by Eric Thomson
“And you think we’ve improved since then?” When she opened her mouth to reply, he added, “Never mind. Rhetorical question.”
“I’ll answer it anyway. Leaving the claustrophobic confines of a single planet and settling on new worlds definitely changed us as a species. I can see it by comparing the zeitgeist evident in pre-diaspora literature compared with more recent writings. Whether we’ve improved?” She shrugged. “I’ll let future historians decide. We’re different from our ancestors, but different doesn’t mean better. In any case, can you pull up the Shrehari Prime analysis?”
Ninety minutes and three coffee refills later, Dunmoore stood, stretched, and wandered around the table to loosen tense muscles.
“We won’t be getting through all the data tonight, that’s for sure. I haven’t done this sort of work since I was a lieutenant and I’ll confess it’s a tad tiring.”
“That’s why people who wear stars on their collars surround themselves with dedicated helpers — so they don’t suffer from information overload.”
“True, but we lowly commodores don’t rate much, especially those of us who are acting, while so employed, and living in a Q-ship’s guest quarters. You will, however, be glad to know I’m not taking the task force anywhere near Shrehari Prime.”
“On behalf of my fellow captains, I wholeheartedly approve. Those orbital stations are seriously big and will carry guns capable of turning the Furious Faerie into the Wrecked Fae. And we probably haven’t seen their smaller, automated defense platforms yet. But the intelligence folks back home will love us for this data. I do wonder what they’re doing on the moons, though. We never built such large surface structures on natural satellites in our space.”
“Maybe the Shrehari don’t find it necessary to burrow.”
“Could be. If they can put up enough shielding against radiation and deflect asteroids with perfect results every time and at low cost, why dig in? The analysts back home can ponder that one at leisure. In any case, we can rule Shrehari Prime out as a suitable target. What now?”
“Shrehari Minor. The next planet out. The AI calls it habitable but cold. Mostly iced over.”
They studied the data in silence for over an hour.
“Could be more promising for a show of force since it apparently lacks Shrehari Prime’s massive orbital installations.”
“And do what? Burn a few holes in the icecaps? Sure, there are a lot of cities around the equator, where there’s no ice, but if it doesn’t host obvious military installations, then what? Crossing the sky over Shredar without even firing a shot could produce a massive psychological effect, provided we made it past the defenses. Flying over whatever passes for the planetary capital on that snowball? Not quite. Especially if it has plenty of orbital platforms we can’t see at this distance.”
Dunmoore squeezed the bridge of her nose with her index finger and thumb.
“Right. I must be getting a little punchy.”
“Let’s leave it as a possibility for now and look again tomorrow once we’ve slept for a few hours. I suggest we take a quick glance at the innermost gas giant, say thirty minutes, no more. It probably hosts a few refueling stations and offer a better military target. And then, bed.”
“Okay. Pull it up.”
— Thirty —
“Apologies for taking so long,” Dunmoore said once the last holographic starship captain materialized around the conference table. “But thanks to the amount of sensor data we received, especially from Rooikat and Fennec’s overpowered eyes, Captain Holt and I almost suffered information overload. I now have a greater appreciation for the usefulness of staff officers.”
A few chuckles greeted her quip.
“I’m not sure the advantages outweigh the drawbacks, Commodore,” Farren Vento replied.
“You should spend time sorting through an overly eager tactical AI’s digests after it’s been fed nine times six hours of data four times a day.”
Vento inclined his head. “True.”
“You’ll be glad I’ve ruled out even a quick swing past both inhabited planets — Shrehari Prime and Shrehari Minor — to trigger their defensive arrays and give them a collective heart attack. The risks simply outweigh the benefits. However, Captain Holt suggested we send a copy of our intelligence report on both places to the Shrehari high command just before going FTL. It should help trigger a nervous breakdown or something equally distressing.”
“Sir.” Lieutenant Nishino raised her hand. “If I can make a suggestion. Perhaps Rooikat and I could each send a recon drone past both planets once they know we’re here. The drones will be destroyed of course, but we’ll get a closer look before that happens and send the boneheads scrambling since they’re small enough to drop out of FTL not much further out than geosynchronous orbit. We can even rig the drones so they emit a corvette’s electronic signature. That should get their attention.”
“Excellent idea. Consider it part of the plan.”
“Yes, sir.”
The other scout ship captain, Lieutenant Hauck, gave his colleague thumbs up before acknowledging Dunmoore’s order.
“Having eliminated both populated worlds, we’re left with two places where we can break a few things of military value without risking civilian lives or stumbling into most of a Shrehari assault division and still make it sting. The two innermost gas giants, Miqa and Hoqa. Each is surrounded by a necklace of twelve antimatter cracking and fueling stations, presumably automated, no different from the ones we destroyed in outlying star systems.”
Images of two Jovian planets appeared on the conference room’s wall-sized display, one labeled Miqa, the other Hoqa. The outer atmospheres of both were visibly segregated into colorful bands at various latitudes, with storms raging along their interacting boundaries. Small red icons represented the antimatter cracking and fueling stations.
“I plan on attacking them simultaneously using half of the task force for each. Iolanthe will lead the attack on Hoqa, with Narses, Hawkwood, Fennec, and Skua. Jan Sobieski will lead the attack on Miqa with Belisarius, Tamurlane, and Rooikat. Captain Holt will command the group targeting Hoqa. I will shift over to Jan Sobieski and command the group targeting Miqa.”
“We’ll be honored to hoist your pennant, sir,” Pushkin replied with a pleased grin. “Our CIC can easily accommodate a second command chair.”
“My overall intent is for both groups to drop out of FTL at their respective target’s hyperlimit, go silent, and coast until they reach optimum firing range. The one tricky bit will be coordinating the respective go live orders. We’ll have no choice but use our subspace radios for a microburst. Whoever reaches optimum firing range first will send out a signal. The moment the other one confirms it is also within range, both power up and accelerate for a slingshot maneuver around their respective target planets while firing on the refueling stations. One pass, expend as much ammunition as necessary, then jump for the rendezvous point at the heliopause. Just before jumping, both scouts will launch a pair of FTL recon drones. Because of the relative orbital positions, Rooikat will launch at Shrehari Prime and Fennec at Shrehari Minor. Any questions so far?”
When no one raised a hand, she said, “Iolanthe’s navigator is preparing the overall sailing plan and fixing the post-battle run rendezvous. Gregor, I’ll expect your navigator to plot our group’s course to and from Miqa, then share with Lieutenant Drost, who will plot the other group’s course to and from Hoqa.”
“No problems, Commodore.”
“I expect little more than automated defenses covering each of the stations. Target them along with the fueling stations.” She paused. “This will be more of a hasty attack than a planned one. Captain Holt and I will deal with our respective situations on the spot, should we find Shrehari warships in the vicinity, defensive platforms stronger than expected, that sort of thing, so the words of the day are maximum flexibility. You can’t go wrong if you engage enemy targets at will, but not civilian vessels, especially passenger ships.
Once we reunite at the rendezvous point, always assuming we break clean, I’ll shift back to Iolanthe, and we’ll head for our normal patrol area at top speed. If the enemy puts hunters on our tail, I’ll adjust as necessary. That, in essence, is my plan. The deck is open for debate and discussion.”
**
“Bloodthirsty bunch,” Holt said once the last of Task Force Luckner’s holographic captains winked out of existence.
“Better that than too timid. They won’t exceed orders, never fear.”
“Only because none of them, other than Gregor, perhaps, has your instincts.”
She smirked at Holt.
“Which is why I’m riding with him. Just kidding.”
“When are you shifting over?”
“Once we’ve sent out the formal operations orders and finalized the navigation plan. In eighteen hours or so. Pass word to Gregor I don’t want full honors upon arrival. It’s neither the time nor the place.” Dunmoore stood and rolled her shoulders. “I can’t pretend I’m not feeling a certain amount of unease at raiding the enemy’s home system only a few light hours from his capital, and presumably an entire assault division dedicated to protecting it.”
“They’re not expecting something such as this, not even in their wildest dreams. If they dream, that is.”
“They do, though from what little I’ve read, the experience carries deeply mystical connotations. Something about gods or demons communing with the living while they sleep.”
“I learn something new every day.” Holt climbed to his feet. “I’ll check on Astrid’s progress with the navigation plan and see what Theo’s come up with to cover communications. Why don’t you take an hour and work off your anxiety in the gym?”
“Now there’s a thought. Maybe Tatiana’s soldiers are sparring and won’t mind my joining them.”
“Even better. Afterward, we can take the evening meal in my day cabin, and I’ll update you.”
“Sure. You’re on.”
When Dunmoore entered the gym, aft of Iolanthe’s hangar deck, she found two dozen members of E Company, 3rd Battalion, Scandia Regiment training, most of them on the mats, practicing various hand-to-hand combat disciplines.
Major Tatiana Salminen and her second in command, Lieutenant Jon Puro were watching the sergeant major, Talo Haataja, and Command Sergeant Karlo Saari, who led first platoon, circle each other, practicing what they called the Scandian version of aikido. Though how it differed from a barroom brawl, Dunmoore couldn’t say.
Saari, striking faster than a Nabhkan desert asp, pulled Haataja off balance, and tossed him over his shoulder. The sergeant major landed with a thump, rolled over and sprang to his feet with nimbleness belying the gray in his short hair. He, in turn, tackled the younger man just above knee level, sending both to the mat in a tangle of limbs. They flailed about in a flurry until one hand slapped the deck with urgency, resigning the bout and ceding it to his opponent.
Haataja was the first one up. He held out his hand to help Saari stand, but the command sergeant ignored it and stood with more vigor than grace.
“You still fight worse a pregnant ice wolf with degenerative brain disease and two broken limbs, Karlo,” Haataja said as he bowed to his opponent. “But that’s one limb better than the last time.”
Saari grinned at him.
“I’m touched, Talo. Any other sergeant major would call me a weakling and left it at that, but you put effort into your insults.” When he caught sight of Dunmoore watching them, he added, “Perhaps you should check and see if the commodore suffers from broken limbs and brain wastage as well.”
“I think the commodore will prefer sparring with me than either of you barbarians,” Salminen said. “Clear out the ring.”
Haataja, incorrigible as ever, winked at Dunmoore before jogging off to one side with Saari for a lengthy and vigorous cooldown session.
“A shame you don’t need us to seize an enemy orbital station or something of the sort.” Salminen gestured at Dunmoore to enter the circle. “Scandian aikido?”
“These days, I’m not practiced in any other form of hand-to-hand, so yes. And as for boarding party action, sorry. We neither have the time nor the need to capture something we can more easily destroy.”
“I know.” A wry smile briefly lit up Salminen’s face. “But my people feel neglected. We didn’t come aboard Iolanthe by choice, but until she joined Task Force Luckner, we enjoyed our assignment, especially playing fake mercenaries to bamboozle bad guys.”
“There’s not much I can do about that right now.” Dunmoore loosened her muscles as she took up a fighting stance. “We face a different war these days.”
“I understand that. So do Jon, Talo, Sergeant Saari, and the other platoon leaders, but my soldiers become restless from time to time. As you might have noticed when you trained with us during our long trip here.”
Puro, watching them size each other up, snorted. “Count me among the restless.”
Before Salminen could reply, the public address system sounded. “CIC to the commodore.”
“Now what?” Dunmoore murmured. Then, in a louder tone, “Sorry, Tatiana. If you were planning on a round with Jon before I showed up, go ahead. This could take more than a few seconds.”
Since she’d left her personal communicator in her quarters, Dunmoore went to the nearest com panel and touched its screen. “CIC, this is Dunmoore.”
A few seconds later, Sirico’s face appeared.
“Sir, we detected a dozen Shrehari ships dropping out of FTL just over three million kilometers from our current location. They appear on a course to cross the heliopause and head inward. Half are Tol class cruisers, the rest naval transports. Sensors confirm Task Force Luckner is running at the tightest level of emissions control. They shouldn’t spot us.”
“Thank you, Thorin.”
Luck, bad or good, was often a factor in war. If the enemy formation had dropped out of hyperspace on top of them, her plans to raid the two refueling station rings and send FTL recon drones past both inhabited worlds would have been for naught.
Three million kilometers were plenty to escape sensors, provided the enemy wasn’t carrying out an intensive search. And in the forty-five minutes it would take their hyperdrives to cycle, even the fastest sensors could only search a small section of surrounding space. However, the sooner they headed inward themselves, the better.
“If anything changes, I’m in the gym minus my communicator.”
“Understood.”
“Dunmoore, out.”
When she turned back to the soldiers, she saw both Salminen and Puro staring at her.
“Problems?” The former asked when Dunmoore was back within earshot.
“Enemy ships headed inward passing us at a distance of approximately three million klicks. Nothing to worry about since we’re running silent.”
“I see. Ready, sir?”
Dunmoore took up a fighting stance again.
“Lieutenant Puro, please call it.”
He glanced at both, then raised a hand.
“And — attack!”
— Thirty-One —
Iolanthe’s pinnace settled on Jan Sobieski’s hangar deck twelve hours after the Shrehari formation jumped back into hyperspace, headed for the imperial homeworld. When the aft ramp dropped, Siobhan Dunmoore saw a single bosun’s mate, whistle at the ready, standing beside Gregor Pushkin, who knew better than disobey her order he skip full honors. Travel bag in hand, she walked down the ramp, halting at its lower edge.
“Permission to come aboard, Captain.”
He raised his hand in salute. “Granted. Welcome.”
The bosun’s whistle trilled, Dunmoore stepped off the ramp, and with that, Jan Sobieski became Task Force Luckner’s temporary flagship.
“The VIP quarters are ready, we installed a second command chair in the CIC, next to mine, and the CIC crew is prepared to work for you as well as me. Trevane also made you an honorary member of the wardroom for the duration of y
our stay.” A repressed smile lit up Pushkin’s eyes. “It’ll be a treat to sail with you again, sir, even if it’s only for a day and a half.”
“If everything goes well. You might be stuck with me longer if the enemy chases us out of his home system and Iolanthe doesn’t have time to send the pinnace back.”
“Speaking of which.” Pushkin gestured toward the inner door. “We should clear the hangar and let it leave.”
He walked her to the accommodations deck and pointed at a door across from the one labeled ‘Captain.’
“That would be you. It has the same configuration as my cabin. If you need anything, please let me know. Jan Sobieski has amenities our old Stingray could only dream about.”
“Considering we’re halfway between mealtimes, and we’re about to spend almost ten hours FTL, I’ll try to relax with a little light reading.”
“What’s piqued your interest these days?”
The VIP quarters opened at Pushkin’s touch.
“Anton Kach’s Identity, the Almighty, and the Nature of Evil, his examination of the Migration Wars’ underlying social and spiritual causes.”
“That one is on my list, but I’ve not reached it yet. Kach’s interpretation includes an analysis of humanity’s spiritual state during the atrocities, does it not?”
“Very much so. And it is cogent, though many might disagree on theological grounds.”
Pushkin made a dismissive sound.
“Theologians strive to count the number of angels dancing on the head of a pin, but they can’t even define evil in its most primal form. Useless buggers, the lot of them.”
“True.” Dunmoore dropped her bag on one of the chairs surrounding a narrow table in the VIP quarters’ sitting compartment and looked around. “Congratulations, Gregor, Jan Sobieski does its guests proud. That coffee urn on the sideboard is a nice touch.”
“We strive to please, sir.” He hesitated for a moment. “Speaking of faith, do you remember our conversation on the subject during the wild chase aboard Stingray which ended with us fighting Brakal in the Cimmeria system and putting his cruiser out of commission?”