I looked up and saw that the other thrown pirate was on Rue, poking at her with his sword. Evidently her stunning figure had made him pause but not hold back entirely. She cried out as the edge sliced into her right arm.
Then it was as though a cloud formed around me—a cloud of horror and outrage. I saw the fallen body of Helse, crying to me, "Do it!" Helse—just before she died. "Not again!" I cried.
Then the sword was singing in my hand. A pirate came at me, his own sword raised; I dodged it and jumped past him and whirled, my sword swishing in an arc that intersected the back of his neck. The blade hung up on his vertebrae, but it didn't matter. I could tell as I yanked it free that he was dead.
I dived at the pirate attacking Rue and skewered him from behind My point entered his back and must have passed through his kidney; he dropped as I braced my bare foot against his buttock and hauled my weapon out.
I whirled to face the next, but he was already starting a two-handed chop at my head that I could not avoid.
Then he lost balance, and his stroke missed. Heller, supposedly dead, had reached out and grabbed his ankle and yanked it out. Now my own blade came around, slashing the pirate across the chest, and the blood welled out as he fell back.
One other pirate remained standing, and he was pawing at his face. Brinker, keeping her poise, had hurled sand in his eyes.
Now, at last, after these interminable few seconds, the security squad arrived. The sharpshooters had been caught by surprise by the nullification of their laser rifles. But now the pirates were done for. I picked up my shirt to wrap around Rue's cruelly wounded arm and staunch the flow of blood.
"You're a berserker!" she exclaimed faintly through pale lips. "You went crazy, tearing up those men!"
"I lost my bride to pirates once," I said. "I would not let that happen again."
"You did it to protect me?"
"Well, I value you; you know that," I said awkwardly, knowing she did not appreciate mushy sentiments.
She turned away. The security force took charge, and the brief, violent interlude was over.
Heller was dead. His last act in life must have been the one he took to save my life. He had fulfilled his vow, and I had no way to thank him. Except to leave him with a clean record and a commendation.
The pirate remnant had indeed set a trap for us. The six had been a suicide squad, hiding when the others vacated, waiting for the opportunity to catch us alone. They had intended to kill me or Rue or both of us, to deprive our force of its leadership and its basis for the alliance with the Solomons. The personnel of the base were innocent; they had known nothing of this.
Now we turned our attention to the Society fleet. Perhaps I should say that I turned my attention to it; my staff had been setting up for it all along. The Society band was not a strong one, but it had a lot of drones—twice as many as we could field at the moment. Mondy's information indicated that theirs was a suicide mission; they would send their drones at our ships and base without regard for their losses. In fact, their carriers were already decelerating, making ready to retreat; their drones would not even try to return to their bases.
This was awkward, because drones are hard to stop. They're small and fast, particularly when jammed up to top velocity, and they pack a considerable punch, and kamikaze drones have nothing to lose. We could try to shoot them all down, but probably they would loose their torpedoes the moment they came in range, and it is almost impossible to pick a traveling torpedo out of space. With targets as big as our battleship and the domes of the base itself, those torpedoes could hardly miss, and could wreak incalculable havoc.
This time I insisted on knowing Emerald's strategy. It was simple enough. "We've got to take out those drones before they fire, and that means sending ours out to intercept them."
"But they outnumber ours!" I protested. "Even if we trade off even, many of theirs will remain to attack us. They won't fall for the trick you used on the Solomons."
"Our drones will just have to take them all out," she said.
"We have how many drones now?" I asked.
"Thirty-three, on one and a half carriers."
"And they have?"
"Sixty-eight, on three carriers."
"And when drone meets drone in open space, what are the odds?"
"One drone can take out one drone in a given pass, if it shoots first and accurately. But the odds are about even which one wins, assuming the two are of equivalent sophistication."
"And is this the case here?"
"It is."
"Then how—?"
"I'm going to have ours fire on the bias."
"But drones can only fire directly forward."
"They fire in the direction they are pointed."
"Isn't that the same thing?"
"Not necessarily."
I gave it up; she was unable or unwilling to make her strategy comprehensible to me. But I made sure to watch, for though this was theoretically a minor engagement, the consequences of a loss would be horrendous. We had to stop those drones!
I watched our carriers go out. The "half" carrier was a damaged one captured from the Marianas; spot reconditioning had proceeded only to the point of allowing a dozen drones to be launched from it, and only eight were actually available. With more time we could have done much better, which was probably why the Society was making its play now.
The carriers went out to the sides, so as to launch their drones at right angles to the path of the enemy drones. The ideal, in drone versus drone combat, is to "cross the T"; that is, to fire at your enemy from the side, so that he can't fire back. In fact, a formation ranged in even rows would be highly vulnerable to multiply placed shots from the side. That was one way a few drones could indeed take out many. The type of loading made a difference, too; the Society drones carried heavy torpedoes, while ours were loaded with explosive shells. We could fire four shells for every one torpedo they fired. Of course, we couldn't take out their ships very well, but we didn't need to, for a carrier without drones is like a panther without teeth. Had we been able to go for their carriers before their drones got within torpedo range of our targets, that would have been worthwhile; but their tactic of launch and retreat had obviated that. So we had to deal directly with the drones.
A more popular analogy, perhaps, is to the planetary aircraft: Some are bombers, able to damage landscape, while others are fighters, able to damage other aircraft. It does make a difference. Theirs were bombers, ours fighters. We had a better chance than I had first thought. Still, I was uneasy.
The enemy drones came on in staggered wave formation, somewhat like nestled flying-goose Vees, so that crossing the T became ineffective for more than one or perhaps two ships at a time. This was a standard precaution, and a good one. Each drone stood behind and to the side of its neighbor, as it were; the overall effect was that of a huge flying arrowhead. Nine drones were in the leading wing, four trailing to each side of the point. Seven wings and a wedge of five filling out the tail section. Each was positioned so that it could launch its torpedoes forward without being blocked by the drones in front; the wings were also staggered vertically, to add another margin of safety from interference, and to broaden the coverage of the target. Sixty-eight deadly missiles, headed for our base!
The enemy was aware of our defensive formation, of course, but ignored it. The Society knew we would take out some of their drones but also knew that with only thirty-three of ours in service, and their staggered formation, the very best we could hope for was a kill total of thirty-three. That would leave thirty-five of theirs to charge the base, for there would not be time for more than one pass. Our drones could not decelerate, turn, and reaccelerate to catch theirs, which were already traveling at speed. Our base guns would take out perhaps half the remainder, but the odds against getting them all were prohibitive. And if even one drone got close enough to launch its torpedo, a base-dome would be holed, and that would finish it. The sudden holing of a dome is more disastrous tha
n that of a ship, for a dome is not a space vessel. The explosive decompression tears it apart, and even those people inside who are fully suited and ready are unlikely to survive, because of the violence of the destruction. We could not afford to let that one torpedo get through.
Emerald had said she expected to solve the problem by firing on the bias. I still could make no sense of this. Our drones were now accelerating toward the enemy formation at right angles. They would intersect the Society drones just outside torpedo-launching range. Our formation would be as plain on their radar as it was on ours: a completely conventional array, incapable of taking out more than its own number of enemy drones.
Well, at least our fire would be accurate. Emerald had tied it to our master firing computer after our pilots had positioned their drones. That computer was now orienting each drone to place its shots in a specific pattern. This wasn't really too complicated, since all shots went in exactly the direction the drone was pointed; several would be fired in rapid order, their shells timed to explode at diminishing intervals, so that the detonations would occur simultaneously along the firing line. If there were six drones in that line, all could be hit. But, of course, there were only one or two in any line. That was the problem.
The intersection of drones could be tricky. Since it was an advantage to be the second drone on the spot, so as to be able to fire on the first and destroy it, drones were given to abrupt cessations of acceleration near the point of intersection, to change their moment of arrival and foil the timed shells. They could also increase acceleration, to leave the shells behind. Even with light-speed tracking, there was a brief delay in corrections, and the tolerance was narrow, so there was only about one chance in three that a computer-placed shot would score. This was normally compensated for by having the defensive drones (that is, the drone-fighting drones) fire in formation, placing three shots in a line before the enemy drone. If all the spots the enemy could be were covered by exploding shells, then the likelihood of destroying it became total. But that used up a lot of ammunition. Each of our drones carried six shells, so could take out only two enemy drones on that basis—if it had time to orient on two. And if the formation was correct, since it actually required three drones to place a line of shells in front of any enemy drone traveling at right angles. So, in the very best of circumstances, we could take out only sixty-six enemy drones, and the two remaining would have a clear shot at the base. Our best was not good enough.
The two fleets moved close together. On the radar screen the blips were on the verge of merging. The moment of decision was at hand. I dreaded it.
Suddenly the Society blips were obscured. All across the formation they were breaking up.
"One hundred percent, sir," a technician reported, interpreting the radar image.
Emerald relaxed. "That's it, then."
"They're gone?" I asked, bewildered. "But the flights didn't even intersect!"
She sighed, pleased. "Must I draw you a picture, sir?"
"That might help."
She grabbed a note pad. She drew a pattern of dots. "Here is the enemy's nestled V-formation," she explained. "Note how no two drones are on the same horizontal line."
"Yes, of course. So we couldn't—"
"Note how they happen to fall into bias lines, five ships per line."
"But that's no good to us," I protested. "We were proceeding at right angles."
"We were coasting at right angles," she said. "But the orientation of our drones changed. We oriented on their lines and fired—"
"On the bias!" I exclaimed, catching on at last. "Slantwise, early, so as to catch five ships per line!"
"Well, some of their lines are partial," she said. "But we caught them before they made their evasive acceleration, so they were sitting ducks. Some of our ships took out five, and some only took out one, but we were able to cover them all in a single sweep. The Society threat is over. Now all we have to do is round up their fleeing carriers for salvage."
"It's so obvious in retrospect," I said. "Why didn't they anticipate this?"
"Why didn't you, Worry?"
I shrugged. I had indeed been worrying! "I suppose I'm just a conventional thinker."
"Well, you'll have credit for one more brilliant victory, figurehead." There was no bitterness in this statement; she knew that scholars of this campaign would quickly catch on to the truth. The Rising Moon had proven herself—again.
But already we had to plan for another battle, for the Samoans, the drug dealers of the Belt, were organizing. We had eliminated, in order, the pornographers, the gamblers (well...), the smugglers, the slavers, and the fencers, but Commander Repro and I had personal reasons to get the druggers. In addition, we knew that if we did not destroy the last of the major bands, Samoa would simply move in and restore the prior order of piracy.
At this point I was satisfied to leave our strategy to Emerald. I had to plan for the time beyond that last battle, our departure from the Belt. We had fences to mend back at Jupiter. I discussed it with my wife.
"We shall have to leave soon, Rue," I said. "My task force was commissioned only to clean up this mess in the Belt; the moment that's done, I must bring the fleet home. Once again I must remind you that you are free to—"
"That game," she said. "The one in the water. I think I know how to play it better now."
"I'm sure you do," I agreed, putting off whatever she had in mind until I had established my position. "There are certain problems, either way. If you choose to come to Jupiter, you will have to leave your family and band, and it may be your father will need you here. The organization of the supplementary fleet we have developed from salvage will fall to him—"
"Just tell me you will drown me," she said.
"On the other hand, if you come with me, as you are welcome to do, you will always be dependent on me for your status, for you will have none of your own at Jupiter. You must remain married to an officer of my level. So you should consider very carefully whether—"
"Please don't drown me, sir!" she cried. "I'll do anything you say!" She flung her mass of red hair about fetchingly.
"And, too, you must appreciate that you can no longer be my Operations officer there. The assignment has force only during this mission, in my task force. So I really cannot offer you much—"
She clutched my shoulders, drew me in, and kissed me. If this was feigned passion, it was an excellent feign. "Okay, kiss me," I murmured after the fact.
She reached up and tore open her own blouse. "Oh, sir—please don't rape me violently! I'll submit peacefully!"
"But I don't like submission," I protested. "I prefer mutual—"
"I'll pretend! I'll pretend!" she cried, bearing me back upon the bed.
This was getting quite interesting! "How well can you feign it?"
"About as well as you feigned fighting for me, there on the beach when you berserked."
"Rue, I wasn't feigning tha—"
She shut me up with another kiss. I shrugged mentally and proceeded to it. She was, after all, an incandescently attractive young woman, and this was the closest yet she had come to the sort of passion I preferred.
But as the climactic moment approached, she paused, suddenly sober. "Hope—"
"Don't tell me!" I said. "I don't want to be reminded of the pretense. You're doing great!"
"Would you hit me, please."
For an instant I froze. Then I realized that this was the one pretext she still required—reduced to a token, but still necessary. I brought up my hand and slapped her cheek hard enough to sting but not to hurt her. "Bitch!" I murmured.
Then she was all mine, or I was all hers, and it was good indeed. There is at times great joy in young flesh. But I realized that this was about as far as she could go toward my type of love. I had to be thankful that she tried so hard to reach this point. She really did want to please me, and had met me more than halfway, and I was deeply flattered by her effort. She did indeed please me.
As we lay
there in relaxed dishevelment, there was a knock on the door. That had to be one of my staff; only they sought personal contact at this hour.
"Go away!" Rue called languidly.
But the knock repeated. Angrily, she flounced off the bed and proceeded naked to the door. She flung it open. "Go away, creep! I'm getting raped!"
Gerald Phist stood there, somewhat abashed. "I regret—"
"You want to rape me, too?" Rue demanded, hands on hips.
"Not exactly, attractive as you are. Something has come up—"
I knew Phist wouldn't interrupt like this without solid reason. "What is it, Commander?" I called.
"Sir, I regret to inform you that orders from Jupiter—"
"Jupiter wants to rape somebody?" Rue demanded.
"I'm afraid so," Phist said, evidently embarrassed by more than her spectacular nudity. "I am directed by the duly constituted authority, in accordance with article—"
"What's the gist?" I interrupted, alarmed.
"Sir," he said miserably. "I must remove you from command of the Task Force, and—"
"What?" Rue cried, her breasts quivering with indignation.
"—place you under arrest," he finished.
"You can't do that!" Rue cried, outraged.
"He can do it, and he has to, or he wouldn't be here," I told her. Then, to Phist: "What pretext?"
"Insubordination, sir. Consorting with pirates. Cowardice in battle." He grimaced. "I want you to know, sir, I support none of these charges. But—"
"No, I understand, Gerald," I said. "Do your duty."
"I must confine you to quarters. And your sister."
"She's your wife, imbecile!" Roulette snapped.
"Yes," he said soberly. "And I must ground the fleet."
"But we have to fight the Samoans!" Rue said.
"No. The directive is most specific. No further combat."
"This close to finishing it?" she demanded. "I smell a—"
Phist nodded, agreeing. "But the directive is clear. I'm sorry, sir."
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