The light cruiser Manticore was aiming for twisted to starboard and out, then swung port and in, climbing and turning in a vast corkscrew as it attempted to get past the defending heavy cruiser. Diaz, his face tense with concentration, matched the maneuvers, trying to ensure he would remain on an intercept and not tear past the attacker and leave the light cruiser with a clear path to the freighters.
All around the vector along which the freighters would be coming, similar moves and countermoves were taking place as warships moving at point one light speed, or thirty thousand kilometers a second, twisted through arcs and turns whose width would have been incredibly broad measured against the surface of a planet. The distance required to change direction when moving at such velocities was huge in space as well, but also tiny compared to the size of the enormous, literally limitless-in-all-directions, battlefield on which the warships were engaging each other.
A Syndicate HuK being blocked by two Midway HuKs darted toward what looked like a gap between them, getting past one defender but finding itself unable to avoid the second. Hell lances shot between the two HuKs, hammering at the weak shields and nearly nonexistent armor of the Hunter-Killers, the Syndicate HuK breaking back, then diving away to avoid the second Midway HuK as it stormed into the engagement.
The light cruiser trying to evade past Manticore inadvertently swung for a moment into the missile engagement envelope of Kraken. The automated fire control systems on Kraken immediately pumped out two missiles, doubtless startling Kraken’s crew almost as much as it did the light cruiser. As Kraken continued swinging far to port to block the light cruiser she was pursuing, her missiles tore after the light cruiser being chased by Manticore. Unable to cope with both threats and continue trying to reach the freighters, that light cruiser rolled all the way over and began accelerating away for all he was worth while the missiles thundered in single-minded pursuit.
The single Syndicate HuK trying to get past light cruiser Falcon tried to dart under her, but Falcon had anticipated the maneuver and slammed repeated hell lances into the HuK. The Syndicate warship staggered away, accelerating frantically, holes pitting him where hell lances had punched completely through hull, equipment, and any crew members unfortunate enough to be in the way before the only-slightly-weakened particle beams shot out the opposite side.
The other Syndicate warships pulled away, taking up positions where they hovered relative to the defenders, unable to get through this time but clearly preparing to try again.
The entire bridge team on Manticore gave the impression of sighing with relief as it became apparent the first assault by the Syndicate warships had been deflected.
“Don’t relax,” Kapitan Diaz ordered his crew. “We stopped them, but they’ll be back.”
Marphissa, taking in the sheer volume of space involved in her defensive effort, shook her head. The light cruiser being chased by Kraken’s missiles had managed to outrun them and was now coming back, while the damaged HuK had slowed its retreat and was angling back toward his comrades. Syndicate warships were ranged around the forward portion of the freighters’ track and out to all sides, with great gaps between them. None of them had shifted position farther back than about even with the freighters, wanting to avoid stern chases as they made firing runs. That left a defensive perimeter in the shape of half of an elongated sphere, the long axis running forward of the freighters.
“You were right,” Marphissa told Bradamont. “They’ve spread out in an attempt to make me spread out my own ships. If I tried to defend every point in a region that size, it would be hopeless. Only by focusing on the attackers and stopping them at each specific point where they try to penetrate the defenses can I make this work.”
“You’d still have a lot of problems if you didn’t have the superiority in numbers that you do,” Bradamont pointed out. She must have noticed Kapitan Diaz looking speculatively at her and Marphissa, because Bradamont added something else. “I discussed the theory of this type of operation with your Kommodor, Kapitan Diaz. She is commanding your defense.”
Marphissa took a moment to glance at Bradamont. “What do you think Sub-CEO Qui will try next? Just more of the same?”
“Probably plenty of more of the same,” Bradamont said. “Individual ships trying to get to the freighters if they think they see an opening, and coordinated attempts to break through at multiple points. But you also need to look for him deliberately sacrificing some of his ships by putting them onto vectors that lure a lot of your ships into lunging for them to get in on the kill. If Qui does it right, that could leave big gaps in your defenses that his remaining ships could charge through.”
Marphissa shook her head again. “No. That wouldn’t work. I’ve assigned targets to each of my ships now. They’re not going to go after someone else unless I tell them to.”
“Huh?” Bradamont’s look of puzzlement cleared. “Oh. I forgot. You’re Syndics.”
“What did you say?” Normally, Marphissa probably would have enjoyed knowing that Bradamont had forgotten for a moment at least that she and her comrades had been part of the Syndicate not all that long ago. But a statement that she and they still were Syndicate was another matter.
The heat in her response caused Bradamont to flush. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean it that way. I was thinking about what would work against an Alliance force defending those freighters. But you’ve been trained differently.”
Differently. That was a nice way of describing a system in which failure to obey in all ways meant extremely serious consequences. But . . . “It’s nice to hear one way in which we’re superior to Black Jack’s fleet,” Marphissa said.
“I guess in this context you are,” Bradamont admitted.
“Kommodor,” Diaz said cautiously, “I believe that the Alliance Kapitan may be right in her suggestion.”
“You do?” Marphissa felt an alarming impulse to slap Diaz down for expressing an opinion contrary to hers. When did I start getting angry at people who didn’t agree with me? When did listening become harder? “You do?” she repeated in a manner more questioning and less intimidating.
“Sub-CEO Qui is a snake,” Diaz explained. “Snakes always think citizens will do things they are not supposed to do. They always think we’re going to do something wrong. And Qui is a sub-CEO. You know what Syndicate CEOs and sub-CEOs are like. They think if they’re not standing right behind you and making sure you do just what they say, you’ll screw up and do what you’re not supposed to. It doesn’t matter how many times they see workers do things right. They still think that.”
“Not all CEOs and sub-CEOs are like that,” Marphissa corrected. “Look at President Iceni. But, otherwise, you have a point. Qui may think that would work, especially since he will assume our ships are controlled by recently promoted executives and workers.”
“They are,” Diaz pointed out. “A lot of them, anyway.”
And, maybe, Diaz was right that not all of those new commanders would adhere to strict Syndicate discipline, lacking enough experience with higher rank under that system. Two of the Midway Hunter-Killers had commanders who had been vaulted up in rank even more rapidly than Marphissa had. “Thank you for bringing that up,” she said. “Both of you.”
After another moment’s thought, she tapped her comms again. “All warships in the Recovery Flotilla, you are to remain focused on the Syndicate warships you have been assigned as targets. You are not to attempt to engage or pursue any other Syndicate warship unless you receive orders from me to do so. I am confident that if you continue to perform as well as you have so far, we will defeat the Syndicate.”
She slumped back, keeping her eyes locked on her display. Why am I so tired? I feel like we’ve been fighting for hours.
Stars in the heavens. We have been.
As the Syndicate light cruisers and HuKs swung restlessly around the protective screen of Midway warships, Marphissa checked the pa
th of the freighters, plodding along en route to the gate, where lay safety.
The transit to the gate would take another forty-one hours.
She stared at the time, disbelieving, then despairing for a moment. All they had to do was keep doing for another forty-one hours what they had been doing for the last few hours, each warship constantly alert to any motion by the Syndicate warship it was targeted on, and Marphissa watching every warship to ensure that none of the Syndicate warships threatened to make it through the defenders and none of the defenders wavered in their responsibilities. Yeah, that’s all we have to do. For another forty-one hours straight. Marphissa clenched her teeth, breathed in through them in a hiss, then spoke to the senior watch specialist on the bridge. “Contact the ship’s doctor. We need to have a good supply of up patches on the bridge.”
“Yes, Kommodor,” the specialist replied, followed a few seconds later by a question. “The doctor wants to know how many would be a good supply.”
“Enough to keep me awake and functioning for the next forty-one hours.”
“Kommodor, the doctor says—”
“I know what the regulations say! Get those damned patches onto the bridge!”
“Yes, Kommodor,” the senior watch specialist said warily several seconds later.
Bradamont went to one knee beside Marphissa’s seat, her voice a low murmur. “What do the regulations say?”
“They say,” Marphissa growled in reply, “that use of up patches for any period in excess of thirty-six hours must be authorized by the senior commander. That’s me.”
“Will you be safe? I can take over for a while if you need to rest.”
Marphissa shook her head, her eyes not leaving her display. “You said it, Honore, and you were right. They won’t let you command them now that they know what you are. I have to do this.”
“Then make sure there are enough patches for both of us.”
“Three of us,” Diaz said.
Marphissa contemplated ordering either or both of them to take rest breaks, then changed her mind. If they can’t do it, I can’t do it. So we three will do it. “Make certain that the watch specialists and other crew members cycle through their watches and get rest,” she ordered Diaz.
“We’ll have to go modified on-watch/off-watch to make that work,” Diaz said. “Eight hours on, four hours off for the duration, with individual shifts staggered. We don’t have enough specialists on board to work the ship at combat status around the clock except by doing that.”
Damned Syndicate economizing on crew sizes. Don’t worry, they would say. If anything breaks, it will be fixed the next time you’re at a dockyard. Cold comfort when you’re fighting a battle! “I understand. I’ve been through that. We have to keep as close to peak combat capability as possible for the next forty-one hours because you can be sure that the Syndicate flotilla will not give us any rest breaks.”
“Incoming message from Colonel Rogero,” the comm specialist advised.
Any message was a distraction she didn’t need, but she couldn’t blow off Rogero. “Yes, Colonel?”
Rogero was on the bridge of the freighter carrying him, wearing his armor. “Kommodor, I wanted to advise you that you need have no fear of any of the freighters acting contrary to your orders. I have soldiers posted on the bridges of each freighter. I’ll keep at least one soldier there on each ship as long as we’re still in Indras, to ensure that none of your orders are misinterpreted, misheard, or misunderstood.”
She could read between the lines on that one. At least one of the freighter executives had thought to bolt or was wavering, only to be brought up short by armed soldiers determined to enforce Marphissa’s orders. “Thank you, Colonel. That does relieve a concern of mine.”
Rogero smiled grimly. “I won’t bother you again unless it is absolutely necessary, Kommodor. For the people. Out.”
“Any problems?” Diaz asked.
“No,” Marphissa replied. “Just some reinforcement for the spines of the freighter executives.”
“Oh. You know,” Diaz added, “they’re not military. The freighter executives and crews, I mean. No weapons, no defenses, they’re just sitting ducks. That can’t be easy.”
“Do you think what we’re doing is easy?”
He flinched at her tone of voice. “No, Kommodor.”
But she thought about it, thought about all of the men and women on those freighters, most of them unable to even see a display to know what was going on, with no means of defense, and nothing they could do but sit and wait to see if hell lances would punch holes in the ships carrying them, as well as holes in the people on those ships.
At least the warships carried what were in theory enough escape pods to carry their crews to safety if the ship was too badly damaged to save. Not their entire crews, of course, because the Syndicate had carefully calculated what percentage of damage on average would render a ship helpless and what percentage of crew members on average would be killed when that damage was sustained, then budgeted for just enough escape pods to save the average surviving percentage of the crew. It was all very scientific, including the calculations that offering escape to the surviving crew members cost less than what would be required to conscript, transport, and train new crew members to replace them.
But for all that, the crews of the warships were better off than those on the freighters. The only escape pod on each of the freighters was designed to handle the crew and perhaps a few passengers. “You are right,” she commented to Kapitan Diaz, “it cannot be easy on those freighters.”
“It’s not easy on you, either, is it?” he asked.
“No,” Marphissa admitted. “There’s a comfort in having someone higher in authority to turn to, having someone else who must make the decisions. Having been frustrated all of my time in the mobile forces by superiors who handled that role badly, I now have the freedom to make the decisions, to make the mistakes, all on my own. Hold on.”
The Syndicate warships had all swung in again simultaneously, veering onto vectors aiming for the freighters. Marphissa watched the entire situation with all of her concentration, trying to spot any place where any of her warships were being outmaneuvered by the Syndicate attackers. She was barely aware of Diaz maneuvering Manticore to engage the light cruiser that was Manticore’s designated target, but Marphissa was fully alert to Manticore’s track on her display, alert to any indication that Diaz might let the light cruiser get past him. She took in every one of her ships’ maneuvers that way, hoping that neither she nor one of her ship commanders would miss something.
One by one, the Syndicate warships, facing intercepts by superior firepower, broke off their runs against the freighters. They went back to positions hovering in front of and to all sides of the Midway Flotilla, roaming restlessly like wolves seeking openings to get at sheep guarded by alert watchdogs.
Over the next several hours, the Syndicate warships tried again and again at irregular intervals, sometimes all at once, other times in staggered rushes, and many times only one or two ships testing the defenders. “Sub-CEO Qui is trying to wear you down,” Bradamont said. “He’s hoping that if he keeps the pressure on, sooner or later, you or one of your ship commanders will get tired enough to make a serious mistake.”
“I can do this longer than he can,” Marphissa retorted. The up patch on her arm was trickling drugs that kept her alert into her body. There would be a price to pay for that as time went on, but, for now, she felt fine.
As the hours and the Syndicate probing attacks went on and on, the Syndicate warships spread wider around the Midway ships, so that eventually they completely surrounded Marphissa’s warships and freighters. The Midway warships were now defending an elongated bubble stretching along the vector that the freighters were traveling to the hypernet gate. In space, any ship could build up velocity if given time. Freighters usually didn’t move too fast,
because accelerating and braking cost fuel cells, and transport companies liked to minimize costs, but this time Marphissa had told them to get up to point one light speed and hold it there.
It would have been nice to get the freighters going even faster, but she had to worry about their using up too much of their fuel cells. For that matter, the frequent attacks and counterattacks under way had been a serious drain on the fuel cells of her warships. The Syndicate warships have to be using up their fuel cells as well. How close to maximum were they when this started?
Sixteen hours into the running battle, a Syndicate light cruiser and two HuKs lunged toward the freighters along vectors that invited interception by multiple defending warships. Sub-CEO Qui was finally trying the trick that Bradamont had warned of.
“All units, maintain focus on your designated target. Do not attempt intercepts of any other Syndicate warships unless I order it.”
The light cruiser and HuKs held their approaches until the Midway warships targeting them were nearly within weapons range, then slewed around as fast as they could turn and darted out of range.
At twenty-five hours after the fight had started, every Syndicate warship again attacked at once. Two of Marphissa’s ships, the light cruiser Harrier and the HuK Vanguard, reacted slowly this time. The other Midway HuK, Scout, watching that particular Syndicate HuK tore after its target so ferociously that the Syndicate vessel broke off.
But the Syndicate HuK that should have been stopped by Harrier kept coming.
Marphissa’s eyes flew across her display, too little time available to run intercept calculations, her instincts feeling the next right move in the second she had to decide. “Kite, alter course to intercept new target. Maximum acceleration authorized.”
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