As Meier watched, one spark—representing a Fleet heavy—glowed yellow as its screens dropped and then disappeared. As that battle cruiser died someone tripped her FTL engines to overload, and three Khalians were trapped in the explosion. Even this far from the battle, the Red Ball’s tiny visual monitor went black.
The Red Ball’s scanners could detect the massive spaceport at the planet’s equator. Meier had time to be astonished by its size. The quartermaster in him calculated that half of the Fleet could be serviced by it. The Weasels had no choice but to defend Bull’s-Eye with desperate courage. After fifteen minutes they still had a numerical advantage of twenty percent. If things continued as they were, the Fleet would probably win, but only after crippling losses.
Hovering over the battle, his freighters could do nothing but watch the swirling melee. As another heavy disappeared from the console, Meier swore in frustration, the Yiddish phrase echoing off the walls of the freighter’s small bridge. Lebario spun, startled, and then hurriedly turned back to his own console.
“I’m getting a call from Admiral Duane, sir,” announced the young exec. With nothing to do, the former cadet watched Meier as his thoughts raced. Auro’s duty was to issue any actual combat orders to the freighters. To the youthful hero this was a humorless parody of what his duty had been on board the Morwood. Then the memory of the decapitated body of a cadet who had sat beside him there intruded. Auro remembered just how vulnerable, thin hulled and poorly screened the Red Ball was and shuddered. After nearly being smashed by debris meters inside the thickly armored hull of a heavy cruiser, he was keenly aware that less than a centimeter of steel stood between the bridge and vacuum.
“I’m already monitoring the Fleet command frequency, Lieutenant Lebario,” Commodore Meier corrected him in what he hoped was even tones. He was aware that the young officer had won his decoration in combat. Abe wondered if this made the boy feel superior. It certainly made him feel inferior. Still, he couldn’t allow the young man to hear voices. Perhaps Lebario should be relieved? But what did it matter; they were just spectators. Earlier the boy had been nervously fingering his silver cluster. Now he seemed to exude confidence, and Meier found himself jealous. Would he be this calm in his next battle? Would there be a next battle? So far they had not been noticed. Breathing deeply to force calm, Abe turned his attention back to studying the combat display.
“Sir, the admiral,” Lebario corrected him. “He’s on your personal frequency.”
Immediately the captain switched over, avoiding the younger man’s eyes. “Meier here.”
“I’m going to have to pull your escorts,” the admiral announced. “We need every ship that can fight. I’d throw your freighters in, if they had more than popguns.” The commodore could barely understand Duane. The roar of static from the exploding plasma blasts nearly overwhelmed the signal.
His eyes were riveted on the battle display. There was no way he could deny the urgency of the, situation. Meier agreed: Duane needed every combat ship and needed them minutes ago.
“Aye, aye, sir. And good luck.”
Seconds later Agberea sounded jubilant as he acknowledged the change of command. As always, there was a controlled air of superiority when he addressed the quartermaster who kept being assigned as his superior. “We’ll get a few for you,” had been his closing comment. Keyed up as Agberea must be, he probably hadn’t even meant to taunt me, Abe rationalized.
By the time Meier looked back at the command console, their escorts were diving toward Bull’s-Eye at maximum acceleration. Meier could hear Agberea ordering them into a tight formation. Meier envied him. In seconds they would be in combat, able to salve their frustration with blazing cannon. He could only cower, hoping to be unnoticed.
The commodore found himself splitting his attention between Lebario and the console. The lieutenant was staring at the command display, his hands clenched tightly. Behind him their Hrruban pilot hissed a low oath. Abe studied the console for a few seconds, but the battle was too confused for Meier even to figure out what had provoked the outburst.
Seconds later, when a dozen Khalian ships managed to overwhelm a Fleet heavy cruiser, the younger officer visibly flinched. Then Abe swore as well as they watched, unable to help, while a Khalian ship overtook a damaged Fleet destroyer and blasted the wounded vessel into scrap. Then both tried not to show their relief when that same Khalian turned, ignoring them, and rejoined the battle,
Meier himself was torn between being glad he wasn’t part of that deadly melee and the desire to do something, anything, to help his comrades. Lebario’s thoughts echoed the commodore’s. Somewhere down there Buchanon and his fellow cadets were fighting for their lives. Yet there was nothing he could do but cower up here, ready to supply the mud troops after the real fighting had ended. If they won.
As if summoned, a new mass of ships appeared at the edge of the command console. They had to be the troop transports. Flipping to maximum range, the lieutenant quickly confirmed. Then something glimmered on the far side of the screen.
If Meier had stationed their force any closer to the battle, Auro wouldn’t have seen anything. Or if the transports hadn’t caused Remra to change screen scales, again they would have missed them. But because those very long range scanners were engaged, they had warning of the new Khalian fleet as soon as it dropped back.
There were almost fifty ships in the Khalian formation. Most of them were large for Khalians, destroyer class and above. Their formation was ragged, even for ships dropping back after a long journey. It didn’t take them long to recover. Even as they accelerated toward Bull’s-Eye, the Khalians formed themselves into a tight wedge.
Without being asked, Lebario began programming in the readouts for this new Khalian force. Meier noticed his executive officer’s sudden activity. Rising nervously in the cramped control, he watched over the former cadet’s shoulder, staring at the screen and trying to force the new Khalians to disappear by sheer force of will.
They didn’t.
Lebario’s projection superimposed itself on the monitor. The Khalians had dropped back on the far side of Bull’s-Eye’s sun. Now they were accelerating toward that star. They would whiplash past and slice through the Fleet globe at a fantastic speed. Even without warheads, their missiles would be traveling fast enough to rip through even a heavy cruiser’s screens.
Duane had to be warned. No other Fleet ships were in a position to pick up the menace, nor were any likely to be using long-range scans. Meier keyed the emergency frequency and then tore off his headset, half deafened. The earphones filled the control room with the roar of static from tens of thousands of plasma blasts. Communications must now be limited to tight beams at short range. There was no way to warn them. Meier remembered his ominous orders to render assistance as needed. But there was nothing he could do against twice his number, even if he had commanded real warships, not rusty freight haulers and a hospital ship.
On the display, the red blips of the Khalian reinforcements drove relentlessly along Auro’s projection. Their course appeared as a red line cutting between his freighters and Bull’s-Eye’s sun and ending where Force One defended the damaged ships it sheltered. When the Weasels hit, the globe would disintegrate and the battle would be lost.
To complicate matters more, troop transports began dropping back twenty AUs in the other direction. They would be unaware of the danger. They were supposed to be at a safe distance, but now they were situated almost exactly where the new Khalians were likely to end their deceleration after slamming through the battle. It would take the underpowered, bulky vessels nearly an hour to recharge their FTL drives. If even one of the Khalians smashed past the Fleet ships intact, thousands of marines and militia would be slaughtered.
Both officers stared at the other in silence. Each realized the other was hoping for a suddenly announced solution. Between them the red blips of the Khalian reinforcements crept acros
s the display. Finally Lebario, sweating visibly in the cool cabin, felt he had to say something.
“I was just following Captain Buchanon’s plan.” The young officer referred to his sole bit of glory defensively. Don’t ask me, he thought. Out loud Auro added, “You are in command.”
“In command of a mountain of supplies,” Meier commented ruefully. “Pity I can’t win this battle with paint too.” He was in command, it was up to him to assist as it was most certainly needed. Then his voice trailed off. There was nothing left to say. No more miracles.
The silence that followed seemed long.
“Maybe if we spray ’em pink, the Khalians would retreat in embarrassment.” Lebario interrupted the silence, trying to relieve the almost unbearable tension. He referred to Meier’s famous stunt against the Tripeans. His voice almost cracked, and the young officer felt giddy with unused adrenaline.
Instead of giving the nervous laugh Lebario expected, the commodore looked solemn.
“Well, paint worked before,” Meier said to the air while spinning back to his own command console. Moments later a manifest of the hundreds of supplies they carried replaced the battle display.
No one on the bridge recognized the smile as the short, heavyset officer stopped the scrolling readout at ARMAMENTS. The cargo had been distributed almost evenly among the freighters, a measure which maximized the chances of at least some of each needed supply surviving the battle. Turning to Lebario, Abe Meier gave a stream of orders that began with the surprising command to “have all ships prepare to jettison cargo.”
At first the lieutenant thought his commanding officer simply had lost his nerve. He braced himself mentally to assume command, then hesitated. This was Admiral Meier’s grandson. Not the person to make that kind of mistake with. He studied his commanding officer. There was something about his smile. Auro would wait. In another hour it might not matter. If the Fleet warships were defeated, the Red Ball and its escort were too slow to escape the Khalians.
Auro Lebario barked a short laugh as he relayed the seemingly nonsensical order. A year ago he had been bored by the regimen of training at safe, comfortable Port. Now he was getting in the habit of being in battles where there was little chance of survival.
Remra looked over at the two officers, her concern evident. The battle below was as good as lost, and instead of ordering the FTL drives charged, Meier had just ordered full power to the gravity drive. Now they were diving rapidly toward Bull’s-Eye’s sun.
What the Hrruban saw was hardly reassuring. Commodore Meier was still grinning broadly. The young lieutenant was keying in commands but looked confused. He still reminded her of one of her favorite kits. Studying the readouts, the pilot grew even more concerned. They were on a collision course with the approaching Khalian ships. Did Meier expect them to fight it out?
Relentlessly, the two forces accelerated at each other. The captains of the other freighters now were protesting all over the command circuit. It went against their every instinct to dump valuable cargo. That complaint alternated with those from the captains who realized they were on an intersecting course with fifty Khalian warships. They were getting pretty adamant.
Twice Meier had a captain relieved and ordered those ships’ executive officers to continue. On a third vessel Meier got all the way down to the third officer before they found someone who would obey the seemingly suicidal orders.
* * *
On board Hrenter’s Falcon, Krestek was quite pleased with the situation. Seated in the place of honor overlooking the control room, he allowed himself the luxury of a twitching tail. He had been afraid they would arrive too late to take part in the battle. The captains of the raider fleets he had gathered were the most independent of all Khalia. He had spent too many hours forcing the captains of the other ships to accept his command. Only by the threat of actually firing upon the final holdouts, an act which all knew would have them both banned from receiving replacement modules, had finally convinced the last.
They had emerged from the formless sea quite distant from Goldenfield. At first this had seemed a disaster, and his growl had cowed everyone else on the bridge. Khalia had lost ears for lesser errors. Then Krestek had recognized the opportunity. He was going to lead an attack which would be sung of by the bards in all forty systems, or at least the thirty-one the Khalian empire still occupied.
Without hesitation, the darkly furred Khalian had ordered all ships to accelerate at full toward the only remaining large formation of Fleet ships. His guiding bard was to draw his line carefully so that they would be pulled ever faster by the attraction of Goldenfield’s star. They would smash through the furless animal’s globe before there was time for the sheared ones to react.
The other ships fell in behind the Falcon until they were in the formation of the clenched jaw. The hairless cowards would break and flee. It had been this way in other battles. So it would be again. Only this time he would be the hero. Females would offer themselves, just to be able to say they had been known by him. After such a victory no one would dare contest his replacing his father as clan chief.
Around Krestek, the fur was rising on every crewman’s shoulders as they prepared for combat. The familiar rhythm of the guide bard’s chanting helped soothe them only a little. Every few seconds one of the bards would meet his eye and gesture that they were still on course.
“There are many ships descending at us,” a nervous youth screeched. Ears went back, and everyone on the bridge studied the symbols and sparks dancing about the screen in the front of the control room.
“Turn to meet them.” Krestek’s annoyance was obvious. This would disrupt his attack. Where had the sheared ones gotten more warships? “No, wait, fool!” the Khalian captain admonished. “They are freight carriers, unable to harm us. We go to win honor and fame, none race foolishly after defenseless prey.”
A junior officer leaned forward and nipped the ear of the cub who had screamed the warning. The notch would remind him always to check the nature of his enemies in the future.
To the Khalian commander’s surprise and delight, the freighters neither fled nor jumped into the protection of FTL. Instead they foolishly continued to accelerate on a course that would bring them to within cannon range. Their destruction would be a bonus. It would add to the glory of his victory. And with so many ships’ captains trailing behind to witness it.
“Order the other captains to leave the freighters to the Falcon. No other ship is to fire,” he commanded. There would be grumbles, but it was his prerogative.
A touch of doubt entered Krestek’s thoughts. Perhaps the freighters hoped to delay him. The humans, too, could be awaiting reinforcements. He would let nothing prevent him from having this hour of glory.
“Every ship is to maintain maximum speed.” Krestek sensed this victory would be warm and bloody. “We can let nothing slow or turn us.” Anxiously he watched as the foolish human’s freighters continued to plunge directly into their path. Minutes later the Khalian was reassured when the freighters began to turn away. Soon they had turned tail until they were running directly ahead of his own ships.
The navigator signaled that they would actually pass through them several minutes before reaching the real battle. Good. They would have time to swat them aside at his leisure.
“Maintain course,” he demanded of the chief bard. He wanted to be sure they would be the first to smash through the human formation. “And more speed!”
“Sir, they may have dumped their cargoes.” It was the same cub as before. This time his voice was hesitant. The hairless one’s ships were lighter now. Krestek studied the screen, watching for any sign of lifeboats. If they meant to ram, most of the crew would have been abandoning ship. Nothing. The sensors the tech lords allowed them were unable to observe anything smaller than a warrior. It must have been cargo. They must have just noticed his ships. The Khalian could picture the panic on the hum
ans’ faces.
“Have you never chased a Fofoul?” Krestek answered in knowing tones. “They too leave behind offal when panicked. These humans are sacrificing their cargo to gain a small amount of greater speed with which to flee before us. For a few seconds more of life. They have no honor.
“Does it not make you proud to be a Khalian?”
Everyone on the bridge bared his teeth in pride. The points of light which represented the human ships grew closer. The star was beside them now, and in a short time they would be able to observe directly the rest of the battle. Minor adjustments would be needed if they were to strike exactly where Krestek desired.
Their first warning was when the small screen of the visual scanner was suddenly useless, the camera’s lens blotted when they passed through a cloud made up of globules of pink paint.
“They leave their spray behind like the pruss,” his second in command joked, pointing at the useless screen. The visual screen was unnecessary in battle. It was the battle console that guided them.
Then the explosions began.
* * *
The commodore held his breath when the Khalian formation began to edge toward them. If they changed course his plan would fail. After what seemed a very long time, the Weasels returned to their original course. The Hrruban pilot on Meier’s left muttered to herself, having realized the Weasels had just taken their measure and discounted them. Her pride chafed. Even to primitive sensors their helplessness must be evident. There weren’t enough guns on all twenty-seven freighters to constitute a threat to even one Khalian raider.
The Fleet Book Three: Break Through Page 25