by B. V. Larson
His heavy cruisers came into direct fire range of the Felicity Station moonlet, a lumpy hunk of rock and dust over one hundred kilometers across, and began their bombardment. Missiles and railguns blew pieces of it off into space, and the processing facilities, identified by their EM emissions, were wiped out. But even under intense attack, it would take a while for such a large installation to be dismantled.
Braga watched closely as the enemy englobement tightened.
The advantage of such a formation was twofold. First, it allowed all the attackers to point their biggest weapons and their armored noses at those within the globe, while the defenders had to either run and expose their vulnerable sterns to a rake, or form a spherical hedgehog pointing outward, becoming immobilized.
Second, the englobement aimed to trap all within, leaving nowhere to escape, the three-dimensional equivalent of surrounding an enemy on the ground.
The standard doctrinal response for the defender was to charge ahead, concentrate fire and blast out of the trap. Some would fall, but many would escape, and fleet cohesion would be maintained.
Braga was nothing if not a man of doctrine. Sticking to the well-established principles of war had brought him victory many times. Still, the mission always came first. He would take unexpected casualties, but destroying this Hok fuel factory would save lives in the long run.
So he ordered, “Heavy cruisers, continue bombardment as long as possible. The rest of the fleet will maintain formation, leapfrog forward, and fire at targets as they present themselves. Light units, collapse upon our capital ships once the enemy has committed himself, and take up station as our rearguard.”
His superb ships, operated by experienced crews, carried out his orders with precision. The heavy cruisers pulverized the moon, and presumably its facilities, though from the first those dying installations were hidden by a heavy screen of dust and debris thrown up by impacts and explosions. His main armored fist, his phalanx of supers and dreadnoughts, passed around the cruisers in a ring, backed up by battlecruisers. Anything conceivable that got in their way would get hammered to scrap.
But then the inconceivable appeared.
Out of the gas in front of his fleet leaped what looked like a tiny ship, approaching at a blazing speed far in excess of what he would have thought possible within the nebula. It smashed into the armored nose of the superdreadnought Bruxelles, doing grievous damage to her. She’d still have engines and point defense weapons, but her value as a fleet asset had been eliminated with the destruction of her primary spinal weaponry and front armor.
“What the hell was that? Some kind of suicide craft?” Braga barked.
“No, sir,” Lexin answered. “My sensors show it was a solid crysteel projectile of approximately nine hundred tons—a railgun bullet.”
“Where—”
Before he could ask his next question, the holotank recorded another disaster as HWS Antwerp reported catastrophic damage from a massive particle beam strike.
“All ships, maximum evasion!” Braga snapped. “There must be a fortress in front of us. Locate it and counterfire!”
“The beam’s back-azimuth is evident to all ships, sir,” said Lexin. “They’re launching now.”
Hundreds of missiles sprang from his ships—even from the two crippled SDNs, whose side-mounted launch tubes were still functioning. At the same time, a storm of railgun and beam fire converged along the track of the enemy shots. Not even a monitor could mount weapons so large, so Braga knew there must be a fortress out there, and a fortress couldn’t maneuver. The enemy’s surprise had been costly, but it would ultimately be futile.
Suddenly, another monster railgun bullet speared the superdreadnought Rotterdam, this time from a different angle. The projectile caught her aft of amidships and tore her less-armored stern off, leaving her a tumbling wreck.
“Two fortresses!” Captain Verdura cried. “Maybe more. Sir, the englobement’s driving us into a kill zone. We can’t stand up to fire like this.”
Before she even finished her sentence, another particle beam struck HWS Friesland, opening her up like a tin can and igniting a line of plasma fire along one flank. Four of Braga’s proudest and finest ships, wrecked within two minutes, and he couldn’t even see his attackers!
Despite the shock, Braga’s mind kicked into overdrive. His brainchips and his experience allowed him to analyze what he saw in the holotank and extrapolate outcomes, even with hundreds of ships and variables. The enemy’s intention became clear. The Hok and their human traitor allies had laid a titanic trap for him, knowing the Hundred Worlds would come after the tempting target of Felicity Station. The cowardly defense had lured him onward, the relieving fleet had driven him inward, and the englobing ships had forced him forward into these massive siege guns, weapons against which he could not stand.
His turbocharged brain searched for solutions. Reverse course and run? His fleet had too much forward velocity. Charge blindly onward, firing at the fortresses when they could be seen, risking collisions with asteroids and moons, in order to break through? If he had to.
But he saw the narrowest of windows in a third option. “All ships change course, forty-five degree angle planetward, thirty degrees port, flank acceleration. Ships to fire at will, maximum defensive protocols. We’ll skim C1’s atmosphere and slingshot around the planet. That’ll avoid these fortresses and degrade their targeting.”
“Helm, comply,” Verdura said to her ship driver. “All weapon controllers, fire at will, defensive protocols.”
As one, Braga’s fleet blasted downward and to port. He hoped this would surprise the enemy, who should be expecting him to try to immediately break for the outside of the nebula. Instead, this course drove the core of his still-powerful task force between the big guns in front of him and the englobing fleet.
Unfortunately, it left his slowest and most damaged ships to fend for themselves. The carriers, particularly, would never make it out. It pained him to think of those crews and supplies falling into enemy hands, but his responsibility was to salvage as much as he could, converting a potential disaster into a mere debacle. Better to limp home with half a battered fleet than to stand and die to no purpose—especially as he knew he’d already destroyed Felicity Station.
His fleet’s sudden turn brought several enemy ships directly into his fleet’s primary cone of fire. Despite defensive protocols, most of his captains ordered their ships to aim their largest weapons at their foes. Those enemy vessels tried to evade and fall back to their comrades, but they were smashed out of the way, tearing a hole in the englobement.
Braga couldn’t blame his people for their lust to strike back, and he couldn’t fault their judgment at destroying what was in front of them. He only hoped that, without his carriers for resupply, his stocks of fuel and ordnance would hold out long enough to get home.
Over sixty of his ships broke free of the trap, using the planet’s gravity to add to their acceleration. The rest had been crippled, destroyed or surrounded, forced to surrender. Braga ground his teeth, but focused on what fleet he still had and how to get it out.
The lightest, fastest units of the enemy englobement streamed behind him in a ragged chase, firing at the sterns of the Hundred World ships. Braga’s vessels continued maximum evasion, varying their courses and dodging as much as they could even while maintaining a loose formation.
Designated ships, his fastest cruisers, cut their engines and turned briefly broadside to use their point-defense weapons against pursuing missiles. They would then reorient on impellers and resume running. They also dropped mines in their wakes, forcing the pursuers to either slow or risk a nuke on the nose.
These and other tactics, along with the edge in speed and weapons technology of Braga’s ships, gave him hope. His harried fleet skimmed low over the swirling atmosphere of the gas giant designated C1, gaining speed. They smashed through hundreds of rocks in orbit, and he lost one of his battlecruisers when it plowed right into a moonlet that lo
omed out of the gas, too large to destroy or dodge. Braga hissed through his teeth in frustration. He’d accepted the risks when he decided to run.
“On my mark, new course,” he said once most of the pursuers had fallen away. “Stellar absolute, zero azimuth. We’ll dive toward the star, get lost in its corona, and perform another slingshot.”
“Orders relayed,” his Flag Comms chief replied. “All ships standing by.”
“Mark.”
Now his fleet turned outward, heading toward the small orange star of Calypso. In just minutes at this breakneck speed they passed through the gas cloud surrounding the planet and broke out into open space.
Braga’s optimism died a brutal death as the holotank updated to show nearly two hundred enemy ships waiting for him dead ahead, centered around that damned monitor.
They opened fire.
Chapter 10
Straker on Terra Nova
When the stun wore off, Straker awoke strapped to a reclining table in a laboratory. Mechanical arms hung from above, quiescent. Machines hummed and beeped now and again, and sophisticated holographic readouts displayed biological constructs.
He flexed and strained at the straps, but he was held fast. Even his extraordinary strength barely budged the restraints.
A woman in a lab coat entered the room. Her nametag read “Smith,” and she looked to be about twenty years old, a knockout redhead with a short skirt and lots of cleavage. She reminded Straker of a younger version of Tachina.
She stepped over to console and began inputting commands there.
“What’s going on?” Straker asked, controlling his anger and concern. His only chance of getting out of this was to play along with his cover as Myrmidon’s spy trainee.
“I’m continuing to test you,” Smith replied.
“For what?”
“Deviance from genetic norms.”
“Why?”
“I have no idea.” The woman tapped one final tap and she swung her swivel chair around to face him, legs apart. He could see up her skirt to a triangle of pink panties, as if she had no idea how to be modest—or maybe she was doing it on purpose. But she didn’t seem to be acting coy or flirty.
“I’m just the lab tech,” she said. “Now hold still while the machine takes the samples, or I’ll have to paralyze you.”
The arms above him activated and stabbed him suddenly with needles in several places. The pain was negligible, so Straker froze. Getting paralyzed was the last thing he wanted.
He wondered how mature Miss Smith was—how far through the humanizing program she’d gone. Was she naïve or cynical? Had she ever had a lover, or was infatuation and sex foreign to her?
Worth a try, Straker thought. When the arms had retracted and placed their samples into other machines, he put on his best charm. “Hey, what’s your first name?”
“Doris.”
“You’re gorgeous, Doris. Anybody ever tell you that?”
Doris blushed and covered her mouth with her hand. “Me? No, nobody ever said that about me.”
“Well, it’s true. Come over here and let me see you better.”
Doris rose and walked to within arm’s reach—if his arms weren’t firmly held. She stared him in the face, seemingly innocent of guile. “You’re gorgeous too. What’s your name?”
“Derek.”
“Derek what?”
“Just Derek. They haven’t assigned me another name. I’m still in training.”
“For what?”
Straker winked. “It’s a secret.”
Doris blushed again. “Telling me would be improper.”
“It would… but I’ll tell you anyway if you like.”
“I’m not sure.” Doris seemed both repelled and fascinated by the prospect of doing something improper.
“You have to promise not to tell anyone else. Then it’ll still be a secret, so it’s okay.”
“I…I suppose that complies with guidelines.”
“Sure it does. Lean closer so I can whisper it.”
Doris leaned her face close to Derek’s. He smelled her breath, sweet and unspoiled. He almost felt bad about manipulating her this way, but he had to get out of these restraints. After that, he could figure out a way to escape from this bizarre diz-planet.
“I’m training to be a spy—to infiltrate the humans. Exciting, huh?”
“Oh, that’s much more exciting than my job.” Doris kept her face close to his, staring into his eyes. “I like you.”
“I like you too. Have you ever kissed anyone?”
“What’s that mean?”
Apparently this young woman—young Facet, really—had simply been trained for her work, but not for social interaction. And, in the manner of the insectoid Opters, her masters assumed she would simply act like an organic robot and carry out her task. If Straker’s guesses were right, this left her with all the usual physical urges, but no filters and no experience.
“Kiss—kissing—is when you put your lips on my lips. It’s pleasant. You want to try it?”
Doris leaned in and pressed her mouth to his, clumsily. Straker did his best to make the kiss lively but tender. As the seconds went by, the lip-lock became more heated and intense.
Suddenly, Doris crawled onto Straker, straddling him and seizing his head in both hands, kissing him as if trying to devour his mouth and tongue. “Oh, this is… this is… wonderful!” she gasped.
“Let me out of these straps, Doris, and we can do more.”
Doris punched in a code to the table and his restraints popped off. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her for a moment, just to make sure she was thoroughly lost in the experience, while his eyes roved the room. There was only one way out, and the door had a keypad lock.
And his unauthorized freedom could be discovered at any moment. Somebody must be watching, or would soon.
He briefly wondered if this was all part of the diz, the experiment, a scenario within a scenario. Did it matter? He would act the same no matter what—and according to what Myrmidon had said, nobody would save him or go easy on him if it were. They might even kill him.
Better to die free than live in a cage.
“Let’s go somewhere else,” Straker said around kisses. “Your room?”
“Yes, yes, yes, Derek, my room. I want to keep doing this forever.” Doris dragged him by the hand to the door and hastily input the code, and then pulled him out into a second room. This one had more lab equipment, and two doors. She led him toward one. “The other door is guarded. This is the emergency exit.”
“Won’t an alarm sound?”
“I don’t care.” Before he could stop her, she pushed the door open and went through, her hand still firmly locked to Straker’s.
A loud beeping pealed from speakers, and they ran down a corridor past other doors. After a moment, those doors opened and others joined them in their race, paying the two no attention.
Of course! Straker thought. They were just two more people in a crowd evacuating the laboratory building, presumably for fire or other emergency. By chance, Doris had facilitated their escape.
They debouched into a parking lot. People continued to stream out of the doors. “Will they miss you if you leave right now?” Straker asked.
“I’ll check in,” she replied, leading him toward a tall box standing among the parked vehicles. People were lining up to scan their faces into its sensors, apparently for post-emergency accountability. Doris got into the line and soon had recorded her safe escape. “Now we can go. I’ll report myself ill from my quarters communicator.”
“Do we take a ground car?” Straker asked.
“No, I’m too junior to have one,” she said. “It’s all right. My flat is an easy walk from here.” She dragged him possessively toward it.
A commotion behind them made Straker turn and look. A squad of uniformed men and women spread out among the workers in the parking lot. “They’re looking for me,” Straker said, watching Doris.
�
��Why?”
“It’s a spy exercise. I’m supposed to practice and train to escape and avoid being caught, and they’re training to catch me. I have to pass this level to graduate to the next.”
“I’ll help you escape!” Doris squealed. “I don’t want you to get caught.”
“I was hoping you’d say that.”
He let Doris lead him to a gray, featureless block of apartments. If it wasn’t a bright, sunny day, the cityscape would look positively grim, reminding him of some of the Mutuality towns he’d seen, uninterrupted by beauty or aesthetics. Everything seemed to be made of concrete, metal or plastic. Everything had a discrete function. The few plants and trees seemed to be barely alive.
“Is this a diz?” he asked as Doris palmed open her door.
“What’s that mean?”
“Never mind.” He looked around the tiny space. It reminded him of a cheap hotel room, with no personal touches. “How long have you lived here?”
“Just a month since I graduated from medical tech school.” Doris shut the door and immediately began kissing him again.
“Hold on, honey. Slow down.”
“Why?” She shrugged off her jacket and let it drop to the floor. Straker wondered whether she’d continue losing clothes, but she didn’t. She did, however, grab his face for more kisses.
“Because I need to think about escaping, remember?”
“Oh, that’s right.” She backed off slightly, and then seized his hand once more. “Let’s sit down.” She sat on the bed—there was only one chair—and tried to draw him toward it.
Straker let her pull him. “First I need information. We can kiss some more later.”
“Okay.”
“What’s this city called?”
“Glasgow.
“What happens here?”
Doris shrugged. “I don’t know. People live here. There’s business and industry. It’s normal.”
“How do you know what’s normal?”
She shrugged again. “It seems normal. I’ve always lived here.”