by Hugo Huesca
“This time you’re not facing a civilian crew, you murderous bastard,” Clarke said. “We aren’t running, Erickson, and you can’t get away from what’s coming for you.” Clarke and Alicante exchanged a glance, and Alicante shook his head, meaning Hawk hadn’t yet reached its engagement range.
Another minute or so later, Erickson said, “It’s hard to feel intimidated by three outdated destroyers from the EIF. Hell, Clarke, how can these things sail at all? They’re ancient! Are you trying to give that fake Reiner bitch legitimacy by picking her up with ships from her father’s time? Ah, don’t answer that. Listen, I should kill you and your EIF shits already and call it a day. But, unlike you, I’m not a terrorist bastard. So, here’s a one-time-only chance of surrender. De-activate your weapons, send me your ship’s control codes, and I’ll have mercy on your crew.”
“I know the value of your word, Erickson,” Clarke said. “You can take it and shove it. You get no offer of surrender from me. Vortex’s crew, though, does. I know Vortex’s Navigation and Naval Intelligence are hearing this. You’ve seen Erickson and Tal-Kader’s commit crimes against humanity. They use unmanned ships, they see planets as bargaining chips, they execute innocent non-combatants. I urge you, depose your treasonous captain. As sailors of the Defense Fleet, this is your duty. Restore the Fleet to its rightful place as the Edge’s protector.”
In the minute before the answer arrived, Pascari cut in, “How gallant, Clarke. You think that’s going to work?”
“No,” Clarke said, “but it’s my duty to exhaust all other recourse before opening fire.”
As his only answer, Erickson laughed and ordered, quite clearly so Clarke could hear him, for Vortex’s crew to load the torpedoes. Then the communication ended.
“Show the video feed to all personnel not currently involved in critical tasks,” Clarke told Alicante. “Let them know what we’re fighting for.”
“Trust me, Captain, they know.”
Battle began without fanfare.
Minutes later, Hawk reached Vortex-1’s effective range. Both groups unloaded at the same time.
Turret fire soared across space in beautiful silence. Nine out of ten rounds missed their mark. Most of the ones that hit were deflected by the ships’ hulls. A tiny amount of armor-piercing rounds bypassed metal, gel, and ceramics alike, turning critical machinery to slag.
Turrets fired until they ran out of ammo or overheated. Across the decks of all ships, engineers and crewmen ran across the length of complex heat-dampening machinery, fixing errors here and there, replacing broken components, trying to convince the turrets to steal a second or two of function before the enemy crew could get their own turrets firing.
Commander Alicante listed the damage. “No critical hits on our destroyers. Falcon’s escorts report a ship out of commission and another one too damaged to continue. They’ve deployed escape capsules.”
“Have them pull back,” said Clarke, his eyes glued on the VCD. Rehman had deployed his escorts too close to the action, effectively turning them to meat shields. Escorts were meant as support units, not as part of the main combat between ships of the line. Their place, if commanded by any sane leader, was at the back of the fight, ready to deploy as needed in case of an eventuality.
“Vortex-1 is deploying torpedoes,” Alicante announced. Clarke’s map confirmed it, the three enemy destroyers sent forth a flurry of red triangles headed their way.
“Confirm they’re actually torpedoes and not AI ships,” Clarke said. Then, to Sierra-1’s commanders, he said, “Get a cannon salvo before committing to torpedo hunting.”
Don’t let the enemy dictate the rhythm of the fight, Captain Yin whispered in Clarke’s ear. He commanded the escorts to assist in intercepting the torpedoes.
Sierra-1 changed formation. The destroyers stopped accelerating for a couple seconds while maneuvering thrusters slowly shifted the mass of the ships so their beams faced Vortex-1 and their noses faced each other. Fire emerged from tubes protruding from their hulls and projectiles too fast to be seen by the human eye crossed the missile swarm and made way for Vortex-1.
Cannon ammunition was very much like a kinetic projectile, except more suited for ship-to-ship combat than a static target bombardment. The ammunition could make tiny course corrections and was, to a point, smart. It could detect its target and follow it, but the huge speeds at which the projectile moved limited the power of the computers it carried inside. They had to be tough to withstand the violence of the acceleration, and tough was the enemy of complexity.
Vortex-1 began evasive maneuvers. Clarke focused on surviving the incoming torpedo swarm.
Escorts and destroyers activated their point defense turrets and opened fire at the target rich environment. The cloud’s size shrank due to a mixture of bullets, EMP bombs, lasers, and decoys.
Enough torpedoes survived and kept coming. Sierra-1’s escorts accelerated toward the torpedoes, passing over and under Hawk, Falcon, and Eagle. At such a close range, there was no margin for error. The sailors manning the ships knew their duty. If their defenses failed, they’d intercept the torpedoes with their own ships. Technically, they’d have enough seconds to reach the escape capsules, but in practice…Clarke winced as the VCD showed two of Falcon’s escorts shielding the destroyer and taking a direct hit as a result. Only one of the escorts deployed escape capsules, but it didn’t matter. The explosion caught the capsules before they reached safety.
Clarke cursed bitterly under his breath. Survivor’s guilt was a very real phenomenon among sailors, especially those manning ships of the line. Sure, the logical argument was clear. Twenty times as many people manned a destroyer as an escort. The Edge’s combat doctrine preached that it was righteous for the few to sacrifice for the many. Clarke understood that, but he hated it anyway.
He had no time to process the loss of those thirty men. A single torpedo managed to dodge the escort wall of Eagle and scored a hit on the destroyer.
How far was that explosion? In the VCD, the impact happened right under Eagle’s nose. In real space, how far could that have been? Less than a hundred kilometers meant the crew was dead or would be in short time.
“Shit!” someone exclaimed in Hawk’s bridge channel. “Did we lose them?”
“It wasn’t a direct hit,” Clarke said automatically. “Eagle is still showing on the map.”
He connected to Sierra-1’s command line. “Commander Mather, what’s your status?”
His gaze never left Eagle’s dot, seconds trickling by in slow motion until Commander Mather connected to them.
“By Reiner, that was a close call,” said Mather. Her voice retained her tough drawl, but Clarke could tell she was shaken. “A turret managed to nail the damn thing at the last second. Got it about fifteen hundred clicks away from us. Damage report incoming. No internal circuitry damaged from the EMP, our shielding held. Bad news, Eagle’s blind, Captain, we lost radar and most of our targeting systems. No medical report yet available, though our lead shell should have done its job.”
In the academy, there were compiled reports of all space engagements across history. Clarke had lost count of how many sailors had died because the lead should have done its job, yet didn’t. Technically, the ship had been at a safe distance from the blast, but space worked strangely with oryza-powered nuclear explosions.
“Don’t take any risks, Commander,” he said, “have your crew pop iodine tablets and send a random selection of non-essential personnel for an immediate medical examination. If they’re contaminated…” he didn’t bother finishing his sentence. It wasn’t necessary. An infirmary could save a sailor from radiation poisoning if it acted quickly enough. An entire crew? Not likely.
“Yes, sir,” said Mather, her voice somber. “Is Eagle out of combat?”
“Eagle’s targeting systems can work with Hawk’s substituting their sensors,” Alicante suggested.
“What’s your assessment, Commander Mather?” Clarke asked. “Should you pull back?
Give me your honest opinion, this is not the time for gallantry.”
“Hell yes, we can still fight,” came her answer. She coughed and composed herself. “Just point them out for us, and we’ll do the rest. Eagle would like to return Vortex the favor, Captain. With your permission.”
“Granted, Eagle,” Clarke said. He bit back a worried comment about Mather’s cough. If any of them wished to survive to worry about radiation poisoning later, they had to kill Vortex-1.
The VCD showed that Vortex-1’s evasive maneuvers had worked, and they had avoided the smart projectiles with no damage. Right now, they were scattering to regain speed and take position in something resembling a firing line. In reality, their targeting systems had fed Navigation a firing solution, and the ships maneuvered to optimize their angle of fire.
We’re not going to stare and let you do that, Erickson, Clarke thought. “Sierra-1, deploy torpedoes, each destroyer pick your target and stick to it. Prepare for another cannon salvo after we’re done reloading, use shrapnel variant. Update me as soon as you’re ready. Eagle, we’ll feed you your firing solution, stand by.”
Shooting two salvos too close together could destroy the delicate tube machinery. It required an experienced commander to get the timing between reloads right and a competent engineering and gunnery crew to pull it off. Clarke knew the crew was competent, but he doubted the outdated machinery could withstand the abuse.
He used the extra seconds it took for Hawk’s computers to do Eagle’s calculations as a buffer, but he couldn’t wait much longer after that, otherwise, Vortex-1 would regain battle momentum.
The bridge shook as Eagle’s three torpedo bays fired at the same time. Shortly afterward, while the torpedoes still flew toward their target, the two cannon tubes took aim and fired.
The sequence Clarke had used—cannon salvo first, then torpedoes, then another salvo—was a classic tactic taught in the Academy. It required little coordination among ships, so it could be used by a commander with an inexperienced crew, and it was effective if the enemy commander lacked the experience or training necessary to respond to multiple threats.
The first cannon salvo was meant to miss. The point of it was to get the enemy to overreact in their defensive maneuvers, to invest too much velocity in them and slow their reaction time in the short term. Defending against the torpedoes would increase those mistakes, and then the second cannon salvo would do the real damage.
The risk of that sequence was that it required time to pull off, and an enemy firing at random could still get lucky and kill you in that time.
Hawk shot its cannons, with Falcon and Eagle next to it doing the same. Clarke’s g-seat, along with the entire bridge, jerked back slightly, as if a giant had pushed the ship a centimeter to the back.
Clarke held his breath as he watched Sierra’s torpedoes diminish as Vortex-1’s defenses made short work on them. A couple escorts died to protect Vortex from a hit, two more suffered glancing hits from the nuclear blasts and the EMP fried their systems. No other hits. The destroyers remained untouched.
Hawk’s computers informed Clarke that Falcon had lost one cannon tube due to overheating. Engineering was working hard to get it back online, but they made no guarantees.
Vortex-1 saw the incoming projectiles and maneuvered hard, up and to the left from Clarke’s perspective, pulling some hard g’s, trying to outrace the smart ammunition. The acceleration they were under definitely put the lives of the crew at risk. Despite himself, Clarke winced in sympathy, as if he could hear the sound of ribs and vertebra snapping under the pressure.
C’mon, he thought as the rounds reduced the distance to Vortex-1, as if he could guide them to their intended targets by will alone. We need a hit.
It was a good angle, he knew. Despite Vortex-1’s maneuvers, they were moving from a bad position, and the smart ammunition was already making slight course corrections to try to intercept the ships.
Clarke clutched the armrests of his seat. No one spoke on the bridge, everyone’s eyes were glued to their holos. The map showed how some brave escorts tried to buy Vortex extra time by throwing themselves toward the salvo, but they simply couldn’t react fast enough to intercept the smart ammunition. A computer tick alerted Clarke that one of those ships had pulled a lethal amount of gs in its attempt. Escape capsules out, but since it had maneuvered to the very end, the commander had to have remained behind.
A senseless death, and yet, Clarke couldn’t avoid feeling respect for that unknown man. Perhaps if that escort commander had led Sentinel, this senseless fight wouldn’t be happening.
Four projectiles missed their mark. An amazing cannon shot deflected another one, a perfectly timed response from one of Vortex-1 patrol destroyers.
Sierra-1 faced some skilled sailors. Maybe Tal-Kader hadn’t managed to get rid of all old school Defense Fleet soldiers. At least they were facing Erickson and not Sentinel’s admiral.
The last cannonball missed that same destroyer by a few kilometers. The computer inside the smart ball calculated the distance and detonated at once, propelling a spherical cloud of shrapnel in all directions, including toward the destroyer, which couldn’t do anything but stare in horror and try to survive the impact.
“Hot damn, I’ve never seen a shrapnel ball get such a sweet angle as that one. Eagle’s shot, it was. Seems we’ve a blind fighter among our roster, sir,” Alicante commented. He read the destroyer’s damage report when Hawk’s sensors finished processing it. “Vortex-1-2 suffered hull penetration through all its structure. Drives are out. No overload so far. Its weapon systems seem down, and we can see the ship venting atmosphere. With any luck, we racked their bridge.”
With any luck, we killed another good soldier today, Clarke observed somberly. It was easy to think of it as Tal-Kader’s fault. But until when could he hide behind that excuse? At some point, when his hands bathed in enough innocent blood, it would drown him.
“Congratulations, Eagle, excellent shot,” he said aloud, pushing those thoughts out of his mind. Later, if he lived, he’d have to face himself in the privacy of his quarters.
“Thank you, Captain. Shall we press the advantage?” said Mather.
Pascari entered the conversation. “Let’s kill these bastards, people. No mercy.”
Clarke wanted to yell at the man. Instead, he focused on the VCD. Vortex and Vortex-1-3 were pulling away from Vortex-1-2, leaving the crippled vessel to fend for itself. The destroyer hadn’t used escape capsules yet, or announced its surrender, so as far as the rules of war were concerned, it was still a combatant.
“Eagle, do us the honor,” Clarke said. He hoped the other commander would order the evacuation when he saw the torpedoes coming and realized there was no way their ship could stop them all.
If he’s still alive.
“Understood. Two minutes until we get our torpedo bays ready for another launch,” said Mather.
Meanwhile, the other two members of Vortex-1 continued pulling away from the third destroyer.
Some younger crewmen in the bridge started cheering, interpreting Vortex-1’s movements as a retreat. It sure looked like one. Something had to be wrong. Erickson wouldn’t give up that easily, not with Sentinel watching all this take place from its far away position at the edge of the Star System.
Admiral Ernest U. Wentraub was watching, and Erickson still had escorts and another destroyer to throw away. So he wasn’t running.
What are you doing? Clarke thought. Without their point defenses, Vortex-1-2 was a sitting duck. He imagined himself as a sailor inside that ship, wondering why the rest of his force was abandoning him, hoping against hope it was some genius ploy from Captain Erickson while watching Eagle’s targeting lasers prepare a firing solution for the incoming torpedoes.
Vortex-1 prepared for a cannon flyby, still maneuvering under hard gs. It wouldn’t be an accurate shot, Clarke knew. Accuracy and acceleration were hard matches against moving targets.
Oh. Shit. Clarke’s heart s
kipped a beat when realization struck him.
Vortex-1 opened fire seconds before Eagle’s torpedoes bypassed Vortex-1-2’s defenders and reduced the ship to a radioactive dust cloud. Several escorts died in the blast. Neither those nor the destroyer deployed escape capsules.
“Eagle, that cannon salvo headed in your direction,” Alicante informed the blind ship. “I suggest you begin evasive maneuvers.”
“Agreed,” said Rehman, who watched all this unfold from Falcon’s safe position at the opposite side of Eagle. “You don’t want to try to deflect those, you won’t get another lucky shot like that in your entire life.”
“Those aren’t cannon projectiles,” said Clarke. His eyes and instinct beat Hawk’s computers by a second. “And Erickson isn’t aiming at Eagle.”
During Eagle’s blind maneuvering, fed by Hawk’s computers, it had failed to take into account its position relative to Dione. Clarke watched the planet, at the corner of the tactical map, far enough away that it shouldn’t have been involved in the battle. He traced an imaginary straight line that connected the planet to Eagle, and Eagle to Vortex-1 and its incoming projectiles.
“What do you mean—?” started Pascari, but then Alicante read Navigation’s urgent report:
“Correction, Vortex-1 has fired kinetics, not cannons,” he said, dismay cracking his voice as he spoke. “Their kinetics have direct course toward Dione…damage projections estimate a total loss of human life when—if—they make contact.”
“Oh, my God…” someone said.
A decades-old phantom flashed through Clarke’s eyes, almost an afterimage burned in his mind’s eye. The sight of the Appleseed’s bridge collapsing, with Captain Yin dying in his arms. So much death, with him in the middle of it.
This was going to be much, much worse. Concerns about Isabella Reiner’s extraction fled Clarke’s mind as the sheer horror of the situation engulfed him.