by Blaze Ward
She didn’t know Galina Tasse on Stralsund, but Tamara Strnad would take those words as carte blanche to start committing art with every weapon in her palette, as would Brightoak and Rajput. Screens lit up almost immediately.
Movement on the projection caught her eye.
“CR–264, this is Keller,” she said, sounding like a school marm she remembered from her distant youth.
She didn’t ask Kigali if he was nuts. Gaucho might be the only person in the squadron crazier. But still…
“Go ahead, Commander,” Kigali replied brightly.
“What are you doing, Kigali?”
She didn’t bother trying to order him to do anything else right now. He was committed to this path. It would be like swallowing a sword. You didn’t turn it sideways trying to get it out.
“Very shortly providing a really awesome distraction, Commander.”
“And then?”
“Out the back like shit through a goose, boss. See you on the other side.”
Truly, insane.
“Tactical officers, this is Keller. Adjust your defensive horizons down and move CR–264 out of the mix until further notice.”
The starboard primary turret answered her with a grumbling thump as it fired.
Ξ
“Flight wing, this is Jouster,” Furious heard him say over the comm. “Let’s maintain this formation and close. da Vinci, I figure you’ll get a sudden targeting lock when they realize we’re too close. All teams maintain radio silence until you hear that call, then peel away and go to strafing. All units form on da Vinci.”
Party time…
Furious fought to contain her excitement. Jitters on a control stick were nothing new, but this was excitement at finally being able to show these people what she could do, instead of the iron control she used to have to show, when the boys were rating her on her tits instead of her piloting abilities.
This was The War. The Eternal Battle between Aquitaine and Fribourg. Furious felt like her whole life had been centered on coming to this very moment.
On the feed from da Vinci’s slippery little scout, they were on an approach that would mask them from that nasty little escort frigate until they came blasting over the battleship’s head, unless someone caught smart and drifted. Aquitaine did that, but everything she had studied about Fribourg suggested that they were more rigid in their processes.
Certainly, they were flying like all the dead and mangled escorts were still around. And it wasn’t like the little guns on the fighters, or the slightly bigger guns left on the bombers and the GunShip, could really damage a battleship. Unless he had already pulled his shields entirely forward and then had those banged around too. Then it would be like a woodpecker chopping down an oak tree.
Oh, shit. This might actually work? Keller and Auberon going in hard, with the fighters coming in right behind them?
Furious smiled and dialed her engines in a little tighter. The M–6 could do things the M–5 could not. When they got into knife–fighting with a battleship, that might matter.
Chapter LVII
Date of the Republic June 16, 394 Above Ballard
Denis considered the bridge crew in the calm quiet before the storm erupted. In the movies, the commander always chose this moment to make some rousing speech, something plucked from the descendants of Moirrey’s favorite writer, that Terran fellow Shakespeare.
That wasn’t Denis. He was calm and professional, holding the ship and crew together with quiet competence and keeping the snarls and harshness private behind closed doors. It was why he and Jessica were such a good team. She was flamboyant and larger than life, and appreciated all the little things he did to keep things moving smoothly.
Still, she was the acting Fleet Lord today. Her voice was guiding all of the squadron, inspiring these men and women to their greatest possible potential. His was Auberon, as she had always promised.
“Auberon, this is Jež,” he spoke quietly into the comm. Let everyone know the truth now, regardless of how he said it. From the heart.
“It has been my greatest pleasure to serve and explore with you all. We’re about to go into battle with the best Fribourg can throw at us, and even then, they had to bring a battleship to balance the scales. Let that be the mark of their respect for us, and my respect for you. Out.”
He took a deep breath and looked around.
From the piloting console, Nina appeared to be on the verge of tears.
Tamara appeared stoic, but she was in the zone. She was about to become the center of the combat universe in ways that only a tactical officer understood.
Still, she smiled at him. A tight, wry flash to let him know what was going on underneath that hard shell.
He nodded at her.
“Tactical, you have the bridge.”
She nodded back and took a simple breath.
He watched her chin come up, almost in defiance, as she stared at some invisible horizon.
She nodded again and keyed her comm.
“Emergency bridge, this is tactical,” she said firmly.
“Em bridge. Brewster.”
Good old Tobias Brewster. Once upon a time, a class clown, fuck–up, lothario. Until he redeemed himself and turned into a certified hero at Qui–Ping. Now, a rock–solid emergency tactical centurion they could rely on.
Wonders of the universe.
“Tobias,” Tamara continued. “I’m locking down the Type–3 beams and designating the Type–2’s purely for outer defensive fire only when the Imperials finally launch missiles at us. Primaries only from here on in, and only to keep them honest. You take charge of having engineering route every erg of available energy possible into the two facing shields as we do this. If that means locking empty linen closets and shutting down their life support, do it. We have to survive the next eight minutes on this heading and the Red Admiral is going to hit us with everything he has. We’re the main–gauche today. Rajput and Brightoak hold the blade.”
Denis smiled broadly. He wondered if Jessica knew how much of her personality had infected this crew, that they spoke to each other in a battle vocabulary drawn directly from her and Valse d’Glaive. Because this was nothing if not a repeat of her duel with Ian Zhao at Petron, when she took the crown away from him. Maybe on a grander scale. Maybe.
History may not repeat itself, but it certainly played harmonies.
“Acknowledged, Tactical,” Tobias replied. “I have engineering covered.”
And he would. That same single–mindedness that he had employed to seduce crew members, once upon a yesterday, had gone into professionalism. Brewster might even make Command Centurion, one of these days.
And now, into the valley of death.
Ξ
“Gunnery, concentrate your fire here,” Galina ordered, drawing a targeting dot on her screen and sending it over.
Arott fought to keep the smile off his face. Only Galina would try to line up a shot pattern that tight, from two moving warships that far apart, both desperately weaving and bobbing.
Still, it might work.
Six big guns thumped in quick succession. It would probably take the after–action report to confirm, but the gunner might have just put four of them into Galina’s target, and another one close enough. The third shot in the sequence had flared wide. Arott sent a quick note to the damage control teams to check that mount for wear. Equipment got used up faster in five minutes of battle than a year’s sailing.
Arott’s smile faded as Stralsund rang like a bell. That was followed by a hollow crunching sound, the kind you might get if you dropped a can of beans off a fourth floor window onto the street when you were eight years old. Or so he might have been told.
The lights went out.
For half a second, total darkness engulfed them.
Emergency lights kicked in. There was dust everywhere. Nothing could keep a starship completely clean. You got crud in every crevasse and corner. Thumps like that bounced it into the air.
A
t least the air systems could suck it all out of the room now.
“Engineering and damage control, this is the bridge,” Arott barked. Galina might be fighting the battle, but he was still responsible for everything else. It was what made Aquitaine work. “What is our status?”
There was too long of a pause before a voice came back.
Galina was cursing under her breath again. Or still.
“Bridge, this is damage control team three,” a woman said firmly. “Engineering is intact, but we’re looking into frame damage on the comm lines and secondary systems. We’ve lost two gyros and power transfer cables to the gunnery bays right now and that’s more important. I can relay orders, Commander.”
“Stay on topic, Three,” he replied. “I’d rather have power and guns than conversation.”
“Understood, sir. Out.”
“Sensors,” he continued. “What’s happening around us?”
“Blackbird seems to be in worse shape than we are, Commander,” the man replied. “She’s drifting and appears to be developing something of a tumble. A worse tumble than ours, anyway.”
Two angry drunks, fighting in the street. But he had punched the bigger guy at least as hard as he had gotten punched.
“Nav, can we fly?” Arott asked.
Mhasalkar gave him a pained look.
“Not straight, but the engines work,” the pilot said. “We can move. Where?”
“Away from this line,” Arott replied. “There’s a light cruiser back there somewhere and we need time to repair things so we can get back into battle. We’re dead meat if he gets to us unarmed.”
Mhasalkar’s fingers began to dance as he nodded.
Around them, Arott could feel Stralsund answer the reins and begin to surge again. Losing two of the nine gyros meant she wobbled badly, almost drunkenly, but at least she was shifting away from a close encounter with the rest of the Imperial squadron when she couldn’t even shoot back.
Chapter LVIII
Imperial Founding: 172/06/16. Ballard system
He couldn’t remember the flag bridge ever being completely dark before. Not in all the years Emmerich had used Amsel as his flagship. At least there were voices around him, so if he was dead, he had company on his flight to hell.
Dim red emergency lights came one, but even they did so fitfully. Painfully. He sneezed at the dust in the air.
That last barrage had hurt the great ship, badly.
The flag bridge was intact. Whatever that battlecruiser had done had stayed well away from the heart of the vessel. It was still bad, though. The grav–plates felt like they were running at fifty percent.
Emmerich reached out a hand and grasped the underside of the projection console, just in case.
Beside him, Captain Baumgärtner had a hand on his forehead. Blood dripped between the man’s fingers, passing through the badly–degraded projection image like fireflies. He swayed.
Emmerich reached out his other hand and grasped the man’s shoulder to steady him.
“Someone summon a medic,” he bellowed to the room.
Hendrik’s pupils were different sizes as the two men stared at each other. He oscillated with the shifting gravity, obviously nearly unconscious on his feet, but driven by decades of hard service to remain vertical.
“M’allright,” he slurred. “Can still fit. Fight.”
Not even roaring drunk had his aide sounded so bad.
Emmerich could still command a warship himself.
“Damage control, get me our status,” he roared, pulling Hendrik close to his side like the boon companion he was and holding him stable. “Sensors, I’m blind here. Where is the battlecruiser? Where is Auberon?”
“Stand by, Admiral.” Right now, the lieutenant commander on sensors was so calmly professional that Emmerich decided that promoting him would be a true reward, and not just a way to get rid of him. Even in the face of the apocalypse, he would probably sound no different.
“Amsel is currently tumbling, Admiral,” the man continued. “We are rolling to starboard slowly but generally maintaining our line of flight. Engines are still a max output, defensive guns are able to engage. Shortly, we will be completely through the Aquitaine formation. The enemy battlecruiser is also tumbling and appears unresponsive. She looks to be trying to disengage from SturmTeufel. Auberon and Petrograd are still firing as they pass, with the two destroyers trying to assist.”
Emmerich rotated the entire field of battle in his head.
“Tell Essert to ignore the little frigate and move to protect us from the fighters. They’ll be here soon. SturmTeufel is to track on the battlecruiser and engage if safe, or withdraw if she comes back on line. Does Petrograd need assistance?”
From across the room, a gunnery lieutenant spoke up. “Admiral, as we tumble, I can try to fire primaries laterally back across the flank. Something like Auberon did to us at Qui–Ping.”
Qui–ping. Where Auberon had been badly mauled by Muscva and still neatly hammered his front shields to fifty percent. Before Moirrey Kermode.
“Authorized,” he said. “Fire as you bear.”
A medic materialized on Hendrik’s other side. “I have him, sir.”
“Take good care of him, man,” Emmerich said. There had been precious few battles over the years without Hendrik beside him.
“What’s the status on Petrograd?” he called.
“Holding her own and through. And…My God…”
Chapter LIX
Date of the Republic June 16, 394 Above Ballard
Because of the dreams, because the goddess Kali–ma had seemed to take up residence in her soul, Jessica had been reading the ancient Hundi Vedas, anything she could get on the history of the goddess and her cult. There were precious few stories she’d been able to find in all the books on the religion, mostly how to worship and what songs to chant instead of what it was you were worshipping.
But she was still the Goddess of War. And she stood unconquered on the bloody plain in those tales.
And this tale was positively Vedic.
Auberon had held. Somehow.
Enough drift. Enough wiggle. Enough roll. Enough electronic noise blasted into the aether. Enough little luck. Something.
Her front shield was gone and slowly being regenerated, but her spine was intact. There was localized damage almost everywhere. They would be months in dry–dock making her whole again, but she still answered the reins.
Going in at full speed had probably saved her life. All their lives. Out and through the back, like Kigali had said. Not enough time for an anxious battlecruiser to do her worst. And he had paid too much attention to Auberon, and not enough to her wing mates.
Rajput had flown nearly under her nose, suffering nothing but Type–2 and Type–1 beams as she hammered the battlecruiser with primaries from almost knife–fighting range. And it had worked. Rajput had pissed the battlecruiser’s captain off enough that he turned his fire on the heavy destroyer instead of firing another salvo that probably would have broken Auberon’s back for good. Rajput needed a dry–dock as well, but they both flew true.
Thank you, Alber’.
“Squadron, this is CR–264,” Kigali’s voice chimed out. “I could really use some help about now.”
Jessica checked the projection, rotated it fifty degrees to the left and up for a different perspective. She rolled it back two minutes and played it forward at high speed to place Kigali in a context.
Yes, that man was insane. And had probably also saved them all today.
Ξ
“Aki, light it up, right now,” Kigali said urgently.
He waited for her to nod, generally in his direction without ever looking up at him, before he continued.
“Gun deck,” he continued. “Turn off your interlocks and fire as fast as the capacitors will charge. Your only limits right now are trying to keep the guns themselves from exploding. If they do, remember that shit happens.”
Faces on his board were serious. A
symphony of single tones, keyed to each of the six guns, erupted as weapons on both flanks let loose.
Both Fribourg warships had undamaged shields on their flanks, but both commanders had apparently decided that the little escort wasn’t going to fire unless he had missiles to engage.
So they had mostly forgotten about him.
Hell, it wasn’t like a single Type–2 and a pair of Type–3’s on each flank was going to do much damage to their shields anyway. If they had any.
Because, really, how often does a frigate open fire on a battleship from close enough to pee on him? I mean, besides today?
Kigali smiled. He almost giggled out loud.
Right about now, there were a pair of Imperial Chief Engineers desperately trying to re–route their shield generators to keep the big girls behind him from slapping them in the face. And here he was, pinching their butts as he went by. Just enough to get their attention.
Oops.
CR–264 surged with power as the engines went into a place as just as close to terminal overload as his engineers thought they could get away with without actually blowing them all up.
He hoped.
Tomas Kigali wasn’t a prayerful man. Normally. Space was too chaotic and too weird to assume a deity overseeing it. At least one who actually liked you. Today, he was happy to invoke any pantheon willing to listen.
Hell, at this point, he might be willing to offer human sacrifices to gods he didn’t even know, if that’s what it took.
The joys of command.
His bridge lights flickered, blinked, firmed.
Yup, got someone’s attention. That was incoming fire.
Aki snarled something rather rude, mostly under her voice. Only she could make a phrase like that sound sexy.
And then they were clear.
If he had even a single missile launcher, he would have thrown a raspberry at someone right now. Maybe he would ask for something to be added on, when they got back to base. Even a single–mount external launcher. Something. The rest of the team was going to be off–line for a while. He could take the time. CR–264 had to suffer nothing but waist beams thrown at them right now, and that was a high–angle deflection shot.