Fleet of the Damned

by Chris Bunch

  She expected the ‘cast to be sent directly to the Tahn Council. Instead, her broadcast was intercepted by Lord Fehrle. He stood in formal robes, very small on her monitor.

  Lady Atago covered her surprise and reported.

  "My congratulations,” the image of Fehrle said. “But this is not enough."

  "I apologize,” she said. “What more could be required?"

  "You have won a victory, lady. But the Empire has made much of their warriors on Cavite. Heralding them as martyrs and signposts of the eventual victory, and so forth."

  "I am aware of their propaganda ‘casts."

  "Then I am surprised that you have not already made the appropriate response,” Fehrle said. “There must be no iota of victory in this defeat. The forces on Cavite must be shown as totally destroyed."

  "They are, Lord."

  "They are not,” Fehrle corrected. “If one single Imperial soldier returns to the Empire, somehow their information specialists will find a way to turn that into an accomplishment."

  "Let them. We still hold the Fringe Worlds."

  "Do not dictate policy to me, Lady Atago. Here are your orders. Pursue those ships that evacuated the Imperial survivors. And destroy them. Only if there are no—I repeat, no—survivors will the Emperor be properly shamed."

  Atago started to speak, then rethought. “Very well. I shall follow your orders."

  The monitor screen went blank, and Lady Atago strode toward her battleship.

  She would follow orders—but soon, she realized, there must come a reckoning with those rulers of the Tahn who were more interested in paper achievements than in real victories.

  [Back to Table of Contents]

  CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

  TWO OF THE Empire's destroyers survived the spoof attack, broke contact, and set a deceptive orbit that rendezvoused them with the escaping liners.

  Fact—the fast liners were moving at many multiples of light-speed. But to Sten it felt as if they were in one of his least favorite nightmares, fleeing some unknown monstrosity through waist-deep mud. Another illogical perception he had was that the Tahn ships were coming after them, even though there was no particularly valid military reason for them to pursue the shattered elements under Sten's command.

  The first casualty—of sorts—was the underpowered picket ship. Less than two hours off Cavite, it was already faltering far to the rear.

  If there had been room or time for humanity, Sten would have ordered one of his two destroyers to take off the picket ship's crew and blow it up. But he was sadly lacking in either department.

  He found himself with the very cold-blooded thought that the picket ship, limping farther and farther to the rear, still might be of use. If the Tahn were after him, the rust bucket might provide an early warning.

  Cold-blooded—but there were too many corpses from the past few months. All Sten could do was try to keep the living alive.

  He put the two modern Imperial destroyers in front of the liners, Y-ed to either side of the three columns of ships. There were more Tahn ships potentially to worry about than the ones that might be coming up on the tail end of the convoy.

  Commander Halldor's Husha and the other 23rd Fleet destroyer were positioned as rear guards.

  The Swampscott flew two-thirds back and above the liners. Sten was very grateful that Sullamora had very experienced crews on the liners—at least he didn't have to concern himself with proper station keeping. He had more than enough troubles of his own.

  Spaceships in stardrive, being relatively nonstressed, did not creak.

  The Swampscott creaked.

  They also did not feel as if they were about to tear themselves apart.

  Every frame on the Swampscott shuddered as if a largish giant outside was working out with a sledgehammer.

  "And we're only at full power,” Tapia growled. She touched the large red lever controlling engine power. It was marked quarter, half, and full speed. Then there was a manual safety lock. If that was lifted, the Swampscott would, at least in theory, go to war emergency power, guaranteed to strain and destroy its engines if applied for longer than minutes.

  Sten, Kilgour, and Tapia were in the Swampscott's main engine control room. Sten had immediately promoted the ship's second engineer to chief and assigned Tapia to him. He semitrusted the man but had privately told Tapia that if the man broke, she was to relieve him at once.

  "And if he gives me lip?"

  Sten had looked pointedly at the miniwillygun holstered on her hip and said nothing.

  Warrant Officer Kilgour would run the central weapons station in the Swampscott's second pagoda. Just below his station was the cruiser's CIC and second control room. The rest of the men and women from Sten's tacships were scattered throughout the ship.

  Sten had decided to promote Foss to ensign. He had also told Kilgour that warrant rank or not, the Scot was to assume command of the Swampscott if Sten was killed or disabled. He guessed he had the authority. If not, that was something to hassle about when and if they reached safety.

  For the moment, there didn't seem to be anything for him to do. The crew was at general quarters—modified. Half of them were permitted to sleep or eat. The food was mainly sandwiches and caff brought to the stations. Those who chose to sleep curled up beside their positions.

  Sten turned the bridge over to Foss—the ship was on a preset plot—while he and Kilgour made the rounds.

  The engine room was hot and greasy and smelled. The late van Doorman probably would have fainted seeing his carefully polished metalwork smeared, the gleaming white walls scarred and spattered. But spit-shining was something else there wasn't time for. Just keeping the Swampscott's engines running was herculean.

  Sten looked around the engine spaces. Tapia and the engineer had everything running as smoothly as possible. He started toward a companionway.

  "Commander,” Tapia said, rather awkwardly. “Can I ask you something?"

  "GA."

  "Uhh..."

  Kilgour took the hint and went up the steps to the deck above. Sten waited.

  "You remember—back at the fort—when I said I wanted a transfer? I was being funny then. Now I'm serious. When we park this clotting rust bucket, I want reassignment."

  Sten wondered—was Tapia starting to crack?

  "Ensign,” he said. “If we get this time bomb back, all of us'll get reassigned. Hard to run a tacdiv when you don't have ships. My turn. Why?"

  "I just checked Imperial regs."

  "And?"

  "And they said you get your ass in a crack if you go to bed with your commanding officer."

  "Oh,” Sten managed.

  Tapia grinned, kissed him, and disappeared down a corridor.

  Sten thoughtfully went up the ladder and joined Alex.

  "Teh,” Alex clucked. “Hold still, lad."

  He swabbed Sten's chin with an arm of his coverall. “Th’ lads dinnae need't’ ken th’ old man's been flirtin't wi’ th’ help."

  "Mr. Kilgour. You're being insubordinate."

  "Hush, youngster. Or Ah'll buss y’ myself."

  The com overhead snarled into life."Captain to the bridge. Captain to the bridge. We have contact!"

  Sten and Alex ran for their battle stations.

  * * * *

  Contact was not the correct description. The skipper of the picket ship had seconds to goggle at the screen, and then the Tahn were on him. Two destroyers launched at the picket ship without altering course.

  The ship's captain snapped the com open."Swampscott ... Swampscott ... this is the Dean. Two Tahn—"And the missiles obliterated the picket ship.

  The Tahn fleet knew they were closing on the liners. They spread out into attack formation and moved in.

  Commander Rey Halldor may have been a clot, but he knew how and, more importantly, when to die.

  Without waiting for orders, he sent the Husha and its sister ship arcing up and back, toward the oncoming Tahn. The Tahn were in a crescent formation, scre
ening destroyers in front and to the sides. Just behind were seven heavy cruisers and then the two battleships, the Forez and the Kiso. Halldor's second destroyer died at once.

  But the Husha, incredibly, broke through the Tahn screen. Halldor ordered all missiles to be launched and the racks to be set on automatic load launch.

  The Husha spat rockets from every tube, rockets that were set on fire-and-forget mode.

  The Husha spun wildly as it took its first hit near the stern.

  A Tahn shipkilling missile targeted the Husha and homed. It struck the Husha amidships, blowing it apart. Probably Halldor and his men were already quite dead before they got their revenge. Two Tahn destroyers took hits in areas vital enough to send them leaking out of battle.

  And then three of Halldor's missiles found a heavy cruiser.

  For an instant it looked as if the Tahn ship's outer skin was transparent, then it turned flame-red as the cruiser was racked by explosions. And then there was absolutely nothing where the ship had been.

  The 23rd Fleet still had teeth in its final moments of life.

  * * * *

  Sten thought he could still see the blips where his destroyers had been on the screen, even though the ships had died seconds earlier.

  Probably an afterimage, he thought.

  Sten had wondered what gave people the guts to throw themselves at death, to give the suicidal orders instead of running. And he also wondered, if that situation ever came up, whether he would have enough cojones to do it himself. But he never formally made the Big Decision. There were too many other orders to blurt out.

  "Navigation. Interception orbit."

  "Aye, sir. Computed."

  "Mark! Engines."

  "Engine room, sir."

  "Full emergency power. Now! Mr. Foss. Everyone into suits."

  "Yessir."

  "Weapons ... clot that. Give me all hands."

  Foss turned the com onto the shipwide circuit."This is the captain. We're going in. All weapons stations, prepare to revert to individual control."

  Foss held up Sten's suit in front of him. Sten forced his legs in and dragged the shoulders and headpiece on.

  "We are now attacking,” he said, choosing his words carefully, “a Tahn battlefleet. There are at least two battleships with the fleet. We are going to kill them."

  He should have found something noble to end his ‘cast with, but his mind refused to come up with an “England Expects,” and he snapped the com link off.

  "Foss. I want the CO of the destroyers."

  A screen brightened, showing the bridge of one of the Imperial ships.

  "Captain,” Sten began without preamble, “the convoy's yours. We're going to try to slow down the bad guys."

  "Sir, I request—"

  "Negative. You have your orders. Stay with the liners. Swampscott, out.

  "Foss! Damage control."

  "This is damage control, Skipper,” came the drawl. “What do you need?"

  Sten found a moment to regret not knowing that officer—anybody who could sound that relaxed would be valuable.

  "Dump the air."

  "It's gone."

  The suits would make the men more awkward, but the vacuum would lessen the damage from a potential hit."Weapons! Are we in range?"A wee bit longer, Commander."And the Swampscott went into its first—and final—battle.

  * * * *

  Possibly the Tahn had become cocky. Or, more likely, they found it impossible to take seriously the bloated hulk that was charging at them. The Swampscott may have been a disaster of space architecture and a ship long overdue for the boneyard—but it was very heavily armed. It had a Bell laser system forward, Goblin launchers fore and aft, secondary laser stations scattered around the ship, and chainguns running the length of those horrible-looking hull bulges. The ship's main armament consisted of long-obsolete Vydal antiship missiles.

  There were two of them, mounted amidships, between the pagodas that were the command centers.

  Kilgour watched the three blips representing Tahn destroyers arc toward him and thumb-activated the Bell assault laser in the ship's nose. The laser was as obsolete as the ship it was mounted on, being not only robot-guided but equipped with verbal responses.

  "Enemy ship in range,” the toneless synthesized voice said.

  Kilgour touched the engage key.

  The laser blast ravened the length of the Tahn destroyer, and the weapons system decided that the target was no longer in existence. Without consulting Kilgour, it switched to a second destroyer and opened up.

  "Target destroyed ... second target under attack,” the voice said, almost as an afterthought.

  The laser ripped most of that second destroyer's power room into fragments.

  "Second target injured ... correcting aim."

  Kilgour slammed the override and new target keys. The destroyer was out of battle, and that was enough.

  Possibly miffed at being told what to do by a human, the laser switched to stutter mode and lacerated the length of the third destroyer before reporting.

  Three down, Alex thought. No more'n a zillion to go.

  The Swampscott was through the destroyer screen, headed for the heart of the Tahn fleet.

  There were three weapons not controlled by Kilgour. They were the huge Kali missiles designed for Sten's tac-ships. There had been three of them left in the tac division's armory, and Foss and Kilgour had jury-rigged rack mounts for them on the Swampscott. Foss had sworn there was no way to run the control circuitry into the weapons control center—it would be easier for him to set up a control helmet/center on the bridge itself.

  Sten was fairly sure that Foss was lying, wanting to actually shoot back instead of just being a behind-the-scenes electronics wizard. But he didn't care. Alex would have more than enough hassle trying to make some sense of the elderly and frequently contradictory weapons-control systems already mounted.

  Foss had the control helmet plug rigged into his space-suit. Sten stared at the central screen and blanched. The monstrous Kiso filled the screen, and Sten thought they were about to collide before he realized that Foss had the screen at full magnification.

  "Sir,” Foss said. “I have a Kali on standby. Target ... target ... target acquired."

  "Launch,” Sten ordered, with no expectations.

  The Kali wobbled away from the Swampscott without the initial guidance the proper launch tube would have provided. Then it straightened, went to full power, and dived toward the Kiso.

  And the Swampscott took its first hit.

  The Tahn missile tore through the skin of the bridge, went out of control, and then exploded less than fifty meters away from the ship. The blast was close enough to smash the entire bridge.

  All that Sten knew was a stunning impact, finding himself hurled through the air to slam against a console and staring straight up at what should have been steel to see—see, without sensors—the Tahn destroyer's nose light as it fired a second missile.

  His headphones crackled.

  "Stand by.” It was Kilgour. “We have an incoming ... target acquired ... ha-ho. Gotcha."

  A Fox missile took out the Tahn rocket.

  Directly behind it, Kilgour had sent a Goblin. The Goblin scattered fragments of the Tahn ship across a wide area of space.

  Sten wove to his feet and looked around the ruins of the bridge. Everyone was dead, down, or hurled out into space.

  He recovered and keyed his mike. “This is the captain. Switching command to CIC. Damage control ... seal the bridge."

  He stumbled toward a hatch, undogged, and went through it.

  Outside, in space, the Kali missile circled aimlessly. It had been given its aim point, but the operator had not completed his procedure. The Kali waited for further orders.

  The bridge was a still life—"Technocracy, with Corpses"—for a moment, and then a figure moved.

  It was Foss.

  He looked down at the scrap metal where his legs had been. His suit had already se
aled itself, surgically amputating the few bits of ligament and flesh.

  Foss felt no pain.

  He dragged himself on his hands toward the control panel. It was still semialive. He switched to a still-undamaged tertiary system and became his missile once more.

  The Kali surged toward the Kiso.

  The Tahn antimissile officer had seen the hit on the Swampscott, seen the Kali begin its aimless orbiting, and told the Kiso's target acquisition systems to ignore the now-harmless missile.

  The Kali came alive! The Tahn officer's hand was moving toward his computer's controls when it hit.

  The missile struck the Kiso in its drivetubes, ripping apart the AM2 fuel storage and sending the antimatter cascading toward the ship's bow.

  The Kiso vanished in one hellish, soundless explosion.

  Foss had time to see the flash light the inside of the bridge, to watch it turn red, and to realize that the red was his own blood, spraying across his suit's faceplate, before his eyes looked beyond anything and he sagged forward onto his controls.

  * * * *

  Before Sten reached the CIC, his new command center, the Swampscott, took three more hits.

  Sten struggled on, praying there would still be something left to command.

  Most unusual, he thought, seeing one of the corridors twist and warp in front of him. I am hallucinating.

  But I am not wounded.

  He was not hallucinating. One of the Tahn rockets had hit near one of the ship's mainframes, and the Swampscott was bent and twisted.

  Sten forced his way through the warped steel tube. His mind recorded observations as his ship rocked around him and explosions sent shock waves through the hull:

  Here was a casualty clearing station. Shock blast had killed everyone inside it but left them frozen. Here was one of Sten's med officers, his arms still in the access holes of a surgical bubblepak. Behind him were his corpsmen standing ready. And the casualty inside the pak.

  All dead.

  Here was an antifire-foam-flooded compartment, where the sensors had evidently gone wild and dumped foam on a fire that could not exist. Sten saw three suited forms struggling toward the exit through the foam but had no time to help them.