Gunboat

by James Evans

  “That might leave us nothing left for Target Two,” cautioned MacCaibe.

  “Understood, Midshipman. Set the target, if you please.”

  “Aye, sir, targeting now.”

  “And let’s take the admiral off hold, Mr Wood.”

  There was a momentary pause, then Tomsk’s face reappeared.

  “Admiral,” said Cohen with a friendly grin, “we have considered your generous offer but find ourselves unable to accept at this time.”

  “You refuse?” spluttered Tomsk.

  “You are hardly the first Koschite to threaten us, Admiral, and yours will be the fourth vessel we’ve destroyed in recent weeks. What is that you’re flying? Some sort of converted freighter? If your crew is as incompetent as all the others we’ve faced,” he glanced at the time, “then I think this’ll all be over well before tea time.” He leaned forward. “Are you ready for your lesson, Admiral?” he asked, giving the most disrespectful grin he could manage and watching as Tomsk’s expression tightened.

  “You boast of your crimes, but you will pay the price today,” promised Tomsk.

  Cohen cleared the grin from his face, coldly serious.

  “You have made threats against us and our peaceful friends, the Valkyr. You have attacked our planets and colonies, our ships and our people, our stations and our outposts. And now you wish us to surrender to your ‘justice’? I’m sorry, Admiral, but today ends only with the destruction of your fleet and the safe delivery of our friends from harm.”

  “You will regret your insults, Cohen. Your name will be a byword for fear and cowardice across the universe. Your punishment will last a thousand years. I, Admiral Tomsk of the fourteenth fleet, promise this in the name of the Koschite Republic!”

  “At least I won’t be a bore, Admiral,” said Cohen, forcing back a yawn.

  “Your insolence is beyond belief,” snapped Tomsk. “Make your preparations, Commander.”

  Cohen leant back and grinned at the display. “We’re ready,” he said calmly. Then he beckoned towards the screen. “Bring it.”

  Tomsk snarled, and the channel closed.

  “First time I’ve negotiated with the commander of an enemy fleet,” he muttered to himself. “Could have gone worse.”

  It took an hour of tense and tedious travel to bring the enemy ships within the effective range of their weapons. Ascendant jinked marginally a couple of times, but both sides needed to close the distance if they were to exchange fire, and there weren’t many options except to charge in and hope for the best.

  “Is there any chance we could have missed a third ship? They came in much larger numbers at Akbar, and he is an admiral,” White pointed out.

  Cohen replayed the ambush at the Battle of Akbar in his mind. The constant stream of Deathless vessels dropping out of hyperspace and launching into a coordinated, and deadly assault. He had no idea if Tomsk was involved there, but this time he didn’t have the same sense of trepidation. Nor did he have Admiral Morgan giving orders to hold back.

  “This doesn’t have the same feel,” Cohen said after a few seconds of consideration. Tomsk seemed confident to him, and well he should be with that monster of a flagship against Ascendant. “I think two is all they have.”

  And so they flew on, watching as the distance slowly shrank. Target Two, the troop carrier, had fallen behind, letting Tomsk forge ahead to meet Ascendant. Now Target Two had turned towards Child of Starlight and had set an intercepting course.

  “Two hundred and fifty seconds to firing range,” said MacCaibe, although in the airless void of space, ‘firing range’ was a variable distance based on the closing speed and the enemy vessel’s perceived manoeuvrability rather than a maximum engagement range.

  “Sound the klaxon for imminent action, Mr Wood,” said White, who was monitoring the internal systems. The crew, such as it was, were still at action stations, all waiting for something to happen.

  “Target One is reconfiguring their forward hull-plating, sir, the wee jessies,” reported MacCaibe, hands flicking at the controls as he pushed composite images from the forward sensor array to the main display.

  “What the hell...?” murmured Cohen, leaning forward to examine the picture more closely. The slab-fronted ship had changed utterly. Now, instead of a flying wall of metal, Target One presented a sloping, curved face.

  “Angled to deflect railgun rounds and as welcome as a maggot in your neeps,” said MacCaibe, somewhat awed by the vast panels that Target One had deployed.

  Cohen was silent for a moment, nodding gently.

  “Let’s send this to Target One, Mr Wood: Your current path suggests hostile intent. Reverse your course immediately, or we will deploy lethal force to defend ourselves and Child of Starlight.”

  “Done, sir,” said Wood.

  “Looks like they’re deploying gun turrets, sir,” said MacCaibe, highlighting on the main display two large sections of Target One that had been raised above the ship’s sleek exterior.

  “I guess they’re proceeding with hostilities,” muttered Cohen. He opened a ship-wide channel. “This is Cohen. Prepare for imminent action.”

  “Thirty seconds,” said MacCaibe.

  “Send a short burst of railgun fire into that shielding, Mr MacCaibe, to test it,” said Cohen. “I’d like to see what it can do. Then everything else into the flanks as we sweep past.”

  “Aye, sir, locking in the programme now.”

  Cohen watched the numbers count down to zero, then waited another ten long seconds.

  “Fire now, Mr MacCaibe.”

  “Aye, sir, firing now.” The midshipman triggered the firing programme and pushed the weapons dashboards to the main display. “Number two gun has failed,” he reported as the status indicator flashed red, “some sort of mechanical problem. And numbers four and five are overheating.”

  “Keep firing until they fail,” said Cohen. MacCaibe nodded and moved his fingers away from the button that would have paused the firing.

  “Incoming fire from Target One,” reported MacCaibe, “deploying counter-measures.” MacCaibe frowned and punched at the buttons again. “No response from the countermeasure launch system, sir,” he said, continuing to press at the buttons.

  “Mantle,” barked Cohen, opening a channel to the engineering command suite. “What’s going on with our counter-measures?”

  “We’re on it,” snapped Mantle. “Looks like something shook loose.”

  “How long?”

  “I don’t know – a few minutes, maybe more.”

  Cohen looked questioningly at MacCaibe, who shook his head.

  “We don’t have that long, Mantle.”

  “So stop distracting me,” she said, closing the channel.

  “Target One is deploying counter-measures, sir,” reported MacCaibe, “analysing the pattern. And they’re firing again. Railguns and rocket-propelled missiles of some sort.”

  “Twist us around, Ms Martin,” ordered Cohen. “Ten degrees down and main engine for thirty seconds at maximum burn.”

  “Aye, sir, laying that in,” said Martin, working her controls. “Attitudinal thrusters firing, ten-second burst.”

  “Target One’s countermeasures look about ninety-five per cent effective, sir,” reported MacCaibe sourly. “Railgun three has suffered some sort of failure and is firing randomly. Railgun’s four and five have overheated like middens in summer.”

  “Manoeuvring complete,” said Martin, “main engine burn in three, two, one.” The engine fired, but instead of a solid kick of acceleration there was a far more modest nudge, as if Ascendant had been given a friendly prod.

  “What happened to the engines, Ms Martin?”

  “Don’t know, sir, they’re running at maybe four per cent.” She called up a diagnostic and threw it to the main display. “Looks like something might have failed in the main power generator.”

  There was a ping and a channel opened from the engineering suite. Mantle’s face appeared on Cohen’s slate, her expr
ession angry and stressed. “Can’t fix the countermeasure system,” she shouted over a blare of klaxons and other background noise, “and the safety coupling at the primary generator has tripped, so there’s only a trickle of power to the engines.”

  “I had noticed,” said Cohen with Herculean calm. “Can you fix it?”

  “Can’t hear you,” replied Mantle, “but we can’t fix this quickly. Needs a week of work to be sure. We’re just trying to hold things together down here. Out.” She closed the channel and a red warning flashed across Cohen’s slate.

  “Shit,” he whispered. Doubt assailed him, and no small amount of fear, as he watched Target One firing again. Victory was beginning to look more than a little unlikely.

  “Thirty seconds to first impacts,” reported MacCaibe.

  “Twist us around, Ms Martin, let’s take it head on,” said Cohen, resignedly.

  “Aye, sir, attitudinal thrusters firing in three, two, one.”

  Nothing happened.

  Martin punched at her controls again. “Sorry, sir, looks like they’re dead as well.”

  “Five seconds, brace for impact,” said MacCaibe, sound the ship-wide alarm.

  Then Ascendant shuddered as a flurry of railgun rounds chewed through her armoured hull and ripped into her innards.

  27

  The bridge was a confused mess of tumbling debris and lower power emergency lighting. The railgun rounds had torn at Ascendant, stitching ragged holes along her flank and punching out her core systems. Then the missiles had arrived, and it was only by luck that they had not destroyed the ship outright.

  “What’s the picture?” asked Cohen, forcing his feet back against the floor. The artificial gravity had failed and anything that hadn't been glued to a surface was now floating around the bridge, shaken loose by the pummelling the ship had taken.

  “Like a Saturday night in Inverness, sir,” said MacCaibe, still tethered to his station. “The computer logged forty-two railgun strikes before it went offline. There’s nae telling how many more after that.” He shook his head, flicked at his controls again, then he gave up in disgust. “Dead as a doornail, sir.”

  “Come on, people,” said Cohen, clapping his hands together. “Give me some good news.”

  “Internal comms seem to be working,” said Midshipman Wood, “and we have power to some other internal systems.”

  “Helm’s dead,” said Martin.

  “It looks like external comms are still working,” said Wood in surprise. “Can’t say I’d expected that,” he added under his breath.

  “A welcome piece of good news,” said Cohen, although he was buggered if he could see how they would talk their way to victory.

  “Navigation offline, life support inoperative,” said Jackson.

  “Weapons had mostly failed before they hit us,” said MacCaibe morosely, “and they’re no better now. Sensor arrays and processors are non-responsive.”

  The main door to the bridge opened and Mantle floated in, already wearing a full environmental suit. She activated the external speaker.

  “Everything’s dead in engineering except the primary power generator, which is still running at maybe ten per cent. Enough to power the emergency systems, but that’s about it.”

  “Can you fix it?” asked Cohen, without any real hope.

  “Sure,” shrugged Mantle, “but it’ll take weeks and we’ll need help.” She glanced around the bridge at the dead displays. “I don’t think we have that long.”

  “No,” agreed Cohen. “An hour, maybe less, for Target One to turn around and come back within range.”

  They looked at each other for a moment.

  “The comms system is working. I think it’s time to see if they’re ready to accept our surrender,” said Cohen.

  Mantle frowned at him through her faceplate, and Cohen could feel the rest of the bridge crew staring at him as well. He looked around behind him at the now dark bank of viewscreens against the wall.

  “Sub Lieutenant Mantle, can you please smash those screens?”

  “Smash?” asked Mantle, staring at Cohen as if he had gone mad. “Why?” But Cohen had already turned away and was composing himself. Mantle shook her head and floated across the bridge. She wedged her feet against the floor, then wrenched at one of the viewscreens until the case failed and the screen shattered. Fragments of plastic and silicon filled the air as she took out her frustration on the other screens, bashing them to pieces.

  “I think that’ll do,” said Cohen, glancing around. Mantle nodded, breathing hard, and pushed herself away towards the remains of the weapons desk where MacCaibe was still trying to boot his console. “Open a channel to Admiral Tomsk, Mr Wood. Let’s see how badly he needs to gloat.”

  “Aye, sir, making the request now.”

  For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then Admiral Tomsk’s face appeared on a corner of the main display. Ascendant’s crew watched as the admiral peered over Cohen’s shoulder, taking in the destruction wrought on the bridge.

  “So, Commander,” said Tomsk, smirking, “do you now wish to surrender? Will you give yourself up to Koschite justice?”

  “I do, Admiral, and I will,” said Cohen through gritted teeth. He gestured around him, “The state of Ascendant hardly allows me to do anything more.”

  “The state of Varpulis is testament to your supreme incompetence, Commander. Your reputation was greatly exaggerated,” replied Tomsk, triumph seeping from every pore. “Heave to, insofar as you are able, and prepare to be boarded. We will be alongside in,” he glanced at something off-camera, “forty minutes, and I expect to find your docking ports unlocked and ready.”

  The channel went blank.

  Cohen slumped back and blew out a long breath. Then he released his straps to float clear of the command chair.

  “All hands on deck,” he said firmly, giving the order every commander hoped they would never have to use. “Mr White, get everyone aboard Palmerston and ready her for flight.”

  “We’re not surrendering?” asked White, frowning with confusion.

  “We are not. Get to Palmerston, then send Sub Lieutenant Corn to the mess hall. She’ll need a full power suit. Mantle, you’re with me.”

  “We’re not leaving?” asked Mantle, her own confusion evident from within her helmet as the siren signalled all hands on deck and the bridge team began to move.

  Cohen looked at Mantle and gave a sudden manic grin. “One last card to play and I’ll need your help. Meet me in engineering in ten minutes. I need to speak to Captain Warden.”

  “Captain Warden,” said Cohen as he floated into the mess hall where the remaining Marines had congregated. All wore full combat power armour and they were armed to the teeth, kitted out with every piece of offensive equipment that Ascendant carried.

  “Sir,” nodded Captain Warden, the face plate of his helmet open, eyes gleaming in the dull red light. “We’re ready to go. What’s the next step?”

  Cohen grinned grimly. “Tomsk’s coming alongside for a boarding action. Thirty-five minutes, or thereabouts.”

  “Alongside? He told you that? He’s going to dock with Ascendant?”

  “So it seems.”

  “Good,” said Warden, nodding. “We can set up on the inside of the airlocks and really make them pay.”

  “That’s one option,” agreed Cohen, “but I was thinking you might prefer something more direct. We’ll take Palmerston and distract Tomsk, while you and your merry band take a walk to Target One and do something nasty to her innards.”

  “A walk?” asked Warden dubiously. Then Cohen grinned, and suddenly Warden got it. “Oh, a ‘walk’. Yes, that might work.” He looked around at the assembled commandos, working out who to take. “Tricky job. Never been done before, as far as I know, but it’s something we’ve trained for. I’ll pick a small team; the rest can come with you.”

  “Good,” said Cohen, glancing at the timer in the corner of his HUD. “You’ve got about thirty minutes to prepare.
You’ll need to steal a shuttle of some sort and rendezvous with Palmerston once everything’s done and dusted.”

  “That’s a risky plan, sir,” said Warden, stating the blindingly obvious.

  “I’m open to suggestions,” said Cohen, “but only ones that can be put into action in a little over thirty minutes.”

  Warden was silent for a few long seconds, then he shook his head. “Nothing springs to mind, sir, so I suppose we’d better make this plan work.”

  “Good man. Brief your team and get them to the airlocks. We’ll coordinate by HUD from here on.” He held out his hand and Warden gave it a firm shake. “Good luck, Captain. See you on the other side.”

  “And good luck to you too, sir.”

  Warden watched him go then turned to his company. The numbers were much reduced, but he still had eighty-four bodies to work with.

  “More than enough,” he muttered. “Too many, in fact.” This was a risky mission and there was too much at stake to attempt the job with anyone who wasn’t fully trained for the work at hand. He cleared his throat and waited for quiet.

  “Commander Cohen’s given us a mission, but it requires specialist skills. Everyone who’s done the spacewalk and zero-G combat training, over on that side. Everyone else, over there,” he said pointing across the room.

  There was a short period of confusion while the Marines sorted themselves out, and about four-fifths of the company ended up on the right-hand side of the room. “Anyone who’s still carrying an injury, over to the right,” Warden went on, waving a few more people away from the smaller team.

  “Good,” he said, staring at the fourteen Marines who were left. He turned to the others. “You don’t have the right training, so you’re sitting this one out. Get to Palmerston in the main bay, report to Lieutenant White, and keep yourselves out of trouble.” There was an undercurrent of grumbling – nobody liked missing a critical mission – but the Marines cleared out, leaving only the smaller team behind.