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

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Exodus: Empires at War: Book 16: The Shield. Page 20

by Doug Dandridge


  Mrastaran almost felt sorry for the enemy, watching waves of doom roll toward them. He...

  “My Lord. We have missiles coming in at point nine-five light. Nineteen hundred. They started boosting a second after our passives picked them up.”

  “Why would they do that?” asked the chief of staff.

  Yes, it didn't make sense to go to active that far out. They could come in and acquire his ships from graviton emissions, and by not boosting until the last second they would be harder to track, harder to hit. They...

  “They going after the gates,” shouted the great admiral. “Get as many ships as you can in the way of those weapons.”

  The orders went out, with the normal lag times and slow reactions of the species. Ships still got in the approach paths, taking out missiles with their counter fire. Over nine hundred got to with attack range, all maneuvering to miss ships if possible. That wasn't possible for several hundred of them, and over seventy ships went up in clouds of plasma. Three hundred made it through, looking for a gate. A half dozen found it, and two hit. With a pair of tremendous flashes the gate frame broke into two pieces, the mirrored surface of the wormhole flickering, then collapsing in on itself.

  “We lost a wormhole, my Lord,” called out a tactical officer.

  “We're picking up warp fighters coming in, my Lord. Two different vectors, estimating over forty-five hundred.”

  Mrastaran shook off the shock of losing another wormhole. He had consolidated the fleet just for the purpose of avoiding the loss of another wormhole, and the enemy had taken one out within minutes of his setting up. And now that mass of fighters. Surely coming in to take out another one of his remaining seven wormholes.

  I need to destroy your fleet, thought Mrastaran, watching the icons of two warp fighter forces. Wormholes were still precious in the Ca'cadasan fleet, and he had lost two of them in less than a day.

  If only we had a launch system like the humans have. All of the human wormholes were protected within the hulls of ships. They could still be destroyed along with the carrying ship, but they were nowhere near as fragile as large gates. The fleet was supposed to get them, if not in the same quantity as the humans. It was promised, but he could see no sign of any progress.

  * * *

  “Fighters have all launched, ma'am,” said Mara over the com.

  Beata already knew what her subordinate was going to say. She had been watching the take from the outer system on the plot. Twenty-five hundred of the older space superiority fighters, each carrying four warp missiles. And just under two thousand of the newer bomber version. They really weren't bombers, since they carried missiles, eight of them, and not bombs. Still, the experts had determined that the primary focus of the warp craft was to bring missiles within range of the enemy and launch. There would be fewer space superiority ships produced in the future, while the factories cranked out the larger bombers.

  “It looks like we got some of their ships, but our analysts are giving a ninety-eight percent chance of missing the remaining gates.”

  Not unexpected. The enemy would try to defend those gates with everything they had. The fighters would rendezvous with their colliers, hanging further out by themselves, then come back in.

  “Splash one wormhole,” came an excited voice over the com, transmitted from one of the fighters through the Klassekian net. “Repeat, splash one wormhole. Confirmed.”

  Beata thrust a fist in the air, the age old sign of triumph. There had to be more wormholes in that force, at least four, maybe more. But one less was something.

  Beata thought for a second about the Battle of Midway, a fight between carriers on old Earth. Wormhole gates took the place of fighters here. She had all of her large carriers with her at the planet. Their fighters were elsewhere, since it would have been a disaster to lose them with the ships. The carriers lacked the offensive firepower of the other capital ships. They did possess almost the same defensive fire, as well as large reactors and the capability to erect strong electromagnetic fields. Perfect for her purposes, even if they lack the armor of real capital ships.

  “Another missile stream is acquiring.”

  Another missile stream, another chance to get a gate. The odds were long, but playing the odds was the only way to go in this battle.

  “We have enemy wormhole missiles coming in. Four vectors. Velocity point nine light. ETA, seven minutes.”

  And so it went on. Stroke and counter, in what had to be the most unusual battle of the war.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When you rise in the morning, give thanks for the light, for your life, for your strength. Give thanks for your food and for the joy of living. If you see no reason to give thanks, the fault lies in yourself. Tecumseh

  “We're through,” called out the helm of the Empress Annastasia Romanov from the control bridge, his voice still blurry from the effects of the knockout drug.

  Not everyone took the drug. Most took to their beds, saying the trigger word under their breath and fading into a trance. The actual translation woke them, and they stumbled into wakefulness in less than a minute. Still, a minute in space could be the difference between life and death. Those who needed to be at their stations took the drug, a nanotech brew that also wore off as soon as the translation was over. Just like those in the trance, the recipient didn't notice the time distortion consciously. The seemingly eternal wait that eventually drove people mad.

  Len was not an easy wormhole translator by any means. If he hadn't been vital to the fleet he might have been reassigned to a shore base, avoiding wormhole travel at all costs. He was in this till the end, and would be looking forward to several nights of restless sleep, with fleeting memories of the translation. The medical experts were working on that as well, though no progress had been announced.

  Annastacia was a superheavy battleship, twenty-eight million tons of warship of the same class as Admiral Bednarczyk's Romulus, though more than a year older. The name held a particular place in the heart of the grand fleet admiral. He and the then Countess Annastacia Lee, the future Empress and mother of Sean, had been lovers when he had been a mere rear admiral. It had been a short lived affair, one the countess had soon forgotten, one the young admiral had never gotten over. He had been with other women after her, short lived affairs that did little to heal his hurt. And here he was, flying his flag in the ship named after the Empress who had died with Emperor Augustine in the assassination that had made their youngest son Sean the heir.

  “The system is secure, Admiral,” said his Chief of Staff, Captain Victoria Sanderson. “System command is reporting that they are ahead of schedule.”

  Len nodded, still trying to shake the lethargy from his brain.

  Lrothically was the name of this system in the language of the natives, or Lroth to the Imperials. A G4 star sat in the center of a system with eighteen planets and eighty-four moons, as well as three asteroid belts. Unusual for a G class star, it had everything a fleet needed to repair and replenish, with the exception of antimatter sats and negative matter production. Those resources could come through the wormhole, and antimatter sats were in the process of construction and emplacement close to the star.

  The Empire had been in this system for all of ten days. Scouting, making sure that there were no hidden traps, especially something that could cause the star to nova. Cleared, they had started the construction of the base, which was to be the launching point of First Fleet's next thrust into Caca space.

  Which we're kicking off in three days, thought Len, a sour thought since he was missing almost a tenth of his fleet strength. The price of advancing technology.

  In peacetime, meaning most of Lenkowski's time in the fleet, technological progress had been slow and steady. New discoveries or advances in well used tech, they had come along. And been incorporated into the ships of the fleet over time. Because they had the time to spare. Not now, and the changes came quickly. In many cases improvements had been made by nanotech in place, taking a day
or two to make the changes. Other improvements needed time in a shipyard.

  The new hyperdrive arrays took a couple of weeks in a shipyard. It was a war winning technology, and one that needed to be implemented in as many ships as possible. Unfortunately, it needed to be deployed in entire formations, squadrons, battle groups. All of the ship needed to accelerate in normal space at a similar rate, jump from hyper at the same velocity. Which meant he was sending formations through the wormhole net back to central docks and the Black Hole system for the refit.

  “Don't worry, Admiral,” said Sanderson, walking over to his chair.

  Len looked at the woman, a century his younger, with a resentful look. She was an easy translator, both from hyper and from wormholes. It was his job to groom her for higher command, and hopefully her next assignment after her stint here would be as a commodore, commanding a battleship squadron or task force.

  “We'll get most of those ships back before we kick off the offensive,” she continued with a smile.

  “And then we'll be ordered to send other formations back,” he growled, getting up from his chair and making sure he was steady before taking a step toward the central plot. At the moment he was more concerned with what he had on hand, versus the increased capabilities he would have in the future.

  Annastacia had yet to be refitted, and he refused to let her go until they reached a pause in the campaign. Most commanders were attached to their flagships and crews, but Len was more attached than most.

  “Let's see what we have,” said the grand fleet admiral, closing the holo that showed ships coming through the wormhole behind him to get a view of the new construction.

  First he looked at one of the antimatter sats, this one near completion. An accelerator panel ten kilometers in length, with solar panels stretching out tens of kilometers to each side, it used the power of the star to change protons into antiprotons. The fleet, as well as most space based stations, ran on the substance, still the most efficient energy storage known. Someday, if they ever unlocked the secret of zero point energy, that would no longer be true. Today, they needed all the antimatter they could get.

  He switched the view to orbital fortresses, manufacturies, asteroid mining stations. To the gathered ships waiting in far orbit around one planet or another. Antimatter tankers, missile colliers, freighters. A mighty fleet in its own right, but fragile, lightly armed.

  Most of the warships were beyond the hyper barrier, where they could jump into hyper at a moment's notice. And intercept anything that came at the system from interstellar space.

  “We will have a conference for all the battle group commanders in eight hours,” he told Sanderson. “Wake me if anything of importance comes up.”

  Len didn't expect anything to come up while he was asleep. After all, the Cacas nearest outpost was over twenty light years away, with shoals of scout ships in between. Satisfied that all was as it should be, Lenkowski retired to his quarters for a meal and some sleep.

  * * *

  “Admiral to the flag bridge,” blared the speaker in the sleeping quarters. At the same time his implant tingled in the back of his brain. He opened his eyes, a chill running through him. It was a sign that all was not as it should be.

  “What's going on?”

  “We have a Caca scout on approach, Admiral,” answered Sanderson, a small tremor in her voice. “It's grav pulsing like crazy. And we don't know why.”

  “I'll be right up.” Lenkowski had a bad feeling about this. The only reason that ship would be pulsing would be to contact something within proximity to the system. The star?

  “Put everything on alert,” shouted Len as he strode onto the bridge. It was still partially manned, but more crew came running in before he got to his seat. “Alert anything within close range of the star to run a complete scan. I...”

  “Sir. We're picking up graviton emissions from all over the system. Small craft, in the ten to twenty thousand ton range. Thousands of them.”

  Len plopped down in his chair, his eyes riveted on the plot that was now alive with icons. As the tactical officer had said, thousands of them. Even worse was where they were positioned. The asteroid belts, moons of the gas giants, some of the rocky planets in the inner system. Threatening everything.

  At least they are still some distance from priority targets, thought the admiral. Just as the thought ran through his mind and he opened his mouth to issue orders, the tracks of warp fighters appeared on the plot.

  * * *

  Admiral Kleshnik let out a grunt that was a combination of impatience and satisfaction. He had been waiting in hiding for almost three weeks. The trap had been set with patience and cunning. The ships hidden deep beneath the surfaces of asteroids and moons.

  Ca'cadasans were not the most patient of species. They saw a foe, they struck at that enemy. It was not in their nature to hide, especially for long periods of time. However, the orders from their superiors, and therefore from the Emperor, were clear. Wait here, until they received the signal, and then strike. And strike hard.

  The admiral had known that this would be a suicide mission. His one purpose from here on was to cause the most damage to the enemy he possibly could before he joined his ancestors in the afterlife. Now, looking at the data flying across the screen of his station, his eyes widened at the target rich environment his command was presented with.

  Ships, thousands of them. Stations and satellites in the hundreds. He looked around the tiny bridge of his attack craft, seeing the same satisfaction in the expressions of his males. There was no need to send out orders. Every formation commander, every ship's captain, knew to strike at the targets closest to him. This promised to be a red day, and Kleshnik highlighted his first target and sent his ship on its way.

  The fast attack craft were something new. Purpose built for this kind of mission, the twenty thousand ton ship carried seven crew and six missiles. It was capable of seven hundred gravities acceleration. There was little in the way of defensive systems, a couple of old fashioned laser domes and the standard electronics package for small vessels. It was not made for survival. Only to hit hard and destroy.

  “They're reacting, my Lord.”

  Of course they are. Maybe it will do them some good. But it won't save them from disaster.

  * * *

  “Battle stations. All crew to battle stations. This is not a drill.”

  Across thousands of ships rang the cry of impending battle, the same as had been used by the wet navies of old Earth. On warships crew got into battle armor and ran to their stations. Engineers and damage control parties stood by to handle the repairs that might make a ship combat capable again. Weapons systems, from the individual controls of missile tubes to the integrated fire control stations, were manned and ready. If all went well, the smaller control stations would not come into play. If the master control stations were knocked out, at least the weapons could still be fired in local control. Every possible auxiliary control station was manned. Ships could be reduced to near hulks and still be under control. A hit by a missile traveling at relativistic speeds would make all of that preparation moot.

  On the military freighters, tankers, and stations crew assumed their battle stations as well. In their cases the crew consisted of frightened spacers who could only pray that they didn't become targets. They were armed, and were theoretically capable of knocking missiles out of space before they hit. That was fine against a single missile, maybe even a couple. Against a swarm they were as good as dead. The civilian spacers on their ships were in an even worse state. Their ships might carry a couple of weak lasers, and it was doubtful that they could even target and engage a single missile.

  In most cases the newly revealed attackers were still some distance from their targets. In others, they came out of hiding right on top of weak targets ill prepared. The red day began.

  * * *

  Lenkowski stared in horror at a plot that was alive with icons. The icons of the enemy attack craft, soon joined by m
any times their number of boosting missiles. And the icons of boosting Imperial ships. Warships accelerating into harm's way, trying frantically to interpose their hulls between the weapons of the enemy and the helpless. Logistic ships and merchies trying just as frantically to get out of the way. The warships were boosting at five hundred gravities or more, the logistic ships and freighters at less than three hundred. Numbers started to appear beneath the missile icons, acceleration, velocities, lines linking them with probably targets.

  Missiles started to disappear from the plot, hit by laser rings, counters, finally close in weapons. The tracks of hastily scrambled warp fighters appeared, those vessels heading out on missile interception missions. It looked like it was going to be a slaughter either way, but the admiral could hope that it was less of a disaster than he feared.

  Antimatter sats started fading away on the plot like soap bubbles popped by a playful child. The ones already in service had no people aboard. It was simply the loss of a billion Imperials in materials with each of those killed. On those with construction crew still aboard, several dozen skilled workmen went up in plasma along with their stations. Pods were bailing from those further from the enemy. Still no guarantee of survival with all the weapons flying around, at least those had a chance.

  Logistics ships were hit by missiles that were still barely moving. The ship killer warheads were enough to turn them into tumbling wrecks, in cases where they didn't breach the antimatter. With tankers that was always the case, and several flared into bright stars each minute, damaging everything around them for several light seconds.

  Len watched as several hundred missiles headed toward the orbital stations revolving around the habitable planet. They were in danger, as was the planet beneath them.

  “Captain,” he yelled over the com. “Get us over there, between the incoming missiles and that station. And send out orders for all nearby warships to join us.”

  The captain immediately shouted out the orders of his superior, something that elevated him in the opinion of Len, then turned back to the admiral.

 

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