Changer of Worlds woh-3

by David Weber

  She’d been wrong.

  HMS War Maiden lurched like a galleon in a gale as the transfer energy of PSN Annika’s fire bled into her. The big privateer carried fewer missiles and far heavier energy weapons than her counterparts in the Silesian navy, and her grasers smashed through War Maiden’s sidewall like brimstone sledgehammers come straight from Hell. The sidewall generators did their best to bend and divert that hurricane of energy from its intended target, but four of the heavy beams struck home with demonic fury. Graser Two, Missiles Two and Four, Gravitic Two, Radar Two and Lidar Three, Missile Eight and Magazine Four, Boat Bay One and Life Support Two… Entire clusters of compartments and weapons bays turned venomous, bloody crimson on the damage control panel as enemy fire ripped and clawed its way towards War Maiden’s heart. Frantic damage control reports crashed over Honor like a Sphinxian tidal bore while the ship jerked and shuddered. Damage alarms wailed and screamed, adding their voices to the cacophony raging through the heavy cruiser’s compartments, and clouds of air and water vapor erupted from the gaping wounds torn suddenly through her armored skin.

  “Heavy casualties in Missile Two!” Senior Chief Del Conte barked while secondary explosions still rolled through the hull. “Graser Six reports loss of central control, and Magazine Four is open to space! We—”

  He never finished his report, and Honor’s entire body recoiled as a savage explosion tore through the bridge bulkhead. It reached out to the senior chief, snatching him up as casually as some cruel child would have, and tore him to pieces before her eyes. Blood and pieces of what had been a human being seemed to be everywhere, and a small, calm corner of her brain realized that that was because they were everywhere. The explosion killed at least five people outright, through blast or with deadly splinters from ruptured bulkheads, and Honor rocked back in her padded, armored chair as the wall of devastation marched through War Maiden’s bridge… and directly over the captain’s chair at its center.

  Captain Bachfisch just had time to bend forward and raise an arm in an instinctive effort to protect his face when the blast front struck. It hit from slightly behind into his right, and that was all that saved his life, because even as his arm rose, he whipped the chair to his left and took the main force across the armored shell of its back. But not even that was enough to fully protect him, and the force of the explosion snatched him up and hurled him against the opposite bulkhead. He bounced back with the limp, total bonelessness of unconsciousness and hit the decksole without ever having made a sound.

  He was far from the only injured person on the bridge. The same explosion which blew him out of his chair threw a meter-long splinter of battle steel across the com section. It decapitated Lieutenant Sauchuk as neatly as an executioner, then hurtled onward and drove itself through Lieutenant Saunders’ chest like an ax, and Honor’s mind tried to retreat into some safe, sane cave as the chaos and confusion and terror for which no simulation, no lecture, could possibly have prepared her enveloped her. She heard the whistling rush of air racing for the rents in the bulkhead even through the screams and moans of the wounded, and instinct cried out for her to race across the bridge to help the hurt and unconscious helmet up in time. Yet she didn’t. The trained responses her instructors at Saganami Island had hammered mercilessly into her for four long T-years overrode even her horror and the compulsion to help. She slammed her own helmet into place, but her eyes never left the panel before her, for she dared not leave her station even to help the Captain before she knew that AuxCon and Lieutenant Commander Hirake had taken over from the mangled bridge.

  War Maiden’s energy mounts lashed out again, with a second broadside, even as the raider fired again, as well. More death and destruction punched their way through the hull, rending and tearing, and the heavy cruiser shuddered as one hit blew straight through her after impeller ring. Half the beta nodes and two of the alphas went down instantly, and fresh alarms shrilled as a fifth of War Maiden’s personnel became casualties. Lieutenant Commander LaVacher was one of them, and a simultaneous hit smashed home on Damage Control Central, killing a dozen ratings and petty officers and critically wounding Lieutenant Tergesen.

  War Maiden’s grasers continued to hammer at her larger, more powerful—and far younger—foe, but Honor felt a fresh and even more paralyzing spike of terror as she realized that they were still firing under the preliminary fire plan which she had locked in under Captain Bachfisch’s orders. AuxCon should have overridden and assumed command virtually instantly… and it hadn’t.

  She turned her head, peering at what had been Senior Chief Del Conte’s station through the banners of smoke riding the howling gale through the shattered bulkhead, and her heart froze as her eyes picked out AuxCon on the schematic displayed there. The compartment itself appeared to be intact, but it was circled by the jagged red and white band which indicated total loss of communications. AuxCon was cut off, not only from the bridge, but from access to the ship’s computers, as well.

  In the time it had taken to breathe three times, War Maiden had been savagely maimed, and tactical command had devolved onto a twenty-year-old midshipwoman on her snotty cruise.

  The bridge about her was like the vestibule of Hell. Half the command stations had been wrecked or at least blown off-line, a quarter of the bridge crew was dead or wounded, and at least three men and women who should have been at their stations were crawling frantically through the wreckage slapping helmets and skinsuit seals on unconscious crewmates. She felt the ship’s wounds as if they had been inflicted upon her own body, and all in the world she wanted in that moment was to hear someone—anyone—tell her what to do.

  But there was no one else. She was all War Maiden had, and she jerked her eyes back to her own plot and drew a deep breath.

  “Helm, roll ninety degrees port!”

  No one on that wounded, half-broken bridge, and Honor least of all, perhaps, recognized the cool, sharp soprano which cut cleanly through the chaos, but the helmsman clinging to his own sanity with his fingernails recognized the incisive bite of command.

  “Rolling ninety degrees port, aye!” he barked, and HMS War Maiden rolled frantically, snatching her shattered starboard broadside away from the ferocity of her enemy’s fire.

  Something happened inside Honor Harrington in the moment that her ship rolled. The panic vanished. The fear remained, but it was suddenly a distant, unimportant thing—something which could no longer touch her, would no longer be permitted to affect her. She looked full into the face of Death, not just for her but for her entire ship and everyone aboard it, and there was no doubt in her mind that he had come for them all. Yet her fear had transmuted into something else entirely. A cold, focused purpose that sang in her blood and bone. Her almond eyes stared into Death’s empty sockets, and her soul bared its teeth and snarled defiance.

  “Port broadside stand by for Fire Plan Delta Seven,” that soprano rapier commanded, and confirmations raced back from War Maiden’s undamaged broadside even as Annika’s fire continued to hammer harmlessly at the impenetrable belly of her wedge.

  Honor’s mind raced with cold, icy precision. Her first instinct was to break off, for she knew only too well how brutally wounded her ship was. Worse, she already knew that their opponent was far more powerful—and better crewed—than anyone aboard War Maiden had believed she could be. Yet those very factors were what made flight impossible. The velocity differential between the two ships was less than six hundred kilometers per second, and with half her after impeller ring down, War Maiden could never hope to pull away from her unlamed foe. Even had her drive been unimpaired, the effort to break off would undoubtedly have proved suicidal as it exposed the after aspect of her impeller wedge to the enemy’s raking fire.

  No, she thought coldly. Flight was not an option, and her gloved fingers raced across the tactical panel, locking in new commands as she reached out for her ship’s—her ship’s—only hope of survival.

  “Helm, stand by to alter course one-three-five degrees
to starboard, forty degree nose-down skew, and roll starboard on my command!”

  “Aye, aye, Ma’am!”

  “All weapons crews,” that voice she could not quite recognize even now went on, carrying a calm and a confidence that stilled incipient panic like a magic wand, “stand by to engage as programmed. Transmitting manual firing commands now.”

  She punched a button, and the targeting parameters she had locked into the main computers spilled into the secondary on-mount computers of her waiting weapons crews. If fresh damage cut her command links to them, at least they would know what she intended for them to do.

  Then it was done, and she sat back in her command chair, watching the enemy’s icon as it continued to angle sharply in to intercept War Maiden’s base track. The range was down to fifty-two thousand kilometers, falling at five hundred and six kilometers per second, and she waited tautly while the blood-red icon of her enemy closed upon her ship.

  Commodore Anders Dunecki cursed vilely as the other cruiser snapped up on its side. He’d hurt that ship—hurt it badly—and he knew it. But it had also hurt him far more badly than he had ever allowed for. He’d gotten slack, a cold thought told him in his own viciously calm voice. He’d been fighting the Confeds too long, let his guard down and become accustomed to being able to take liberties with them. But his present opponent was no Silesian naval unit, and he cursed again, even more vilely, as he realized what that other ship truly was.

  A Manty. He’d attacked a Manty warship, committed the one unforgivable blunder no pirate or privateer was ever allowed to commit more than once. That was why the other cruiser had managed to get off even a single shot of her own, because she was a Manty and she’d been just as ready, just as prepared to fire as he was.

  And it was also why his entire strategy to win Andermani support for the Council for an Independent Prism had suddenly come crashing down in ruins. However badly the People’s Republic might have distracted the Manticoran government, the RMN’s response to what had happened here was as certain as the energy death of the universe.

  But only if they know who did it, his racing brain told him coldly. Only if they know which system government to send the battle squadrons after. But that ship has got to have detailed sensor records of Annika’s energy signatures. If they compare those records with the Confed database, they’re bound to ID us. Even if they don’t get a clean hit, Wegener will know who it must have been and send them right after us. But even he won’t be able to talk the Manties into hitting us without at least some supporting evidence, and the only evidence there is in the computers of that ship.

  There was only one way to prevent that data from getting out.

  He turned his head to look at Commander Amami. The exec was still listening to damage reports, but Dunecki didn’t really need them. A glance at the master schematic showed that Annika’s entire port broadside must be a mass of tangled ruin. Less than a third of her energy mounts and missile tubes remained intact, and her sidewall generators were at barely forty percent efficiency. But the Manty had to be hurt at least as badly, and she was smaller, less able to absorb damage. Better yet, he had the overtake advantage and her impeller strength had dropped drastically. He was bigger, newer, better armed, and more maneuverable, and that meant the engagement could have only one outcome.

  “Roll one-eight-zero degrees to starboard and maintain heading,” he told his helmsmen harshly. “Starboard broadside, stand by to fire as you bear!”

  Honor watched the other ship roll. Like War Maiden, the bigger ship was rotating her crippled broadside away from her opponent’s fire. But she wasn’t stopping there, and Honor let herself feel a tiny spark of hope as the raider continued to roll, and then the weapons of her undamaged broadside lashed out afresh and poured a hurricane of fire upon War Maiden. The belly of the Manticoran ship’s impeller wedge absorbed that fire harmlessly, but that wasn’t the point, and Honor knew it. The enemy was sequencing her fire carefully, so that something pounded the wedge continuously. If War Maiden rolled back for a broadside duel, that constant pounding was almost certain to catch her as she rolled, inflicting damage and destroying at least some of her remaining weapons before they ever got a chance to bear upon their foe. It was a smart, merciless tactic, one which eschewed finesse in favor of brutal practicality.

  But unlike whoever was in command over there, Honor could not afford a weapon-to-weapon battering match. Not against someone that big who had already demonstrated her capabilities so convincingly. And so she had no choice but to oppose overwhelming firepower with cunning.

  Every fiber of her being was concentrated on the imagery of her plot, and her lips drew back in a feral snarl as the other ship maintained her acceleration. Seconds ticked slowly and agonizingly past. Sixty of them. Then seventy. Ninety.

  “Helm! On my mark, give me maximum emergency power—redline everything—and execute my previous order!” She heard the helmsman’s response, but her eyes never flickered from her plot, and her nostrils flared.

  “Now!”

  Anders Dunecki had a handful of fleeting seconds to realize that he had made one more error. The Manty had held her course, hiding behind the shield of her wedge, and he’d thought that it hadn’t mattered whether that arose out of panic or out of a rational realization that she couldn’t have gone toe-to-toe with Annika even if she hadn’t been so badly damaged.

  Yet it did matter. The other captain hadn’t panicked, but he had realized he couldn’t fight Annika in a broadside duel… and he had no intention of doing so.

  Perhaps it wasn’t really Dunecki’s fault. The range was insanely short for modern warships, dropping towards one which could be measured in hundreds of kilometers and not thousands, and no sane naval officer would even have contemplated engaging at such close quarters. Nor had either Dunecki or Bachfisch planned on doing any such thing, for each had expected to begin and end the battle with a single broadside which would take his enemy completely by surprise. But whatever they’d planned, their ships were here now, and no one in any navy trained its officers for combat maneuvers in such close proximity to an enemy warship. And because of that, Anders Dunecki, for all of his experience, was completely unprepared for what War Maiden actually did.

  Strident alarms jangled as HMS War Maiden’s inertial compensator protested its savage abuse. More alarms howled as the load on the heavy cruiser’s impeller nodes peaked forty percent beyond their “Never Exceed” levels. Despite her mangled after impeller ring, War Maiden slammed suddenly forward at almost five hundred and fifty gravities. Her bow swung sharply towards Annika, but it also dipped sharply “below” the other ship, denying the big privateer the deadly down-the-throat shot which would have spelled War Maiden’s inevitable doom.

  Annika began a desperate turn of her own, but she had been taken too much by surprise. There wasn’t enough time for her to answer her helm before War Maiden’s wounded charge carried her across her enemy’s wake.

  It wasn’t the perfect up-the-kilt stern rake that was every tactical officer’s dream. No neat ninety-degree crossing with every weapon firing in perfect sequence. Instead, it was a desperate, scrambling lunge—the ugly do-or-die grapple of a wounded hexapuma facing a peak bear. Honor’s weapons couldn’t begin to fire down the long axis of the enemy ship in a “proper” rake… but what they could do was enough.

  Six grasers scored direct hits on the aftermost quarter of PSN Annika. They came in through the open after aspect of her wedge, with no sidewall to interdict or degrade them. They smashed into her armored after hammerhead, and armor shattered at their ferocious touch. They blew deep into the bigger ship’s hull, maiming and smashing, crippling her after chase armament, and the entire after third of her sidewall flickered and died.

  Annika fought to answer her helm, clawing around in a desperate attempt to reacquire War Maiden for her broadside weapons, but Honor Harrington had just discovered that she could be just as merciless a killer as Anders Dunecki. Her flying fingers stabbed a m
inor correction into her tactical panel, and War Maiden fired once more. Every graser in her surviving broadside poured a deadly torrent of energy into the gap in Annika’s sidewall, and the big privateer vanished in a hell-bright boil of fury.

  Nimitz sat very straight and still on Honor Harrington’s shoulder as she came to a halt before the Marine sentry outside the Captain’s day cabin. The private gazed at her for a long, steady moment, then reached back to key the admittance signal.

  “Yes?” The voice belonged to Abner Layson, not Thomas Bachfisch.

  “Ms. Harrington to see the Captain, Sir!” the Marine replied crisply.

  “Enter,” another voice said, and the Marine stepped aside as the hatch opened. Honor nodded her thanks as she stepped past him, and for just a moment he allowed his professional nonexpression to vanish into a wink of encouragement before the hatch closed behind her once more.

  Honor crossed the cabin and came to attention. Commander Layson sat behind the captain’s desk, but Captain Bachfisch was also present. War Maiden’s CO was propped as comfortably as possible on an out-sized couch along the cabin’s longest bulkhead. He looked awful, battered and bruised and with his left arm and right leg both immobilized. Under almost any other circumstances, he would still have been locked up in sickbay while Lieutenant Chiem stood over him with a pulser to keep him there if necessary. But there was no room in sickbay for anyone with non-life-threatening injuries. Basanta Lakhia was in sickbay. Nassios Makira wasn’t; he’d been in After Engineering when the hit came in, and the damage control parties hadn’t even found his body.