Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Epilogue
Chapter 1
TERRIBLE SWIFT SWORD
Starcruiser Polaris: Book 3
Richard Tongue
Starcruiser Polaris #3: Terrible Swift Sword
Copyright © 2017 by Richard Tongue, All Rights Reserved
First Kindle Edition: October 2017
Cover By Keith Draws
With thanks to Ellen Clarke and Rene Douville
All characters and events portrayed within this ebook are fictitious; any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Join the author's Mailing List at http://eepurl.com/A9MdX
Chapter 1
Commander Edward Curtis sat at the heart of the bridge of the Starcruiser Polaris, his eyes drifting from station to station as he confirmed once more that his crew was ready for the fight to come. Lieutenant Hudson, a recent convert from the Federation Fleet, stood beside him, her eyes locked on the projected tactical display, running over the projected battle plan, with Major Saxon by her side, her eyes flicking to his as he looked her way. Her role was somewhat ill-defined, a strange combination of staff officer, guerrilla fighter and political expert.
Over to his right, at Tactical, Lieutenant Rojek, his Political Officer of twenty years ago, now one of the people responsible for bringing him into the rebellion. Lieutenant Norton sat at the helm, her hands dancing lightly over the controls, a faint smile on her face as she gently guided Polaris through the turbulence of the space warp, nursing her to their destination. And between them, a host of technicians, every station manned for the first time in decades.
She felt like a completely different ship. When he'd found her hiding in an asteroid vault, only weeks ago, he'd had only a skeleton crew to man her, less than a tenth of the usual complement. He'd taken her into battle knowing the odds were against him, knowing that any sane commander would have refused the risk. And by what still seemed like a miracle, he'd won. Now he had to do it again, beat the odds one more time.
“Emergence in three minutes, Commander,” Norton reported. “All systems green.”
“Very good, Lieutenant,” he replied. “Exec, sound battle stations.”
“Aye, sir,” Hudson said, reaching to her console. “Executive Officer to all hands, report to battle stations on the double. Report alert status. This is no drill. I repeat, this is no drill. That is all.” She looked down at her status panel, and said, “All decks have acknowledged, Commander.”
“Weapons systems operational,” Rojek added. “Turret and point-defense crews reporting in. Status green. We're ready for a fight, sir.” Glancing across at another screen, he added, “Grey Squadron reports ready for immediate scramble, all other squadrons on ready alert.”
Reaching down to a control, Curtis said, “Squadron Leader Kani, report.”
“Ready to go, Commander. Flight path calculated, systems green.”
“Not to late to back out of this, Win,” he said, concern laced in his voice. “I can think of something else.”
There was a brief pause, and the pilot replied, “It's going to work, sir. Don't worry. I know the risks, and I volunteered, remember. Just make sure Polaris does its part.”
“Will do. Good luck, Win, and good hunting.” He shut down the channel, then looked up at the viewscreen, a projected view of the target system flickering into life. Hyperborea, a cold world in the middle of an ice age, glaciers sweeping almost all the way down to the equator, leaving only a thin strip of inhabitable boreal forest. And yet, it was still one of the friendliest worlds discovered in two centuries of exploration, a world where the air was breathable, the water drinkable, and where Terran life could thrive, under certain conditions.
During the days of the Oligarchs, at the time of the ecocaust, billions of credits had been spent to transplant the last Arctic species to this world, an interstellar refugium from which they could one day be returned to Earth. That was unlikely to ever materialize, but they'd found a new home here, rapidly displacing the local wildlife, causing an extinction to prevent another despite the best efforts of the ecologists.
Of course, there'd been more to it than that, and Hyperborea had become a source of luxury goods, rare furs and spices unavailable on Earth, and a playground for senior government leaders, taking the place of the Oligarchs in the hunting resorts. Genetic scientists had restored creatures wiped out millennia before, and now mammoths and saber-toothed tigers roamed the landscape, simply to satisfy the blood-lust of a bloated bureaucrat.
This was what they were fighting for. The Federation might have begun in the name of freedom, but it had engendered nothing but tyranny, a slaveocracy worse than the one it had replaced, creating a world that Orwell and Huxley would have known all too well. Curtis and the rebellion were the last hope to bring that to an end.
“All stations show ready, Commander,” Hudson said.
“Emergence in forty seconds,” Norton added. She glanced back at him, and continued, “Normal-space flight path calculated and ready, sir.”
“Don't wait for the order, Lieutenant. You know what to do. Make it happen.” He forced a smile to his face, breaking through the tension he was feeling, knowing that his crew needed to see confidence, not fear. As a playpen for the neo-aristocracy, Hyperborea's defenses were tight. That was what had brought them here in the first place, but going up against them with one ship was st ill a risk, no matter how he sought to mitigate it.
“Here we go!” Norton yelled, and with a blinding blue flash, Polaris slowed to sub-light speed, the stars sliding into position on the viewscreen, a wreath around the shining white orb of Hyperborea it its heart, a green band wrapped around its middle. Instantly, a slew of tactical updates raced onto the display, the sensors feeding data to the combat systems as they worked out what they were facing, the enemies the Federation had arrayed against them. With a thunderous roar, Polaris' primary engines burst into life, Norton guiding the capital ship onto the planned flight path, down towards low orbit.
“Threat warning,” Rojek said. “Just as expected, with a little variation. Three capital ships.” He paused, then added, “I don't recognize two of them, sir. That's Regulus at the heart of the formation, right enough, but...”
“Auxiliary cruisers,” Hudson said, looking over Rojek's shoulder. She turned to Curtis, and continued, “At least, they match the projected plans I've seen, though I can't believe they could have had them ready so quickly.”
“Confirmed,” Rojek added. “We're getting registration codes for Trotsky and Ulbrecht.” He paused, then said, “Enemy formation is moving to intercept, and is scrambling fighters. Five squadrons on direct inbound path, closing fast. Six minutes.”
“Get me a tactical projection on the double, and prepare to scramble fighters when I give the word.” He looked across at Saxon, and asked, “Thoughts?”
“We w
ere expecting three ships,” she replied. “I'm almost disappointed we didn't bring Canopus along for the ride. This is a battle we could have won, with our full fighter strength.”
Shaking his head, he said, “We're here on a reconnaissance-in-force, Major. For the present, we stick to the battle plan. What about the cruisers?”
“We knew they'd build them,” she replied. “You saw the projections for ship conversion.”
“Sure, but we'd estimated six months, and they've managed to get at least two into service in six weeks. The only explanation I can think of is that they were preparing them for something else.”
Frowning, she replied, “If they did, then I didn't hear anything about it. Which doesn't mean anything. ColSec's reach doesn't extend to Sol, and that's where they'd have built them.” She glanced back at the screen, and added, “You're worried about the odds, right?”
His voice low, he said, “They weren't exactly favorable already. If they've started to bring their reserves into the fight, then they just got a hell of a lot worse.” Turning to Rojek, he asked, “Where's my projection, Lieutenant?”
“Just about ready, sir. Launch tubes sufficient for only a single squadron, and only a handful of offensive turrets. Lots of point-defense, though, and based on our initial scans, they've retained a lot of cargo space. I think we'd be better off defining them as armed merchantmen rather than cruisers, sir. One-on-one, they don't represent much of a threat. And our best guess suggests four to seven months for conversion. This isn't a response to the rebellion.”
Rubbing his hand over his chin, Curtis asked, “Then why the hell are they building them?”
“Maybe they were planning a war with the Commonwealth, sir?” Norton asked. “The Fleet talked about it often enough.”
“Talk's cheap,” Saxon said. “War is expensive, and that's something that ColSec would have tried to prevent. The last thing we'd want is our nice orderly outposts and stations messed up by the military. And we'd have been on the front line in a renewed offensive against the Commonwealth.”
Turning to Rojek, Curtis said, “Have our hackers go through local communications traffic. If there are any hints and clues buried in the datastream, I want to know about them, now.”
Cracking a smile, Saxon turned to him and said, “Looks like they've decided to hurl insults at us. Commodore McGuire, commanding Second Cruiser Squadron, wants to speak to you.”
“Fine,” Curtis replied. “Let's hear what he has to say.” The tactical display winked out, replaced with the image of a gray-haired man lounging at the heart of a command center almost identical to that of Polaris, wearing pristine dress uniform while his crew worked all around him.
“This is...”
“I know who you are,” Curtis said. “And I'm not interested in sitting here and listening to a collection of empty threats. For the sake of you and your crew, as well as the captive population of Hyperborea, I'm willing to offer you a chance to surrender. I'll guarantee safe passage for your people to the nearest neutral port, and will happily see you sent back to Earth.” Leaning forward in his chair, he continued, “I defeated you before, Commodore, and I'll happily do it again.”
A twisted smile appeared on McGuire's face, and he said, “I have the advantage, Commander. Three ships to your one, five squadrons to your three, and I intend to exploit them to the full. I have no intention of agreeing to your ridiculous terms, but I will make an offer to your crew. If they send me your head, I'll guarantee a free pardon. Last chance for you to get out of this in one piece.” He glanced at Saxon, and added, “That doesn't apply to you. You die with Curtis.”
“Then I'll be in excellent company,” Saxon snapped. “You're as big a fool as you ever were, Hal, and if you really think that you can defeat Polaris with a few transports, you're crazy.”
“I think you can take it that your terms are not accepted,” Curtis said. “If you or your crew change your minds, I'll accept your surrender until we close to firing range. After that, I'll do what I have to do.” He glanced to the rear of the bridge, and asked, “Status on Canopus?”
“All green,” Rojek said. “Following the battle plan as ordered.”
“Very good,” he replied, as panic raced across McGuire's face. “Close channel.”
“Not bad,” Saxon said. “There sits a very worried man. His career is hanging by a thread, and he knows it. He needs a victory.” Looking across at Curtis, she added, “Just as well that we're about to give him one. I like fighting commanders like him. Though it hardly seems fair.”
“I'll take the win any time, Major,” Curtis said. He looked up at the course track, and asked, “Any surprises, Felix? Nothing new from the surface, from the auxiliaries?”
“Not a thing, sir. Orbital defenses are on standby, and the local fighter formation seems to be holding back. Even without our little forced error, they'd be expecting a second wave. We'd be crazy to come here without our full combat strength, right?”
“Yeah,” Curtis replied. “Crazy. Time to firing range?”
“Three minutes, nine seconds. Enemy fighters will be on us in two and a half. They're holding arrowhead formation, nice and predictable.” He paused, and said, “It looks like a sample exercise from a textbook.”
“Then let's make certain that McGuire doesn't get a passing grade.” He looked up at the display for a moment, knowing that he was about to throw his people onto the fire, and added, “Launch Grey Squadron. Green and Crimson to follow thirty seconds later. Stress to all flight leaders that they are to follow the battle plan exactly as instructed. No variation without my direct order. Norton, prepare evasive course on my order.” He looked at the rapidly growing planet on the screen, and said, “Deploy heat shield, and pass the word to all hands to prepare for turbulence. We're going in, and we're going in hot.”
Chapter 2
Kani cursed under his breath as he looked at the tactical feeds streaming in from Polaris, maps of the settlement below flickering onto his heads-up display as the navigation computer began to plot his flight path through the chaos ahead. He looked over the layout, then reached across to bring up his tactical controls. Throwing switches, he brought up the command network, shaking his head at the complicated chart that flashed into life. In the service of the Commonwealth, he'd never commanded more than half a dozen fighters at once. Now he had forty under his command, a melange of pilots gathered from squadrons that had been scattered all across the frontier when the rebellion began.
The Federation had made the mistake of exiling its best officers to the Rim, sending them where they believed they could do no harm. Efficiency and competence had come second to the chimera of political reliability, and they were paying dearly for that error now. The last five weeks had seen dozens of pilots streaming into Sinaloa Station, signing up to the rebellion in ones, twos, even a whole squadron at once point, many of them bringing their fighters along for the ride. The best of them had joined his Grey Squadron, an elite formation to form the tip of the spear in an engagement such as this.
Most of the frontier seemed ready to revolt. The Battle of Coronado had been a huge strategic victory, one that the Federation couldn't ignore, and since then, the Fleet had largely remained at home, licking their wounds and preparing for a new campaign. In the meantime, one colony after another had pledged to the rebellion, overtly or covertly, and a surprising number of merchant ships had placed themselves at their disposal. It was all coming together so fast, faster than he could have dreamed. And it had given them the resources they needed to launch a new campaign; for the situation was fragile at best, and as rapidly as the victory at Coronado had inspired revolt, a similar defeat could crush it overnight.
“Voronova to Kani,” his wingman said. “Enemy fighters are closing, moving to double-arrowhead formation as they approach. Two squadrons for us, three for Polaris.”
Shaking his head, Kani replied, “They're
trying to pin us down while the bulk of formation attacks our base ship. And we're going to let them think that they've got away with it.” Tapping a button, he said, “Wing Commander to all pilots. Break and attack. I repeat, break and attack. For now, Polaris can take care of herself. Engage approaching formation, and good hunting. Out.”
With a smile on his face, he watched as his pilots chose their targets, the strategic computer ensuring that any duplication of effort was minimized. He looked across at Montgomery, the young pilot pulling onto his wing, another recent discovery of his. Two months ago, he'd been a deckhand on the transport Hanoi, cast into the outer darkness after being expelled from Flight School due to the actions of a distant relative, another example of a talented cadet being driven from the service for nebulous political considerations. Already it had cost the Federation Fleet two fighters, and given the natural talent of the young officer, he wouldn't bet against that number rising considerably in the near future.
“They aren't breaking, sir,” Montgomery said. “They're holding trajectory, keeping formation. That's crazy?”
“Inexperienced commander,” Kani replied. “The book claims that those formations are optimized for offense and defense. Tactics-by-numbers. It's a good way to get your pilots killed.” He frowned for a second, focusing his sensors on the nearest formation, watching the pinpoint maneuvers that demonstrated what he already knew. “Rookie pilot, rookie commander. They're throwing people into the fire who aren't ready for it.”
“Seems unfair,” Voronova said. “They're kids, Win.”
“Kids with guns, and kids who are trying to kill us, Lieutenant,” he replied. He paused for a second, then threw open the wing channel again, and added, “If any of the enemy break away, let them run. I want to reward caution today, rather than punishing it. Thirty seconds to contact.”
He locked onto his chosen target, gripping the firing control to enable his particle beams, and swept into the heart of the enemy formation, his weapons lancing out at his target and burning into its hull, the Federation fighter spiraling out of control as the pilot struggled to eject in time. All around, the rest of his pilots were hurling death at their opponents, the battle instantly collapsing into chaos as the enemy forces attempted to counter-attack, their commanders too slow to react to the furious assault.
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