When the Guns Roar

by Eric Thomson

  “What replaces the council after Lady Kembri dismisses it?”

  “Another council named by her and hopefully made up of those willing to work with us, though it will probably be composed of career politicians rather than Shrehari capable of making painful decisions so we avoid any further destabilization. Or the Kraal nominates a kho’sahra who will rule in the regent’s name. One of us who holds or held an admiral or general’s rank in the Imperial Armed Forces.”

  And there it was, laid out for everyone to hear and consider. Nothing less than the government’s removal, hopefully with the regent’s blessing, but if she demurred, a kho’sahra elected by the Kraal could theoretically act on his own. That, however, would ensure her dynasty was stripped of power and faced replacement in due course.

  “A far-reaching proposition,” Kevek replied. “Fraught with peril.”

  “But nonetheless necessary. Even though you doubt our conclusion that we can no longer hope for victory, surely you agree Mishtak and his council must go. They are tired, bereft of ideas, and will ultimately bring disaster to the empire.”

  Many in the assembly, even on the civilian lords’ side, silently signified their approval of the sentiment. Perhaps the lords of the Kraal were remembering the power they once wielded in governing the empire and could feel renewed energy coursing through their veins at the thought of taking back what was theirs by ancient law. Even Brakal could sense something undefinable stirring in the amphitheater. An awakening of sorts.

  Kevek inclined his head.

  “It seems you and I can agree on at least one thing, Brakal.”

  When Kevek sat, Brakal let his gaze roam over the assembly.

  “This is the time to speak, my fellow lords. If we wish to save the empire from further harm, we must be as one in our thoughts and actions. We must reclaim our power and exercise it for the common good.”

  “Let us stop talking and vote on the motion,” one of the military lords said without standing to be recognized. “The longer we delay, the more will die out there.”

  Dozens of voices shouted out their assent and Brakal inclined his head.

  “So be it. Gvant, do your duty.”

  The Chief Keeper of the Kraal’s Records acknowledged his order and raised the tablet in his hands.

  “My lords, please use your devices to vote on the motion put forth by Speaker Brakal.”

  A few minutes passed before Gvant turned to Brakal.

  “We have recorded the vote. Three hundred and five for, eleven against, and eighty-four abstentions.”

  Brakal felt a savage joy rise up his gorge. Over three-quarters of the Kraal in support! Even if Mishtak held a threat over Lady Kembri, she could not ignore the motion. His scheme to save the empire from the council’s folly was unfolding as he hoped.

  “Gvant, please send the approved motion along with the vote results to the regent and the head of the governing council.”

  “Immediately, Speaker.”

  A rumble of approval echoed across the amphitheater.

  “And now, my lords of the Kraal, I propose we vote on declaring our loyalty to Emperor Tumek, so he and everyone else in the empire may know our quarrel is with the council and not the dynasty.”

  Vagh stood.

  “I demand a vote by voice.”

  “I second the motion.” Edronh joined his comrade in staring at the last recalcitrant civilian lords.

  Brakal looked at Gvant, who nodded.

  “The motion is valid and has been seconded, Speaker. You may call for a vote by voice.”

  “Then, I do so. Chief Keeper of the Records, call upon each lord in order of seniority to declare for or against.”

  The final tally was four hundred in favor, no votes against, and no abstentions.

  — Thirty-Four —

  Half an hour before Jan Sobieski and the rest of Group Miqa’s planned drop out of hyperspace, Dunmoore finally gave in to her impatience and entered the CIC. As she expected, every station was crewed, and Gregor Pushkin sat in his command chair, tablet in hand, distracting himself with administrative work.

  “Good morning, Commodore.” His face lit up when he saw her. “I trust you slept well.”

  Technically, it was still the middle of the night watch, which ran from midnight to four in the morning, and Pushkin’s cheerful greeting almost triggered a weary yawn.

  “Quite well, thanks.” Though in truth, Dunmoore’s short spell in the VIP cabin bunk had been fitful and beset with inexplicable dreams. “And you?”

  “Tolerable.” The twinkle in his eyes told her he knew they were both lying. Few slept soundly on the eve of a raid as daring as this one. “The ship is at battle stations and everything is ready.”

  “Thank you.”

  She settled into the second command chair, wishing there was a way she could reach out to the other ships in her group and especially to Ezekiel Holt, who would shortly come out of FTL several light-hours away. Too far for conventional radio or an optical comlink. And as for using subspace radio before revealing their presence in the Shrehari home system by opening fire at point-blank range...

  Being a spectator until they engaged the enemy was the price Dunmoore paid for the star on her collar. But it made her wish she was back in Iolanthe as captain where she could control her and her crew’s destiny. Right now, she was only a passenger with CIC privileges.

  The three-dimensional tactical projection at the heart of the CIC showed their last view of Miqa and its antimatter cracking and refueling stations. A blurry blue icon showed where the navigation plan saw them come out of hyperspace and, at her last-minute orders, it was as close to the gas giant as even the emergency safety rules allowed. The strain of leaving hyperspace so close to a gravity well would take a few years off her ships’ lifespans, but increase their chances of surprising the enemy. Since this might be the navy’s one and only chance of successfully raiding the enemy’s home system, it was worth the added risk.

  Pushkin must have sensed her mood because he didn’t engage in small talk or otherwise break through her thoughts with irrelevant observations. The CIC’s atmosphere was palpably tense though the crew spoke in subdued tones. Otherwise, they worked in silence.

  Dunmoore wondered whether Iolanthe’s CIC watch was engaged in its usual pre-battle banter, or whether the enormity of the occasion also led to an unusual solemnity in these final minutes before dropping out of FTL on the enemy’s doorstep.

  Lieutenant Commander Devall’s voice over the public address system came as a startling surprise.

  “Now hear this. Transition to sublight in five minutes. That is all.”

  Her eyes automatically searched out the countdown timer on the CIC’s main display. Five minutes until she knew whether she’d taken Task Force Luckner into a trap from which they couldn’t escape.

  “Five minutes to death or glory, eh, Skipper,” Pushkin murmured in a voice pitched only for her ears. “Reminds me of old times.”

  “That it does.” Dunmoore kept her eyes glued to the timer while one part of her wished it would reach zero faster and the other that time would slow to a crawl so she could gain control over her nervousness.

  With sixty seconds left, a klaxon sounded three times throughout the ship, warning everyone aboard they were about to shift from hyperspace back to sublight. Then, the last moments flashed by, and familiar nausea gripped Dunmoore’s innards as her body reacted to the transition.

  Almost half a minute passed before Jan Sobieski’s sensor chief said, “The ships of Group Miqa are where we expected and running silent. If fact, they’re clean enough I wouldn’t detect them if I didn’t know exactly where to look. Damn boneheads won’t see us.”

  The gas giant Miqa filled the CIC’s central display moments later, its colored bands and storms more awe-inspiring than ever this close.

  “That’s zero magnification, incidentally, sir,” the combat systems officer said in a matter of fact voice. “A view as live as can be.”

&nb
sp; Small red icons appeared, both on the main display and in the tactical projection, marking artificial satellites one by one as the visual sensors registered them. Some quickly turned into representations of the antimatter warning symbol, while others became orbs with lines radiating from them, indicating defense platforms.

  “I’m not picking up anything other than automated navigation instructions on the usual channels,” the signals petty officer reported. “No alerts on Shrehari routine and emergency regular or subspace radio.

  “No sensor pings either besides standard search patterns for natural hazards. The orbital defense platforms are on low power.”

  Pushkin turned to Dunmoore.

  “I think we achieved step one — getting close without being detected.”

  “Now, we just need to get closer.” She glanced at the signals petty officer. “Are we linked with the rest of the group, PO?”

  “Aye, Commodore. Everyone is connected via laser.”

  “Captain Pushkin, please ask your combat systems officer to designate targets for Group Miqa.”

  “Mister Jokkainen.”

  “Sir?”

  “You may indulge yourself.”

  Dunmoore gave Pushkin an amused glance, aware she’d just heard the first bit of humor in his CIC.

  “Indulging myself, aye.”

  Jokkainen’s fingers danced over his console, assigning orbital platforms and cracking stations to the group’s starships so that when they collectively lit up and opened fire, the Shrehari wouldn’t know what hit them. Hopefully, that devastating first salvo would suffice to warn the Shrehari their inner core was no longer safe from an implacable enemy.

  “Targets assigned, sir,” the combat systems officer finally said. “Once the commodore orders up systems, the refueling stations and orbital platforms currently visible will come under sustained fire.”

  He gestured at the three-dimensional tactical projection, where pulsing blue icons, the ships of Task Force Luckner’s Group Miqa were connected via dotted lines to red symbols representing the sum total of enemy installations within initial engagement range on this side of the gas giant.

  Dunmoore studied the target assignments and could find no fault with Lieutenant Jokkainen’s work. It covered, in every detail, what she’d laid out in her orders and would allow them to throw devastating firepower at the gas giant’s necklace of artificial satellites within a very brief period.

  “Nicely done,” she said, smiling. “That’ll hurt them for sure.”

  “I’m amazed they’re not picking us up, sir,” Jokkainen replied. “Us stalking a wartime FOB such as Tyva is one thing. This, however, is a bit surreal.”

  “We’re not within optimal range yet, Lieutenant. They might still realize four human warships plan on ruining their day. Mind you, since most orbitals in that necklace are probably automated, with maybe one crewed node to oversee them, we’re at lesser risk of tickling a nervous duty officer’s instincts or making a bored sensor tech wonder why he sees ghosts this close to Miqa.”

  “You’d think after we took out two of their FOBs without losing a ship they would be more alert.”

  “We’re not supposed to be here. Or anywhere near this star system. We’re just hairless apes to them, not dangerously unpredictable fighters who’ve achieved technical and tactical superiority.”

  The sensor chief chuckled.

  “Hairless apes. Nice. I’ll remember that one. Mind you, if they saw a few of my old messmates, they might look for another nickname.”

  “It’s not actually an exact translation, Chief,” Dunmoore replied. “There’s a species of non-sapient primate analog on Shrehari Prime which the boneheads consider contemptible. Their term for us is a hairless version of that particular animal. We simply translated the actual name of the species for our Anglic word ape since the original Shrehari is hard to pronounce and sounds like someone expectorating.”

  Pushkin allowed himself a smile at the exchange between Dunmoore and his CIC crew. It felt as if he was back on Stingray’s bridge. And the banter was having the same effect now as it did then — it took the edge off the crew’s evident pre-battle jitters. Funny she should bring up Admiral Nelson at the end of last evening’s meal.

  The historical text he’d read in the early hours of the night watch when, unable to sleep, he searched for something to occupy his mind, called the admiral’s leadership style the ‘Nelson Touch.’ Perhaps what he’d witnessed so many times before and was seeing again in his own CIC was the ‘Dunmoore Touch.’ A way of putting people at ease, of fostering trust and mutual respect. It was indeed working if the amused grins on most faces were any indication.

  “Jan Sobieski is entering effective gun range now. Belisarius is at extreme gun range. Tamurlane and Rooikat are still out of useful range.” The sensor chief reported. Then, after a moment of hesitation, he said, “Can I ask you a question, Commodore?”

  “Sure.”

  “Do you speak bonehead?”

  “Some. Probably just enough to get myself knifed in a Shrehari tavern for insulting someone’s honor.”

  “Can you say their version of hairless ape?”

  Almost immediately, a strange guttural sound exploded from Dunmoore’s throat, stunning the CIC crew.

  “Was that it?” The chief asked after a brief moment of silence.

  “Supposedly, though I can’t vouch for my pronunciation or accent.”

  Pushkin, who’d been watching his people with growing amusement caught the look in Jokkainen’s eyes.

  “No, Tupo. Don’t.”

  “But it’s our species’ nickname in bonehead, sir. We should know how to say it.”

  “No.”

  Jokkainen turned a pleading look on Dunmoore.

  “Sir, if I buy you a drink in the wardroom once we’re done here, would you teach me?”

  She and Pushkin exchanged a glance.

  “We’ll see how perfect a score you run up with your fire plan.”

  “Deal.”

  Time seemed to stretch until Dunmoore felt as if they were crawling along, even though she knew Jan Sobieski and the three starships following her in a single line were closing in on the planned firing window at best possible speed. And still no reaction from the enemy orbitals.

  Finally, “Jan Sobieski is entering the engagement window.”

  A few more minutes passed, then, “Rooikat is about to enter the firing window.” Since the scout was last in line, that meant it was time.

  “Signals, ping Group Hoqa and let them know we’re ready.”

  Another minute passed. “Sir, Group Hoqa is ready too.”

  “In that case, let them know we’re going active, then make to Group Miqa, up systems, execute the fire plan.”

  “Group Miqa, up systems, execute the fire plan, aye, Commodore,” the communications petty officer replied. A few seconds later, he said, “Message sent and acknowledged by all ships and Group Hoqa.”

  Dunmoore could feel Jan Sobieski come to life as the shield generators and gun capacitors powered up.

  “I’m locked onto the assigned targets,” Jokkainen reported. “Firing missiles.”

  Faint vibrations coursed through the soles of her feet as the launcher bays opened and ejected the first salvo into space. Almost immediately, automatic feeders pushed a fresh flight into the now empty tubes.

  Tiny blue icons came to life in the tactical projection as the frigate’s sensors tracked both its own and the rest of the group’s missiles. First, she saw only a few dozen, then countless more joined them until the space between the ships and the targeted orbitals, both refueling and defense, turn almost a solid blue.

  Dunmoore kept one ear open for Jokkainen’s running report to Pushkin while she watched with morbid fascination as the defense platforms belatedly lit up and open fire at the oncoming missiles. Many of them winked out of existence, both in reality and in the tactical projection, but the Shrehari designers hadn’t planned for a saturation strike such as the o
ne she’d unleashed.

  The first antimatter cracking station turned into a miniature nova with such suddenness it momentarily robbed the CIC crew of breath. Then, a second and a third exploded, and the sensor chief let out a bloodcurdling whoop. Defense platforms were dying as well but without quite as spectacular a release of antimatter.

  Feeble return fire struck their shields, but once the task force’s plasma guns opened up, it was over for almost half of Miqa’s artificial satellites. The rest died one after the other as the planet’s gravitational pull swung the ships around it and onto the planned return heading.

  “There’s a Tol class cruiser refueling,” the sensor chief said as a new target came into view.

  “Make that station a priority, please, Mister Jokkainen.”

  Pushkin glanced at Dunmoore, who nodded with approval. If they could trigger an antimatter explosion with the cruiser still connected to the orbital, it would be wrecked far more quickly and easily.

  “Excellent idea, Gregor. Signals, to all ships, concentrate fire on the fueling station nearest to the Tol class cruiser.”

  “Concentrate fire on the fueling station nearest to the Tol class cruiser, aye.”

  “The Tol’s shields are up, and I see an emissions spike. She’s powering weapons.” A pause. “And she’s cut the magnetic fuel line loose.”

  Fresh missile volleys erupted from the frigate’s launchers one after the other, but the Shrehari captain understood his precarious position, so close to a volatile antimatter reservoir. He concentrated his fire in a defensive pattern which took out many before they were halfway to the target. More missiles joined Jan Sobieski’s flights as Belisarius and Tamurlane switched targets at Dunmoore’s command.

  “Seems a little unfair,” Pushkin muttered for Dunmoore’s ears only. “Two frigates, one of them a pocket cruiser, and a destroyer ganging up on a single Tol caught with its fuel lines open...”

  “If you’re in a fair fight, you didn’t plan properly.”

  “The Tol is trying to put some distance between it and the station—” A bright flash stilled the sensor chief.