Across Enemy Space

by L. J. Simpson

  Once inside his apartment, he finally allowed himself to relax. The first thing he did was to get out of the uniform – by now creased and stained – and throw it into the laundry basket. Thirty minutes later he was showered and dressed in regulation shorts and T shirt. He took a bottle of mineral water from the refrigerator and sat down at the small desk in the corner of the room. His stomach was complaining, but that was par for the course, the side effects of the Ketrazine he’d taken before embarking on his drinking spree. The Ketrazine broke down the bulk of the ethanol in the liquor before it had chance to affect his brain. It kept him largely sober, but the downside was the stomach cramps he was now feeling. Drink plenty of water, he’d been advised. He would, but it seldom seemed to help, and even more perversely, he’d wake up tomorrow with something akin to a hangover. None of the pleasure but all of the pain.

  The good news was that he’d finally gotten a lead. Well, half a one. He’d spent the last few weeks touring the bars around 31st and Brewer, telling anyone who would listen exactly how disenchanted he was with the Alliance, and perhaps, how much better things might be if the war would to be lost… and the quicker the better. He was seldom short of an audience and his performances had earned him a few sympathizers along with a whole bunch of dissenters. All in all, he considered himself fortunate that he’d avoided any serious altercations until tonight. He shrugged as he massaged his still aching side – it went with the territory. Perhaps his performances as a disenchanted drunk were finally achieving critical acclaim.

  And tonight he’d played his ace in the hole. His position in the signals office at fleet liaison was something he’d kept close to his chest. It wasn’t the kind of thing you’d talk about off base, however disenchanted you might be. It was a card to play only when the time was right. And tonight, with a full bar and a few greenhorns full of piss and vinegar, it was as good an opportunity as he was likely to get.

  And after that, the evening had departed from the norm. The beating could have been a coincidence, as could the intervention of Tom Brady. But he’d follow it up; you never knew where these things might lead. He powered up his console, opened up a secure channel and began writing up his contact report.

  Brady was constructing a report of his own, though his would be given verbally rather than written down. Some things were best not committed to paper.

  He’d encountered the staff sergeant a few weeks previously, his first impression being that the man was little more than a drunk with an oversized chip on his shoulder. Up to a point it, was an accurate assessment; the chip on the shoulder was real enough and seemed to be a permanent fixture – the loss of his arm was the most likely cause – and he was indeed a drunkard. However, Brady soon came to realize that there was another side to the man. If you could catch him early enough in the evening – before the alcohol had taken too much of a hold – he showed glimpses of an altogether different nature. He was obviously an educated man. He had an excellent grasp of politics, knew his history and had a clear understanding of economics, all of it wasted in places like the Blue Goose, where most of the clientele – good honest workers though they were – were unable to appreciate many of his insights. But then, who listens to the ravings of a drunk with a chip on his shoulder?

  It was all slightly unusual for a staff sergeant, and was enough to pique Brady’s interest. He’d made a few enquiries, asking around the various bars in the vicinity of 31st and Brewer, and discovered that Powers was a social sciences graduate, one with the smarts to undergo officer training but too anti-establishment to volunteer. It figured. Apparently, he’d said that the first casualty of war was truth and that he’d no intention of being the second. Eventually he’d been drafted, so beginning a chain of events which had finally led to their meeting on the sidewalk on 31st street. The attack on Powers had been orchestrated, of course – not a difficult undertaking – leaving Brady to step in and ‘save’ Powers from the two assailants.

  It was too early to tell if Powers might be a suitable target for recruitment but their conversation in Lazy Sue’s had been promising at least. He exhibited the required mindset, and thanks to his severed arm he seemed to have the necessary motivation. Whether he had the inclination remained to be seen, but it was worth pursuing. Brady would report the contact, wait to see if Powers turned up for the Bootleg Club meeting and in the meantime organize a thorough background check. There was no particular rush; these things had a timetable all of their own.

  Chapter 11: Sjhakar

  Intruder One-nine, Sjhakar system

  “Sigma wave emissions from the warp disrupter have ceased,” said Lt. Jeffries, scanning the sub space frequencies. “The target has been negated.”

  “Right on time. How long before the attack force arrives?”

  “ETA four minutes.”

  “Very good,” said Simms. “Course to Haalikon is laid in. We’ll confirm the arrival of Force Z and then we’ll head on out.”

  Destroyer Zenith

  “All set?” said Tyrell.

  “Aye, sir,” said the XO. “The ship is closed up and the crew at action stations. Dropping out of warp in five seconds... three, two, one.”

  The blackness of space was ruptured as three vessels emerged from hyperspace on the outer reaches of the Sjhakar system. On board the Zenith, the ship’s tactical officer, Lt. Drummond – universally known as ‘Tac’ – pored over his screen as the ship’s computer identified and cataloged targets.

  “What have we got?” said Tyrell.

  “We’ve entered normal space as projected, exactly six light hours from the Sjhakar sun. Picking up emissions from warp disrupters on the far side of the system but none within effective range.”

  “OK. It looks like our Intruder friends have done the business. Combine assets?”

  “No enemy combatants in the immediate vicinity. Switching to long range scanners… Directly in front of us – distance one light hour – is target Alpha.”

  “Their research facility.”

  “Yes, sir. Between us and the facility is a Combine combat formation – distance forty light minutes. Designate Alpha 2.”

  “Make up?”

  “One heavy cruiser – Callisto class. Two Aster class frigates… three hunter killers.”

  “Other assets?”

  “Targets Beta and Gamma, the civilian colony and the military base are just beyond the sun – distance seven point four light hours. They appear to be protected by a formation similar to Alpha 2.”

  “Merchant shipping?”

  “Not much on the scope, sir. A couple of freighters in the vicinity of the main colony. That’s about it.”

  “Nothing else?” said Tyrell in surprise.

  “No, sir.”

  That was unusual, thought Tyrell. In a system this size there was always a reasonable cross section of ships travelling in and out of the system or back and forth among the various planets and moons. But here… almost nothing. Either the system had been declared a no fly zone or merchant shipping had been instructed to keep away, in which case the Sjhakar commander must have been warned of the raid. Judging by the disposition of his forces it was the latter.

  Tyrell smiled to himself. When the C-in-C had told him to expect a reception committee, he hadn’t taken him quite so literally. The good news was that he didn’t have to go looking for targets – there were half a dozen sitting right off his bows.

  Planning an engagement in real time was no simple exercise. Tyrell was viewing target Alpha 2 as it had been forty minutes previously, the time it had taken for light to travel from the target to his ship’s sensors. By the same token, the Combine formation wouldn’t see the Zenith and her sisters emerge from hyperspace until forty minutes hence. That gave Tyrell an edge.

  “Signal Zodiac and Zephyr: Increase speed to point three C and close with Combine formation Alpha 2. Battle orders to follow.”

  “Tactics?” said the XO.

  “The main threat is the cruiser – we close up forma
tion and concentrate all our fire on her. Put that Callisto out of the fight and we’ll roll up the others like an old rug.”

  On board the Callisto class cruiser, the tactical officer shouted in surprise as the three Alliance ships suddenly appeared on his scope.

  “Sir! Three Alliance ships bearing 003/114.”

  “Frigates?” said the captain.

  “I don’t think so, sir,” said the tac officer, checking his scans. “They don’t match anything in the registry.”

  The captain leaned over his tac officer’s shoulder and gazed intently at the readouts. “There’re not frigates, that’s for sure. They don’t look like any destroyers I’ve ever seen either,” he said, feeling suddenly ill at ease. “Course and speed?”

  “Plot says they are forty light minutes out, speed negligible.”

  “They’ve only just dropped out of hyperspace. That’ll all change soon enough. Keep tracking.”

  “Aye, sir,” said the tac officer. Then after a few minutes, “Contact speed is now at point zero-one light and increasing… they are heading straight for us.”

  The captain looked at the three red triangles on the screen. Like Captain Tyrell, he was seeing the plot as it had been forty minutes ago. By now the enemy formation would be a lot closer in. They’d likely accelerate to point two or three light, which would put them somewhere about… there. It was already too close. Whatever the three Alliance vessels were, he had no intention of letting them anywhere near the research facility. He spat out a raft of orders. “Com, signal the rest of the squadron and tell them that we are about to engage. We’ll stay in formation for the time being. Helm, turn us towards the targets and increase speed to point two light. Number One, I want to engage them as far out as possible so tell the engine room to give me everything they’ve got. Tactical, keep a close eye on the targets. Inform me of any changes in speed or heading.” He felt the deck rise slightly as the cruiser banked and turned onto its new course. It was followed by a distant hum as the main engines spooled up, propelling the cruiser towards the outer system.

  “Course locked,” said the helmsman. “Speed increasing through point one light.”

  “Very well,” said the captain. “Sound battle stations.”

  “Time to intercept?” asked Tyrell.

  “Three minutes,” replied Lt. Drummond from the tactical console. “Closing head on. The cruiser is leading with the two frigates slightly behind, port and starboard. The HKs are splitting off to starboard.”

  “Very well. Reduce speed to point one C. Signal Zodiac and Zephyr to form up line abreast. I want to pass directly above the enemy – calibrate the shields accordingly. Target all weapons on the cruiser.”

  “Cruiser and frigates changing course to port.”

  “Match them,” said Tyrell.

  “The HKs are still moving off to starboard. Probably trying to come around on our tail,” said the XO.

  “Forget the HKs. We’ll worry about them later. Time?”

  “One minute.”

  “Fire control systems to auto.”

  The two formations were now closing at forty five degrees to one another and at a relative speed of almost point one light speed, a velocity far in excess of anything that could be registered with purely human senses. They would close, meet and be gone faster than the blink of an eye. The Zenith’s weapons systems were now entirely under the control of the fire control computers. The super-cooled quantum core measured time in nanoseconds, plotting the course and speed of the enemy and initiating the firing sequence – again to the nanosecond.

  Meanwhile, the enemy’s fire control computers were running the exact same calculations. The three Combine ships opened fire simultaneously, concentrating their weapons on the Zodiac, whose shields blossomed and flared as they absorbed a barrage of proton strikes. The assault was over almost as soon as it began as the ships flashed by, but moments later the Zodiac flew into a storm of Gatling rounds fired – ironically enough– several seconds before the proton beams. Shields weakened, the Zodiac’s outer defenses were penetrated in a dozen places and the hardened rounds smashed and hacked their way into its armored hull.

  As the two formations passed, Tyrell had a momentary a sense of anti-climax. He felt the recoil as his own weapons fired in unison, a succession of dull thumps which reverberated through the deck plating. Then he tensed himself for the enemy’s reply. None came.

  “Bring us around after that cruiser,” he snapped.

  “Aye aye, sir,”

  “Message from Zodiac, sir. She’s taken multiple hits along her ventral plane. Shields are down and she there are reports of casualties. Her speed is unaffected but lateral maneuvering thrusters are offline.”

  “Where are those HKs?”

  “Astern of the Zodiac. At present well out of weapons range but gaining.”

  “Tell the Zodiac to increase speed – we’ll form up with her later. Now get me in missile range of that cruiser.”

  As the two remaining Zeds closed obliquely on the Combine ships, Tyrell saw immediately that the cruiser was in trouble. She was venting gas from her port quarter and judging from her acceleration, she had engine damage.

  “Halo projectors fully charged. Banshee launchers loaded and ready,” said the tactical officer.

  “Target the Banshees on the cruiser – Halo batteries on the frigates.”

  “Targets are changing course, Captain. Attempting to cross our bows.”

  They’re too late, thought Tyrell.

  “In range.”

  “Fire.”

  A fusillade of Halo proton beams showered the frigates as a volley of Banshee missiles homed in on the cruiser. The frigates weaved frantically, their shields flaring as they strained to reflect the high energy particles. As they dodged and danced, they returned fire with their own projectors, volleys of Spartax projectiles erupting from their missile tubes.

  Still at full strength, the Zenith’s shields diffused the first salvo of enemy beams, turning them back on themselves and scattering them out into space. Then as the Combine Spartax missiles approached, the Gatekeeper point defense turrets activated, sending out streams of laser guided shells. Glowing against the darkness of space, the high density rounds reached out, searching for the closing missiles. With the briefest of caresses, several incoming warheads were obliterated, blown into thousands of fragments. A single Spartax survived to smash against the Zenith’s forward shields. The destroyer shuddered under the impact, the detonation sending tremors throughout the length and breadth of the hull. The shields buckled momentarily before quickly stabilizing, the shield generators feeding more power to the damaged sections.

  The Callisto finally managed to launch its own missiles just seconds before the first Banshee struck its stern, the anti-ship missile detonating with a flash just below one of the cruiser’s engine nozzles. Another Banshee was intercepted by the Callisto’s defenses before two more missiles hit home, one exploding half-way along its back, the other just abaft of the bridge. The cruiser slewed as a second volley of Banshees fired from the Zodiac smashed into her after section. With her shields penetrated, they were crippling blows. A series of secondary explosions rippled across her rear section, culminating in a blast that tore one of her engines clean from its mounts and spinning off into space. The forlorn cruiser pitched forwards out of control, spewing gas and vapor as she cart-wheeled out of the fight.

  “She’s finished,” said Tyrell. “Leave her and keep after the frigates. Where’s the Zodiac?”

  “Zodiac has increased speed. Her shields are still off-line but she has regained partial maneuvering ability. The HKs have broken off the chase and are now headed this way.”

  The two Combine frigates couldn’t hope to match the firepower of the Zenith and Zephyr but what they did have was an edge in acceleration and agility, an edge that their helmsmen exploited to the full. The frigates retreated in-system, doing so in an orderly if dogged fashion. Meanwhile, the three HKs made a series of slashin
g attacks from abeam. Their lighter weapons had only a limited effect against the Zed’s shields but it forced the two Alliance ships to divide their fire.

  “Have to hand it to the Combine,” said Baxter as one of the HKs limped out of the battle with a damaged engine. “They know how to put up a fight. They’d be better off splitting up and making a run for it. The shields on those frigates must be very close to failing.” As he spoke a shower of sparks erupted from one of the frigate’s hulls.

  Tyrell looked from the screen to the tactical display. The frigates were on borrowed time, but…

  “Bring us about.”

  “Sir?” said the XO.

  “Those frigates aren’t running away – they’re leading us away. They’re leading us in-system. Put us back on course to that research station and signal Zodiac to make for the rendezvous point.”

  “The frigates and HKs are turning to follow,” said the tactical officer as the two Zeds slowed and reversed course.

  “Now why doesn’t that surprise me?” said Tyrell.

  “What on earth do they hope to achieve?” said Baxter. “They must know they’re hopelessly outgunned.”

  “Unless I’m very much mistaken, they’re trying to buy some time for that research station. I guess it must be more valuable than we thought. A brave move… not that it’s going to do them any good.”

  Quicker on the turn, the frigates closed the gap on the Zeds, firing volleys of proton beams as they completed their maneuver. The Zenith’s tactical officer kept a watchful eye on his defense grid. The shields weakened, but held.

  “Course?”

  “They’re right on our tail, sir.”

  “Close enough for Banshees?”

  “Affirmative.”

  “That’s their first mistake… and I won’t give them a chance for a second. Full spread, if you please, Mr. Drummond.”

  Each frigate was targeted with three missiles. All but one hit home. The leading frigate disappeared in a cloud of debris. The other started to spin slowly end over end, her forward section almost completely severed and folded back against her side. The remaining two HKs withdrew.