Exodus: Empires at War: Book 3: The Rising Storm

by Doug Dandridge

  “Should we send a courier to the Fleet?” asked the ship’s commanding officer.

  “I doubt they would get through the ships that are already around us,” said the Low Admiral, give a head gesture of negation. “And there could be some other ships of ours coming in soon. Hopefully, they will notice the enemy presence and send for aid.”

  “If they are like most of their ships they can only ride in VI,” said the Captain, giving another head gesture, sweeping his horns in a short circle of disagreement. “All of our ships can go into VII.”

  “But only when we get to the Hyper VII limit,” said the Admiral, making a head thrust of dominance. “Until then they can be caught.”

  The Admiral looked at the holo of the system, and ordered it to a tactical display with a thought. He had one battleship, four supercruisers and eight scout ships. And two of the scouts were damaged, one heavily. We really hadn’t expected the enemy to probe back this soon. And not to a minor system like this one. They have courage, this species. He laughed at the last thought. Of course the humans have proven that here, by skillfully battling an overwhelming force, and bleeding the Ca’cadasans at every step of their conquest.

  “Prepare the ship for battle,” he said to the Captain, then linked to the com to give orders to the rest of his force.

  “Perhaps it is just a probe,” said the Captain, looking nervously at the tactical holo.

  “It is more than that,” said the Low Admiral, giving a head gesture of assertion. “I feel it in my bones. It’s more than that.”

  * * *

  “Scouts are reporting in, Admiral,” said Flag Captain Greenefield. He activated the central holo tank, and a representation of the system appeared. The green icon of the inhabitable world blinked near to the sun. And right on top of it blinked the red icons of enemy ships.

  “It looks like they only have one of their superbattleships in system,” said the Captain, pointing at the planet. “That’s the good news.”

  As if twenty-five million tons of advanced warship is ever good news, thought the Admiral, looking at the system and trying to formulate a plan.

  “The bad news is there are four of the supercruisers to support that capital ship, and an undetermined number of their scout ships, anywhere from six to twelve from what we saw.”

  “So we go in and take them, right?” said the Emperor, his eyes taking on a feral gleam as he looked at the holo. “We out mass them just with the battle cruisers, and much more with the destroyers and light cruisers added in.”

  “And we are scouts, your Majesty,” said the Flag Captain, looking at his Admiral for support. “We have fewer missiles than a VI battle cruiser.”

  “We will attack,” said the Admiral, looking at the Emperor, then her flag Captain. “Here is how I want our forces deployed.”

  And the Admiral outlined her plan for the officers in the room. Afterwards, the com sent instructions to the task force, and the ships gathered and maneuvered into position. In eight hours they were ready.

  * * *

  “We have translations, my Lord,” called out the Sensor Tech over the com.

  “How many?” asked the Low Admiral, straightening in his chair and pushing the plate of meat in front of him away.

  “Fifty-eight, my Lord,” said the Tech, his voice trembling slightly.

  “How many of their battleships?” asked the Low Admiral, feeling like his food was not settling well in his stomach.

  “None, my lord,” said the Tech. “There are eight of their scout capital ships, twenty-two of their large scouts and twenty-eight of the smaller scouts.”

  Still a considerable force, thought the Low Admiral. They can flood space with their missiles, which are almost as good as ours. “And how are they deployed?”

  “In two large groups and a half dozen smaller groups,” said the Tech. “And all are on a course for this world.”

  “Of course they are,” said the Admiral. “There is nothing else of interest in this system.”

  The Admiral walked out of his dining room and stalked the thirty meters of corridor to the bridge. “Captain. Prepare for battle.”

  “Orders, my Lord?” asked the Captain.

  “We will move the fleet at maximum acceleration toward this force,” said the Admiral, pointing at one of the larger groups. “If we attack we can defeat this force while gaining distance from the others. Then we can break from the system.”

  “What about the troop transports, my Lord? What about the soldiers?”

  “The troop transports cannot keep up with us anyway,” said the Admiral, his nose wrinkling in anger at himself and his decision. “The soldiers can dig in on the planet, and await a return of a relief force. And the crews of the transports can join them. Now start us accelerating toward that enemy force, Captain.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” said the officer, turning to give the commands to his bridge crew.

  “Signal coming in, my Lord,” said the Com Tech, looking at the Admiral. “It’s the General.”

  “Put him on,” said the Low Admiral, feeling his stomach flip over again.

  The snarling image of the General appeared on the viewer, his eyes glaring from the screen. “I can’t believe you are going to leave me unsupported on this planet. You are a coward.”

  “Watch your words, General,” growled the Admiral, lowering his horns in a threat display. “I am the senior officer in this system, and will not allow my orders to be questioned. Is that clear?”

  “As can be,” said the other male, raising his head, exposing his throat in a sign of submission. He looked back down and at the Admiral, and imploring expression on his face. “But what about my soldiers?”

  “Have your men dig in on the surface,” said the Admiral, showing his fangs in a feral smile. “Contest the landings of the enemy, if they get to the planet, and bring down the crews of the transports to the surface and make them soldiers, if it comes to that.”

  “And what will you be doing, Admiral?” While we dig into the ground like burrowing vermin.”

  “We will be meeting the enemy in space, and trying to defeat him in detail,” growled the Admiral, waving an upper hand at the holo plot.

  “And if you are not able to defeat them?”

  “Then we will try to get some ships into hyper and get a message back to the Fleet,” said the Admiral, again giving a feral smile. “So hold out until the relief comes. Now, I need to see to my force. And you need to see to yours.”

  At the last word the holo went blank, the com officer taking his cue from the officer he knew well. The Low Admiral turned back to the main viewer and gestured with both right hands. “Move us toward that first enemy force,” he ordered, then looked back at the com officer. “All other ships to form a protective shell around the Flag.” He knew the other ships were more vulnerable to attack, just as he knew that the battleship was the only hope of defeating this enemy. Her firepower was what would swing the fight, and he needed all of his weapons functional.

  The flagship began to accelerate away from the planet, heading outsystem and toward one of the two large enemy forces, while the other ships closed in around her.

  * * *

  “They’re coming out, Admiral,” called out the Tactical Officer, pointing to the updating display on the holo screen.

  “Crap,” said Rear Admiral Montgomery, looking up at the screen. “I had hoped they would be dumb enough to wait for us at the planet.”

  Her task force was one of the larger concentrations she had entering the system, with four battle cruisers, seven light cruisers and eight destroyers. Commodore Basingee’s force, coming in from one hundred and eighty degrees, was of the same composition. And there were four smaller forces arranged to fill the globe and block any enemy attempts to flee the system. Each was composed of two light cruisers and three destroyers. For a moment she wondered why the enemy wasn’t heading out on a vector that would take them into one of the smaller forces. Because they want to destroy us in a cl
ose battle, then turn and destroy Basingee’s force. And then the small groups will be irrelevant.

  “Show me a predicted plot of their current position,” she told the Tactical Officer. A red dotted line projected to a dot showing where the enemy ships should be at the present time, something the Sir Galahad couldn’t see directly due to the light speed information barrier.

  “And where will they be if our missiles are fired at them now, by the time the missiles get there at best accel?”

  The dotted line moved out some more, even further than before as the enemy ships continued to accelerate. And that’s a hell of an assumption. They could be doing anything right now, and we wouldn’t know it for another three hours.

  “Now, plot the trajectory of Basingee’s force’s missiles if they fire at the time they see the enemy move.”

  “That should be about now,” said the Tactical Officer, working the calculations on his board. “They would have seen the enemy move at more or less the same time as we did, give or take nine minutes.”

  The plot changed and showed the missiles reaching out from the other task force, and reaching for the enemy force.

  “Calculate our required acceleration and firing time to get our missiles there at the same time.”

  The plot changed to show the battle cruiser moving forward at a reduced acceleration, then launching her missiles, which reached the enemy at the same time as the missiles fired by the other task force. She linked into the main bridge to give her orders. “Captain Stanford. Have your Helm follow this course and speed as we have plotted, if you please. And direct your Tactical Officer to fire on this profile.”

  “Yes, ma’am” agreed the Captain, turning away from the viewer to relay the orders.

  “Commander Ogden Lee,” she next said, turning toward the Flag Com Officer. “Transmit my orders to the rest of the force. Then transmit my intentions to the remainder of the Task Force.”

  “It will take some time for them to receive those orders,” said the Commander, looking back at the Admiral.

  “I realize that,” said the Admiral. “I expect Commodore Basingee will fire as soon as he sees the enemy intentions.”

  “How do you know that, Admiral?” asked Sean, leaning forward in his chair.

  “Because I know the Commodore. And he knows me,” said the Admiral with a smile. “And we gamed this in simulations before entering the system. So he knows what to do.” I hope, she thought, looking again at the plot. Otherwise, I might have rescued you to just bring you to your death, your Majesty.

  * * *

  “Start firing missiles,” said the Low Admiral. The Tactical Officer gave a head gesture of acknowledgement and started punching in the firing commands, his claws fitting into the holes that controlled the system. “How many should I fire, my Lord?” asked the officer.

  That is a good question, by the Emperor, thought the Admiral. Missiles were more effective when fired at a distance, where they could build up velocity while not under fire, and would come screaming in at point nine light or better, making them hard targets to hit. But the problem with firing from such long range was the time it took to see any actual effects, and to add additional missiles to the pattern. If he fired all his missiles he would have a better chance of destroying the force he was firing at, at the risk of wasting missiles that might be used on the other large group of enemy vessels. And then he would be helpless against them in a long range engagement. If he fired half and it wasn’t enough to saturate the enemy defenses then the other half might not be enough either.

  The best solution is to blast this one enemy force, and then fly by them out into deep space, he thought.

  “Fire all of them, less one tube load for each ship,” he finally ordered. “Target the scout capital ships.”

  “Yes, my Lord,” said the Tactical Officer, turning to go back to work. It took a little over twelve minutes to flush all the ordered missiles from all the ships. At the end of that time over a twenty-four hundred missiles were on their way. When all were in close proximity they kicked in the high acceleration, pulling eight thousand gravities as they headed for their targets.

  * * *

  “All missiles are away,” called out the Tactical Officer.

  Commodore Conridus Basingee nodded as he watched the green vector arrows moving outward on the plot, the symbols of missiles moving at five thousand gravities acceleration. He knew there were faster missiles in the pipeline, mostly for use by the new Stealth/Attack ships. But they were not on any of the human ships in this battle.

  “I want the entire force to tank their crews,” said the Commodore, looking at the projected enemy plot and not liking what he saw. “We can use the extra thirty gees this time around.”

  “Yes, sir,” said the Flag Com Officer, sending out the signal.

  We actually have better accel than those bastards, thought the Commodore, watching as the acceleration tanks started to rise from the floor. At least better than that big bastard, if that’s all he can do. No telling how many gees those smaller ships can pull. Probably more than the big one, if they’re anything like ours.

  The cylinders of the tanks finished rising from the floor, locking into place, one for each crew member on the Flag Bridge. As soon as the tanks were up and ready the crew started for them, shucking their outer uniforms and stripping down to the skin tight undergarment. Basingee jumped up from his chair and headed toward his cylinder, opening the door and climbing in, his feet sinking into the liquid already in the bottom of the tank. A Klaxon was sounding, high gee warning, telling everyone aboard the ship to get into protection, or face a pull of pseudogravity they would not survive.

  The Commodore pulled his breathing mask down from the wall of the tank, while the liquid was rising swiftly from the floor. He fit the mask, then relaxed as warm liquid climbed up past his chest, then to his chin and over his face. He looked around and saw that the rest of the crew were floating in their cylinders of liquid. Five more minutes passed, giving everyone time to get into their own cylinders. At the end of that time the klaxon stopped, while the red lights continued to flash, and the ship started pulling first five, then ten, then up to thirty gravities above the capacity of the ship’s inertial compensators. The Commodore linked into the ship’s command system, seeing everything the ship saw on all sensors.

  The Hyper VII battle cruiser Duke of Yorkshire pulled ahead at the fastest acceleration of any human made capital ship, heading to join the battle on the side of her sister ships.

  * * *

  “Enemy has fired missiles,” called out the Flag Sensory Officer.

  “What, two hours ago?” said the Emperor, wondering when they would be able to do things in normal space in real time. When physics no longer applies, he thought, then amended that to when they got the wormhole technology perfected, if they were around long enough to actually do that.

  “About that long, yes,” said the Tactical Officer.

  “How long till they get here?” asked Sean, looking at the tactical plot.

  “About another three hours and fifty-one minutes,” said the officer. He turned back to the Admiral. “Estimated firing time two hours, thirty-eight minutes, ma’am.”

  “Very well,” said the Admiral. “Begin deceleration.”

  And it will be two hours before the enemy sees what we are doing, thought Sean, playing a future plot over the holo nearest to his own chair. By the time the enemy missiles get here we will be accelerating in the opposite direction, sort of. It wouldn’t be all that much of a difference at the velocity the enemy missiles would be traveling. But every little bit would help.

  “It’s always like this, isn’t it?” he asked no one in particular.

  “Your Majesty?” said the Admiral, turning his way. He could see the concern on her face, knowing that she worried about more than just her command, as important as that was.

  “Space battles are always a combination of high tension and boredom, aren’t they?” They can’t be anythin
g else with the distances involved, and the light speed limit.”

  “I guess that’s true, your Majesty,” answered the Admiral. “Haven’t thought about it in quite a while, but I guess it’s true. It’s really hard to sneak up on anyone, by the Goddess. And you almost always see the enemy at about the same time as he sees you.”

  And again we can change that equation, thought Sean, his agile mind sifting through the possibilities. All of these ideas are probably on the drawing board already. There are better minds than mine working on the problem. But was that technically true? Sean knew that the minds of his father and mother had been among the best in the Empire. That was not pride speaking, but genetic surety. So I need to look at what they have on the drawing board when I get back, and make sure they aren’t missing anything I’m thinking of. He looked again at the plot. If we make it back. This might have been the stupidest decision I have ever made. I wanted to rescue those people, but what will the Empire be if I get killed, and some idiot cousin takes over.

  Sean looked over at his own cousin, the Flag Com Officer of the task force, and revised that thought. Not all the cousins are stupid. And not all are traitors. If only we can get those in line for the throne.

  “It will be some time before anything happens, your Majesty,” said the Admiral, breaking into his thoughts. “Do you want to get something to eat, or a little sleep?”

  “No thank you, Admiral,” said the young man, smiling. “I wouldn’t miss this for the Galaxy.”

  * * *

  “The following force missiles have passed the star by now,” said the Tactical Officer, gesturing with his lower hands.

  “And what about the missiles from the force we attack?” asked the Low Admiral, looking at the plot and seeing no indication of them.

  “As far as I can tell they have not fired,” said the Tactical Officer. “I am not really sure why.”

  “Because they wish to hit us with the weapons of both forces at once,” said the Admiral, wondering about the coordination of two forces that could not communicate in real time. That really could not communicate in under five hours. So they had this situation planned out in advance, like they knew what we were going to do. But how? Telepathy? He hissed at that idea, one of fantasy. It had always been dreamed in the Empire to find a truly telepathic race, and preferably one that could communicate over interstellar distances instantaneously. But such was not to be found. There were some races that communicated by radio waves, but that did not solve the light speed barrier problem.