by Mike Moscoe
“Thank you, sir.” Now that the battle was over, Ding looked pale. She made no effort to rise either. Someone's teeth were chattering. One of the guards. Ding sent him to sick bay.
“Captain has the conn. Thor, get us headed back to station. I imagine the admiral's disappointed that we're out of line. Sparky, any traffic from the flag?”
“We've been getting a steady flow of message traffic, each sharper than the one before. I'm only required to pass messages along to you within ten minutes. Allowance for if you're in the head and stuff like that. The first one was four minutes ago.”
“Thanks for not jiggling our elbow. Anything I need to know?”
“No, sir, just get back in formation.”
“Pass it to my day cabin. I'll use it for bedtime reading tonight. Captain off.” He turned to Ding. “You'd think the bastard has better uses for his time.” Mattim shook his head and got back to business. “Sandy, where are the hostiles?”
“Decelerating, sir, pulling back into orbit.”
“And our guys?”
“Decelerating, too.”
“Helm, put us on course to rejoin the squadron.”
The prodigal son was not welcomed back. Mattim suspected the admiral would have relieved him where he sat, but there was no one on board who didn't share in his high crimes and misdemeanors and no way to transfer anyone. The squadron decelerated, facing backward as they accepted ELM0129-4's powerful tether. To Mattim, it looked like the Sheffield was now the head of the line. He doubted the admiral shared his view.
With things reasonably settled down, Mattim released half the crew for a quick chow. Many needed a change of underwear or to clean up from burp bag overflows. The mechanics of orbits guaranteed them time. Gunners went about lavishing care on their lasers the way few had ever shown a significant other.
While some of the damage control crews carried sandwiches to the gun crews and engineering, the hull and armor team waited for the course to settle in, then sent squat robots out to examine the one large gash in the Sheffield 's armor. Insulated lines began showering a mist into the hole, slowly packing it with ice, less dense ice, but armor nevertheless.
Mattim got his team on net. “Guns, great going. The enemy flag will remember us. Engineering, solid performance. Sandy , you were wonderful on sensors. Okay, we done great. We've got an hour before we meet those bastards again. What do we need?”
“Guns is ready” was all Commander Howard had to say.
“Sensors are undamaged. I've got a couple of antennas that have been shaken up a bit by all the jostling, probably bum connectors, but I don't see us fixing them any time soon.”
“Skipper”—Ivan's gravel voice had somehow gotten even lower—”we've done a lot of bouncing around, changing acceleration and the like. It's been a major drain on our reaction mass. I also don't think the stuff we last took on has anywhere near the density required by Navy specs.”
“How far down are we, Ivan?”
“Forty percent. Normally I wouldn't worry, but if we have a few more hours like the last, we could end up limping back.”
“Assuming we were in one piece.” Sandy scowled.
“Guns, suggestions?”
“Book says you must refuel at fifty percent, 'barring unavoidable circumstances,' whatever those may be.”
“Comm, send to flag, Sheffield at sixty percent fuel state. However, reaction mass is not at required density, request fuel scoop.”
“Yes sir, sending.”
“If we're all heading for fifty percent, why hasn't Smiley laid on a fuel scoop pass?” Mattim asked.
Once again, his XO seemed reluctant to offer an opinion. “Guns,” she said.
“Skipper, data would seem to indicate he's made up his mind, one more firing pass, then we head for the jump.”
“Bit obvious, aren't we?” Sandy drawled.
“I fear so,” answered Guns. “Possibly to our detriment.”
“Comm here, Captain. Flag says maintain station. Fuel state not critical.”
“Why am I not surprised? Thanks, comm.” Mattim leaned back in his chair. “Any suggestions?”
Heads nodded on the bridge. The net was silent. “Okay. I'm the captain of this ship and ultimately responsible for its safety. I read that somewhere. Helm, captain has the conn. Break from formation and do a fuel scoop pass. Use whatever fuel is necessary to get us down and back in one hundred seventy degrees of orbit.”
“Laying in course. We'll need some three gees deceleration, sir.”
“Give the crew five minutes warning.” Mattim again tapped his comm link. “Comm, flag will be sending us more of the same messages. Pass them to my day cabin ... uh, unless he threatens to shoot us. Pass that one direct to me.”
The fuel pass was smartly done. The flag, while frequently sending its displeasure, stopped short of shooting. As they climbed up, Sandy studied her boards.
“Skipper, I think I've found one missing destroyer.”
“Where?”
“She's on a high, elliptical orbit. Active on radar and lasers. She's got us and squawking. What she knows, the rest of those bastards know.”
“Pass it along to the flag, if they'll let us get a word in edgewise. Comm, put this on a broad beam. Make sure all the squadron picks this up.”
“Yes, sir. Sending.”
Mattim leaned back in his chair. “So, they know where we are and we got no idea what's up behind this big ice ball. Ding, Guns, any ideas of what you'd be doing?”
“They put on a lot of acceleration during that firing pass,” the XO mused slowly. “They'll be high this time around, probably diving for a scoop sun, maybe? Guns?”
“Agree with the high part. Not so sure about the scoop. That would depend on their fuel state. They seemed to be coining up from one last orbit. Unless he's neurotic about fuel, I'd skip it this pass. Captain, sorry we can't be more help. The skunks will be high and either coming down to our orbit or diving for a scoop.”
“If they're high, when will Sandy catch them?”
“After the rest of the squadron. Remember, we're low.”
“Hate to depend on the flag for anything.” Mattim rubbed his jaw. “Comm, send to Aurora on tight beam. Mattim to Buzz. We're low, let us know when you topside folks spot something.”
“Sending.” There was a momentary pause. “Buzz says he'll look sharp.” They waited. Damage control reported all repairs made. Even one of Sandy 's cable runs was replaced. Things were looking up. “Comm here. Aurora sends 'Hostiles in sight,' and passes their sensor picture to us.”
“Sandy?”
“Got it. They're high, heading for our level. That's strange. We ought to be getting an angle on their bow at this distance in orbit, but they're keeping straight bow on to us.”
“No change in formation. The three cans are a bit further ahead, six cruisers behind in line. One of the cans is radiating. Just what you'd expect,” Ding concluded.
“Matt, I'm not so sure,” Sandy cut in. “This is all radar returns. Nobody's using gravity sensors.”
“How soon until we get a look?” Mattim asked.
“Should acquire the picture in ninety seconds.” Sandy answered. They waited. As the enemy line swung into sight, Sandy went active. “I got 'em—radar, visual, and gravity. They may be head-on to the rest, but they ain't to us. The two big bastards are in front acting like destroyers, and they got another cruiser with them! The cans are in rear formation this time!”
Mattim mashed his comm link. “Send our board to the flag.”
“Doing it, sir.”
“Any reply?”
“No, sir.”
For five long minutes the squadron continued in line ahead, the Sheffield playing catch-up.
At forty thousand klicks, the enemy's lead ships did nothing as a destroyer would. The flag's targeting lasers came on, sweeping past the lead ships to concentrate on the six in line. “He doesn't believe us,” Sandy muttered. From their perspective they could see the lead
cruisers swinging around, keeping their narrow face to the squadron.
At thirty thousand klicks the Reply opened up on the lead “cruiser” in line. The two leading colonial “destroyers” were at less than twenty-five thousand klicks when they pinned the Reply in their combined beams. Hit, the Reply threw water like a fire hose and twisted out of line—toward the enemy.
The other cruisers of the squadron tried to take the new target under fire, but it took time to change firing solutions, especially at maximum range. Thirty seconds later, all three colonial cruisers snapped out at the Reply . Again she shed steam. It looked like her wobbling might jink her out of the lasers' paths. It didn't. The Reply burned.
“Guns, we in range of a target?” Mattim snarled.
“Not as close as I want to be.”
“Get their attention.”
“Fire.”
Lights dimmed. Arrows reached out from one electronic icon to spear another. Mattim steadied himself for the shock of return fire. The closest enemy was a light cruiser; it did not respond. For the last few seconds, it had been firing at will. Now it fell silent. Mattim checked the chronometer. Thirty seconds since the heavies last fired.
The enemy line lit up. It reached out, pinned the Reply in its focus, slammed it with all the power of bitter humanity. The flag expanded, gas shooting off in jets and streams.
Then it blew.
Chunks of hull rode the expanding gas out toward the stars. The explosion turned out and in and then was gone. Where a ship and six hundred people had been—nothing.
“Guns, pour everything we've got, mains and secondaries, into that cruiser. Get her attention. Don't let her do that again.”
“Roger, Skipper. Can you get me more power?”
“Ivan, we aren't at high gees. Feed the guns.”
“I got backup cables to the midship batteries. I'll feed them off ship's power. Next time they recharge, I'll switch.”
“You hear that, Guns?” Mattim checked to make sure.
“Got it. Just a second. Just a second.” Light stabbed out from the Sheffield , reaching for the other ship as it turned its weapons on the Significant .
“Damn, they're going to do it again,” Mattim snarled.
“Ivan, give me the juice,” Guns shouted.
“On the way.”
The four-inch lasers reached out, raking the cruiser, boiling off patches of the surface ice. When next Sheffield's six-inchers spoke, they stabbed at the already warm ice. Slush streamed off into space, leaving fantastic patterns in the cruiser's wake.
“We better start jinking,” Ding said.
“Do it. XO has the conn,” answered Mattim.
They dodged left as the cruiser fired—at them. Light streamed harmlessly by to port. Mattim hoped Pringle was grateful for the help.
“Good call, Ding.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard.
Now the XO danced with the enemy cruiser. She'd hold the Sheffield steady on a zig while their battery unloaded energy. Then, as the tenth second since the enemy last fired approached, she'd jink. Three times she dodged the lancing light. Three times the Sheffield slashed and cut at the
enemy's frozen armor. Some of what streamed behind the cruiser was not steam or ice.
“We've peeled her,” Guns shouted. Ding ordered a dodge-up, but no fire came. As she turned to the helm to order a second jink, the enemy battery stretched out to them.
The Sheffield shuddered, but held to her spin. By the time Thor started the jink, the fire ceased. “Damn,” Ding snapped. “Guns, when's your next volley?”
“Soon as we're charged.”
“Hold the one after that for closest approach.”
“Will do.”
Four long seconds passed. The four-inchers slashed out every two or three seconds. Then the big lasers spat. As soon as the light blinked out, Ding started talking.
“Helm, port thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Low thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Starboard thrusters, one one ...” The enemy cruiser's lasers passed harmlessly to starboard. Two tried to track in to where the Sheffield was, but winked out as they touched ice.
“You did it, Commander.”
She didn't seem to hear Mattim's praise. Her eyes were locked on the hostile cruiser as they closed the final distance. They couldn't be more than three thousand kilometers out. “Helm, prepare to rotate ship. Keep nose to hostile.”
“Aye, aye, Commander.”
“Guns?”
“Ready.”
“Helm, rotate now.” As they passed, the Sheffield spun on her central axis, keeping her armored hull between the enemy and the vulnerable engines. The enemy spun too—a second too late.
One of the four-inchers stabbed into the giant bell of a rocket engine. With power no longer equally applied, the ship wobbled, presenting more of its vulnerable rear. Two six-inchers stabbed into engineering spaces. Out of control, the ship cartwheeled.
“Sweet Lord,” Sandy breathed.
“Have mercy,” Ding finished.
“Check fire, check fire,” Guns shouted. “Recharge and switch fire to the target I designate.” The next four-inch reached out for the nearest cruiser -the enemy flag.
It was rotating, covering its engines from the one surviving heavy cruiser. A Sheffield four-incher nipped an engine, but the resulting spin twisted the flag's fantail away. When the six-inchers spoke, it was to ice and steam. Mattim checked their first target. Its twisting was slowing, as was the defensive spin. It coasted, struggling to put things right before risking power. Its guns were silent.
Our flagship blown to pieces, one enemy light cruiser wrecked. Quite a battle. Now let's get the hell out of here.
That seemed foremost on everyone's mind. All the ships were flipped now, falling backward away from each other. Fire was desultory. Maybe lasers were hot, maybe engineers had chewed their nails enough, watching reactors dip deep into the red. Maybe a lot of things. A breathless peace hung between the ships as they receded out of range.
“Message from the Significant , Captain. Assuming command. All ships make best speed for Beta jump. Sheffield , appreciate taking the pressure off me. You are best fueled, and best shooting. Continue rear guard station. Independent movement authorized. Godspeed and good luck. Pringle -ends.”
“Gee, thanks,” Mattim breathed.
“Should I send that reply?”
“No, comm, send 'Thank you and good luck to all.'“ Mattim went quickly on to what had to be done for what lay ahead. “Ding, Guns, Sandy, Ivan, we've done such a good job we get to stay in this hell a bit longer.”
“I keep telling you, boss.” Sandy was not smiling. “All get for doing a good job is a worse one.”
“Point taken. Captain has the conn. Thor, put us in line behind the squadron. Ivan, Guns, how do things look? Can you join me in my day cabin for a few minutes?”
“Yes, sir,” they answered him. Mattim stretched; it felt good to be alive. “How long before we see the colonials again, Sandy ?”
“Thirty-five minutes or so.”
“Ding, I want coffee and sandwiches in my cabin for us.” “Quartermaster, have a runner lay down to the galley and get us sandwiches and a couple pitchers of coffee.” “Aye, aye, ma'am.”
* * * *
Sergeant Mary Rodrigo had forgotten how good a warm shower felt. By the time she got back to the supply truck, it was loaded. There were hostiles in the system, but their rocks had landed well away from the base, deceived by the noisemakers her platoon had put out. The Navy pukes had finally got the colonial ships off the marines' backsides. It was a good time to sleep ... so she did.
Seven
Mattim was exhausted, terrified, and damn proud of his crew. They'd taken Sheffield to the gates of hell and not only survived but done good. At least one enemy light cruiser would not be nipping at their heels as they bugged out. As the command staff wandered into his day cabin, Mattim was glad to see he wasn't the only one with weak knees. Even Guns wa
s a bit uneven on his feet before he sank into a stuffed chair.
Settled around the coffee table, the Navy types ladled heaping spoonfuls of sugar into their coffee. When Sandy and Ivan followed suit, Mattim broke his usual practice. His tongue found the coffee overly sweet; his body appreciated the jolt. His first sandwich gone, Mattim sat back. “What do we face?”
“A day-long running gunfight,” Guns growled, “with them gunning and us running.”
“We'll be a couple of hundred thousand klicks away from each other when we break orbit,” Sandy observed. “It ought to take most of the trip to close the range.”
“Maybe, maybe not,” the XO observed. “They know we're running for the jump. They know we want to get there fast, but have to bleed off speed before we pass through. They'll send ships clipping across our sterns, aiming for our engines. We can do a lot of things, but change course is not one of them.”
“Skipper,” Guns observed, “all bets are off for today. They'll do whatever they can to damage us, cut us off from each other, turn this into a rout where they can pick off strays one at a time. We've got to hold together.”
That turned out to be tougher than expected.
* * * *
The Significant ordered the squadron to 3.5 gees acceleration as soon as they left orbit. As the ships accelerated, something big flew off the Significant .
“Damn, her armor's caving.” Ding scowled.
The new lead ship sidestepped out of the column even as communications buzzed Mattim. “Significant unable to accelerate above two gees. The rest of the squadron is to continue at three point five gees. Significant will take rear guard. Godspeed and good luck.”
“And be cut to pieces,” Ding predicted.
Mattim rang up hull and armor. “How solid is that patch you put on us?”
“Readouts say it's clinging tight as my college boyfriend.”
“Can she trust her readouts?” Mattim asked Ding.
She winced. “Probably. Navy's done its best to understand ice, but it's still ice—with a mind of its own at times.”
“Comm, send to Significant . 'Sheffield will guide on you.'“