“Despite much of our forces being spread around the galaxy, we do still outnumber the Empyreal Sun,” Prince Thrakhath said, “in total number of carriers, fighters of all classes, and heavy cruisers available to us. However, as Baron Jukaga pointed out, Damarus should not be underestimated. During the Battle of Laputa ten years ago, we found our best weapons were ineffective against his defences. If the same is true here, we are in serious trouble.” He paused for a moment, looking around the room, the other clan leaders stirring uneasily. The ability of Damarus’ flagship at the time, the Malevolence, to resist Nommos bombardment had been a source of extreme embarrassment for the Empire.
“Our forces are spread on eight different fronts,” Khonsu said. “We have already recalled the closest ones, but they will not reach Sirius for some time. Warmaster Paramo has sent what forces he can from the Terran Alliance, but again, the battle may already be decided by the time they arrive. Eight capital ships, plus a number of light escort carriers, along with fighters, will jump into Sirius, aiming to join the battle and to reinforce us. That, in short, is the plan.”
The room was silent as the clan leaders studied their screens.
“With all due respect, it is a hideous plan,” Jukaga said coldly. “Eldo Drakar is stabbing us in the back and we are counting on humans to help us? It lacks all honour. This is a dark day for the Nommos Empire.”
“There is no other choice,” Thrakhath said. “Without the help of the humans, the Empyreal Sun will cripple us. I have no doubt of that.”
The room was silent for a moment.
“We may have no choice but to deploy antineutron torpedoes,” Khonsu said. The image in the holo screen shifted and an image of the devastatingly powerful weapon appeared. The clan leaders looked at it excitedly, the room echoing with shouts of surprise.
Even Jukaga could not conceal his curiosity. Antineutron torpedoes were the most destructive weapons ever designed by the Nommos Empire, and until recently had been only theoretical.
“We have a small number of these ready for testing,” Thrakhath announced proudly, “but obviously, we would only deploy them as a last resort. We originally intended to undergo final testing in the far reaches of our territory, far beyond the prying eyes of the Terran Alliance military, but in this situation we may have no alternative.” He looked around the room and saw the nods of understanding.
“Our orbital defences can be ready within the hour,” Khonsu said. “This is one of the biggest threats to the Empire within recent history, and I will fight to my last breath in order to defend the honour and integrity of the Imperial bloodline. May Sivar the Elder, and the gods on high, favour us on this day.”
“Ten seconds to jump and counting at nine, eight…”
Grand Admiral Kuolor punched in to the deck flight officer. “All fighters prepare for launch!”
“Two, one, jump initiated.”
The phase shift of the hyperspace jump field kicked in, space in the forward and aft screens disappearing in a wavy, kaleidoscopic haze of rainbow coloured shards. Kuolor swallowed hard, the momentary nausea of jump taking hold, as the flagship of the Terran Alliance fleet, the Ballog II, and everything inside of it winked out of existence at jump point 324C and then rematerialised some minutes later several dozen light years away, at their final destination - the Sirius Sector. The screen shifted, star fields returning to view.
“All ahead full, move it!” Kuolor shouted and the Ballog II surged forward. Not five seconds later the Gallipoli appeared behind them in nearly the exact same space they had just been occupying, followed seconds later by several more light escort carriers. The manoeuvre was insane. Standard fleet procedure was to have at least one minute intervals between jumps. The actual point of rematerialisation was problematic, never occurring at precisely the same spot, and if a ship in transit should come out of hyperspace in the same space occupied by another vessel, no one in the two ships involved would ever even realise that their existence had suddenly winked out in a white hot explosion - but that was the chance they took here. Time was of the essence.
“Launch all fighters, launch all fighters!”
A hazy shimmer appeared in the forward screen. Kuolor knew what that meant. He opened his mouth and roared, “Helm hard to port, up ninety degrees!”
The Ballog II shifted, turning, as a Poseidon-class destroyer materialised out of jump less than four hundred metres ahead. Kuolor was nearly knocked from his command chair and at the same instant a bank of red lights started to flash at the damage control desk.
“Ship hulled starboard side, sections twenty-two through twenty-four. Decompression hull breach!”
Internal bulkheads had already been sealed for action stations. Kuolor looked over at the damage display board. Three sectors of the outer hull were gone, crew quarters. He could only hope no one was still in there. He waited, watching to see if the breach would rip down the length of the hull or burst into the heart of the ship. It held.
“What ship was that?” he barked.
“Destroyer Bra’trag, Kruger’s ship, sir.”
“Damage?”
“Part of her port rear stabiliser gone. Hull integrity holding.”
“Then the hell with her, get the rest of those fighters out!” He turned back to the main viewer and drew in his breath. Warmaster Paramo was either a genius or a madman, the next five minutes would tell - so far his plan of a surprise blitz attack had worked; the enemy seemed completely unprepared for their arrival.
Directly ahead, at less than a thousand kilometres, were three Empyreal Sun capital ships moving in line abreast formation, surrounded by tiny fighters engaged in savage dogfights. The black sky of space was aglow with ruby explosions, sliced by intersecting flames of ion drives and punctuated by bursts of laser fire; contrails of debris rained into the atmosphere of the planet Nommon below, becoming tangled ribbons of black cloud. Some distance beyond them, another dozen or so capital ships loomed, engaged with the larger ships of the Nommos fleet, a web of bright weapons fire lighting the battlefield. Meanwhile the enemy flagship, the Retribution, had already started an orbital bombardment of the planet Nommon, far below, with its absurdly powerful Tachyon cannon. At length, the battle appeared as a storm of confusion and panic.
As the Ballog II thundered toward the action, the Empyreal Sun fleet broke from its perfect, regimental formation; some of the capital ships began to approach in two behemoth flanking waves - heading to surround the Terran ships from both sides, like the pincers of a deadly scorpion.
Within moments they were barricaded in front. They had nowhere to go.
Kuolor spoke desperately into the communications channel. “Prepare for attack!”
An anonymous fighter pilot’s voice came back over the channel. “Fighters coming in! Here we go!”
The attack began. The battle was joined.
21
More than an hour had passed since the fighting began.
Two of the inhabited worlds of the Sirius B star system, Nommon and Murk’Oh, glimmered on the OLED screen, showing themselves as two pale green points of light in the middle of the holographic display of the system. Grand Admiral Kuolor wiped sweat from his brow and jacked up the magnification level of the holo. The further of the two planets disappeared, leaving only the planet Nommon and the catastrophic battle which raged above it. By this point, most of the Nommos defence fleet had been destroyed by the enemy - wiped out - leaving only a few yellow blips remaining of what was once a large and powerful force. On the far side of the display a nearly solid swarm of red blips were still arrayed in five large clusters - enemy capitals. Thousands of smaller red lights, Empyreal Sun strike fighters and interceptors, were moving ahead, coming straight in at Kuolor’s own thin blue line, behind which were positioned four large blue dots. His forces were pitifully outnumbered, and had been since the beginning. In the middle region of space between the two groups, moving between Nommon and its three moons, two V wedges of small blue dots were aiming s
traight in at the heart of the enemy fleet.
“The next wave of fighters is moving within range,” a voice whispered from below.
Kuolor nodded absently. The command bridge of the Ballog II was almost like a tomb in situations like this, so far removed from the heat of the fighting, encased in a double layering of biological metamaterial, illuminated by soft diffused light and the shimmer of holographic displays and flat screens. Outside an epic battle was raging; in here, where the decisions were being made, the cool professionalism of his staff made it seem almost like an exercise. Yet, as he spared a glance from the holo and looked around the room, he could see the grim determination on their faces. They knew what was at stake here. After impotently witnessing the annihilation of several dozen Nommos capital ships - and a few of his own - Kuolor had faced no choice but to turn his fleet about and completely rethink strategy.
The Battle of Sirius was not going well.
“Fourteenth Squadron, this is the Ballog II. Remember, we want the big ones, nothing else, so concentrate your fire. Disabling the Retribution remains your primary objective.”
“Ballog II, this is Fourteen Leader, read me?” Machiko Famasika smiled; it felt good to be seeing some space combat again.
“Loud and clear, Commander.”
“Be sure to cover me, sir, while I win the glory.”
“With you all the way, Commander.”
Machiko closed her eyes, feeling the symbiotic connection between her mind, the Rãvier suit she wore, and the controls of her Isis—class Attack Fighter. It was certainly the biggest strike group she had ever flown with, more than five hundred and fifty fighters and attack bombers launched from eight carriers in thirty waves. An extra two hundred and eighty fighters were being held in reserve as protection for the fleet carriers and as an extra twelve strike waves, should things get desperate.
Machiko looked down at her tactical display. Straight ahead the individual blips of enemy fighters, corvettes, frigates and destroyers had merged into a solid wall of red. She clicked into a side band to the main fleet communications line. A real time image of Nommon, the homeworld of the Nommos people, was being transmitted out to the fleet while the battle was happening. The planet flickered on her screen, suffering a fierce bombardment from the Retribution high up in the atmosphere, repeated blasts from its horrendous Tachyon cannon destroying yet another world.
Time was running out. Machiko was past the point of rage by now.
The image winked off, replaced by the Grand Admiral’s stern expression. “This is Kuolor. Good luck to all of you, and good hunting.”
The screen went dark, and Machiko smiled. A typical understatement from the Grand Admiral. Then she clenched her jaw muscles and frowned, concentrating on the task at hand. The forward edge of Terran fighters, running ahead of the main attack wave now, slammed into the opposing wall of hostiles defending the Empyreal Sun heavy carriers. From out of the red wall dozens of blinking orange dots appeared, aiming straight in at them.
“All right, squadrons Eleven through Fourteen, we’ve got an incoming antimatter missile strike,” the wing commander announced. His name was Captain Sabe, a veteran strike bomber. “Evasive manoeuvres.”
The strike force diverted from its straight-in approach, turning up at a ninety degree angle relative to the orbital plane of the Sirius system. The antimatter missiles started to turn to follow, the range closing. The first one winked into a white hot ball, dozens more detonating, catching half a dozen fighters at the back of the strike. The squadrons nosed back over, following the wing commander, slicing in through the explosions, and as they came out the opposite side, Empyreal Sun fighters were upon them.
Machiko fought down a moment of panic. Even the Einekian military’s toughest holographic simulators had never been programmed to handle the number of enemy fighters now coming in on her. It was impossible to sort out which target to lock on to. Hundreds of blips streaked across space and within seconds dozens of ships on both sides were exploding. Purple plasma blasts sent out sprays of shot in every direction as wing group size attack waves by the Empyreal Sun came in. The four closest capital ships dropped out beams of particle fire. The first wave passed and Machiko, ashamed, realised she had not fired a single shot in all the confusion.
She risked a glance back at the Terran capital ships behind her. One was gone, another turning out of formation, spinning, its port engine blown apart, its starboard engine apparently jammed at full throttle. Its crew ejected in a thousand tiny capsules and the ship spun away, exploding seconds later. From out of the confusion another wave of enemy fighters - Anubis, Krant, and Gorgon-class - flying nearly wing tip to wing tip, came sweeping in, forward plasma cannons firing.
“Fourteen-Three, let’s break up those fighters!” She edged her throttle forward, leaping ahead, and lined up on the lead Anubis, putting a single plasma bolt straight into its hull canopy, blowing the top of the enemy fighter apart. The enemy attack broke apart within seconds, three of them dead, and Machiko came around, seeing that her number three man was gone. There wasn’t even time to ask.
“Keep moving in, close in manoeuvring flaps,” Captain Sabe called.
“We want the capitals!” Machiko swallowed hard, passing the order on to her squadron, and she closed flaps in.
It was no longer possible to pull the tight-in manoeuvres. It was going to be a straight-in high speed run. Blasts snapped around her, missiles detonating, her number five pilot ejecting from his fighter as it crumpled up in a ball of flame. She pulled in close under the belly of a nearby frigate. The outer row of enemy picket ships was straight ahead and their barrage opened up, two of the corvettes taking multiple hits and disappearing. As they shot through the line of Empyreal Sun frigates and destroyers, more than a hundred missiles were dropped by the enemy, slashing into the Terran squadrons, the two remaining corvettes blowing out sprays of fire. A curtain of chaff diverted most of the missiles, but enough found their mark and more than several dozen Terran fighters and bombers were gone.
Machiko pulled open her visor and wiped the stinging sweat from her eyes. Her back was soaked with sweat, the Rãvier suit coolant unable to evaporate it off fast enough. Her mouth felt dry, as if she had swallowed a ball of cotton, and she suddenly understood why some veteran pilots had developed the revolting habit of chewing on an old cigar while in a tight spot.
Straight ahead on her tactical were five large clusters of red. She no longer needed to use the screen. Even from extreme range she could already pick out a thin sliver of reflected light.
“Bombardment groups one and two, take the centre capital,” Captain Sabe announced, and Machiko could see on the communications screen that the leader’s ship had been hit, smoke in the cockpit making him barely visible. “Three and four capital to port, five and six to starboard. All other fighters provide cover. Range nine hundred clicks, open manoeuvring flaps, full reverse thrust for deceleration in ten seconds.”
“Let’s make it count, people,” Machiko said.
“Three, two, one, decelerate!”
Machiko pulled her manoeuvring flaps wide open and slammed in reverse thrust, instantly slowing her fighter, which shuddered to a near standstill less than fifty clicks out from their target. A swarm of Empyreal Sun fighters closed in on them. There was a flash of light forward off the enemy capital’s bow and Machiko realised that someone, driven by rage, had simply tried to ram the enemy ship. Such a manoeuvre at full closing speed was nearly impossible to do and the fighter had deflected off the side of the capital’s heavy shields.
“I’ve got initial torpedo lock,” somebody announced, “and counting at thirty, twenty nine…” The other strike squadrons joined in with their own announcements of initial lock. They slowly drifted in towards their target and Machiko felt as if her heart were wrapped in ice. The ship before her was massive, more than twice the size of any capital ship she had ever seen before.
She could barely spare it a glance, however, as hundreds more
enemy fighters swarmed in upon them. Within seconds she had lost the rest of her squadron in the mad melee that followed as she twisted and turned her fighter, struggling to stay alive while at the same time desperately attempting to cover the bombers as they hung near motionless, waiting for their torpedoes to gain full lock. Bomber after bomber disappeared in white-hot explosions as the seconds ticked past.
Three Gorgons lined in on Captain Sabe’s bomber, his countdown still echoing in Machiko’s ears as she weaved into them, crippling one with a burst of plasma spray, and destroying a second with another stream which cut into the fighter’s engine mounts. The third stitched a flurry of rounds across the portside gun turret of Sabe’s ship, and Machiko caught a glimpse of his gunner’s body shredding to pieces, his canopy bursting into shards from the strike.
“Keep them off me,” Sabe shouted. “Ten seconds and counting.”
Her strike squadron had drifted to within eight clicks of the enemy capital and what appeared to be a solid wall of particle beams snaked out from the ship’s bow, blowing three more Terran ships apart. Machiko struggled to keep her own ship under control as an uneasy shudder ran through it, starboard shielding overloading and a particle beam hit sheared off the last meter of her wingtip.
She cursed, turning inside the beam, blowing out reflective chaff which temporarily blinded the beam’s target lock. It skewed across her bow, cutting a gouge into the forward biological armour.
The Complete New Dominion Trilogy Page 45