by James Evans
“New orders,” said Cohen, glancing at his slate. “Open fire, Mr MacCaibe.”
“Yes, sir,” said MacCaibe, calmly professional. “Railguns firing now, all batteries. Missiles away, drone weapon platforms deployed.” The relief on the bridge was almost palpable.
Then Apollo’s status indicator went grey.
“What the hell was that?” snapped Cohen, staring at the display. One moment Apollo had been part of the fleet, firing on the enemy as expected. And then it was gone. Part of the viewscreen zoomed in to focus on the ailing ship as it tumbled, dark and drifting, across space.
“It’s an ambush,” Warden said at a volume perilously close to shouting, “and we’re right where they want us to be.”
“Patience, Captain,” said Cohen, although his own nerves were starting to fray a little. “I’m sure the admiral knows what he’s doing.”
Warden was pretty sure that the admiral didn’t have a fucking clue, and he damned sure as mustard didn’t have any experience. No-one did. But there were limits to what he could say, even now, so he bit his lip and kept his own counsel.
Cohen tapped his fingers on the arm of his chair, leaning forward despite himself, as if he would somehow see the viewscreens more clearly. His slate pinged with new orders from the admiral. Finally, he thought.
“We have orders,” Cohen announced, “take us forward. Ten-second burn on the main engines, full power please, Miss Martin.”
“Aye, sir, laying in. Five seconds.” A warning klaxon sounded.
“Keep firing, Mr MacCaibe,” said White, “target anything we have a clear shot at.”
“Aye, sir. There’s nae shortage of the wee buggers.”
Warden looked around, wondering if he was the only sane person on the bridge. The fleet was moving, but slowly, far too slowly and far too late.
Then the engines fired, driving Ascendant forward and keeping pace with the support ships in the centre of the fleet.
Warden watched, a sick feeling in his stomach. Morgan was taking the entire fleet forward in a completely predictable manoeuvre.
“Turn around,” Warden suggested. “Break formation, get us out of here before–”
There was a flash on the forward viewscreens and HMS Virtue’s status indicator went from green to grey.
“What the hell was that?” asked Warden, confused.
“Looks like Virtue exploded,” muttered Cohen, staring at the status updates and trying to make sense of the barrage of data.
“Get us out of here,” implored Warden, “back off, circle around, come at them again from a different angle. This is an ambush,” he repeated, “we’re in the kill zone, right where they want us, and the longer we stay here, the worse it’s going to get.”
Cohen threw an angry glance at him, and it was clear he wasn’t happy with either Warden or the admiral’s orders.
“Be quiet, Captain. That’s an order.”
Warden seethed and reached for his data slate. The Navy might like blundering around in the space the enemy had chosen for their ambush, but he was damned if he was doing nothing. He tapped out a quick message to Milton.
He snorted to himself. Milton didn’t need orders in a situation like this, and what the hell did he expect her to do anyway? He shook his head.
“Apollo and didn’t stand a chance,” muttered Stevens, “they didn’t even see it coming.”
“Press the attack, Captain,” said Morgan calmly, sending more orders to the fleet. “Take us forward; let’s see what else they have.” The admiral looked as if the loss of his second ship was nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
Stevens nodded and took a deep breath, impressed by Morgan’s self-control. “Get us moving, Mr Church, full power to the engines, thirty-second burst.”
“Aye, sir,” said Church initiating the manoeuvre as the high-G warning sounded.
“Molesworth has been hit,” said Lieutenant Sturgis. “She’s falling behind, engines damaged.”
“More incoming ships,” said Barnes as warnings flashed across the screens.
Morgan’s slate pinged with a direct message from Captain Soberton, commander of Molesworth.
“Where’s Molesworth?” Morgan shouted. “Show me what damage she’s taken.”
“Aye, sir,” said Todd. “On screen now.” The main display switched to show a close-up of Molesworth, which was clearly badly damaged and leaking atmosphere from a dozen or more holes in its flank.
Morgan ignored the barrage of incoming messages on his data slate, “Comms, fleet-wide broadcast. Admiral Morgan expects every ship to do their duty. The Royal Navy does not retreat and does not surrender!” He stuck his chin out proudly but Steven’s sloppy crew of layabouts gave his rousing speech no recognition.
Then there was a great flash of light from Molesworth and all eyes turned to the zoomed-in view on the main screen.
“What was that?” snapped Morgan.
“Liquid oxygen release on Molesworth, sir,” said Todd as she reviewed the video. A much larger flash followed and for a moment the image went flat white. When they could see again, Molesworth was exactly where she had been, still venting plumes of burning gas, still tumbling through space.
Molesworth’s life pods launched, barely a dozen of them as her decimated crew fled their stricken ship.
4
The alarms sounded continuously now, too frequent and too close to separate, as more enemy vessels appeared.
Morgan watched as the crew of HMS Duke of Norfolk struggled to cope with the rate of enemy fire and the overwhelming numbers of craft that were appearing on all sides. Then he began tapping out new orders.
The engines kicked in and Norfolk shot forward, pressing the crew back into their seats. Then there was a series of bangs and the engines failed.
“Impacts detected,” said Barnes, voice rising as she watched the reports. “Multiple impacts across the starboard flank. Hull breaches,” she paused, searching for a way to explain the magnitude of the damage, “everywhere.”
“Engines offline,” said Todd unnecessarily, “some sort of leak in the fuel system.”
“Engineering,” yelled Stevens over the impact and hull breach alarms, “what’s going on?”
A bright flash of light from the main displays rolled quickly across the bridge and was gone.
“What was that?” shouted Lieutenant Sturgis, scrabbling around for news.
“HMS Virtue,” muttered Morgan, his frown deepening as his fleet disintegrated around him. A quarter of his ships now showed amber or grey on the status monitor and all were engaged. He flicked at his slate, ordering the fleet to press forward and shoot their way free from the trap.
“Stingray and Colossus are gone,” said Church numbly. There was another flash of light, smaller this time but still
bright.
“What was that?”
“Where is Molesworth?”
“Wormhole comms system inactive.”
“Are we still firing?”
“Fire suppression systems activated.”
“Atmosphere venting on lower decks, casualties unknown.”
“Starboard sensor arrays damaged. Multiple incoming contacts. Brace for impact.”
“Engines damaged, unrecoverable.”
“Aft weapons bank offline. Forward weapons bank inoperable. Starboard railguns overheating.”
“Hyperspace engine shielding punctured, status critical.”
The ship creaked as another wave of projectiles washed over the hull.
“Multiple hull breaches, internal doors closed and sealed.”
“Hyperspace engine offline,” murmured a horrified Church. He looked round at Morgan, fear obvious on his face. Without the hyperspace engine, there was no way to escape the ambush.
Then there was a rumbling explosion from somewhere beneath the bridge. The floor bucked as shockwaves blasted through the ship.
“Artificial gravity failing,” said Sturgis redundantly as the bridge crew felt themselves suddenly become weightless.
Morgan still sat serenely in his chair as the disaster unfolded. Ship after ship reported incoming fire, then hull breaches and failures. Status indicators went orange, then red or grey as ships were crippled, abandoned or destroyed. Morgan sent orders to each of his captains, designating targets amongst the swarm of enemy vessels that flashed across his view.
“Hawk has been abandoned.”
The display shifted to show a view of the support ship, HMS Hawk. Along its length, escape pod doors had opened, and Norfolk’s bridge crew watched helplessly as launch rockets flared. Only a handful of pods left their tubes.
“Get the engines back online,” shouted Morgan over the din, abruptly engaged in the drama, “and get those bloody alarms switched off.”
The alarms suddenly stopped as Todd punched at the controls. The silence was unsettling.
“Negative on the engines,” came a voice across the comms. “Engineering is down, the whole area is offline. Looks like a hull breach. Everyone behind the blast door is dead.”
More groans swept across the bridge.
“Target those vessels,” shouted Morgan, pointing at the main display where a small squadron of new Deathless scout ships had appeared only four thousand metres from Norfolk. “Hit them with everything we have.”
“Targeting,” said Barnes, running on automatic, hands moving swiftly over the controls, but her mind elsewhere. “Firing.”
There was a pause.
“Weapons inoperable. The railguns are all offline, missile systems unresponsive.” Barnes turned in her seat to look at Stevens. “What do we do, sir?”
“Switch Shard Storm to fully autonomous operation,” said Stevens, “and let’s hope it’s as good as everyone says.”
“Shard Storm operating at ten per cent capacity,” reported Ellis. “Not likely to be very effective now,” he went on, voice bitter.
There was another rumbling explosion, deep in the heart of the ship, and the lights flickered. Some of the monitors failed. Then the main lights went off and the bridge was suddenly cast into total darkness. Someone yelled. Stevens shouted for light, then the emergency power kicked in, bathing the bridge in a dim red glow.
Stevens looked around, appalled at the scale of the disaster. Then he unstrapped himself from his seat and gave the only order left to him.
“All hands on deck,” he whispered, triggering the final klaxon, “abandon ship.”
The situation was deteriorating. The fleet moved forward as ordered by Admiral Morgan and the Deathless pressed their attack. Again and again, the Deathless vessels dove through the fleet, firing at close range and escaping unharmed. Outnumbered, outgunned and clearly outmanoeuvred, the Navy fought hard but the odds, even to Warden’s inexperienced eyes, looked hopeless.
Warden watched in dismay as Cohen and White strove to follow the admiral’s orders and play their part in his plan. He was struggling to work out exactly what that plan might be, but Cohen seemed ready to follow orders and issue his own in line with the admiral’s, regardless of the tactical realities. He shook his head. From the Marines’ perspective, none of this made any sense.
“Railgun ammunition down to twenty-two per cent. Exhaustion in,” MacCaibe peered at his monitors with disbelieving eyes, “forty-five seconds.”
“Keep firing, Mr MacCaibe,” ordered Cohen, although the midshipman had been targeting every enemy ship he could find and firing continuously, for all the good it was doing.
“Aye aye, sir,” said a strained MacCaibe, hands flashing across the controls. The railguns were running hot, close to their operational maximum. Any hotter and their performance would be seriously degraded.
“Let’s get the automated manufacturing plants running, Mr White,” said Cohen.
“Yes, sir, although they can’t do much with everything locked down to action stations.”
Ahead, a support ship split in half as if a giant sword had cleaved it down the middle. Warden couldn’t see what had done the damage, but it looked like the ship had just come unstitched.
The two halves tumbled apart, each spewing supplies and bodies into the vacuum. One part was burning as liquid oxygen splashed across the hot steel. An explosion tore at the dismembered vessel, punching new holes in her hull and blasting debris across the fleet.
Then the status indicators for Duke of Norfolk flashed orange. Cohen saw it and shivered.
“Just keep shooting,” he said, “and let’s get the missiles underway as well. No point keeping them in stores, they won’t do us any good there.”
“Aye, sir,” said MacCaibe. He triggered a broadside of missiles towards the Deathless capital ship, not that he expected it to do any good. “Spread burst against the scout ships,” he muttered under his breath, “another against those buggers down there, and let’s paint these little chappies as well.”
MacCaibe worked fast, marking targets for the computer to launch against as soon as their trajectories brought them within range. Ascendant ground forward, weapons firing on all sides as around them space filled with the detritus of battle.
The strategic overview now showed the fleet finally beginning to break up, but from where Warden sat, it looked like the Deathless were simply mopping up. More enemy ships had appeared, and they dove through the Royal Navy’s fleet, firing at will and almost unopposed.
Warden couldn’t take his eyes from Norfolk, now shown in one corner of the display, as internal explosions made the hull shudder and buckle. The ship was clearly stricken, no threat to anyone, and yet still the Deathless pounded it.
Norfolk’s indicator went from orange to grey. For a few seconds, nothing happened. Then an escape pod launched from Norfolk, and another, then a handful more until the pods were streaming away.
Cohen poked at his slate as he tried to make contact with Admiral Morgan or Rear Admiral Harper. He tried the other ships, but still received no answer.
“Morgan’s dead,” said Warden. “He’s dead, and we’re dead as well if we stay here much longer. We have to leave before –” said Warden.
“Shut up!” snapped Cohen, his temper finally breaking. He rounded on Warden, finger raised.
“Incoming,” shouted MacCaibe, voice raised in panic. “Brace for –”
They felt the impacts before MacCaibe could finish. His words were drowned out by the titanic noise of multiple projectiles, both solid rounds and explosive, tearing into Ascendant.
And, just like that, the world shifted.
The emergency power came on almost immediately, casting a grim red light across the bridge. The klaxons were mercifully silent, although whether through action or damage was unclear. The familiar background whine of the life support system, usually ever-present, was gone.
Warden could hear his own breathing, and he could hear th
e bridge crew working to re-establish control. The rest of the ship was silent.
“Like a tomb,” he muttered.
“Which it will quickly become,” said Cohen harshly, “if we don’t get this under control.”
“Status report, Mr MacCaibe,” said White, calm despite everything.
“Nothing, sir,” said MacCaibe, his voice near hysterical. “Nothing at all. Everything’s off. We’re blind!”
“Get a grip, Mr MacCaibe,” said Cohen, “and start solving the problems.”
MacCaibe nodded and took a few deep breaths. Then he started working through the troubleshooting and emergency procedures that had been drilled into them during countless simulations at the academy.
“That goes for the rest of you too,” said Cohen, raising his voice. “Focus on the job in front of you, get me information, bring your systems back online.” The bridge was silent. Cohen clapped his hands together. “Move, people.”
The crew snapped out of their shock and began to work. Slowly, carefully, they investigated their areas.
Cohen turned to Warden, who was still sitting in his chair, hands locked to the arms.
“Not a word,” he hissed. Warden nodded. In the dim red light, Cohen looked stressed, almost manic.
“Passive sensors are online, sir,” reported Midshipman Wood at the communications desk, “but all the active sensors are down, and the processors are still rebooting. We’ll know more in,” he checked the countdown timer, “about fifteen seconds.”
“Weapons control systems offline,” said MacCaibe as he poked the reboot buttons, hoping for any sort of response. He shook his head. It was hopeless. “About as much use as a chocolate teaspoon, sir. We need to get to Engineering.”
“Internal comms are down,” said Wood, “and so are the sensors. Can’t tell if there’s anything still working outside the bridge.”
Or alive, thought Warden, keeping it to himself.
“Processors coming up, configured for minimal power use,” said Wood finally.