No battle fugue. Not even real combat as a gunner could bring it out of her.
Maybe it was gone forever. Just as mysteriously as it had arrived, it had gone, and she was just an ordinary pilot again. Perhaps she’d burned out her head … overloaded whatever thing was helping her. Icarus, too, had flown too close to the sun and paid the price.
Guano’s eyes drifted to the ammunition counter. Two hundred and eighty rounds remained, barely a breath on the trigger for her. She had dumped almost all her ammunition taking out a single fighter, damaging another, and shooting a whole bunch of space. Flatline usually did much better than her even on his off days—and, here she was, seemingly useless. The numbers didn’t lie. A computer could have probably shot better.
She’d always considered herself an ace pilot. This whole mind-thing was new to her and she was expected to perform without it. If she couldn’t even do a gunner’s job without it—what good was she?
What was the point in flying?
She slumped into her tiny gunners chair and sulked the whole way home.
Chapter Thirty-One
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
The minutes ticked away. The future-human ship, its weapon still active, pulsed as it blasted the surface.
It felt so odd to be closing the distance against a stationary target. Weapons in space had essentially infinite range, limited only by the target’s ability to maneuver. But this new technology presented new problems. Hopefully getting close would solve it.
The future-human ship grew to be crystal clear on the monitor. The swarm of friendly strike craft, their weapons mostly expended, withdrew back to a safe distance. As each one of them crossed the red line which indicated safety, Mattis felt a little more at ease.
“Torpedoes one and two ready,” said Lynch, typing furiously on the keyboard at his console. “The warhead yield is primed for armor penetration, but can be detonated with a proximity fuse if it looks like they’re being shunted away. The effect will be a lot less, but heat and radiation in that proximity are never good; close enough for government work. Ready to fire on your command.”
No time like the present. “Let them have it,” said Mattis. “Fire torpedoes one and two.”
The ship shuddered as the heavy missiles flew away from the tubes, each one leaving a rapidly expanding silver exhaust trail behind it, floating lazily in space to mark their path. They seemed so slow, even though Mattis knew they were traveling at hundreds of kilometers per second.
“Torpedoes away,” said Lynch. “Good on guidance, both birds tracking the target. Impact in forty-three seconds.”
Forty-three seconds seemed to be both a long time and nothing at all. “Any word from the surface?” asked Mattis, casting his eye to Spectre. “What do we know that’s down there?”
“A casino,” said Spectre, his tone suggesting that he genuinely thought everyone else had figured it out before. “Everyone knows about the Dark Side.”
Silence, broken only by the chirping of the computers as they gave their reports.
“Okay,” said Spectre, reaching up and pinching the bridge of his nose. “Apparently not everyone in the US Military is as familiar with illegal casinos as I am. The Dark Side is a nightclub where you can find anything, buy anything, anyone, for a price. You can bet on anything and probably lose, and if you can’t cover your debts, they saw off your head and use your body as fertilizer for the hydroponics labs. Smugglers love it. Criminals love it. It’s not as bad as everyone says; the few hundred miserable souls who make that place their home are certifiable, and the regulars even more so, but birds that are born in a cage think that freedom is a crime.” He looked to the main monitor, smiling whimsically. “Guess I won’t be going back there again any time soon.”
“Not really concerned with your vacation plans at this stage,” said Mattis. “Why would these aliens—future-humans—whatever … why would they attack the Dark Side?”
Spectre smiled wryly. “Maybe they gave in to their anger.”
“Enough with the joke, Mr. Spectre. Why are they attacking a casino?”
Spectre shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine, I’m afraid.”
Mattis reconsidered flushing the guy out the airlock.
“Torpedo impact imminent,” said Lynch, clicking his tongue. “Big pair of missiles, fixing to smack that skunk dead on.” His accent always got stronger when he was excited or stressed. “Three, two, one….”
Dual flashes washed out the screen, as the dual nuclear warheads detonated simultaneously, the piercing light flashing on the surface of the dark world, bringing a split-second of daylight to the perpetual darkness which otherwise ensconced it.
“Impact on target,” called Lynch. “Dual detonations, straight in. Happier than pigs in mud.”
“I’m not really sure they have feelings,” said Spectre, watching the light from the explosions fade away. “Or at least … not anymore.”
Mattis wanted to press him for more information—how he could know something like that, but he filed it away for the future. “What’s the status on the target?” he asked, as the camera refocused, bringing the future-human ship back into view.
It had ceased its attack, the spire mounted on its bow slowly retracting and sinking back into the armored hull.
And it was turning.
Its whole surface was blackened and marred, and there were small puffs of gas leaking from cracks in the hull, but overall the ship looked combat worthy.
“Looks like we got their attention,” said Lynch, grimacing. “The skunk’s turning toward us. Torpedo tubes one and two are reloading. Kind of hoping that weapon doesn’t work on ships….”
“Fortunately we also have guns,” said Mattis. “Let’s see if we can finish them before we get a chance to find out.”
The Midway’s guns spoke up, firing another volley, and the rounds smashed into their target, striking the turning broadside of the future-human ship and bursting into dozens of little flashes that died almost immediately in the cold, oxygen-free vacuum of space. Each left red hot disks at their impact points, superheated penetrations that seemed to at least have some effect. But no precious oxygen poured from them, so … more would be required.
Another volley smacked into the future-human ship, but by then it had completed its turn. The ship hovered there, seeming to almost consider the Midway for a moment, then thin cracks spread over its hull, and it opened up like a flower, revealing a massive array of missile tubes. Dozens of them.
“They have more missiles than us,” said someone on the bridge, a sentiment Mattis fully agreed with.
And then they launched.
Dozens of red streaks burst from the missile array, streaking out in one large mass like a star gone nova. They turned, a massive claw of missiles heading straight towards the camera.
“Vampire, vampire, vampire,” said their radar operator, using the naval brevity word for incoming missiles. “Missile contact.”
“Evasive maneuvers,” said Mattis, fighting down the wave of apprehension that came from staring down so many little instruments of death. “Spin up point defense and load flechette rounds in the main guns; prepare to kill with anti-missile burst rounds. Airburst those suckers, cut them down, but make sure we don’t hit our fighters. Away decoys, and deploy flares, chaff from all launchers.” He checked his instruments. “Fighters are fast enough to engage them. Order any craft close enough to intercept.”
“Solid copy on all,” said Lynch, and the noise in the bridge picked up as his orders were repeated throughout the cramped metal room. The voices came at once and he struggled to filter them.
“Decoys away. Faux radar signal is strong.”
“Gun crews report flechette loaded, airburst coordinates set, eight rounds rapid, firing in ten. Danger close.”
“Flares and chaff are deployed, sir.”
“Helm reports maneuvers commencing.”
Ma
ttis ran everything through a quick mental check. Everything they could do was being done. “Status on torpedo tubes?”
“Loading sir,” said Lynch. “Two minutes.”
Damn those things were slow. They would be hit long before they had a chance to reload. The newer ships loaded twice as fast, but the Midway was not a newer ship. “We should definitely work on speeding that up,” he said, glaring at the future-human ship and its exposed rows of missile tubes. “Or, at least, you know … getting more of them.”
The Midway’s guns spoke again, but this time the streaks that leapt out stopped short of the future-human ship, exploding as they flew through the mass of missiles heading toward them, silently exploding into thousands of finger-sized darts that sprayed out in a wide arc. As they collided with the hostile missiles they shredded them in showers of sparks, slicing through nearly half of the incoming threat.
Which was a charitable way of saying that their best physical defense didn’t even get half.
“Vampires six through thirteen are down, killed with guns,” said Lynch, reading off his monitor. “And fifteen, nineteen through twenty one, and twenty four.”
That still left a lot of missiles active.
“Flares seem ineffective,” said Lynch, a little bitterly. “None of those birds are turning even a little bit. Not for the chaff neither.”
Well, guess they would have to rely on their point defense, some fancy flying, and a whole lot of luck.
The Midway maneuvered valiantly, powered by her new engines, and Mattis almost felt a little vertigo as the ship twisted around, presenting its most armored front to the remaining missiles. Each of them was significantly smaller than the Midway’s torpedoes, but he doubted very much if they packed a smaller punch. The ship’s point-defense guns chattered, spitting out lines of high velocity explosive shells that criss-crossed, like angry fingers swatting down a swarm of bees.
“Vampires one, two, sixteen are trashed,” said Lynch. Mattis watched as the angry red lights that indicated the hostile incoming missiles, one by one, winked out. “Three, seventeen, eighteen, twenty two…”
The main guns fired from point blank range, the explosion of their flechette shells intermingling and creating a billion shards of glinting metal that shot in all directions in a wave that passed over the ship, completely unable to penetrate its armor, but still ruining the new paint job. Two missiles flew through the maelstrom, the lone survivors which the computer helpfully labelled as 5 and 23.
“All hands,” said Mattis, giving the command he hated the most. “Brace for impact.”
The first of the missiles soared in, tracked by one of the ship’s many external cameras. It struck the hull, bouncing off the thick metal without exploding, shattering into a million pieces.
“A dud,” said Lynch, with amazement. “Unbelievable. I guess even future-humans still have quality control issues that—”
Lynch fell silent as the second missile turned at the last minute, avoiding the front of the ship and skirting along its broadside. For a moment Mattis hoped that its guidance systems had been damaged by the explosion, but it turned again and speared into the ship’s rear.
The Midway shook from stem to stern, the violent pitch of it throwing the bridge crew off their feet and Mattis out of his command chair. Mattis hit the deck hard, cracking his shoulder on the unforgiving metal, his grunt of pain silenced by the wailing of alarms. In the corner of his eye, he saw Spectre land on all fours like a cat, displaying almost impossible agility for someone so portly.
“Report!” he roared, climbing back up to his feet and dragging himself back into his command chair.
“Damage to the ship’s stern,” said Lynch. “They put a damn missile right up our tailpipe.”
“Status on that skunk?” he asked, squinting at the monitor, trying to find the enemy ship….
“It’s gone,” said Lynch, simply.
He glanced down at his own tactical readout. He was right.
It was gone.
Chapter Thirty-Two
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Bridge
The Midway slowly rotated, the slight Coriolis force throwing Mattis off balance as he tried to recover his bearings. Maybe the ship was spinning faster than it looked. Maybe it was just his head.
“It can’t have just vanished,” he said, “especially not when they just got a good hit in on us. That skunk could have fired again and we wouldn’t have been able to do anything about it.”
“I can confirm that they’re no longer on our scopes,” said Lynch, rubbing his back ruefully.
“Do you think they jumped away?” he asked, throwing a concerned eye to Lynch. The way he was rubbing his back was a worry.
“I’ll have to check the logs to see if they entered Z-space—I was kind of on the floor when they would have.”
“Check them. Now.”
Lynch hunched over his terminal. “Must have,” said Lynch, although the lack of confidence in his voice was telling. “Damn. Those missiles have some horsepower. Maybe that’s why they didn’t want to engage, and why they left so soon … just one barrage of missiles. Then they have to reload or something.”
It made sense, but who would design a weapon with such an obvious limitation? Then again, only two missiles had gotten through, and one had been a dud. Maybe it was a crappy weapon after all.
“Right,” said Mattis. “For now, we have to figure out what the hell they just did to us.”
“It’s fairly obvious, isn’t it?” asked Spectre, casually adjusting his suit as though he’d just discovered it was slightly out of place, his clipped British accent almost demure. “They fired a nuclear missile up our bums. Tsk. The least they could do is buy us dinner first.”
Mattis thumbed his radio. “Modi,” he said. “Tell me good news.”
The noise that came through on the other end was laced with static and … something else. Was something burning in the background? “Admiral,” said Modi, his voice more flustered than normal. “Standby.”
It took a lot for even a full Commander to tell an Admiral and CO of a naval warship to standby. Mattis waited patiently, offering his hand to one of the more junior officers who had brained themselves on their chair when the deck had pitched.
Mattis continued to help out the injured, and finally a few corpsmen arrived on the bridge to take care of the most seriously hurt. Medical resources were stretched over the ship; it made sense for someone to not be available right away.
When the injuries were taken care of, Mattis touched his comm again. “Modi. How’s that damage report?”
“You didn’t ask for a damage report,” said Modi, matter-of-factually. “You asked for good news.”
“That’ll be the same thing, won’t it?” asked Mattis.
“No.”
Of course. Modi didn’t do anything that wasn’t literal. “Just tell me,” he said.
“Stand by.”
Frustrating. Mattis tried to turn his thoughts away from Modi’s obvious issues—complaining about them and demanding things wouldn’t fix the problems any faster—and just let him work.
“They didn’t trash us,” said Mattis to the room, although he was talking as much to himself as anyone else. “But we didn’t trash them. We both got a few good hits in, and they blew their load trying to stop us … so I guess it’s a draw for now.” His eyes turned to the dark world beyond where the future-human ship had been floating. “We had better figure out what they wanted down there, and see what’s left of that casino. Unless it’s just been crushed under a million tonnes of rock, or picked up and dropped until there’s nothing left.”
“Unlikely,” said Spectre, casually taking off his glasses and polishing the lenses. That they had stayed on his face at all was some kind of miracle. “The complex is built into thick underground tunnels buried well below its surface, in order to try and harvest whatever heat the depleted planet’s core can muster. It’s probab
ly pretty badly shaken up but … well, Dark Side City residents are survivors. I’m sure they will have a contingency plan.”
“Great,” said Mattis. “Lynch, get Modi, we’re going to head down to the surface of that planet and see what we can find.”
Lynch smiled widely. “You got it, sir.”
Spectre squinted at him. “Wait, Admiral … you’re going down yourself?”
“Sure,” he said. “Watch me.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Rogue Planet Serendipity, Low Orbit
USS Midway
Hangar Bay
When Mattis and Lynch arrived at the hangar bay, Modi was there waiting for them, his arm in a sling. Doctor Brooks was checking his bandage.
“Doctor,” said Mattis, giving a polite nod. “Good to see you here. I figure you would be kicking around somewhere.”
Doctor Brooks gave a little smile. “You guessed correctly,” he said. “I may not be a trauma surgeon, but I can bandage a busted arm. Most everyone else is helping out wherever they can.”
“That is correct,” said Modi, waving away the Doctor. “I am fine.”
“You don’t look so good,” said Doctor Brooks, “Seriously, it was just a needle.” And then to Mattis, “nor you. What did you do to your ship? And what are you doing here? Is there a problem in the hangar bay?”
Mattis couldn’t help but scowl a little. “There’s a rogue planet nearby. It was attacked by the future-humans we have been pursuing. Myself, the good Mister Modi, and my XO, Lynch, are going to head down there in a shuttlecraft and see what we can find.”
Doctor Brooks chuckled mirthfully, but then his eyes widened. “Wait, you’re serious.”
“Of course,” said Mattis. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
Doctor Brooks hesitated, folding his hands in front of him. “Well, where to begin. Your ship has just suffered some kind of serious damage—Mister Modi definitely did not want to leave Engineering, but as a good officer, he goes where he is told, even when it involves horrible scary hypodermic needles. Secondly, Admiral, is there some kind of staffing issue on your vessel? The Midway has, last I checked, a full complement of marines who specialize in these kinds of away missions, along with heavily armored, specialist units whose favorite thing, so I hear, is to go to strange, dangerous places and kick ass. I doubt your Rhinos will ever forgive you if you don’t send them down to this world. And finally … as a commanding officer, your position should be with the ship and with its crew—not gallivanting off to deal with some unknown element while they are left to patch up the damage. You are a leader. Lead.”
The Last Dawn: Book 3 of The Last War Series Page 14