predictions are valid, losing half the fleet is not victory.”
“Coward!”
The intel chief stood with his shoulder blades pressing into the display. Those seated at their stations leaned away. Those standing took several steps away. They’d known about the friction between their leaders. There’d been too many private meetings where they went in tense and came out exhausted. The open conflict terrified them.
Admiral Pinoy’s face flushed dark with blood. His jaw clenched, worked, clenched again. Finally he said, “My duty is to the Censorate. Throwing His Wisdom’s expensive ships and spacers into a bonfire is not doing my duty. The barbarians are a danger, yes, but they don’t justify the deaths of thousands of spacers. Especially if we lose.”
“You want us to lose! You want to give these barbarians a victory. How big a danger will they be when they fully mobilize?”
“Insignificant compared to a mobilized Censorate. But if these ships are destroyed how many revolts will there be? In sixteen hours I will be in command. I will order the retreat. Every spacer’s death between now and then is a waste, and on your hands.”
Yeager flushed. He snarled, “You bastard! We must punish them for defying the Censorate.”
Before Pinoy could reply, a diffident voice said, “If I may, gentlemen?”
Admiral and Governor glared at Commander MacIver as one.
He held his ground. “If you wish to bombard the planet we could reach it from here. Missiles coasting for the middle of the trajectory can extend their range indefinitely. It’s not an effective way to attack ships but cities are harder to defend.”
The Ops chief put his hands behind his back and awaited his fate.
The two disputants turned back to each other. Stared. Nodded.
Pinoy asked the Intel chief, “How well have the scouts mapped the planet?”
“We could certainly target their largest cities, sir.”
“Very well. Give Ops the coordinates of the fifteen largest cities.” Pinoy turned to the Ops chief. “Prepare a strike plan for them.”
The chiefs and their staffs scampered to obey.
“Once we’ve launched the strike, may we withdraw?”
Yeager glared at Pinoy for a long moment. Then his shoulders slumped. “Very well.”
***
Marcus counted the remaining missiles as he helped load. There were few. The only pallets even close to full were the decoys and anti-fighter missiles, useless for the fight they were in. Soon they’d have to leave formation and find a supply ship.
The interceptors started chattering again. They’d been silent for minutes. The Censorials had paused between salvos for some reason.
He checked the launcher display. The tactical grid showed fewer missiles than usual aimed their way. That was a relief the Censorial salvo was spread wide—so wide it was going past the edge of the Fieran fleet. Something that should be reported. “Bridge, Hold.”
“Bridge here,” came his father’s voice.
“Some of those missiles went past us on purpose. We should warn the supply ships or wherever they’re headed.”
“I’ll pass it up the chain.”
“Thanks. Out.”
Suddenly the array of stars visible through the hatch became sparser. Marcus looked at the display. The Censorial fleet still visible consisted of a cruiser, two destroyers, and some wrecks.
Orders flashed: “CEASE FIRE. CEASE FIRE. CEASE FIRE. WE WANT PRISONERS.”
Easy enough. “Luo, Cortez, secure those missiles and take a break. The Censorials bugged out.”
They’d both been carrying missiles. One went into a launcher, the other back in its pallet.
“Sir, can we take a nap?”
“Sure. Secure yourself to a handhold.” Marcus was too keyed up to sleep but the spacers had been doing physical work the whole time. They had to be exhausted.
In minutes the spacers were in the legs-curved arms-out pose of zero-gee sleep.
Marcus poked his head out the hatch. The Censorials were cooperating with the cease fire. He didn’t see any missiles flying. There was some movement among the Fieran ships. The ones close enough to recognize were shuttles.
“Bridge to Gunnery Officer.”
“Here, Captain.”
“You’ve been requisitioned as an interpreter for the boarding parties. A shuttle is coming to pick you up.”
“Aye-aye.”
It wasn’t hard to spot. A large vacuum buggy was headed straight for him. It decelerated to right next to Azure Tarn. The shuttle was a large, squat cylinder. Unlike the equipment racks of a typical vacuum buggy this one was covered with frames holding Concord Marines in armored suits.
Marcus heard, “Ahoy, I’m looking for Lieutenant Landry,” on the general suit channel.
“That’s me,” he answered.
“Hop aboard, sir. We saved a rack for you.”
One of the Marines waved at the empty spot next to him.
It was close enough Marcus only needed to kick off the hull. He didn’t want to waste any of the fuel for his emergency maneuvering jets. This seemed like the kind of job that might have emergencies later.
“Welcome aboard. Put your feet in the stirrups there, sir. I’m Gunnery Sergeant Kim. Hands hold on here. I’m going to clip your safety line on. We’re on channel seven, sir.”
Marcus changed channels in time to hear Kim bellow, “You lot hug the hull. If your ass is outside the antigrav field when we accelerate it’s getting left behind.”
Marcus pressed his torso firmly against the hull of the shuttle. It was the first time he’d ridden on the outside of one. He didn’t want to test the sergeant’s threat.
They flew away from the Fieran fleet. The rack didn’t let him look up so there was no way to see where they were going. Obviously a Censorial ship.
“Sir, what’s with the tape?” asked the Marine on Marcus’ other side.
“Missile fragment chopped a notch in my helmet. Had to seal it.”
Pause. “Well, sir, if you want to switch helmets just let me know.”
One of the armored helmets the Marines were wearing would be better in a battle. Though with the battle over evidence of a close call would have impressive bragging rights. The Marine might want it as a souvenir.
“If I trade it you’ll be the first to know.”
After they turned over to decelerate a few other Marine shuttles were visible to the sides, converging on a common target.
Then they were beside a ship, a cruiser by the size. Marines were clinging to the hull. More were leaping aboard from shuttles.
Gunnery Sergeant Kim ordered, “Johnson, take the Lieutenant to the Colonel. The rest of you, follow me.”
In a moment Marcus was alone with the Marine who wanted to trade helmets.
“I’m looking for the Colonel’s beacon, sir. There we go. This way.” Johnson kicked off the shuttle.
Marcus followed him. The Marine colonel was amidships. Johnson landed a few meters from him and waited. Marcus did likewise. He activated his magnetic boots to hold him to the hull.
The Colonel’s suit had three stars in a triangle on each shoulder and PALMER written on his chest. “What is it, Corporal Johnson?”
“Sir, I’d like you to meet Lieutenant Landry.”
“The interpreter. Good. Thank you, Johnson.”
The corporal flew away toward Kim. Colonel Palmer hopped closer and offered his hand. They were both experienced enough in free fall to shake
hands without detaching themselves from the ship.
“What language do these buggers speak? Intelligence says we can’t talk with them but the surrender acceptance was in English.”
“They do speak English, sir. It’s just such a strong accent that it’s hard for us to understand it. Written communication is fine.”
“Huh.” Palmer pulled a rigid vacuum-rated tablet from a thigh pocket. “So I could write something on this and they’d understand it?”
He turned the tablet toward Marcus. The words ‘HANDS ON YOUR HEAD’ filled the screen.
“Yes, sir.”
“Then your job just changed. We’ll give them orders in writing. You eavesdrop. Pick up all the info you can. Alert us if they’re going to do anything dangerous.”
“Aye-aye.”
“Let’s get inside before they fix their hyper generator and take us to the Censorial fleet.”
Some Marines had already gone through a nearby airlock. The sentry opened the outer door as they approached. A chalk stick figure showed Marcus and the colonel how to orient themselves in the airlock so they were ready when the artificial gravity came on.
The airlock opened onto the typical suit locker compartment, big enough for a dozen men to suit up at a time. Right now it held three Censorial spacers holding very still as five armored Marines pointed rifles at them.
Colonel Palmer picked the spacer with three stripes and held his tablet up to him. It read, ‘TAKE US TO THE CAPTAIN.’ More Marines came through the airlock.
The spacer said, “Sooz, zah,” which Marcus heard as “Yes, sir,” and led them through a hatch.
Their route was winding. Warships are not laid out for easy movement. The spacer twice led them to hatches with ‘DANGER—VACUUM’ scrawled on them by a damage control party. Each time he apologized and took another route.
Censorials they encountered got out of their way. Some flinched. Some were resigned. None looked angry.
Marcus envied the Marine helmets. They were hinged, flipping back to hang over their backs. Once the air was declared safe he took off his helmet with them. His detached completely. He had to carry it in his hands while theirs were free to hold weapons.
The bridge was fully staffed. They were busy coordinating damage control efforts. The captain was standing back as the crew worked. He turned and watched as the Marines entered.
The spacer guiding them was sent in first. Then two Marine privates and their corporal, carbines sweeping the bridge, unwilling to let their colonel enter an unsecured area. Palmer followed them with Marcus at his heels. Another fire team followed, making sure no one was sneaking up behind him.
When Colonel Palmer made eye contact the captain performed a Censorial salute—forearm vertical, knuckles of the fist almost touching the cheekbone. Palmer returned the Fieran version—hand flat, elbow out.
Palmer held up his tablet. It said ‘I AM IN COMMAND OF THIS SHIP.’
The captain took a tablet from a chair and replied ‘YES.’
The colonel switched to another file and handed the tablet to the captain. Marcus tensed. He’d been instructed to monitor this closely.
The Censorial turned to his chair and pressed a button. “Crewmen, this is the captain. I have been given a statement to read by our captors. ‘This ship is now under the control of the Fieran Concord.’ Don’t call them barbarians any more. ‘You have been boarded by Concord Marines. Obey all of their commands. Any attempt at escape or resistance will be met by lethal force.’ Don’t do anything stupid. Don’t let the man next to you do anything stupid.”
Marcus didn’t say anything. The comments the Censorate captain was interpolating into the prepared announcement weren’t the sort of thing he needed to tell Colonel Palmer about.
The captain continued, “‘A prize crew will come aboard to pilot this ship to Fiera. Once there you will be transferred to a prison camp. You will be well treated in accordance with the laws of armed conflict.’ Probably not going to torture us all. Keep working. Captain out.”
He handed the tablet back to Palmer.
Palmer wrote a new message. ‘TAKE ME TO THE HYPERSPACE GENERATOR.’
The captain nodded, placed another officer in charge of the bridge, and headed out a different hatch. One of the Marine trios was left behind to guard the bridge.
This trip didn’t have any detours. Marcus wondered if the captain had a better grasp of the condition of the ship or if there was just less damage in the core of the cruiser.
When they entered the generator compartment the captain waved a hand at the generator. Or rather at the fragment left of it.
“I wanted to make sure they weren’t fixing the thing so they could make a break for it. Looks like I can stop worrying,” said Colonel Palmer.
“Yessir,” Marcus agreed.
A tunnel was carved through the middle of the ship. Marcus guessed an armor piercing warhead had found a gap in the hull. Looking through the tunnel he counted eight decks and bulkheads before his view was blocked by a welding crew installing a panel. He turned around to see how far the damage went in the other direction. The hole went for four decks.
“This is the hyperspace generator, right?” asked the Marine officer.
Marcus assured him, “Oh, yes, sir. There’s the power conduit to the capacitor. Looks like that ruptured when they were hit. This ship is staying in normal space.”
***
Fleet Command was alarmed by the reports that some of the parting Censorial missiles had bypassed the defenders. They notified the support elements, then sent word to the defenders at Fiera.
They’d prepared for a missile bombardment. Transcripts of Azure Tarn’s crew describing ‘Mourning Day’ were mandatory reading for defense planners. But there were only so many resources to go around. The decision had been made to focus on defeating the enemy in space. Planetary Defense received the scraps left over.
An economy mobilized for war made a lot of scraps. Every orbital station now bristled with weapons. Sensor buoys watched for danger in wide shells around the planet. Ships with acceleration too poor for fleet duty were armed as orbiting pickets. The Planetary Defense Commander put them all on alert.
More alert messages went planetside to the missile batteries around every major target.
Coasting through space, its thrusters idle, a missile was hard to see. Sensors had to pick up on their residual heat radiation. They weren’t nearly as hot as a ship with human crew.
Given the initial sightings, a couple of reports from the returning fighter wings, and some sensor buoys in the right spot, the Planetary Defense Commander knew about when the strike would arrive, but not where. The uncertainty in their vectors was larger than the planet.
The PDC recommended evacuating the cities. The Civil Defense Coordinator considered the possible casualties from panicked stampedes and crashed vehicles, the likelihood of any particular city being attacked, the expectation that the missiles would be aimed at military targets, and refused to issue the order.
Six hundred missiles began thrusting as they approached Fiera. Detectors relayed their vectors to every defender. Weapons opened fire with no thought to conserving ammunition, overheating, or even friendly fire.
Less than a hundred missiles reached the planet. The missile batteries on the ground resorted to setting off explosive warheads a few miles up in hopes of disabling them with atmospheric shock waves. That destroyed half the remainder.
The rest hit.
***
Alys Vissen sat on a missile nose cone, watching her co-workers watch the news. Her fingers twitched with the finicky motions of assembling a missile’s wiring harness. She’d been doing that sixteen hours a day since the robot which used to do it came apart from overwork.
She envied the robot.
Ever since the Censorial fleet arrived she’d been working those double days. No weekends. No lunches. Every time she went to pee, people would look at her as if she were sabotaging the war effort.
&nbs
p; Then five words— “The Censorial fleet has retreated”—and it was down tools and everyone having a party right here in the factory. They were gathered around the big screen used for production announcements listening to the newsheads talk about the big victory. Sounded like a few bad guys had been left behind.
The casualty reports were vague. ‘Acceptable’ and ‘moderate’ could mean a lot of dead spacers. Alys wondered if those maniacs she used to fly with on Azure Tarn had survived. They’d gone to war in that silly tin can. Welly had even sent a note telling her how to apply to rejoin the crew as a contractor. Alys hadn’t answered it.
The Concord newsheads were replaced by a local, looking scared. “Paulberg is under attack,” he said. “Take cover at once. There are incoming missiles. There’s no time to evacuate. Go to the strongest cover you can find.”
The cheerful babble was now panic. Alys looked up at the sheet metal roof. It needed repair after the last thunderstorm. It wouldn’t survive an explosion.
“Fire drill!” said Mr. Join. “It’s just a fire drill. Everybody outside.” He was retired Army. His lungs were too bad to go back in uniform. Sometimes he’d complain about that at length.
Alys joined the line headed for the door. Instead of waiting in the parking lot Join sent them to the field on the north side of the factory. She looked around. She didn’t see anything that was ‘cover.’ The workers slept in tents, even flimsier than the factory. Cover meant basements. There weren’t any here.
Her eye was drawn to the sky over Paulberg. Missiles were shooting up and becoming flashes, almost painfully bright. It looked like the dullest fireworks show ever.
Mr. Join caught up, puffing a bit. “Everybody lie down.” Puff. “Put your feet toward Paulberg.”
Alys scanned the grass before lying down. This had been a cow pasture before the war. There was still some manure scattered about.
The grass wasn’t much less comfortable than her bed. She felt a strange mix of terror and relaxation. For the first time in weeks there was no work to do, and it wasn’t her fault.
Between Home and Ruin (Fall of the Censor Book 2) Page 22