Exodus: Empires at War: Book 16: The Shield.

by Doug Dandridge

  “I'm going to make sure you get whatever we can give you, Admiral,” said Sean, a tight smile on his face. “You just frustrate the hell out of the Caca commander. Win that fight. Sergiov thinks that all you need to do is delay him for seventy-two hours to spark a recall from their Emperor.”

  “So, I just have to survive,” said Beata in a sarcastic tone. “That's such a relief.”

  Sean laughed. “Put that way, I guess it's still a tall order. But one I think you can pull off.”

  I hope, thought Beata, nodding. She hadn't really thought much of Sean when he had first ascended the throne. Listening to him now she felt only the utmost respect for him. As well as hope for the Empire going forward.

  * * *

  Mara Montgomery didn't like the way this battle was going. She was sitting out in the deeps of the system with over a hundred wormholes, and so far she hadn't fired a shot.

  “Dammit,” she growled, getting up from her command chair and storming over to stare at the central flag bridge plot. She turned and looked at her chief of staff, Captain Michael Goruptal. “Get me some damned targets, Captain.”

  “They're right there, ma'am,” said the captain, cringing. “Only problem is, they'll be gone before anything we fire gets to them. At least our warp fighters have a chance of hitting them.”

  Mara scoffed. Not that she didn't respect the efforts of the fighters and their crews, but she was a battle cruiser officer. She wanted her ships, even if the largest Imperial vessel she had was a heavy cruiser, to get stuck in and make a difference.

  “We think we have some possible targets for you, Mara,” said Bednarczyk, her own face appearing on a holo.

  “About time,” said Mara, not caring if her frustration was clear to her superior. “And how are you holding up?”

  “Ask me that in three hours and I'll have an answer,” said the scowling admiral. “If I'm still here.”

  “You will be, ma'am. You're too cantankerous to let the stupid bastards kill you.”

  Beata smiled, an expression that warmed the heart of the lower ranking flag officer.

  “Just put some missiles on those targets. You'll probably waste a lot of shots, but any hits, any cuts, will prove useful. I want you to goad this admiral into making a mistake we can exploit.”

  “You think it's the same one you faced in this system before?”

  “I have no doubt. This one is smart. And as much as I respect that intelligence, I don't like the way he was willing to sacrifice a planet to kill my fleet. I want him dead, before he causes any more problems for our allies.”

  “We'll do our best, ma'am.”

  “I know you will. And if anything happens to me, you're in command.”

  Mara didn't like the sound of that. Not that she was unwilling to assume fleet command. It was just that the politics of this multispecies, multigovernment coalition might be more than she could handle. Hahn should probably be in command, once he was out of med bay. If his ship survived. She knew that admiral well enough to know that he would not dispute Bednarczyk's order as far as command was concerned.

  “And don't worry about Klanarat. His president will take care of him.”

  The holo disappeared, leaving Mara with her own thoughts for a moment. But only a moment. She pulled up the data on the targets that Beata had sent her, looking at the projected positions of the enemy fleet over the next five hours. It was all conjecture, but the best they had. Over three hundred possible locations that the enemy might come out of hyper at and launch.

  “Each wormhole is to fire on one of these points for fifteen volleys. Afterwards, when they have reloads in the accelerators, they will fire on these points.”

  It would be like sending blasts of a hunting scatter-gun blindly into the air. After many rounds you might hit something. And hopefully she might get in some hits as well.

  * * *

  “Fire,” called out Captain Lauren as his wing made its final approach of the enemy force.

  That force was trying to frantically beat it back across the barrier. Unfortunately for them, they weren't going to make it. The plot showed their thousands of ships, all trapped in normal space. And the converging vectors arrows of the other nineteen fighter wings moving toward the enemy force.

  The warp fighter dropped two of its four missiles from the undercarriage rack. Due to the architecture of the ship and its warp field, only two of the weapons could deploy at a time. They engaged their own warp fields with the bubbles of their fighters, slid through that field, then took off at twenty-five lights. It was a normal launch, just like so many others. Only these missiles were thirty percent more massive than any deployed before, with fifty percent longer range.

  Two hundred and sixteen weapons took off at a range of fifteen light minutes, running straight and true toward the enemy force. Running time, thirty-six seconds.

  “All ships. Turn on this vector and come around for a second firing run.”

  The one hundred and eight fighters all turned in space, slowing down to five lights, moving out a bit, then vectoring back onto the target.

  “Second launch, on my command. Launch.”

  In seconds another two hundred and sixteen weapons were on the way, arriving forty-eight seconds after the fist volley. Within minutes more fighters were approaching to within firing range, while Lauren's ships were on their way back to their rally points and reloads. Those reload points consisted of individual freighters with skeleton crews. Nothing much would be revealed to the enemy, and the fighters would soon be looking for other prey. After three reloads of their assigned wings they would be empty and useless, the crews standing by their escape pods just in case the Cacas fired on them.

  The other wings appeared in minutes, cycling their own missiles into the enemy. Warp missiles were less accurate than normal space weapons, but conversely they were harder to hit themselves. They carried no momentum, losing the kinetic power of regular missiles, though their warp fields did eat into the armor and hulls of the targets. Against capital ships they rarely achieved kills, but could still cause considerable damage.

  The missiles drove into the thousands of Caca ships. When the two volleys had spent themselves seven Caca ships were dead in space, while another three were slowed. And soon they were dealing with more missiles in hundred lot loads. Within a half an hour Lauren and his fighters were back. The new missiles kept them far out of the range of the Ca'cadasan defensive fire. No enemy warp fighters appeared, at least from that group, though several thousand were launched from other groups. It was a side show in the main fight, but it was the only blow the humans landed for many hours. A pinprick of sorts, but still satisfying to the human who wielded the pin.

  * * *

  “We can give you half power in ten minutes, Admiral,” said the chief engineer over the com.

  “That will have to do,” said Admiral Jrasstra Klanarat, looking at the engineer on the holo.

  Engineers were another subspecies of Klavarta, genetically modified to be smaller than Alphas, able to fit their bodies into the smaller spaces of the ship. They had many of the same attributes, including the ability to breath the oxygenated liquid that allowed the subspecies to handle the extra gravities that floating in liquid conferred.

  The admiral found his eyes straying back to the plot. The damnable plot that showed what was left of his force, what had been the majority of the fleet. He had led them out of the protection of the shield, the device erected by the ingenuity and power of the Empire that was their ally. Not trusting in their shilef to protect his ships. But it could have been much worse, if the other powers had listen to his demands for command. He had led almost fifty percent of the ships that had been tasked to defend the planet. The other fifty percent had been the Imperials and the other powers, who were still more or less intact.

  Ostensibly the admiral still commanded the majority of the smaller vessels, cruisers and destroyers, that sat in the outer reaches of the system. A lot of good they had done him, sitting
from six to nine light hours from his capital ships. His scouts and his screens.

  What in the hell was I thinking? thought the admiral, shaking his head. He knew what he had been thinking, though in retrospect it now seemed the actions of a madman. Or an idiot. He had wanted to get off the bullseye, then eventually strike at the Cacas, not just to hurt them, but to salvage his own reputation. So he had hailed off from behind the best protection they had to expose his force, without the ships that would normally be their missile screen, against an enemy whose position he didn't even know.

  Well, we know where they are now, he thought, closing his eyes and shaking his head. Not that it did them any good. The Cacas were in a position to fire without fear of retaliation. They had hyper to jump into. And any battle that the outer allied force tried to bring to them was playing into the hands of the enemy while sacrificing most of their own advantages.

  Why couldn't I just die, thought the admiral, opening his eyes and staring straight ahead. He looked around the bridge, at the faces of so many other young Alpha men and women. If he had died, so would have they. The admiral wasn't that selfish. Or was he? His actions had caused the deaths of millions of his people in the pair of battles he had fought as fleet commander in this war.

  “How soon before we get back to the safety of the shield?” he asked, wincing as the last words left his mouth. His force would still be sitting behind that shield if he hadn't had charged out on a fools mission. Well, maybe not intact, since every ship in that group had been damaged to some extent.

  “One hour and twenty minutes, sir,” said the young woman who was his navigator.

  “We've received a com, sir,” called out the Klassekian com tech.

  “Put them on,” said Klanarat, thankful at the moment that he didn't have a direct connection back to the president. No telling what that august personage would be screaming at him.

  “Engaging holo,” said the Klassekian, closing his eyes. The being was using the information coming in through the link, visual and audio, that the Klassekian with the transmitter was seeing and hearing. The image formed, distorted from going through so many minds, but recognizable nonetheless.

  “Admiral Klanarat,” said Bednarczyk.

  “Admiral Bednarczyk. I see that you have recovered from your injuries.”

  The woman said nothing for a moment, staring at him out of the holo, and Klanarat felt a chill of discomfort from that look.

  “I take it that your little foray didn't go well,” she finally said, not even acknowledging his comment on her being injured. Not that it mattered.

  “No,” he said in a whisper. “No,” he said in a louder voice. “Not well at all.”

  “I have some warp fighters moving toward you. They just came through the wormhole that we aren't using for power transmission. They will escort you back to the fold. If they can.”

  “If they can? What do you mean by that, Admiral?”

  Beata's eyes narrowed. “We have one thousand fighters, or thereabouts. If another wave comes in like the one that recently struck you, they will not be able to stop it. I don't think your force will survive another strike. But the wing commanders are under orders to do the best they possibly can to reduce those waves to the point where you can survive.”

  “I understand.”

  “Then I will talk to you when you get back to me. Bednarczyk out.”

  Meaning she didn't have any more time for him, unless and until the Klavarta force joined her defensive screen. It angered him, but he could see the point. With exception of the fighters, there was really very little she could do for him. She wasn't about to come out and escort him back with her capital ships. The shield was their best bet of surviving this mess, and leaving it behind was the act of an idiot.

  Like me.

  * * *

  “The commander is dead,” said the com officer, reading the grav pulse transmission from the force that was still beating its way back from its plunge past the hyper barrier.

  Probably a good thing, thought Mrastaran, closing his eyes. The high admiral had made a major error. Even though he had lost less than thirty ships out of his complement of almost ten thousand. That force was still losing ships to the warp fighters. And as far as Mrastaran knew, they had not accounted for a single enemy warp fighter. The humans were launching from far beyond the range of the warp lances on the ships. They pulled away a light minute or more before coming into range. The missiles had to enter range, and the force was accounting for more than half of them before they acquired. Close in weapons dropped more, but those classes of weapons were not very effective against them. A mass of missiles versus a mass of defensive weapons led to some hits.

  “Low Admiral Janarst has taken charge as the senior officer,” continued the com officer. “He is making his way out of the system and intends to jump into hyper as soon as he can.”

  Which will be what? Three hours. The force had almost shed all their velocity into the system. Now they would have to accelerate out, which would take the same amount of time it had taken to move in. Fortunately, they would be close to translation velocity when they crossed the barrier, and they would be safe from the warp fighters. Meanwhile, the enemy fighters would continue to chip away.

  The force was not that important. It was more of a decoy to attract enemy attention. But to Mrastaran any Ca'cadasan lives and vessels lost for no real return was criminal.

  “Preparing to translate,” called out the navigation officer.

  Mrastaran felt his stomach clench, protesting the coming nausea. He knew he would have at least nine more translations out and the same number back in before this fight was over. Not something to look forward to. And definitely not something he wanted to end, because then he would have to face the Emperor.

  Chapter Twelve

  I still think it would be a great mistake to go into a war without support of our friends and allies. John Dingell

  Duke Taelis Mgonda sat in the comfortable command chair of his flag bridge of the superheavy battleship Emperor Augustine, named for Sean's father. The dark face of the duke presented a calm and composed image to the Universe. While at the same time his heart raged against that very Universe as he stared at the regional plot.

  Mostly that plot displayed a satisfying image. Many stars that had recently been highlighted in red as belonging to the enemy were now green. Liberated by his fleet, a hundred billion or more sentient beings freed from tyranny. That was the good. The five stars that blinked red were what angered him. Those had been living systems, with multiple planets swarming with life. Some were life forms that were of little interest to anyone but biologists. Still, they were living creatures doing what life did. Getting by. Instead, everything in those systems had been killed by the Cacas.

  Bastards, thought Taelis, the calm still on his face the lie. They had set traps for his fleet. Three had gone off without hurting his fleet in the least, the ships stopping well outside of the effective range of the photon and particle waves. Two had destroyed just over a hundred ships between them. There had also been two that he had been able to prevent. He had been anxious about sending ships into those systems, but the Emperor had ordered it, and the fleet was Mgonda's on at the discretion of the monarch.

  Nine billion sentient beings had died in those systems, with a like number perishing in Lenkowski's territory. More than had died in the Empire, even with the planets Cimmeria and Aquilonia figured in. Just on the chance that they might catch enough Imperial ships to make it worth while.

  Their was a movement afoot in Parliament, especially the Lords, to call for the extermination of the Cacas, should the war keep going in the favor of the Empire. The Emperor would not allow such, and in general the voters were not in favor of genocide. Mgonda would have seen such a motion as an abomination earlier in the war. In fact, earlier in his career, when he had been a ship, then a squadron, then battle group commander, he had faced the Lasharans, and thought if any species deserved extermination, that was the
one. But even they deserved a chance to change.

  The Cacas, though, were responsible for ten times the amount of misery the Lasharans had caused. Did they deserve another chance? He knew what his vote would be, but looking at that plot was causing second thoughts.

  Mgonda's was an old family, nobles since the beginning of the human kingdom when it had only encompassed a system or two around the black hole. Dukes for seven hundred years, six generations, they had become comfortable in their positions. Taelis was the first born, rising to duke on the death of his father. Tristan hadn't died in bed like most nobles. He had been a serving fleet officer, a tradition in the Mgonda family, and had died with his ship fighting the Fenri.

  Taelis had continued the tradition to remain with the fleet. He had given his proxy to his sister, Tranada, twenty-one years his junior, passing by the three siblings between her and he in age. There had been a lot of family resentments over that decision, but frankly Taelis hadn't trusted the others. Tranada hadn't really wanted to sit in Parliament, but she had proven extremely proficient at politics.

  Mgonda was well read in Earth history. The Emperor considered himself an expert on that history, and one day he might even get to Taelis' level of knowledge. He was well aware of how the aristocracy in so many eras had acted. Despots, most of them. The Empire had laws and traditions that prevented such from ever happening. Freedom of speech, of association, freedom to live one's life as they wanted.

  A duke controlled a continent and the surrounding continental shelf. Controlling might be too broad a term. A duke was the steward of that continent. Responsible for the fifty percent of the territory that was mandated as public lands, as well as the five percent that was the personal property of the nobles. That land was divided into equal shares for the duke and his counts, nobles who were responsible for country sized areas. Only the archduke, the governor of the planet, had more power, and even he was limited.