by Richard Fox
The tunnel of asteroids was by no means natural. Such constructs weren’t unheard of across settled space, but they required massive graviton emitters and a fair amount of computing power to set up. To launch that kind of an attack, Gage must have sent engineers to the asteroids to reconfigure the emitters. If he had the time to do that, then…
Barlow quickly counted the Albion ships on the scope and he came up short by almost a dozen ships.
Gage, you never cease to amaze me, Barlow thought.
The Minotaur plowed through the outer edge of the mass of loose rocks and dead ships, her shields lighting up like a thunderstorm as objects bounced off the energy walls. At one workstation, a diagram of the ship came up over the sailor, wedges on the forward and port shields flashing orange.
Tiberian gave the alert a quick glance, then turned his attention back to the Orion. One of the Albion frigates was mere minutes away.
“Forward lances, prepare a volley,” he said. “Destroy the smaller ship on my order.”
A ring appeared over the frigate, the center point pulsating in and out as the gun crews worked to find the range.
Barlow wasn’t sure of the name of the frigate, but it was the same class and crew complement as his beloved Retribution. A welter of emotion formed in his chest as the dying screams of his crew returned to him.
“Sire?” Barlow hunched forward and meekly raised a hand. “Let me speak to Gage. I can convince him—” he forced a smile as the torque forced his heart to flutter “—to surrender. Give up the boy. He must know there’s no escape by now.”
“The smaller ship is nearly there,” Gustavus said. “He still has a viable option.”
“Then we destroy the frigate.” Tiberian raised a finger.
“If I may, sire, destroying the ship will force Gage into a corner. He’ll do something stupid and reckless then. Fire a warning shot. It will confuse him, give you time to get closer, make your victory inevitable.” The torque forced Barlow’s left foot to contract so hard he felt a toe break, but he kept his composure.
Tiberian moved his hand to the left and cast his fingers forward. A lance fired from the forward batteries and cut through the void between the frigate and the Orion, just ahead of the smaller ship’s course.
The frigate banked away.
“If he surrenders the boy,” Tiberian said, “I will spare his crew.”
“And Gage?” Barlow asked.
“Officers make poor thralls,” Tiberian said, “but you were weaker than I expected. Deliver on your promise and you’ll live out your days on a labor camp.” He snapped his fingers and a holographic line appeared over his palm.
“This broadcasts across all your channels,” Tiberian said. “Speak.”
“I am Captain Michael Barlow of the Albion Royal Navy ship…Retribution. Commodore Gage, please respond.” There was a pause as Barlow felt his every heartbeat, the bite of cold air along the rim of his ears.
Tiberian huffed and gestured at the frigate, now moving slower as it closed on the Orion. A target reticule appeared on top of the ship’s bridge.
“This is Captain Barlow for Commodore Gage. You prefer your scotch neat and aged at least fifteen years in Albion oak barrels, not proper Kentucky wood because you’re a filthy heathen. You would have failed out of slip-stream physics had I not tutored you—”
Gage appeared in the holo floating over Tiberian’s palm. The Daegon tossed the image toward Barlow and it grew to life-size, hanging in the air. Barlow stared face-to-face with his old friend and commander.
The Commodore looked over Barlow, his gaze lingering on the chains and bruises.
“What have they done to you?” Gage asked.
“The Retribution is lost with all hands,” Barlow said.
Tiberian scratched the claw tips on his armored glove down the side of his throne.
“I must tell you…” The feel of knife points pricked down his back as the torque goaded him toward following Tiberian’s instructions. “That Prince Aidan will be…” Barlow coughed, then a slight half-smile appeared on his face as the pain melted away and he felt a small bit of pride with his next words.
“This ship’s forward shield emitters are damaged.” He ducked a swipe from Tiberian. “Starboard! Three o’clock are weak—” Gustavus kicked him in the small of the back and sent him crashing to the deck. Blood poured down the side of his nose and he spat blood as he laughed.
Tiberian scooped him up by the neck and held him in front of the holo for Gage to see.
Barlow felt his feet swinging in the air, his lungs burning from lack of oxygen. He locked eyes with a furious Tiberian…and smiled.
Tiberian snapped his neck with a twist of his hand and tossed the body aside. The Daegon commander slowly turned his head toward Gage.
Gage, his face alive with fury, stared at Tiberian, then the transmission cut out.
****
Loussan lifted his finger off the communications panel and backed away from Gage.
“No words.” Loussan shook his head, then motioned toward Price just below the command dais.
“Commodore, enemy flagship charging another shot,” she said.
“Break off,” Gage half-choked. “Have the Perilous break off. Time for phase three of this operation.” Gage straightened up, his countenance changing to a mask of command.
“Helm, take the engines off standby and give me best speed through route alpha. Price, pass on Captain Barlow’s information to the fighters. Tiberian’s ship is the primary target. Tell the assault element that I expect them to catch up with empty magazines and bare tubes.”
“Aye aye, doubt they need much encouragement to put the hurt on these bastards,” Price said.
A lance from the Minotaur ripped through the debris field and glanced off the Orion’s shields.
“Port emitters holding,” Vashon said, “for once. The beam suffered significant degradation through that mess.”
“Hot damn, you were right,” Loussan said. “Right that they’d believe we were sitting ducks. Right that they’d charge right into your trap. How?”
The Orion’s engines flared and the ship rumbled toward a group of asteroids making up the wall of the funnel.
“Would you be so kind as to clear our path?” Gage asked Loussan.
The pirate tapped out a quick series of commands and the asteroids parted, leaving just enough space for the Orion to slip through.
“Victory after victory can poison the mind of any commander,” Gage said. “When every battle goes as planned, when you have every advantage, the mind looks for the easy path to the next victory. It doesn’t see your downfall around every corner. Tiberian had his saboteur aboard my ship, and we played right into his expectation of finding us crippled and helpless.”
“Then why did you practically wreck one of your launch bays before the Daegon even showed up? I thought this ship would crack in half when you ordered that emergency vent,” Loussan said.
“Tolan found Ja’war’s bombs. We set up the opportunity for him to get the Prince off this ship when I brought the other captains aboard. He triggered an explosion to get the Prince out of his quarters and to another vessel, which we provided with the emergency venting. All the debris and air sucked out of the hangar made us look even more damaged to the Daegon.”
The Orion skirted past the asteroid wall just as another lance shot glanced off their shields and annihilated a hunk of ice and rock.
“Enemy vectoring to port,” Price said. In the holo tank, the Daegon fleet angled toward the same side the Orion had just escaped through, opening fire, blasting the asteroids apart.
“Too bad we didn’t have time to booby-trap every graviton emitter,” Gage said.
“You know how much those things cost? Know how hard it will be to ever reconstruct this place?” Loussan asked.
“You mean after this, neither pirates or the Daegon will be able to cut through the Kigeli Nebula and attack the core worlds?” Gage said evenly. “Such a sha
me.”
“Assault element reports ready,” Price said.
“Cry havoc, XO. Show the Daegon as much mercy as they’ve given.”
****
A buzzer snapped Wyman out of a daydream.
“About damn time,” Ivor said through his helmet.
Wyman slapped his visor down and sealed it shut with a press. Air—blessedly warmer air—filled his helmet and he brought his fighter online. He felt the thrum of engines through his seat and grabbed the throttle and control stick.
“Cobras, the Orion has a critical task for us,” Commander Stannis—call sign Marksman—sent over the squadron frequency. “Daegon capital ship has a known vulnerability. We’re to do a shield emitter strafe and open her up for the torps.”
“This is your fault,” Ivor said to Wyman.
“What?” he asked as he angled his main engines perpendicular to the asteroid surface and waited as they charged up.
“If you hadn’t wrecked that Daegon interdictor ship back on Siam, we wouldn’t have drawn the short straw. You remember how much flak the larger ships can put up?”
“You think there’s some safe assignment for us out here?”
“I’m just saying that if you screw up once in a while, we won’t keep getting thrown into the fire…engines to power. Waiting on Marksman,” she said.
“Sounds like you want to take the shot that earns the laurels. Is that the case, Briar? I’m green across the board.”
“A little.”
“Just fly. So long as we put the hurt on the bastards, doesn’t matter who gets the credit.”
“All craft,” Stannis sent, “lift on my mark.”
Wyman stretched out his fingers and drew in a deep breath.
“Three.”
He gripped the control stick and throttle control, wrapping one finger around at a time.
“Two.”
His mind went to the dancer that died in his arms, the look of shock and denial on her face. The Daegon killed her; now was his chance to avenge that death.
“Mark.”
Wyman pushed the throttle control forward and his Typhoon ripped through the stealth sheet and rose over the asteroid he’d been tucked into for the last several hours. Ivor and the rest of his squadron pulled away with him. He looked up and found the Daegon fleet, their guns blasting away at the rocks to one side. A target icon appeared on the Minotaur, sections of her shields flashing amber.
He angled his fighter toward the enemy ship and locked his vectored engines back into place. Flicking a cover off a switch on his throttle control, he fired the afterburners. The acceleration pressed him against his seat and darkness crept around the edges of his vision. Pads around his legs and abdomen squeezed blood back into his head as he rocketed forward.
Wyman struggled to press a hand forward and jabbed at his fire control panel, activating the rocket pods slung beneath his wings.
His afterburners cut out as the Minotaur loomed ahead. Almost all the escort cruisers had maneuvered between the battleship and the asteroids, leaving her port flank exposed.
Icons from three other squadrons came up on his HUD. Most of the 11th’s fighters had been dedicated to the ambush, a decision on Gage and Stannis’ part that would either carry the day or leave the fleet vulnerable to Daegon fighters if the Typhoons fell to the enemy’s guns.
“Do this in one pass, Cobras,” Stannis said. “Won’t be as easy the second time around.”
Wyman banked to a side as bolts from the Minotaur’s flak cannons opened fire. A yellow flash cut across the side of his canopy and he jinked, sending his fighter into a slalom. He dove, the explosions from Albion fighters flashing across his cockpit.
He kicked his tail down and hooked back toward the enemy ship, the rapid change in acceleration pressing down on his head and making his shoulders ache. From this angle of attack, he made out wide cracks along the Minotaur’s segmented hull and several turrets…none of which were shooting.
“Marksman, think I’ve found a way in,” Wyman called out to the commander. “Starting my attack run.”
“I’m on your wing,” Ivor said. “Smooth maneuver back there. Looked kind of like a happy accident to me.”
“Less talking. More shooting.” Wyman felt a rumble as his fighter passed through the Minotaur’s shields. He flew down and along the slope of a hull segment, the reflection of his fighter nearly perfect against the mirrored hull. He soared over the crest and spotted an open fighter bay, dozens of the enemy’s spear-tip-shaped fighters inside. Pilots and crew swarmed over the void craft.
Wyman rolled his Typhoon over and let off a barrage of rockets. Two landed inside the open hangar, destroying a fighter and blasting it into the one next to it. A flurry of explosions erupted on the upper edge of the hangar, and the force field holding all the air inside flickered.
The hangar decompressed, hurling bodies and everything else not bolted down out into the void. The dark-suited crew stuck out against the orange tones of the Kigeli Nebula as they tumbled through the void.
“Not our target,” Ivor said.
“You want to wait until they’re flying around and shooting at us? Find the shield emitters!” he said as flak shot across his nose. One bolt struck just ahead of his cockpit and knocked his fighter into a roll.
The side of the ship and the nebula alternated through his cockpit, and the ship grew larger with each pass as he fought to regain control of his fighter. He changed the vector on his engines to counter the spin and let off a quick burst from the afterburners.
His fighter stabilized, then smacked—belly down—against the hull. It skidded along, the screech of metal against the Daegon alloy carrying into Wyman’s helmet. His control panels flickered on and off.
“Not good. At all.”
Looking to his right, he found he was a few yards away from a flak turret. A quad-barreled cannon fired into the void, covered by a clear dome. Daegon crew in full bodysuits manned the weapon. One did a double take at Wyman, then pointed at him excitedly.
The flak cannon slewed toward him.
Wyman flipped the reset switch on his controls, and the whole thing died.
The cannon lowered…and came to a stop too high to engage him.
“Come on!” Wyman bashed a hand against his control panel and his fighter roared back to life. He rose a few feet off the hull and swung his nose toward the flak turret. The crew ducked away just as a quick burst from his forward cannons broke the dome and destroyed the weapon inside.
“Freak Show? You okay down there?” Ivor’s voice came through his helmet laced with static.
“Sort of,” he said, nudging his fighter forward.
“There’s a shield emitter just over the bend in the hull ahead of you. We’re dealing—son of a bitch, that was close—with fighters. You want to hurry up?”
“Moving.” Wyman gradually increased his speed and his fighter’s nose cracked. He looked behind and saw his forward landing gear tumbling across the hull.
“Probably don’t need that anyway,” he said. Flying over the bend of the diamond-shaped hull, he saw a glowing circle wider than his fighter along the spine of the ship. The shield emitter fluctuated as gossamer-thin lines appeared just over it, wavering like auroras.
Wyman activated his rocket pod and fired twice. The shots hit the semi-opaque energy field and ripped apart. Fragments spread throughout the shield just around the emitter, then were cast up and away.
With that, Wyman knew exactly the limits of the shield. He aimed just below the edge of the emitter and let off a half-dozen rockets. They exploded against the hull, cracking the blue-tinted surface. The emitter powered down, exposing the inner workings to the void.
“Not giving you the chance to fix this.” Wyman unleashed the last of his rockets into the Minotaur. The hull danced as explosions racked the interior of the ship. The emitter shot off the hull and went tumbling end over end through the void.
“Marksman, mission accomplished!” Wyman shout
ed.
“All fighters, break off and make for your anchor points,” Stannis said. “Torps will impact in less than two minutes and we do not want a front-row seat for that.”
Blasts from Daegon fighters ripped down the hull near Wyman. He punched his Typhoon forward and banked to one side, dodging a shot that would’ve hit his center axis. His engines were almost sluggish as they fought to propel him forward.
A fireball erupted behind him, then another a few seconds later. He caught movement out of the corner of his eye and jerked his control stick to the side.
“Easy, Freak,” Ivor said as she flew alongside him. “Think we’re in the clear now.”
Warning icons popped onto his HUD. Icons for the 11th’s destroyers appeared around asteroids on the far side of the tunnel. Torpedo salvoes flew from the ships, their projected paths leading through Wyman and toward the Minotaur.
He changed the vector on his engines…and they didn’t respond. His maneuver thrusters sputtered. The torpedoes sprinted across the void, hell-bent on their targets.
“Hold on.” Ivor flew just over Wyman and pressed the bottom of her ship against the top of his. A shudder went through both fighters as Ivor pushed their fighters out of the line of fire.
A torpedo raced overhead, the blaze from the engine leaving an afterimage in Wyman’s vision.
A second volley roared by.
“You’re welcome,” Ivor said as she nudged away from Wyman.
“She’s holding together with hope and fairy dust right now,” he said. “Don’t jinx it.”
“Ah…shit, look behind you.”
Wyman felt a cold patch form in the pit of his stomach. He twisted around, half-expecting to see a hundred Daegon fighters bearing down on him. The Minotaur’s shields were alive, pulsing with energy as the last effects of the first volley of torpedoes died away. Where Wyman had destroyed the emitter, the neighboring shields had extended out, covering the gap.
The second volley changed formation into a V, the point aligned with the destroyed emitter. The leading torpedoes struck the shields, exploding against the energy walls. The next pair hit with the same results. The third strike sent a ripple through the shields, like twin rocks dropped into a still pond. The shields retracted, and the next five torpedoes struck home.