Do they struggle longer to bring this worthless piece of junk into the fight? Did they give up and quit while they had enough fuel to aim themselves at a planet where they could be refueled before their engines failed and hurled them out into the empty void of space?
"Number One, can we determine if one of those worthless classes of knocked-together gunboats is suffering more engineering casualties than the rest? Is any single type of reactor failing at a higher rate?"
"I do not know, Most Eminent Admiral," his senior staff officer answered.
"Well, find out. If one class is clearly a botched job, it is better that we order it out of the line. As it is now, every captain and Sailor in every ship is wondering if they could be next. Let's cut down on our catastrophic failures if we can."
"To hear is to make it so," the officer said and began talking into his communication unit. How long it would take him to get a reply was anybody's guess.
For eons, Iteeche sent runners across the battlefield to take a commander's orders to his subordinates. "To hear was to make it so," was not just a reply to an order. It was how the order was delivered.
Now, matters moved too quickly. In battles of yore, commanders issued orders and they were obeyed. No battle commander in ancient times asked his juniors for anything but to die for their lord.
Now, he needed information from his subordinates. Now, he needed to know which class or classes of ships under his command were blowing up. He needed to know this and get them out of the line before they sapped the morale, if not the courage, of his other ships.
Even weighing over three times his normal weight, Admiral Zom ground his beak together, frustrated that he had been given such defective ships. Of course, it would have helped if they'd done their acceptance trials at something greater than two gees and that for only two hours. Time had been of the essence and construction was rushed.
No one knew how much time the fracas at the Imperial Capital would delay the Human Longknife's next campaign. No one could guess how much time they had to put together a fleet that could stop her. Still, the rebellion had set out to build four major fleets and station them around some of the most productive planets.
It meant leaving a lot of planets unprotected. They'd known when they pulled most of the fleet back from the Balan system that they would lose them. What they hadn't expected was for the entire fleet of battlecruisers left there to surrender when his Longknife Human showed up.
Reports were still scarce, but she seemed to have captured the entire system without firing a single shot.
How could any commander, much less a Human, manage that?
Zom knew he was dithering. There was not a lot to take his attention away from his battle board as more ships ballooned into bright stars that faded in a blink.
"Do you have any information?" Zom demanded of his Number One.
"They are consulting their subordinate admirals and asking them to ask the question of their subordinates, My Most Eminent Admiral."
"Tell them to hurry up. I don't know how many ships the crews can watch blow themselves to dust and atoms before their bowels run thin and they give into fear."
"Surely, no captain would do such a thing, Most . . ."
Zom cut his subordinate off. "They are doing that, Number One. Get me what I need. Is every class of ships blowing up, or is it limited to just one or two classes?"
Once again, the Iteeche admiral forced himself to study his battle board. Here and there, ships exploded. Here and there, ships slipped out of line, cut their deceleration, and began to race ahead of the fleet.
Now, a long thin line of ships reached out in front of his fleet on the unengaged side. Zom wondered how many of those ships flew an admiral's flag. He would have to ask among them and have the senior admiral take command.
Maybe that admiral could get them to a safe harbor. Maybe he could lead them in pursuit of the troop ships. Maybe he should make a complete and sincere apology when the battle was done. Still, he and his subordinates could be of some use in the coming defense of the Langnae system.
"I have gotten some initial reports," Number One ventured carefully.
"Tell me what I want to know."
"Two classes seem to be suffering the largest numbers of failures," he said.
The new construction fell into six classes, depending on what reactor had been put into them, and what armament had been plugged into the reactor. The three larger reactors powered large gunboats. All three were armed with cast-off 20- or 22-inch lasers, all concentrated in a forward battery.
There were also three classes of frigates that had smaller reactors. Their armament was hastily slapped together short-ranged lasers of 18- to 20-inches copied from the Human pulse laser. Frigates would have to get in close to do any damage, but still, if there were enough ships swarming the battlecruiser fleet and if there was enough gunk in space from destroyed ships and noise makers, there was a chance that some might get through to mow the enemy down.
That was what the true loyalists were counting on. They would over-match the followers of the false emperor and that Longknife Human. They would die no matter how many of the admiral's own ships went down to dusty death.
"Which two classes?" Admiral Zom demanded.
"Most of the failed reactors seem to be powering the medium and the light frigates, Most Eminent Admiral," Number One stuttered out.
"The smaller two classes of frigates, but not the heavy frigates or the larger gunboats? That sounds preposterous."
"Yes, Most Eminent Admiral," the staff officer sputtered.
"Keep me informed if that changes any."
"Yes, Most Eminent Admiral."
Admiral Zom suppressed a sigh. The newly designed and constructed ships accounted for 25,000 of the 41,000 ships in his fleet. They were over 60 percent of his attacking warships.
He had 5,000 of each of the three types of frigates. Gunboats accounted for another 10,000 warships.
If he sent 10,000 of the frigates zooming off into the outer solar system, he would lose some 25 percent of his force.
Could he afford to face the Longknife Human's fleet of 6,000 battlecruisers with 31,000 ships? She had won against better odds that that.
Of course, she'd been the one defending, using just this battle plan. How well would she do attacking against her own tactics?
Would the courage and moral of his own crews and captains fail if he let them continue this charge while destiny's demons rode hell for leather at their stirrups? Should he ask them to, or keep silent and just expect them to wait for their own reactor to go critical?
Whatever he was going to do about that problem, it was time to decide before he jacked up his deceleration.
"Number One, send to fleet. Go to four gees deceleration on my execute order."
Two minutes later, all the acknowledgements were in from his subordinate commanders.
"Execute."
He had weighed over three times his normal weight for the last eighteen hours. Now his weight nudged up to four times normal.
The water supported him as he sank deeper into his couch. Still, the weight on his chest grew and each breath became an effort.
On his battle board, the fleet began its swing around Longnae 5. They would dip down, down into the very top of the atmosphere. Down until their hulls burned as the friction slowed them down a bit more so that they would not go rocketing off into deep space but rather whirl around and head back sunward.
Back into a battle they had to win.
59
"Nelly," Grand Admiral Kris Longknife asked her computer, "do you know anything about the ships that are blowing up? Do they have the same reactor type or something?"
"Yes, Kris. I should have told you sooner, but you seemed intent on your problem and didn't ask me if for the information, so I didn't jiggle your elbow."
"No problem, Nelly. What have you got?"
"We've had no problem identifying the battlecruisers. They are all the latest clas
ses with either twenty 24-inch lasers or smaller ships up-gunned with sixteen new 24-inch guns. No surprise there," Nelly said.
"My problem was the jumble of noise coming off of what I could only describe as an unreadable hole in space. When ships started blowing up, the rebel commander ordered his ships to detach from their auxiliary fuel tanks. I finally got a good look at his fleet. He has some twenty-five thousand ships built with six different reactor designs. Six to eight ships were clustered around a reaction fuel tank that fed mass to the different ships tied up to the tank. That way, they could get range out of ships that couldn't carry nearly enough fuel."
"And they were too close for you to get a discrete reading off of the individual reactors," Kris said.
"Right," Nelly answered. "Once they blossomed out into individual ships, I could identify six reactors from a design we fingerprinted during the Iteeche War. They have large reactors ten times the size of the smallest reactor, with four different sizes in between."
"Which ones are given to self-immolation?" Jack asked.
"No surprise," Nelly said. "It is the two smallest reactor types that are going critical under the heat and pressure. The third largest reactor is taking the strain okay. None of the three largest reactors have suffered a failure yet."
"How many of those reactors do they have in their fleet?" Jack asked.
"Ten thousand ships, minus the ones that have blown up. It accounts for twenty-five percent of his total force."
Kris scowled. "So, he's reluctant to order them out of the line. He needs them for when he finally attacks me."
"He's allowed ships that are showing a serious risk of a reactor failure to fall out and slow their deceleration," Nelly told them. "But he can't see his way through to letting them all fall out of the charge."
"Crazy Iteeche," Jack said.
Kris felt goose flesh. "Just crazy Iteeche?" she asked.
When Jack was slow on the uptake, Kris answered her own question.
"What of the Coast Guard Auxiliary, manning the runabouts only safe for in-orbital trips, some with entire families crewing them? They took the pressure off of Fast Attack Squadron 8 at a horrible price when six battleships threatened to blast Wardhaven back to the stone age. What of the reservists or volunteers or civilian ship drivers that showed up to punch a hole with their flesh and blood so our twelve mosquito boats could get close enough to smash the battleships with our shipwrecking pulse torpedoes?"
Jack nodded solemnly. "Hard to forget them."
"Yeah, hard to forget them," Kris agreed. They'd held center stage in too many of her nightmares.
"But we're not threatening to blast any planet back into the stone age," Jack pointed out.
"No, but aren't we, from their perspective, threatening their entire way of life?" Kris asked. "I think they're wrong. I think they need to walk forward with their eyes looking at the distant horizon, not looking back over their shoulder. Still, they're out here to risk their lives for their perspective."
"And we for ours," Jack said, nodding.
Kris had to agree with Jack. If the rebels won, their policy towards Humans would range from isolating their Empire to engaging in war. Again!
Kris wasn't just fighting for the poor kid on the throne. If she didn't manage to win this war for him, Humanity could face a dismal future.
Nelly reported on Kris's own fleet. The ship maintainers had taken the time at half a gee to do everything possible to assure the fighting quality of her ships. Weapons and engineering were as close to 100 percent as any operational fleet ever can be.
Her 6,000 battlecruisers were ready for the coming fight.
Or were they?
Kris expanded the enemy array on her board, then expanded her own, putting them across from each other. There was one thing she could do to get her ships ready. Right now, at half a gee, was the best time to do something.
"Admiral Tong, I would like to modify our array."
"What do you have in mind?" he asked.
She quickly explained. Five minutes later, orders had gone out to the fleet and flotillas began to reorganize themselves. It went on for a bit longer than either Kris or Tong liked, but they were green ship drivers operating in close quarters for the first time in most of their careers.
While this bit of ship movement occurred slowly, but smoothly, Kris's battlecruiser fleet continued to fall toward Longnae 4. At this velocity it would take some serious juggling of deceleration when the time came, but that time was not now.
The enemy fleet was now on its final approach to Longnae 5. The admiral had increased their deceleration to nearly four gees. That was still 4.5 gees for an Iteeche. The rebel admiral chose to increase deceleration early so he'd require five gees for less time. Still, the fleet would have to manage that killer deceleration for at least an hour, maybe more, as they rounded Longnae 5.
It would be brutal work, and reactors would overheat at that close encounter with a gas giant and its upper atmosphere.
Kris relaxed into her egg and let her eyes slowly roam over the lines and vectors on the battle board. What would he do? What would she do in response?
The dance with death was coming. Kris would have to be sure about her every step. She and her fleet could not afford a misstep.
Her mind wandered as the course vectors grew longer. As rebel ships fell out of their battle line, cut their deceleration, and zoomed ahead of the rest of the fleet. As overtaxed reactors gave up the battle and blew ships into vapor and junk in cold, deadly space.
Kris eyed the developments and forced herself to get out of her head. To stay in her gut. To wait for the sound of the bell that would release her into the fight.
Soon, it would be just her standing against an Iteeche admiral with thousands of ships moving to their orders.
For now, Kris measured each breath and waited.
60
Admiral Zom had never heard of anyone who cracked their beak. Still, he wondered if there was any way to mend a one. It was bad enough how long he had been grinding his beak together for the last few hours. Now his jaw clamped together a beak that weighed almost five times normal.
But it was about to get worse. "Number One, take the fleet to five gees on my execute."
The preliminary order went out to the fleet.
Admiral Zom could almost hear the groans of the sailors and officers of his ships. He could almost hear the groans of reactors and auxiliary equipment as they prepared to take on the greater burden of yet more weight.
He could also hear the silent sound of fingers hovering over switches.
Switches that if thrown at just the right moment might save a ship from obliteration. Of course, if courage failed and an Engineering Officer threw the switch too soon, it would also save their lives, while sending them off on a tangent that would take them out of the battle.
Admiral Zom could only wonder at the courage of those captains on ships with potentially defective reactors who held to this suicidal mission. How they must tremble, hoping that their ship would not be one of those cursed with whatever it was that blew ships into hot gas and scraps of wreckage.
A glance at the board showed fewer than a hundred ships whose captains had taken them out of the line.
Around his flag, the ships' skippers held the fleet to its course and deceleration. Where did the Empire get such men?
"Decelerate at five gees. Execute," Admiral Zom ordered.
Immediately, the dead weight of his body went from four and a half of normal to a full five times. The pressure on his chest was brutal as his lungs struggled to suck in air and expel it back out.
The admiral could only view his battle board from his high gee couch if it was angled no more than forty degrees from the vertical. He felt the weight of his insides begin to slip toward his hips. His stomach was pressured from above until it begged to expel his last meal.
Zom eyed his board. There really was nothing he could do at the moment. The fleet would struggle around Longnae 5 a
t five gees. Those that made it would be there on the other side to join him in fighting the Longknife Human and the misguided sailors following the boy pretender.
Closing his eyes, Zom used his thumb to push the button that laid his high gee station out flat. His body's weight now pushed down on the waterbed. The water leveled out in the mattress. Breathing was still a struggle, but his insides no longer felt like stones pressing against his heart, lungs, stomach, and guts.
A loud pop startled Admiral Zom. Without thinking, he glanced around for the sound. He should not have done that.
Even as he heard a sound of water gushing out, then sloshing around the deck, he felt the scream of agony from his neck.
While he struggled to find a less painful way to rest his neck, he demanded, "What happened?"
"The water cushion in a Marine guard's high gee station failed, Most Eminent Admiral."
Zom made an effort not to grind his beak together. It did no good to make himself a casualty.
"Number One. Send to the fleet. 'All hands who are not needed specifically for duty are to recline their high gee stations parallel with the floor. Report to me how many water mattresses have failed.' Get me the tally as soon as you can."
Around him on the bridge, gears ground painfully as all his staff and support personnel reclined their beds.
Even as they did it, the painful situation on the high gee station with no water played out. The Marine was now level, and on his back. He groaned with each breath he took as his body ground against itself and the hard mattress. His breath struggled as he gasped for air in small pants that grew smaller and smaller still.
Admiral Zom could feel the weight, like a slab of stone, on his own chest. Still, the water below him softened each breath. The downward pressure flattened his diaphragm as he let out a breath. He was barely able to gasp in another shallow breath and hold it, trying to drain every atom of oxygen from the captured air before he had to give up and let the weight drive it from his lungs.
Kris Longknife Stalwart Page 36