Star Destroyers

by Tony Daniel

  “Captain, I’m aware of the display. Are there any other updates?”

  “You have all the data available.”

  “Understood. Helm, maintain your control for the present.”

  “Helm retains control, understood, sir.”

  It was embarrassing to be surrounded by what were effectively servants. Still, it was for his benefit as he drove this beast alone.

  He stretched in place and probed at an itch under his shoulder where a fold of uniform had irritated him.

  He recognized the Third Chef in one of the couches for support staff and observers, and said, “Chief Lalonde, I’d like a cocoa, please. Double dark, regular cream, splash of butter and half-sweet. A dark smoke ham roll with smoked gouda and peppered-egg filling.”

  “At once, sir,” Lalonde agreed, and hoisted himself aft.

  He turned to the surgeon, Lieutenant Doctor Morgan.

  “I feel okay, a bit groggy. Is there anything you can give me for focus and attention without affecting my ability to sleep, ma’am?”

  She took his thumb, pressed it against a metabolic probe, then checked the data.

  “I will formulate something,” she agreed.

  “Thank you. Captain, I’m ready to resume.”

  He checked the plots and trajectories, looked at the astro sims for possible corrections. Those were based on the available energy-consumption figures for those ship classes, and Malahayati’s exact figures.

  “Sir, I recommend we continue. I expect they’ll shortly get a firing solution. I want to launch in return, wait for that incoming weapon to get to a precise point, then use that as maneuvering screen. If I time it right, ours will detonate after theirs, and that will be a second screen. Two maneuvers well-hidden in fuzz should dramatically increase our chances with little waste of available bunker.”

  “You’re not going to hit them with it?”

  “I think a near miss is achievable. I expect they’ll simply evade if it gets too close, and we lose any effect. If I can judge when they’ll maximize their evasion, I can detonate just before that.”

  “You’re playing chicken with fusion warheads.”

  “Exactly, sir.”

  “Proceed. Mister Metzger?”

  “Yes, sir?”

  The captain spoke very carefully. “If you believe you have failed and we are pending destruction, please do not make any announcement. It won’t make any difference. We fly until we win or die.”

  Metzger said, “Yes, sir. Though I’m quite sure I have the odds on this one.”

  “Excellent.”

  He’d better stay awake for now. He’d likely need more drugs before this was over.

  Had it been most of a day cycle already?

  Right then, the assigned surgeon returned.

  “Here is your cocktail,” she said.

  “Thank you.” He took it, she gestured, he chugged it.

  It tasted like slightly bitter grape juice. Not bad.

  “I may need to drug heavily in a div or so. To stay conscious.”

  “If you do, I have that standing by.”

  “Thank you.”

  Werner reported, “I believe the new arrival at the jump point is another destroyer. Warren class.”

  “Correction time?” he asked.

  “We are roughly six light-seconds from the point.”

  “Understood.”

  The data showed on his display, as did the lag time. Whatever he saw had happened 5.94 seconds previously. That also would change as vectors closed.

  Well, that limited his maneuver options. He didn’t dare get closer to that ship. That was probably part of their plan. He blacked out an entire chord of possible trajectories.

  Now he had to think about decoying that one, at approximately the same time.

  It wasn’t just the three craft in play. It was the light-speed delay in sensor response, then the much slower craft response. If any of them saw his maneuver, it would be a wasted effort.

  Both trailing craft could be screened if his warhead detonated there, relative. He set that to remain a “fixed” variable, maintaining optimum position.

  He could screen the other one in that fuzzy locus there. He might only achieve a partial obscuration. Damn.

  “Surgeon, I need you to consult with the senior engineer. Specifically, I need to know how many frames aft we need to clear, and what shielding we’ll have, regarding how close I let their incoming warhead approach before I evade. Captain, do I have your permission?”

  She asked, “You are trying to avoid casualties by the narrowest margin?”

  “That is correct. Microseconds and meters may help.”

  Hirsch said, “Please proceed.”

  Morgan nodded to them. “I will find out.”

  “Please hurry, ma’am,” he added as she clattered around the catwalk. “They just launched. Subjective. It’s on the way. Appears to be less than six hundred seconds to impact. Captain, please tell the engineer I need to know our maximum safe energy level on a single maneuver, and our maximum power output. Stress the comparative urgency.”

  Boy, did that sound calm.

  At least it would be over quickly.

  The Captain barked, “Engineer Major Hazey, I need you in this discussion now.”

  Metzger returned to his task. If they’d launched, and he was getting a refinement on the missile because it was under full boost, he needed to drop his . . . then. Unpowered. By not boosting, his would be harder to detect, even if they expected it. That increased his probability. They needed a hit, he only needed a screen.

  Really, at the far end, if he maintained sufficient delta V, or reached clean space seconds ahead of any pursuit, they won. The enemy only won if they hit him.

  A blinking notice showed in his panorama, yellow and coded as Engineering. He opened it.

  It looked as if everyone could move to Frame 70, and he had a shield-rating factor for the best field they could cast astern, plus internal ballast blocking. That allowed him to create a variable depending on the size of the warhead inbound. For output, the note said, “Emergency rating is 130%, but I’m willing to support 135% under the conditions, if it’s under a ten second burn.”

  He had to assume pursuit would want to send the most powerful warhead they could for area effect. They also needed it fast, however. Judging from that motion, he wanted to say it was on the high end of the spectrum. If it was less, he’d be more detectable if it failed to destroy them. If it was more, they were all dead.

  I’m basing it on assumed flight characteristics of a missile we’ve never seen in combat, he thought.

  That was all he had. He should drop the device . . . now. Then a VDAM—Volume Denial Dispersed Mass Weapon. It was only tungsten jacks, but the relative velocity would make those into potentially deadly projectiles. Most likely, the UN shields would block the debris, but the particles might score hits, and they might deny chunks of space to support craft.

  Both were blown out by hyperpressurized nitrogen, and had a gas “jet” for movement. It was little delta V, but it meant they would be harder to trace to source, and slightly closer to pursuit. They’d engage thrust momentarily before impact.

  Captain Hirsch asked, “May I assist in any way?”

  “Not at this moment, sir, though the tube crews should keep the warheads live and be ready to change delivery.”

  “They will.”

  He needed to actively fire at that third picket. It needed to be the dirtiest warhead they had.

  “Can they sheath the next warhead with something to increase the fuzz?” he asked.

  “Stand by,” the captain said and turned to query.

  He said, “Standing by. I will be maneuvering on momentary notice. All crew should be restrained.”

  A few moments later, the captain said, “Munitions says it’s as dirty as it can get. Characteristics on screen.”

  He wasn’t a munitions specialist, and he wasn’t really a sensor expert. He tapped both officers in
to the display.

  “Advise me, please,” he said, and flashed figures.

  Werner said, “You want to keep them behind the sixty-two percent mark of the radius. Assuming their gear is what it was last time we did an exchange.”

  Munitions Officer Hadfield lit into the display and said, “This isn’t dirty in the radiation sense. It’s remarkably clean. The sheathing will create all kinds of high-energy fragments that will be a temporary cloud. You’ll have perhaps point two seconds. After that, we’ll be brighter than it, at that boost.”

  “Thank you. That really doesn’t help my calculations. I’ll be playing by ear.”

  He regretted saying that, especially that way.

  He added, “Your advice is valuable. I’ll do my best with it.”

  He launched the second missile and let it burn for the target. They knew where he was and would expect him to shoot.

  The tumbled warhead astern was still functional, and pursuit seemed to be willing to risk it, or unaware of it. They were at full thrust, possibly six G.

  “Our maneuver is going to be hard, violent, multiaxis, and hot. I’m momentarily going to use all power for thrust and kill everything else.”

  Captain said, “The crew are informed.”

  In the sim, vectors closed. That explosion would hopefully shield that cone, and overlap with that explosion and the other cone.

  He set the system to implement his maneuver on that exact time tick, and stood by to override.

  No, it was going to be right now.

  Astern was a danger-close explosion. Malahayati creaked and popped as the reactor drove at 140 percent. Everything went black as power surged undiminished to the engines. They shifted, heaved, and rolled, G pulling him in three directions at once. The straps cut into him and he bumped his shoulder on the couch frame. Then everything went still as thrust stopped. Lights and enviro came back on.

  They hadn’t blown up, and the enemy hadn’t blown them up.

  “Stand by for round two,” he announced.

  Two more ticks crossed each other, the warheads he’d launched hopefully blinded pursuit, and as the debris clouds cooled, the engines hummed again, at 136 percent of rated capacity. It felt even rougher, with the vectors combining to make it very uncomfortable.

  They were in a slightly longer, but much faster arc for clear space, and down a measurable percentage of their available delta V.

  “Well done, Lieutenant,” the captain said.

  “That’s only the first, sir,” he replied. “My options were limited. Slower or longer trajectories would expose us to more fire, so I had to choose faster and or flatter, and they know it. We’ve gained seconds, possibly Earth-minutes. All three are still in the chase.”

  Ashton watched the displays. A creeping caret represented their missile, seeming to crawl toward the enemy’s probable mark. Only when one realized how many thousands of kilometers each centimeter represented did the speed become apparent.

  Alxi said, “There was possibly a very faint change in motion. It could be jettison of mass for moment gain. Or it might be a launch.”

  “A loiter missile, I assume?”

  She nodded. “It would have to be. There’s nothing showing yet, and an immediate launch would paint them.”

  “Understood,” he said.

  The other ships would have firing solutions, soon. One of them was bound to score a damaging shot eventually.

  It was a pointless war, with the numbers the way they were. Grainne couldn’t win. As brave as this attack was, it was worthless, suicidal, and only serving to piss more people off.

  “Sir, our missile has positive lock.”

  “Good! Let’s see what we’re about to kill.”

  Data came back. Yes, Admiral class. Malahayati. The fact it was named after a famous Earth commander just made their claims of being independent even more ridiculous. Trajectory, thrust, likely fuel load available. Now the track matched very closely to what they had from the attack. And damn, she was burning. How did they get to .049 c and still have maneuvering margin?

  The missile finished and detonated. There was a ripple of approval among the crew.

  Shortly, the combined sensors should tell them what, if any, damage had been done.

  Alxi said, “Sir, we have vector on incoming threat. I think—”

  A massive explosion showed in the display, on the view screen and on sensors. Laconia trembled from the wave front against her shields, and several loud bangs echoed and clattered.

  Someone said, “Son of a bitch, the fuckers hit us.”

  Chief Engineer Basco said, “Damage report: shield containment needs flushed. Minor rad damage in forward sections, including Control. Outer hull breaches, count three, contained. Minor damage to drive antenna two. We’ve lost about point two G of boost capability.”

  That was an amazing shot. On the other hand, the UN ships weren’t playing hard to see so were easy targets. The damage, though, would slow Laconia. Quito would have to take lead.

  “Status on the enemy?”

  “Unknown, sir. We’ve lost them. They apparently maneuvered after either or both detonations.”

  That bastard.

  “Someone else should have data,” he demanded.

  “Sir, Quito was in our thrust shadow, and Mirabelle also took fire, though only close enough to act as a screen.”

  “That devious bastard,” Ashton said in respect.

  He addressed his staff. “Make your best guess on cones of potential and I’ll do the same. We’ll compare. Start scanning immediately. They may be damaged, too.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Metzger studied the available sensor information. Light-seconds mattered.

  “Bogey One is down slightly but measurably in acceleration. I think we hurt them with something.”

  Engineering reported by audio and display to him and the captain.

  “C-Deck, I cannot authorize any more boosts over one hundred thirty percent. I was serious on my limits, and we’ve strained containment. You’ll have to expect that to drop on future high-energy burns, too. I’d say I’m not happy, except I want us to win. We have to be alive to do that, though.”

  “Understood, thank you, sir,” he replied. Yes, it had been a risk. They’d needed everything they could get.

  Gods, he was tired. His eyes were getting gritty, and his guts sour.

  “I need something mild to eat.”

  “Banana?”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  He took a moment to color code all his envelopes to make it easier to grasp them at a glance. If . . . once . . . they got to green zones in those fascinating shapes, they’d be safe from intercept. They had the velocity advantage. Earth had three ships and less need to save power. They could call for refuel. Though much farther and they couldn’t. They were reaching their own recovery envelope.

  Worst case, we might take three more ships with us, the hard way.

  They were incrementing toward green on Bogey One. It was going to get passed by Two shortly. If the UNPF was smart, it would stay in the race as recon, and he’d still have to deal with it.

  He had three warheads, and three pursuers. He could drop five more VDAMs, and it was possible that had been what damaged Bogey One, though it could have been the warhead or even internal overload from the pursuit.

  Someone handed him a banana. He ate it in three bites, then sipped cold tea.

  Captain Hirsch said, “I would like to suggest you consider if further damage to Bogey One will cause Two to stop to rescue, and take both of them out of the running. Do you have anything against that?”

  The captain was politely saying he was about to give an order.

  Think. Think.

  “Sir, unless we are able to damage life support or structural integrity, they can batten down on minimum and wait for rescue. I don’t think we can reliably plan to effect that.”

  “You are correct. If that becomes a viable option, do take it.”

  He sa
id, “Sir, I intend to cause as much damage as possible as we depart.”

  Hirsch replied, “And if we don’t, I will cause them even more.”

  “I understand, sir.”

  Really, capture would probably be worse than death. Out here, very few civilian craft would detect anything. The UN could claim destruction for both PR purposes and cover, then do whatever it took to get intel out of every member of the crew, probably starting at the bottom. After that, space was an unfillable graveyard.

  He asked, “Munitions, what effect would a VDAM have if detonated fractionally before and next to a warhead?”

  Lieutenant Hadfield asked, “Are you trying for more ionization fuzz?”

  “I am.”

  “It’s not efficient, but it will work. You will get some congealed particles afterward, as well, but they will only be fractionally efficient for impact kills.”

  “Please configure the remaining warheads for that. That leaves us two more VDAMs I can use to jack off.” The tungsten pellets were tetrahedrons, not quite jack shaped, but the joke was obvious and common.

  “Now I am hungry,” he suddenly realized.

  Lalonde asked, “What do you need, sir?”

  “I know it’s off schedule, but any chance of that pot roast soup from last week?”

  “I think I can have something in a few segs.”

  “Please.”

  At least he’d eat well as a condemned man.

  Bogey One was going to drop out and be only a recon source. There was no reason for them to play a game, and they were farther back in the engagement envelope. Bogey Two was continuing to advance, and would eventually move out of envelope, if they didn’t detect Malahayati. So far, so good.

  Bogey Three’s course was going to bring them a lot closer before receding. It was unlikely they’d avoid detection, even with the oblique, almost skew trajectories.

  He ran sims on when that detection might happen, and what Two could do in response. Would it be best to maneuver again the moment they were seen? Or use incoming fire as another distraction?

  He realized Lalonde had a bag of stew at his shoulder, and mumbled “Thanks.” He squeezed out a mouthful and resumed figuring.