by Mike Moscoe
“Matt.” Sandy turned in her chair. “Is this a good idea?”
The trader in Mattim certainly agreed it wasn't. Another part, the one that came with the star of a Navy line officer on his shoulder boards, said yes. He glanced at Ding. She nodded slowly, her face a mask. “We've got the extra reaction mass. The rest don't. They can't. We can. Therefore, we must.”
Comm beeped. “Flag says thanks. Operate as you will.”
With a deep breath, Mattim prepared to do just that.
The opening gambits were simple. A light cruiser and two destroyers shot across their stern, only halfheartedly threatening as they covered for two cruisers that came out of orbit a lot slower and headed for the other jump point. The two cans came on fast and shooting—too fast. Their missiles had trouble adjusting, and most went wild. The Sheffield evaded and destroyed her three while helping Significant gun down her five. The Aurora got clipped by a near-miss explosion. One of her engines had to be taken off line, and a second to keep acceleration balanced.
As the enemy destroyers edged over to join the exiting cruisers, Buzz's cruiser slowly fell behind the others. “Figured I'd join the crippled division,” he quipped to Mattim, as he matchedSignificant's acceleration.
“Gives us a good concentration of fire,” Mattim answered with cheer he didn't feel.
“Not bad,” Guns drawled. “We mangled two cruisers, and they detached a third and a pair of tin cans to escort them out. Odds are down to two superheavies and a light cruiser to our heavy and two light cruisers.”
For the next long hours, the two opposing lines accelerated out and drew inexorably closer. The lead half of the squadron reached flip-over a good five hours ahead of the trailing units. The colonials seemed content to let them escape; the three remaining enemy cruisers matched their acceleration to Sheffield .
Mattim did not waste the time; he hoped Buzz and Pringle kept their crew as active as he did his. At two gees there were problems, and the inevitable casualties. Still, Mattim made sure his armor was in as good a shape as it could be. He took acceleration down to one gee long enough to mend a few cables, then took the ship up to three gees to verify it could still take it. The Significant and Aurora slowed to one gee with him. So did the colonials. Who made the best use of the time?
“Folks, I want ideas,” Mattim told his bridge crew.
Guns pursed his lips. “Ever play chicken as a kid?”
“Nope,” Mattim answered.
“They know where we're going, and about when we'll get there. They got reach on us. We need a surprise.”
Sandy looked at her fingers. “We loaded a dozen big rocks.”
“Relativity bombs,” Guns shook his head. “Throw a rock fast enough and you can get quite a boom when you hit a planet. But the relative velocity between us and the colonials is pretty low, and the odds of a dumb rock hitting aren't that good. We don't have an accelerator on board, anyway.”
“If we threw a lot of little rocks, we'd have a better chance. And sand on a laser lens ...”Sandy shrugged.
“Is not my idea of fun,” Guns finished for her.
“We've got plenty of ice,” Ding added.
“Ivan, how long to rig a slingshot?” Mattim asked, careful to keep the excitement from his voice. The damn colonial 9.2-inchers had double his range. If he could make their life miserable, he wanted to.
“A few hours. Not quite the rail gun you Navy folks use, but good enough. I'll need one gee to work in.”
“I'll go to three point five gees now. Let me know when you're ready. Who can grind me up some rocks?”
“I'll take care of that,” Ding said.
“Let's do it,” Mattim ordered.
No message came from Buzz or Pringle as they fell away from Sheffield . Two hours later, the Sheffield went to one gee. In the time it took to rig the magnetic sling, create and load bullets for it, and set everything up for loading at high gee, Mattim caught up with the two ships.
“Glad to have you back,” Buzz called.
“Had a few things needed doing,” Mattim answered.
The colonials had slowed, falling a bit aft of the Significant’s rocket engines. Not a solid up-the-kilt shot, but too damn close. Pringle swung the group a few degrees closer to the enemy and away from the jump point. Now he adjusted course, paralleling the colonial fleet and keeping their fan-tails angled enough away from the enemy. At five hours to jump, the two columns were forty thousand klicks apart—in range of the 9.2-inchers.
* * * *
The dance with death was joined.
The enemy light cruiser cut deceleration, sliding to cut across the Significant’s rear. Mattim cut deceleration too, surging ahead of his mates. The colonial quickly realized if he held his course, Sheffield would be in a place to blast his own vulnerable rear. For several minutes they traded shots; then the colonial edged back'toward the others. Mattim held his position.
“Well done,” Significant sent.
It continued that way, one of the colonial cruisers trying to edge around them, drop behind them, force them into a compromised position. The three Navy ships dodged, zigged, zagged, and otherwise went the way they had to, all the time keeping the jump point their final goal. The 9.2-inchers kept their fire slow and deliberate—every two or three minutes. Most shots went wide. They could afford to bide their time.
At thirty-five thousand klicks, Mattim waited until the heavies fired, then swung his fantail around and tossed out a couple of ice and dust bullets to where the colonial line should be in an hour.
“Sir, isn't it a bit early?” Ding half asked.
“Yes, but the real surprise isn't what we've got. It's what he's willing to do about them.” At thirty thousand klicks, Mattim launched another six, then blew the first collection of dust, gravel, and ice into puffy clouds. The next 9.2-inch broadside showed bright yellow as it passed through the thin collection. It got the colonials' attention. Five minutes later, their secondary battery began random firings, hunting for the extent of the crud, trying to sweep it out of the way. They must have missed at least one big fragment. Just before they were due for another broadside, the enemy flag lit up amidships.
Ding grinned. “Looks like a turret hit. With luck they'll be fighting a major electrical fire for a while.”
It was ten minutes before the next enemy salvo.
The closer they drew to the jump, the slower time passed.
Waiting for the big lasers to reach out got to be worse than dodging them. Minutes became hours.
“I'm gonna quit jinking after the next shot,” Ding muttered. When that salvo missed, she settled the ship on a steady course, eyes glued to the chronometer. Twenty-nine seconds slid by. “Up thrusters,” she said a fraction of a second before the colonials broke with their practice and fired as soon as they were loaded.
“Tricked ya.” Ding grinned ... and settled the Sheffield on a steady course. She had the computer generate a random series of ones, twos, threes and occasional fours. Still, she chose where in the random numbers to start the sequence, and when to jump around in the order. “With my life, and the ship, I don't trust a computer,” she muttered.
Mattim could only agree.
After each colonial salvo, he'd swing the ship around to bring the sling to bear, and toss a few more packets across the enemy course. The angle was carefully chosen. If the enemy kept their deceleration even with Mattim's, or swung away, the chances of a hit would drop. For the next half hour, their secondaries continued to sweep their course, and they continued to close.
“Damn, it's gonna be tight,” Ding whispered.
Then everything changed.
* * * *
The enemy flag wobbled, then cut its deceleration to 1.5 gees. “We nipped another engine,” Ding crowed. “The flag's falling ahead. The other two look to be holding their course. We'll be rid of the flag in a half hour, but until then, she'll be getting a better angle on our sterns.”
To Mattim, this looked like a hell of a si
tuation, or a golden opportunity. “Guns, you got any suggestions?”
“We got reaction mass. We got the best damn shooting I've ever heard of. I'm getting bloody damn tired of doing it their way. We can sit here on our hands, Skipper, dodging, or we can give them something to send them on their way.”
“One for you Navy folks' history book.”
“Yes sir,” Guns grinned.
Mattim glanced around his bridge. Ding was grinning and breathing hard. At the helm, Thor's eyes were fixed on the board, hands on the controls, ready to answer orders. The kids around the bridge looked scared, but ready. Sandy swiveled to face him. If there was any mature judgment left, it was hers. She hated war and all that went with it. “How much maneuvering room *do we have at three gees?” he asked. She could squelch any cowboying around with one sentence: We'll miss the jump point.
Sandy reached behind her, tapped her board, and a red dot with an expanding yellow cone appeared on the main viewer. “That assumes the jump point hasn't moved. I'm not in sensor range yet.”
Mattim studied the screen, projected the enemy course on it. Weighed his own options, men mashed his comm button. “This is the captain. We've dinged the enemy flagship and she's falling out of line. Still, she can cause our friends trouble in the next few minutes. Alternately, we can cause them a lot of trouble. With a little bit of luck, we can run the other two colonials right out of range of our ships. We got the reaction mass, and our shooting's been hot. Strap down, folks, for the ride of your life.” He took his finger off the comm button. “Exec, put us on a course to close with their flag.”
It took the colonials five minutes and two salvos at the Significant before they realized Sheffield was headed for them with a bone in her teeth. The dance turned into a mad cavort. Ding would dodge a salvo then swing around and use full thrust toward the enemy. At twenty-two-thousand klicks, Guns began to reply to the enemy salvos with contemptuous single shots—that scored!
“Now let them wonder when I'll smack 'em with a broadside,” Guns chortled.
It was amazing how good it felt to Mattim, knowing he wasn't the only one sweating out the unknown. The long fight was telling on the colonials; their beams were wider. The 9.2-inchers were a meter wide as they flashed through the ice Sheffield spewed at every chance—and hid behind when she could.
As expected, the Significant and the Aurora dropped off the colonial target list; the Sheffield was it. Jinking became a constant as the colonials gave up their slow salvo fire. Each cruiser lashed out as quickly as it could recharge. Still, the time between shoots stretched from thirty to forty-five seconds to a full minute. Now Guns shot with everything he had—the forward six guns at the flag, while the aft three kept the other cruisers on their toes. The enemy flag had gathered them in. They made the Sheffield 's life tenuous, but rapidly fell out of position, giving the Significant and Aurora a clean shot for the jump.
“It's working.” Mattim grinned.
“I found the jump,” Sandy shouted. “It's moved!”
“Where?” Ding and Mattim roared together.
“Refreshing the board,” Sandy snapped.
One glance at the screen told Mattim he was in trouble. The red spot had only jumped a few inches on the display. Those represented kilometers—and some hard, unforgiving maneuvering, if they were to catch their ride home. “Ding, change course.”
“Already doing it,” she breathed.
“Cruiser launching missiles,” Guns shouted.
“Only destroyers carry missiles,” Ding muttered, not letting this latest distract her from her course change.
“I fear our intelligence may be a tad out of date,” Guns drawled. “Launch ice. Secondary battery, stand by.”
Lasers snapped at them, missed, or grazed the Sheffield when one side outguessed the other. The missiles inched closer.
“XO,” Guns said slowly, “the missile spread is aimed toward the old jump location. Most will miss.”
“Thank you,” Ding said as the ship swayed under her orders, and more lasers flashed through the steam and ice the Sheffield streamed, some by intent, some from damage.
“It's gonna be close,” Sandy whispered.
“Get ready for four gees,” Ding ordered. A laser volley raked them as Ding jinked left. The Sheffield shuddered in her spin even as pumps struggled to rebalance the hull. Ding goosed them up to four gees.
“We're going to overshoot,” Sandy cried. “I've got to have control of delta V.”
“You've got it for ten seconds,” Ding shouted. “Put us through the jump or lose it.”
“Can you take off the spin?” Sandy yelled back.
“Not if you want to live,” Ding answered.
“One missile's still coming,” Guns said evenly. “I got all secondaries firing a pattern.”
“Here we go,” Sandy cried.
“Got the bastard,” Guns exulted—as wreckage or evasion drove Mattim sideways in his seat.
The main screen wavered as one set of stars was replaced by another. Ding collapsed on her board. “Captain has the conn,” Mattim announced. “Cancel spin. Take us to one gee. Lay in a course for the station.”
“He can’t,” Sandy croaked.
“Why not?” Mattim eyed the screen. He knew the answer even before Sandy spoke again.
“ 'Cause Pitt's Hope ain't there.”
Eight
Mary slept all the way back to the platoon. Cassie greeted her as they pulled in. “You see the space battle?”
“Nope. They throw any rocks?”
“A few, but we hardly felt 'em. Captain wants us to head over and replace any noisemakers they broke.”
“Hope no more rocks are on the way,” Mary muttered. Once the supply truck was unloaded, they used it to run Cassie's squad over to where they'd “built” an HQ, setting up noisemakers to imitate the electromagnetic and heat you'd expect to leak from a base under twenty meters of rock. The place was cratered, but not as bad as the last time. Apparently they were using smaller rocks or tossing them at slower speeds. Mary moved the noisemakers away from the new craters, and dialed them down. Even headquarter weenies would know to dig deeper and be quieter.
Moving the decoys, Mary found an extra one, camouflaged almost good enough to pass for a rock. Still, rocks don't have thin antennas spreading out from them. Mary tossed a real rock at it. It blew up. Gingerly, she collected the pieces. Lek would want a look at it.
“Repeater,” he growled. “Given enough distance, even a tight beam gets wide.” He fingered different parts of the wreckage. “Stuff here to intercept radios and lasers. Good workmanship. You say it was out where you set up the fake HQ?”
Mary nodded.
“Better pass this along to brigade. If Collies don't intercept anything at your fake, they gonna start dropping these around until they do. Isn't the information war wonderful?”
* * * *
Mattim rubbed his eyes, driving his palms into them, trying to wash away the fatigue clogging his brain. When he looked again, the stars hadn't changed. How many times had Sandy warned him to respect jump points? So he dives balls-to-the-wall into an A. Instead of being blown to bits, they'd hurled themselves . . . where? “Sandy,” he asked softly, “any idea where we are?”
“Leave me alone, Matt, I need time.”
Mattim glanced around his bridge crew. “I'm open to suggestions,” he said softly.
Guns whispered into his mike. “Tommy, put a save on all the gunnery sensors for the last five minutes.”
“Okay, boss.”
Thor at the helm coughed softly. “Skipper, I've got a magnification on the star, er, stars.”
“On screen,” Mattim whispered, not wanting to disturb Sandy .
There were four, and they were beautiful. A giant blue star was high above a brilliant yellow one. Close to the yellow was a red dwarf. Very close to the blue one was a ...
“It's a neutron star,” Guns swiveled around. “I heard about this foursome. They're halfway ac
ross the galaxy. What a jump. Quite a few vectors on the boat going in, but at least we got it on tape.” Guns spoke matter-of-factly, as if he got hopelessly lost among the stars on a regular basis.
Sandy looked up. “I've located enough pulsars to get a rough fix. You're right, Commander Howard. We've gone about thirty thousand light-years. I'd like to have a look at your data.”
At Mattim's side, Ding had caught her breath, but now she was struggling to stop shaking. The rest of the crew would be picking up rumors before too long. It would be better if they heard it from their captain. Mattim keyed his mike.
“This is the captain. We made it out of a hell of a mess and punched a hole for the other ships. With all the shooting going on, we hit the jump in a nonstandard configuration.” Sandy rolled her eyes at him; Guns chuckled noiselessly. “We know exactly where we are and exactly where we want to go, so it's only a matter of a few adjustments and we'll be heading back. In the meantime, we'll keep the ship on a low-gee acceleration and concentrate on damage repair. That is all.”
Mattim raced into a checklist. “OOD, get a list of all damage. Tell damage control to prioritize and coordinate. Ding, you head up the navigation problem. Let's go over it in my day cabin.” He turned to the bos'n. “How about some sandwiches and lots of coffee? Sandy , could you get Ivan up here?”
She was doing that already. “Hon, I've got a bit of a problem, and I'd sure like you handy when I brief Matt.”
“Nothing popping down here, love. Be right there.”
The fight hadn't left Mattim with much reserves; he doubted anyone aboard had anything to spare. He'd have to order his crew to a night's rest soon. But first, he wanted to look this problem over while it was still fresh in everybody's minds, even if those minds were far from fresh.
* * * *
“Okay, march soldier.” Rita ordered, mean as any drill instructor. Ray hung between two handrails, trying to move his left leg. The mirror beside him showed the knee move up a smidge. He didn't feel anything, but he concentrated harder. The foot came up. He swung it forward.
“That's cheating, Major,” the physical therapist snapped—and moved the foot back to where it started. “You've got control of that leg. Use it. You're not some cripple with a busted back who's never going to walk again. Walk.”