Conqueror

by Richard Tongue

  “I hope you’re right. Ariadne out.”

  Taking a deep breath, Winter threw a switch to isolate himself from the rest of the communications network, then slid a disc into the system, loud music blaring from the speakers, a wild rhythm pounding away as he watched the sensor display, firing him for the battle that was to come. An old trick the veterans who had instructed him had taught him during his first years in uniform, two decades ago, sending fire through his blood and rousing him for battle. The waiting was always the hardest part, knowing that battle was imminent, but that there was nothing you could do but wait for it to come. The automatic systems were doing the work to prepare the fighter for battle, redirecting the power flow, running precautionary diagnostics on the cannons, the missiles.

  The enemy had to take the bait. If they didn’t, it would be even worse than he had feared. Even at the height of its power, old Earth had only possessed a dozen Conquerors, each the flagship of a fleet. As far as he knew, all of them had been accounted for during the Civil War that had ended Terran domination of the galaxy, most of their commanders using them as the nucleus of breakaway fleets, the stories of how they were finally destroyed already almost a legend, less than a century later.

  As the music built to a crescendo, he saw a flashing light on the sensor display, and felt both relief and despair rushing through him at the sight. Half of the fighters had pulled back to protect their carrier, the others continuing on to make what appeared to be a fast firing run at Ariadne, the rest coming around to intercept his formation once it completed its attack run. Evidently the enemy commander, whoever he was, was confident that he could live through the first round of the battle, but was hedging his bets. A reasonable presumption, in the circumstances. He turned off the music, reactivating his communicator, the notification of an incoming call flickering across his heads-up display.

  “Flight Ops to Black Leader,” a voice barked. “We’ve got some new information for you.”

  “Five minutes to contact, Ops, so make it quick. Who is this, anyway?”

  The voice changed, and his daughter said, “It’s me, Dad, in Ariadne.” She paused for a second, then said, “We think there might be a second base on the far side of Taranis. The ship that destroyed Hercules Station was there less than twenty-four hours ago, and there’s got to be some sort of connection. If we’re right, then you’re wide open for an attack on your current vector.”

  “Any sensor data to corroborate that?”

  “Not a thing, but we don’t have any data at all. The base they visited was abandoned ten years ago, at one point was a servicing station for shuttlecraft, before they moved all of the traffic up to Mitchell Station. Records suggest that a lot of equipment was mothballed. We request that you get a good look at that section of the surface at closest approach, and suggest that you watch for potential attack on that approach vector.”

  “Good work, Cadet, will do.” He paused, and added, “Watch yourself, kiddo.”

  “You too, Dad. Good hunting. Out.”

  A smile crossed his lips, broken by a frown as he looked at the data streaming onto his tactical display. There was nothing they could do to mitigate the danger they were in, no way that they could alter course in time for it to do any good. Even if they did, they’d be giving the enemy a choice to either shoot down the fighters without any serious opposition or resume their original course to wipe out Ariadne.

  He looked across at his trajectory plot, frowning at the display. The enemy ship could have launched that attack already, could have pressed on regardless of the fighters. Instead, they were curving back around, settling into orbit, almost as though they were inviting an attack upon themselves, luring the fighters into battle. Shaking his head, he looked at the readings coming in from his first scans of the surface, but there was nothing out of the ordinary, no sign of an ambush or a threat.

  “Black Leader to all fighters,” he said. “Potential enemy contacts on the far side of the moon. Watch for attacks on that vector. Don’t wait around after completing your firing pass. Once you’ve launched your missiles, go full-burn on your engines and get the hell out of here. You’ll have done your job when that is done. As soon as you get back to Mitchell Station, refuel and rearm. With a little luck we’ll have a better idea of the battle shortly.”

  “Red Leader to Black Leader. Request permission to alter approach vector. I think I can lure some of the fighters towards me if I swing a little closer to the moon. It’ll ruin my shot on the cruiser, but I doubt there’s much our missiles can do against that damn thing anyway.”

  Winter looked at the trajectory plot, throwing a projection of her suggested course onto the display. It had a chance of working, might keep the enemy fighters off their backs, but the odds of her surviving the battle were minimal.

  There wasn’t a choice, though. They weren’t out here to play the safe game.

  “Black Leader to Red Leader. Course change approved. Watch your back. Red Two, form up with Gold Leader.”

  “Red Two replying, will comply,” a nervous voice replied. “I’m getting good data from the cruiser.”

  “Missiles will target their engines, pulsars will go for any targets of opportunity, but make sure you save plenty of energy for the return. We might have to fight our way home yet.” He paused, then added, “Contact in two minutes. Weapons free. Repeat, weapons free. Give them hell. Out.”

  He looked to the right, the tactical computer streaming constantly updated information, matching it with the old records from the files. Caledonia was blessed to have far more knowledge of these vessels than most, had sufficient information to theoretically build one if it ever could have mustered the shipbuilding capacity, if its government had been willing to inject that much of the planet’s wealth into its military.

  Ninety seconds to contact. It would all be over quickly. They’d have little time in the firing line, their relative velocity high enough that even the deadly warship they were facing would struggle to bring its armament to bear in the time. He stabbed a button to confirm his missile firing time, keeping manual control of the pulsar cannons, trusting in his own instincts to find the best possible targets. Again, though, Haynes had a point. There were missiles that might penetrate the armor of a Conqueror, but they weren’t standard issue, weren’t in the inventory for normal missions. The warheads they had might do surface damage, but nothing more than that.

  Of course, the enemy commander had no way of knowing that. At long range, all the missiles they had looked similar enough to fool a tactical officer, were designed specifically to allow for the use of deception in fighter attacks. That policy was paying dividends today, the enemy ship turning to face their attack, more focused on evasion than countering their strike. He reached for his controls, ready to engage the manual override if necessary, and fired, his fighter rocking back for a second as the missiles raced free, Dubois firing at the same instant, four missiles diving together towards their target. He pulled away, throwing his fighter into a series of wild evasive maneuvers as the enemy particle cannons opened up, trying for an easy shot.

  He spotted a good target of his own, a sensor relay protruding from the hull, and pivoted around on his thrusters to fire a quick burst of pulsar fire at the enemy, rewarded with a quick burst of flame as he found his mark, taking first blood. As he and Dubois sped past, the cruiser’s batteries focused on the incoming missiles, knocking out two of them but leaving the others to find their target, hammering into the side of the ship. For a second, he permitted himself a smile, but it rapidly faded away as he realized that the missiles had failed to penetrate the armor, just as he’d feared. The damage was minor at best, but if the second wave of fighters could press their own attack, there might yet be a chance of doing some serious damage, perhaps enough to bring this battle to an end.

  Below, down towards the surface of the moon, Haynes was ducking and weaving with expert precision, breaking up the enemy fighter screen, buying them additional time to make their esca
pe. He nodded with approval at her evident skill, but somehow, he had the sense that the enemy fighters were holding back, that for some reason they were choosing not to fully press their attack. As he watched, Haynes obviously had the same thought, and opted to press her luck, firing a series of quick pulses from her thrusters to send her closer to the enemy, her pulsars bursting into life, hammering pulses of plasma energy at the Hawks. A burst of flame filled the sky as the nearest detonated, caught by a lucky shot.

  “One down!” Haynes yelled. “We’re on the scoreboard!”

  “Nice shooting, Red Leader, but watch yourself on the climb out,” Winter replied, a smile on his face.

  “Gold Leader here,” Baxter said. “Ready to fire our salvo. We’re going to target the impact area from that first strike. I guess they might try to shoot them down, but it’s our best chance to hurt the bastard.” Winter glanced at his rear sensors, watching as the three Scimitar fighters nimbly moved into place, ready to unleash their missiles on the enemy. The moment of launch came, and at the same instant, all three fighters exploded, each at the same time, the warheads detonating prior to launch.

  “Red Leader! Jettison your missiles now, without arming them! Get them clear of your ship right away!”

  “Way ahead of you,” Haynes replied. “They’re already free. What the hell happened?”

  “I don’t know,” Winter said, cursing under his breath. “Though I do know that bastard knew it was going to happen. You’ve got a traitor on Ariadne. That couldn’t have been done remotely. Someone sabotaged your ordnance before launch.” He looked at his sensors, the surviving enemy fighters moving into formation with the cruiser, holding their position in orbit, then tapped a control. “Black Leader to Ariadne Actual. Black Leader to Ariadne Actual. Reply at once. Reply at once.”

  “Red Leader to Ariadne Actual,” Haynes said. “Reply at once. Urgent.”

  “I can’t get through either,” Dubois said. “Jack, if they’ve got a traitor on board…”

  “Then they’re in real trouble, and there’s nothing we can do about it.” Haynes paused, then said, “Full burn for home. They might not be the only ones to be infected. We’ve got to warn the fleet as fast as we can.”

  “Agreed. We couldn’t possibly reach them in time. We burned too hot to get out here this fast,” Dubois said. “We refuel, rearm, and we pray.”

  Throwing all the power he could gather to his communicator, Winter said, “Black Leader to Ariadne. Reply at once. Reply at once, damn it!”

  “Jack, you’re going to burn out your transmitter if you’re not careful,” Dubois warned.

  “What the hell does that matter?” Winter said. “My daughter’s on that ship, damn it.”

  “Along with a hundred and nine other people, all of whom will be just as dead if we can’t warn them in time,” Dubois said. “Putting your own neck in a noose isn’t going to help her.”

  Winter sighed, switched frequencies, and said, “Randy, can you hear me, or is this deafness catching?”

  “I’ve got you loud and clear, Jack, but I’ve had no more luck getting through than you have. If they’ve got a saboteur on board, he’s probably jamming our signals.”

  “Never mind that now. Forget about it. I want the fastest shuttle on the station prepped and ready for takeoff the second I get on board. I want to climb out of my cockpit and into that shuttle.” Looking up at the trajectory display, he added, “That’s in twelve minutes from now.”

  “Can do, Jack, but we don’t have any fighters for escort duty, and it’ll take at least half an hour…”

  “There won’t be an escort. I’m not waiting for one. If I can’t call Ariadne over the commlink then I will damn well deliver the message in person!”

  Chapter 8

  “I still can’t raise the fighters,” Gordon said, shaking his head. Sokolov looked over his shoulder, turned to Bishop and nodded in confirmation before returning to the console. In the distance, sirens wailed, the crew racing to their battle stations to ward off the approaching enemy ships, six Hawk fighter-bombers that could wreak serious damage on the corvette. Commander Murphy had turned away when it became clear that her sole surviving fighter wouldn’t be returning, was putting on all the acceleration she could, but the laws of celestial mechanics were merciless. Within the next fifteen minutes, the Hawks would be pressing their attack, and there was nothing they could do to stop them.

  Shaking her head, Bishop said, “There’s not much more we can do down here. We don’t have any fighters to monitor, and the bridge isn’t having any more luck than we are contacting the fighters.” She frowned, then added, “There must be some sort of jamming going on out there, though I can’t imagine what sort it could be. It shouldn’t be possible for anyone to interfere remotely with our systems like that.”

  “There’s another possibility,” Vasquez replied. “Though I really, really don’t like it. We might have a saboteur on board. We know that there are infiltrators out there somewhere. Hercules Station is proof enough of that.”

  “True, but that was a civilian ship,” Sokolov protested. “They don’t have anything like the security that a Patrol warship has, Jan, and you know it. The chances of anyone even getting on board, still less being able to interfere with critical systems like communications…”

  “Are low, but perhaps not low enough that we can discount them completely,” Bishop said. “It would explain everything rather neatly, wouldn’t it, and that might also explain just how the enemy have managed to react to our plans so well.” She called up a deckplan, stabbing a finger at a space below decks, and added, “That’s the critical point. The data conduit that feeds through to both here and the bridge. The secondary systems don’t handle anything like the same load. We can’t manage with the backups in battle, not with the extra demands on the point-defense systems.”

  “Ma’am, it sounds like that would be a pretty damn good place to strike,” Bradley replied.

  “My thoughts exactly.” Throwing a control, she said, “Astrogation to Engineering. Mike, are you down there?”

  “I’m on the line, Teri. What’s up?”

  “Who have you got in the sensor crawlways at the moment? Which damage control team?”

  “Number Four. That’s Walter and Frank. Is something wrong?”

  “I need you to warn them that there might be someone playing games with the data network in that area. We’re having a problem with long-range communications, and that’s the weakest link in the system I can think of.”

  “Christ, you’re not kidding. Wait one, I’ll link them in.” The engineer threw a switch, then said, “They’re not answering. I can’t get a signal from them, and their telemetry stopped fifteen minutes ago. The next question is why every damn security alarm on the deck didn’t go off when they went dark.” He paused, then said, “I still can’t raise them, and according to the docket, they were working on the internal sensors down there. We’re blind in that region. The only thing is that I don’t remember assigning that, and neither does my deputy.”

  “We’re closest,” Bishop said. “We’re on our way. We’ll need another damage control team on standby…”

  “To hell with that, Teri, I’m coming down myself. Weber out.”

  Bishop raced to the far wall, hastily entering a security code to reveal a concealed compartment, a dozen sonic pistols in charging stations within. She snatched one out, then tossed another to Sokolov, before turning to Bradley and Gordon.

  “I don’t know how much they give you in early-stage training these days, but I guess there’s only so much damage you can do with a sonic weapon. Have you been checked out on a firing range?”

  “We came joint top,” Gordon said. “Not with these weapons, though.”

  “Old-fashioned point-and-click,” Sokolov said with a smile, sliding the pistol into its holster. Just aim and fire. There’s not that much damage you can do with one of these babies unless you hit some sensitive equipment. You’re not going to have to
worry about recharge or anything like that for this party.” Looking at Bishop, he added, “You ready?”

  “Cadets,” Bishop said, “I’m going to make this one strictly volunteer. I can certainly use anyone I can get down there, but under the circumstances I don’t think it would be fair or reasonable to order you to come along. My guess is we’ve already lost two people with close-quarter weapons training and twenty-five years of experience between them. There’s no need for you to get onto the firing line, and I’m sure that Doctor Farrell will be able to use you in Sickbay.”

  “I’m in, ma’am. I’d rather be doing something better than hanging around with the medics when those fighters start their attack run,” Bradley said, turning to Gordon. “You coming?”

  Gordon looked at the charts, then said, “I…”

  “Come on, Flash,” Solokov said. “Tough guy like you isn’t going to sit out a battle, is he?”

  “Don’t push him, Pete, he’s no more scared than you were on your first flight. I was there, remember. It took the maintenance techs hours to clean up the mess,” Vasquez countered with a smile. “Report to Sickbay, Cadet. That’s an order. You understand?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Gordon said, with a relived smile. “Thank you, ma’am.” The group walked out into the corridor, Gordon heading towards the elevator, the others heading for the nearest inspection hatch. Bishop tugged it free and snatched a flashlight hanging on the far side, snapping it on with the touch of a button and shining it down into the darkness below. She swung down onto the ladder, scrambling down as fast as she could, the others following behind her, Bradley at the rear. Before she followed the others, Bradley glanced back at Gordon, loitering by the elevator as though weighing whether to follow them or not, before the doors opened to make his decision for him.