by P. R. Adams
Schwab—the older commander captaining the Raven—was a competent and reliable if unimaginative officer. If the task force proved to actually be their secondary target, the Raven and its support ships would be in range soon. The bombardment and purge of the Kedraalian threat could quite possibly begin ahead of schedule.
Green light flashed on the command console: connection!
“Captain Morganson?” Deep wrinkles rippled on Schwab’s ugly face as he frowned. “This does not seem to be the secure connection.”
“There is no need for such nonsense!”
“Yes, as you say, Captain. Although we are approaching optimum firing position on our targets.”
“And it is the Valor?”
“Unfortunately, no. These are smaller ships. They continue on a course as if they could detect our fleet.”
“Which is impossible.”
“As you say, Captain. But perhaps they are aware of the general location and seek to attempt some sort of desperate gambit.”
“Everything the Kedraalians do going forward will be desperate.”
Schwab nodded. “Based on the scans we could manage, these would seem to be older ships. It is entirely possible they pose no threat at all.”
“Good. Proceed with haste. Rejoin us for the mop-up operations.”
“This should not take long.”
Morganson closed the connection. There was so much joy building within him. What lay ahead now? Dispatching the fleet that had already stopped firing pointlessly. Doing the same to this unexpected task force. Bombing the home world.
Then hunting down the Valor. It might still be in the shipyard, or it might be on the prowl. He hoped it hadn’t fled.
It couldn’t. Not with Kedraal threatened.
Unless the intelligence they received was false. That was possible with any intelligence, but in this case it seemed even more likely.
No. He had already nearly completed their main objective. He would have the entire mission complete before retiring to bed. And in a few weeks, he would return to Himmel to accept the Order of the Iron Cross, the only decoration sufficient for the son who finally brought his father the most coveted gift of all: the destruction of Kedraal.
It was a hero’s reward. An acknowledgement of greatness.
There would be jealousy. When one was a brilliant star in the firmament, the greatest danger was in shining too bright. Everyone sought the eye of the Supreme Leader.
“Captain?” The voice caught Morganson’s attention. It was the youthful and impressive weapons officer. Tall, erect, with a high brow and clever, bright eyes. Ostmann. Ensign Ostmann.
Impressive for a human. He could be one of the Children. “Yes?”
“Three enemy ships appear to have maneuvering capabilities. They’re accelerating, using the Galvan as a shield.”
“Using the flagship as a shield?”
“It appears so, Captain.”
“To leave the battle?”
“It is possible. They could also be attempting to draw fire.”
“Condition of those ships?”
“We are limited by the scans unless we reduce the power allocated to the stealth—”
“An educated guess, please, Ensign Ostmann.”
“The Galvan seems to have suffered the worst of them, sir.”
Good. Morganson had wanted to take the flagship down at the start, but it was one of the few ships to actually have shields fully up when the attack started. He had been forced to spread the attack out rather than hammering the flagship’s shields and armor as he would have preferred. Destroying such an important ship carried so much significance. Morale would suffer. Mistakes would be made.
He clapped his hands together. “Contact the rest of the fleet. All weapons are to be focused on the Galvan. And when it fails, eliminate the rest of those maneuvering ships.”
The stoop-shouldered helmsman turned slightly and arched an eyebrow but quickly turned back to his station. He apparently was close to the communications officer, who stood to the helmsman’s left, also surprised. Another ensign, another older man with nothing to show for years of service. What had their records indicated? Twenty-eight years of service, more than half that time spent in Moskav space.
No decorations.
No commendations.
They were the leeches that bled the great Azoren power dry rather than pushing it to the heights it deserved. And this communications officer—bald, chubby, short—perfectly exemplified the failed humans who would be displaced in the next twenty years.
For now, though, Morganson and his brothers must deal with the relics.
The captain’s nose twitched. He sniffled. “You have a question, Ensign?”
“Not a question, Captain.”
“It is on your pudgy face—confusion, a challenge.”
“I am sorry, Captain. It is only that we have the rest of the fleet close to collapse.”
“And we will finish them once we are done with their flagship.”
“Yes, Captain Morganson.”
“Crush the spirit, you leave behind only the lifeless husk. They will collapse quickly afterwards.” The same as you would without me to lead you.
The chubby man bowed, then turned back to his station.
At least he understood his place in the hierarchy.
On the giant display that occupied the center of the forward section of the bridge, the four Kedraalian ships slowly managed to accelerate. Debris trailed behind the largest one—the Galvan. Sections had been blasted free, and now they were being left behind, bouncing off the hull, floating through space, spinning away.
The fat communications officer turned, sweat glistening on top of his red crown. “All ships report ready to fire, Captain. Should I contact the Thunor?”
“Commander Schwab already has orders.”
“Yes, I understand. My apologies, Captain.”
“Have the fleet proceed. I want to see the Galvan destroyed spectacularly.”
Ensign Ostmann was the first to react. “Numerous hits on the Galvan, Captain! Sensors indicate the shields are failing.”
Morganson clasped his hands behind his back and let out a satisfied sigh. “They will buckle soon.”
“Shield down! Multiple shields down.”
The armor would be next. A ship as old as the Galvan, it would actually have more armor than shields. Even when power or shield systems failed, armor remained.
That was old thinking. Human thinking. It assumed failure.
Better to assume success. You build more shield systems in the ship. You give the reactors enough capacity to power up the shield arrays and the secondary shield arrays. You train with an eye toward evasion. Your maintenance teams know your systems well enough to finish repairs in a narrow window.
A ship like the Spear, with its focus on offensive capabilities and the shadow tech his people were figuring out, it represented the future. Sneak in close on an unsuspecting group of ships, and they were crippled before they could react.
Everything came down to the captain. If he relied upon the shadow technology to close, the ship’s power went there. Lengthy engagements? Shields.
It was exactly what a capable captain would want.
And the enemy? Morganson wondered what fear must be doing to them. They had to know someone was out there, even when sensors said otherwise. Weapons fire was obliterating their ships. To know the enemy is there, unseen, striking without fear of retaliation, wreaking havoc…
Powerless. That would be the sensation. Horrifying powerlessness.
A choked laugh escaped Ostmann’s throat. “More hits, Captain!”
On the screen, explosions ruptured sections of the Galvan’s hull. The big ship was blackened, its hull pockmarked and shredded. Energy beams occasionally managed lock-on long enough to register as sparkles the mind interpreted microseconds after the eyes perceived.
Fire erupted from amidship, then more fires rolled down the length of the big Kedraalian cruise
r.
Ostmann clenched his fist. His handsome face twisted in an almost rapturous ecstasy. “Strikes on the bridge, reactors, and crew compartments!”
As soon as one fire died, another burst from the hull.
“Munitions, Captain!”
Powerless. “Status, Ensign?”
“No longer a threat, Captain. No Fold Space capability. No apparent propulsion. Weapons systems, shields—whatever crew remains, they must focus on repairing power just to stay alive.”
How many hundreds were already dead? “And the three ships maneuvering?”
“They continue to accelerate, sir.”
“Any indication they have Fold Space capability?”
The ensign leaned in to whisper with the helmsman, then turned back to the captain. “Unlikely, sir.”
“Leave them, then.”
“Leave them, sir?”
“That is what I said, isn’t it?”
“Y-yes, Captain.”
“Commander Schwab can pursue them after he destroys this other task force.”
That brought a smile back to the young weapons officer’s face. “Hail the Supreme Leader!”
“Yes. Hail the Supreme Leader. Now, please, if you would return us to the rest of the fleet so that we can conclude our mission?”
The stoop-shouldered helmsman grunted, then g-forces tugged at Morganson as the maneuvering thrusters fired.
He connected to Schwab to explain the change—
Red. The command console blinked red. Failure.
“Have we maneuvered out of range of our direct connections to the Thunor?”
“Sir?” The chubby communications officer spun around.
“I had a connection with the Thunor before we pursued the Galvan. I can’t raise Commander Schwab now.”
Beet-faced, the bald-headed man bent over his section of the console. “All communications are functional, Captain. All ships are within range. There is a small—”
Ostmann went rigid. “Captain! Damage reports!”
It took a second for Morganson to make sense of that. “Damage reports? We haven’t been fired upon!”
“From Commander Schwab, sir. His force—significant damage to the Roma and Montblanc. The Gotthard is…gone.”
“Gone?” That made no sense at all. “I want a connection to the commander.”
The communications officer nodded frantically. “Over auxiliary, sir!”
Schwab’s voice was a strange, droning tone that bounced and pinged and spun before the commander became even a little intelligible. “—tack—ailing—ard—blanc—actor.”
It was a string of choppy sounds followed by a faint hiss, then a pop.
“Oh.” Ostmann’s eyes were focused on the deck, but his lips were curled into a strange circle, and his brow was creased. “Their shields. They’re being struck with minimal shields, Captain. Their armor—the enemy is striking in concert. It looks like very tight strikes. Very accurate strikes, sir!”
Morganson clasped his fingers behind his back and squeezed. What was being described wasn’t even possible. “The damage reports are broken.”
“The data is consistent—”
“Those ships have broken into our computers. This is false data.”
“No, Captain. Just now, the Thunor was struck and lost a backup reactor.”
“Have the Friedrich and the Gessner swing about to support immediately!”
Sweat trickled down the communications officer’s cheek. “Yes, Captain.”
Two of his best-armored ships. They were meant more for rearguard action than assault, but they were all Morganson could spare. And their armor seemed most appropriate considering what Ostmann was describing.
False data. It had to be.
Tightly concentrated attacks. Accurate hits. How? The Azoren shadow technology was the most advanced in the galaxy. Intelligence confirmed that.
Yet something had happened to Schwab’s group.
There was no more time to waste trying to make sense of it. As captain, Morganson’s obligations were clear, and at this stage, getting Schwab’s ships back was the highest priority.
Morganson exhaled. “Have Commander Schwab return to the fleet. Inform him that he’s to let the Friedrich and Gessner finish off these troublesome ships.”
“I—” It sounded as if the communications officer were choking. “I-I can’t raise them, sir.”
“Can’t raise…”
Fire bubbled up in the captain’s gut. What could possibly have happened to cause communications damage sufficient to prevent all seven ships from responding? The Thunor alone was a destroyer. Its systems were somewhat hardened, surely enough to survive a few lucky shots.
He tapped the toes of his shoes. “How long before the Friedrich and Gessner are within range?”
That brought Ostmann around, frantically shaking his head. “Not too long, Captain. The other ships continue to close.”
“Close? On two destroyers?”
“On us, Captain.”
Madness. Whoever was in command of this Kedraalian task force was suicidal! Even if Schwab’s ships were unavailable for a little bit while they effected repairs, the rest of his fleet was untouched. A handful of ships—
Suicide.
Well, if the enemy captain wanted to test Morganson’s fleet, he would gladly oblige. “Bring everything around. We’ll follow the Friedrich and Gessner in and show this captain the cost of foolishness.”
Now it was the stoop-shouldered helmsman who turned. His yellow teeth were exposed in a grimace. “Should we redirect power to the shields, Captain?”
Stale air. Lights already dimmed. “No. Giving away our position and numbers would be too risky. Give me top acceleration, but top acceleration at our current power.”
“Yes, Captain.”
Once again, they maneuvered, and Morganson had to lean against the command station railing for support. He couldn’t transfer more power from the shadow tech systems to the engines, because the defending fleet was still intact enough to be a threat. And if he took anything out of the shadow tech to power more for the shields, it would be the same problem: They would be vulnerable.
Something about this task force and how it was operating seemed…wrong. It was as if someone had leaked information. That would be the only way a Kedraalian officer would have any chance of understanding advanced Azoren tactics.
He would know soon enough, when the enemy reacted to attack from a fully operational cruiser.
And once the engagement was done, he would show this other captain no mercy.
9
It was like watching fireworks. Benson would order Ensign Chao to shift targets; the ancient ships of her task force would fire in concert using the Pandora’s advanced sensor array; most of the weapons would make a connection.
And the target would erupt in brilliant fire.
Impossible.
It was all she could tell herself. She could feel it in the way the helm crew’s eyes didn’t move from the huge display showing a simulation of the engagement and in the absolute quiet that had settled over the bridge.
Because it shouldn’t have been happening.
Everyone had understood with the first few volleys that it was very likely the enemy would retaliate quickly, and that the Clarion was likely to be decimated. And the other Kedraalian ships weren’t likely to last long, either, not with their older systems and the damage they’d suffered over Jotun. Evasive maneuvers would only buy them time, not give them a chance at victory.
Yet…
What had they done? Something improbable had happened. With each volley, shields collapsed with alarming ease, armored hulls were ruptured, and atmosphere vented in a fiery display once exposed to the heat of the energy weapons.
Had the leading frigate been something analogous to the Pandora—a signals ship or the home to a powerful weapons control system?
Something had given Benson’s ships a significant advantage.
They we
re operating on automatic for the most part. Chao had everything queued up in the weapons control system. All ships were cooperating, following orders. The Pandora systems tracked enemy and friendly ships and worked out the details and timing of the attacks, and when the time came, all of Benson’s ships blasted away with everything they had.
But enemy ships should have had deflector shields. When those fell, there should have been secondary shields. And then there should have been armor for when those shields failed. And the captains should have been accelerating away—evading, maneuvering.
Where were the electronic countermeasures?
Was everything tied up in the stealth technology? Was that it? One trick, and even a partial solution would render the ships useless?
Nausea twisted Benson’s gut. It was like murder. Cold-blooded killing. The other ships were firing back, but they weren’t coordinating. And they weren’t doing a good job tracking. Each of her ships registered hits, but never enough to drop a shield.
And on the Clarion screen, the other ships just…exploded.
Someone had a plan, and it was seriously flawed.
She grabbed the ring covering the command station rails for support as thrusters began a micro-adjustment. It didn’t even seem like a necessary precaution. Only the enemy destroyer was still a threat, and the two volleys Chao had directed against it had been frighteningly effective.
Seven enemy ships, and if the tactics she’d seen so far were an indication of what they were capable of, she could eliminate them in a few more minutes.
Chao backed from the shared helm console. He licked his lips.
She’d seen the look from him before: concern. “Problems, Ensign Chao?”
“Pandora reports two more ships have peeled off from the enemy fleet. Destroyers. Headed for us.”
That put the numbers into unworkable range. “How long before they’re at extreme range?”
“A couple minutes for the Istanbul. A few for the rest of the task force.”
“Lieutenant Ferrara, can we safely adjust Istanbul’s evasive maneuvers?”
The sickly officer set a hand on the console for support as he turned. “The Home Defense Fleet isn’t firing, Commander. No concerns about friendly fire.”