Blood of the Isle

by Loren L. Coleman

  “Just be sure to draw a few of that Nightlord’s assault shuttles after you.” The captain scowled, not liking the need to wish assault vessels after his lord and master or after his ship. Maybe both. “If this doesn’t work, we’re going to spend a week or better hanging around in system with our pants down around our ankles.”

  “If this doesn’t work,” Jasek said as gravity pressed him once again into the seat, “we’re all going to have our asses hanging out in the wind. You’ve got to come through.”

  Goran grunted. “I’ll come through. But then it’s all on the Lyrans.” He paused, checking sidelong off the screen at some incoming readings. “Looking at the monster coming at us, I’m thinking this is going to take a miracle.”

  “It’s coming up on Christmas,” Jasek reminded the elder man. “ ’Tis the season of miracles.” He cut the connection with a nod and a difficult motion to the communications officer, then settled back for the bone-bruising run they were about to make for Skye.

  Malvina Hazen, he decided, was due an early Christmas present.

  30

  In seizing a state one ought to consider all the injuries he will be obliged to inflict and then proceed to inflict them all at once so as to avoid frequent repetition of such acts.

  The Prince, by Niccolò Machiavelli

  LCS Yggdrasil

  In Transit

  9 December 3134

  Eduard Goran considered that jumping into a Lagrange point—the same one twice inside of twelve hours—was likely the most ordinary task he was going to perform as part of Jasek’s Operation Lodestone.

  His first time was easiest, aboard Jasek’s command JumpShip as it dropped the Himmelstor. The JumpShip’s lithium-fusion batteries allowed for an immediate second jump once its position was well hidden behind Luna. A shuttle transfer and a new set of calculations, and here he was again jumping into Skye.

  Hopefully—if that was the word for it—into the path of the Emerald Talon.

  Not that the Stormhammers didn’t have some powerful force on their side now as well. If everything held to plan, Goran would have a ringside seat to the first WarShip naval battle of the new century.

  Kommodore Goran, given the honorary promotion to prevent any conflict with Kaptain Lionel Brionns, occupied second seat at Navigation on the WarShip Yggdrasil’s spacious bridge. A bit rusty, the WarShip and crew, but still serviceable despite any rumors. Goran’s job was to facilitate the safe arrival of the Mjolnir-class WarShip into the near space around Skye. With so few WarShips surviving the Jihad, and even fewer kept in fighting shape as the Inner Sphere powers repaired their damaged economies, it was history in the making to help bring the grand fighting dame to war. And having come up through the service as a navigator, running time and again through the system, he knew every back-alley route and Lagrange point Skye had to offer.

  But none of those points had ever been guarded by a fast-approaching Clan Nightlord.

  Most space travelers reported sensing some kind of passage of time while in jump, even though the clocks all stopped between seconds and no voluntary movement was possible. The time slip ratcheted up from a simple eyeblink to the mind-bending effects of Transit Disorientation Syndrome, which landed people in sick bay for days after. Goran had never suffered from such a debilitating state.

  There was only a slight twist in the back of his mind, which let Goran know reality had shifted in that heartbeat between suns, and the stars displayed on the main viewing screens jumped to new positions.

  “Battle stations!” Kaptain Brionns shouted, though his men had been rung into position before the jump had ever begun. “Break loose the assault Drops.”

  A metallic clanking, the sound of DropShip docking collars being unlocked, carried through the Yggdrasil’s hull and announced to the bridge officers even before news came by communications that four assault-class DropShips had severed their connection to the battle cruiser. A pair each of Overlord-A3s and Union-Xs. The Unions took up station trailing the Yggdrasil. With their heavier armor and weapon systems that could worry even a WarShip, the Overlords moved up forward and flanking.

  “Nightlord-class WarShip approaching hard,” Sensors reported. “Twelve degrees off our starboard ventral beam.”

  “She’s launched her ready-fighters.” This from the tactical officer, a distant cousin of Duke Brewster, Goran recalled. “Forward Gauss cannons . . . firing . . . missed!”

  Goran had tried to preserve the Yggdrasil’s orientation, bringing them in exactly where the JumpShip had been only eight minutes before with its nose pointing at Skye and the approaching Nightlord. Off by twelve degrees wasn’t so bad, considering. The battle plan had rested on hopes that the Clan WarShip would not be so quick to respond, though, as an unarmored JumpShip swapped out for the Commonwealth’s flagship.

  “We won’t get that lucky next time,” Brionns said, tightening the harness that held him into the 360-degree rotational captain’s chair. “Helm, swing us around. All engines full ahead. Forward batteries commence fire—fire at will.”

  On the forward-facing screens, a hardpoint swung into view as sunlight gleamed off the distant Nightlord. The Emerald Talon looked no more threatening than a small comet, except that this comet had teeth.

  But then, so did the Yggdrasil.

  From extreme ranges, the heavy naval-grade Gauss and particle projector cannon could deliver staggering damage. Lights on the bridge actually dimmed as the rail gun capacitors dumped their charges into the acceleration coils, creating a cascading magnetic field that grabbed half-ton ferrous masses and charged them at the Nightlord. Screens flickered with a static wash as the NPPCs joined the fusillade.

  There was no avoiding the readied crew’s marksmanship. Streams of particle energy softened up the Emerald Talon’s nose, with the railed masses slamming in afterward, caving in several compartments just to one side of the main weapons bays.

  “First blood!” Brionns crowed, taking superstitious glee in the light damage done to the Nightlord. His bridge staff cheered.

  For Goran, unused to the idea of WarShip combat, he felt less like cheering and more like throwing his arms up to shield his face as the Emerald Talon answered back with a combination of lasers, PPCs, and Gauss cannon of its own.

  The storm of destructive energies hammered into the Mjolnir, shaking the entire ship with a mastiff’s fangs. The forward screens went white with static and then black for a moment, flashing back to a new angle on the approaching Nightlord as Sensors routed new camera eyes to the bridge displays.

  Goran swallowed dryly, hands clenched at his sides as he relegated himself to the role of observer for the hard-slugging match.

  The vessels powered at each other, still probing with their farthest-reaching weapons. Fighters spilled out of bays on both sides, and the Overlords started dropping naval-class missiles into space with impressive regularity.

  The Mjolnir battle cruiser shook again under heavy weapons fire. And again.

  WarShips, heavily armored as well as impressively armed, were designed to take a great deal of damage. The Mjolnir, the second-largest WarShip ever built by the Inner Sphere and largest to survive the Jihad sixty years earlier, carried fifty thousand tons over the Nightlord with thicker armor and an equal weapons load-out. On paper the match looked good, even slightly in favor of the Lyrans. But that didn’t take into account the ships’ captains. How the vessels were fought could make the difference between victory and sucking on vacuum.

  And when the Yggdrasil lost Kaptain Brionns on the next exchange of salvos, it kicked Goran in the gut.

  The Mjolnir’s battle bridge was buried under several decks, but once the vessels thrust into broadside range, all bets were off so far as maintaining positive protection. The Nightlord turned first, cutting out its massive drive flare and putting momentum in charge as attitude thrusters turned 1.2 million tons of destructive power on its long axis. Brionns matched them only a split second later, losing gravity on his ship along with the
thrusters. As the vessels closed on intercept paths, both brought their huge spread of weaponry to bear.

  “Missiles away!” one of the bridge officers shouted. Four AR10 launchers could spread a good dozen capital-class missiles between the WarShips before the first set even approached its target. Naval-class autocannon now joined in to the attack as they acquired target lock. Smaller, point defense weapons concentrated on holding off the aerospace fighter runs.

  Then the Nightlord’s weapons hammered in, concentrating on the battle cruiser’s tower with uncanny targeting. The navigation bridge near the very top of the tower was gutted out by naval-grade shells. More tracked down the port side, chewing through bulkheads and frames, opening up a large scar in the Yggdrasil’s side.

  Rail gun strikes found that scar, drilling a ton of hypersonic mass deep into the vessel.

  A scream of tortured metal rang through the battle bridge. The floor bucked, and in one place an errant girder thrust through like a spike. It missed skewering the communications station, and the comms officer, by half a meter. Air whistled out through the split in the deck, finding its way toward vacuum.

  Overlapping deck plates shifted and buckled. One unlucky wrinkle thrust up beneath Brionns’ seat. The chair broke away from its mounting, spinning up into the overhead and slamming the unfortunate kaptain into the ceiling.

  Marines, stationed on the bridge and highly trained in zero-G operations, caught the chair within seconds, getting lanyards on it to fasten it to a stanchion. Medical personnel rushed to their commander’s aid, while damage control teams used slapdash patches and a hardening sealant to make the bridge airtight again. The chaos lasted for half a minute—an impressive display of battle reflexes. But in that time, the two WarShips had drifted several klicks and were quickly coming up on point-blank ranges.

  And there was no captain to command the Yggdrasil.

  The ship’s executive officer, a leutnant-kaptain, commanded from Central Control deeper into the WarShip’s bowels; the division of command prevented the ship’s two officers from being incapacitated at the same time. But from that position he was more effective in leading damage control teams and supporting orders from the bridge than fighting a pitched battle.

  Goran expected the chief weapons officer to take local control, perhaps even Duke Brewster’s relative, who could leverage political clout into the chain of command. But every station had its hands full dealing with the bridge damage or the approaching Nightlord, or worrying for the kaptain.

  Only one station had the presence of mind to continue calling out information, and that was Sensors. And he directed it to the next senior rank on the bridge.

  “Kommodore. We are at five hundred klicks and closing fast.”

  Goran was part of the chain of command. Technically. Brionns had inserted him when making him second seat at Navigation. But to bring him forward in battle to command a vessel he’d never set foot on before today?

  Part of command was being decisive, and five hundred kilometers was not much to work with in space. There was no more than a heartbeat’s hesitation before Goran dialed his headset over to the general command channel, patching in to Central Control.

  “This is the bridge. Kaptain Brionns is injured. Leutnant-kaptain Franklan, respond.”

  Nothing.

  “Comms have been severed to Central,” the communications officer yelled out. “We’re working on a bypass.”

  “Keep up heavy fire against that Nightlord.” The most obvious order Goran could think of, perhaps, but it filled the void where panic too often started, even among the best crews. He scrambled mentally for a plan of action. If he’d been fighting DropShips, he’d default to his gut reaction. So be it.

  “Helm, roll us onto our back relative to that battleship. Weapons, ready a switch from port broadside to starboard.”

  “They’ll have our belly, Kommodore.” This from Helm.

  “Better than cutting off our head,” he snapped. There was no more argument, and he felt gravity shift as the vessel began to roll.

  “Three hundred klicks,” Sensors called out. “Passing within ten kilometers.”

  So close? Brionns ran a tight ship and fought a close battle, it seemed. Good Lyran tactics. Walk a big gun up to your opponent, and fire when you can’t possibly miss.

  “Helm. Can we use thrusters to put us on direct intercept?”

  “S-sir?” The Mjolnir trembled with new damage being spread along her underside.

  “Collision course. Scrape the paint and wake the ghosts.” He saw the uncertainty on the officer’s face. “Do it, man!”

  “Aye, Kaptain.”

  Goran accepted the change in ranks with a grunt and a nod, his attention focused on the flickering main screen and the magnified display of the Emerald Talon. No captain in his right mind would stand for a collision in space, especially at the speeds at which the WarShips closed. Goran wanted the Clanners thinking about it, though, and worrying about something other than how to inflict more damage on the struggling Mjolnir.

  Except that his fast-to-action plan did not seem to be working. The Nightlord rolled top-over as well, never presenting its underside but putting fresh armor between the two vessels. There was no attempt to move out of the way. The other captain either couldn’t or wouldn’t believe that Goran would go through with it.

  More traded weapons fire. This time the Mjolnir got off light as several volleys concentrated on one of the Overlords. Maybe the missile barrages were starting to wear on the other crew.

  “Two hundred kilometers, passing within five . . . make it four . . .” Sensors sounded uncertain. “It’s going to be close, sir.”

  Close would have to do. Jasek Kelswa-Steiner had counted on Goran to bring the Yggdrasil into Skye. One way or another, it was going to happen.

  Hopefully, not as a fireball plummeting through atmosphere.

  “Bridge, Central.” The voice was reedy and distant, but there. “This is Franklan. Status, Lionel?”

  He thumbed open his circuit. “This is Kommodore Goran. Brionns is injured and being attended to. I have assumed temporary command. Leutnant-kaptain, are you capable of assuming full control of this ship?”

  A new aftershock shook the entire ship, and blanked comms for several crucial seconds. Then—

  “I show a collision course and port-for-starboard roll, with massive damage on the lee side?” Franklan asked.

  “One hundred klicks . . . ,” Sensors let them both know.

  “We’ve brought a fresh side around,” Goran acknowledged. “I’m trying to make the other commander flinch. I’m cutting this circuit in ten seconds, sir. Is Central capable of running this fight?”

  To Franklan’s credit, he considered it for less than five. “Keep the ball,” he ordered. With one hand over his mic, his voice barely discernible, he ordered Central, “Ring for collision. All hands, brace for impact.”

  “Fifty klicks. Sir, I think . . . she’s rolling, and thrusting down!”

  In his mind’s eye, Goran saw it coming together. The two vessels approaching broadside, both turning belly-up to bring them back on a relative plane. But as he committed the Yggdrasil to an upward drift, relative to the plane of the system, the other captain had no choice but to thrust down.

  Main drives would not help at this point. Not without spinning the ship and risking a T-bone collision. The worst you could have, threatening to break your vessel in half.

  Which put Goran above the other WarShip, attacking at its belly and then slashing back at the wounded side it had rolled away.

  “Roll twenty degrees over, maintain upward thrust. Light off the mains and get ready to swing around! All weapons save for missile launchers, hold for her wounded backside. Missiles continue to fire at will.”

  In the time it took to relay his commands, the WarShips were rolling over each other on parallel bearings.

  Weapons stabbed out from each, and fire blossomed silently on the outer hulls as oxygen burned off into space.


  Fighter craft flashed between and over both ships, adding their needle teeth to the raw damage being dished out by naval-class weapons bays.

  The Overlords absorbed damage against their triple-reinforced hulls, threw out another brace of missiles each. One of them took another desperate salvo, lost its main drive, and tumbled out of control deeper into the system.

  Inside the ships, the damage translated into a violent shudder that seemed as if it would never stop. A rumbling call growled through the bridge. But all the while Weapons called out the volleys. First strikes.

  Second.

  Third.

  Then the vessels were past. They came within two kilometers of each other, at normal magnification looking like a far throw but point-blank by space-faring distances. The Unions brushed over the Emerald Talon in one last-ditch effort, and then they were past and in the clear as well.

  Gravity returned as the mains lit off, and damage reports flooded the bridge, passed along from Central where Leutnant-kaptain Franklan rode herd over the worst of them. Sensors reported the better news: how much pain they had inflicted on the Jade Falcons.

  “Aft Gauss bays, silenced. Portside autocannon seem out of commission. There is a hydrogen fire glowing on her port ventral . . . I think that’s a blowout! She’s lighted off her mains, but it looks like she’s only getting half thrust out of them. Kaptain! You sliced her engineering spaces!”

  Which gave the Mjolnir a distinct advantage. Weapons continued to trade off as the ships sped apart, but with less intensity than before. That was going to change in a hurry.

  “Leutnant-kaptain, your presence is required on the bridge.” The fight wasn’t over, and this crew deserved a seasoned WarShip captain. Goran had done what he could.

  Though maybe he could do a little more.

  “Helm, bring us around on an intercept arc. By the time Franklan arrives, I want us ready for a second pass. Angle in at her aft, and ready all weapons. Here’s where we grab the Falcons by the scruff and kick them in the ass.”

  He had done his part, breaking the Falcons’ death grip on Skye.