Without Mercy

by Eric Thomson

  “Either the ghost is not here or hiding well enough to escape detection. One pass of the inhabited moon, Lord, to find what the humans are doing, then we turn back?”

  Brakal’s dark lips split apart to show his cracked fangs.

  “Nervous, Urag? What is there to fear but fear itself?”

  “Something is not right. By my ancestors’ bones, I can feel it.”

  “Your ancestors can’t feel anything, my friend. They are ghosts!”

  He laughed uproariously at his own joke. But behind his jovial facade, Brakal felt the first hints of worry nibbling at his self-confidence. He had traveled immeasurably farther from Imperial space than this, and with Vehar alone.

  But Urag’s ancestors might not be entirely demented, even though they’ve been dead for generations. The flame-haired female was a trickster and a deadly one at that.

  Yet if she hid in this system, then where? Logically, it would be near the habitable world. Those artificial satellites were an obvious clue of human activity. His black within black eyes alternated between the planet Raijin and its moons on the main screen, and the data collected by Tol Vehar’s passive sensors on a secondary.

  Not a hint of activity.

  Even the artificial satellites were at low power and could carry out any function — communications, weather, surveillance, scientific observation. None so far betrayed the telltales of an orbital defense platform, but he knew humans kept them silent until it was time to strike, a protocol he wholeheartedly approved.

  Brakal sifted through his half-digested knowledge of human doctrine and tactics and tried to picture them in the light of immutable facts such as orbital mechanics. The complexities of a large moon, one of dozens, orbiting a gas giant which orbited a star almost undid him.

  “Where are you?” He muttered again. “You’re here. I can feel it.”

  This time it was Urag’s turn to peel back his lips and show his fangs.

  “It pleases me to hear you agree something is not right. Perhaps we should give that moon a wide berth, Lord. Scan it from a distance, then use the gas giant as a slingshot back to where we can enter otherspace.”

  Brakal rubbed the side of his face as he considered Urag’s suggestion. No one would blame him for avoiding battle so far from home, especially if the payoff was news of nefarious human doings in this isolated system. But the ghost? If he could eliminate that thorn in Strike Force Khorsan’s side...

  “We will make one pass of the moon, Urag. Vehar to navigate between it and Raijin, and Vach on the far side, so we can scan its entire surface. Ptar Qilm to follow Vach. Inform them via a low power, narrow beam radio pulse. If we find something requiring immediate action, we will complete a full orbit around Raijin and attack. Otherwise, we leave.”

  “I hear and obey.”

  It might be Brakal’s imagination, but Urag sounded relieved.

  **

  “I’d swear...” Chief Yens’ growl betrayed a hint of frustration born from the long wait as they watched the Shrehari creep up on Temar. “Nope, there it is again. Bastards tried to hide it well, but they’re firing attitudinal thrusters.”

  Dunmoore leaned forward in her chair, placed her right elbow on her knee, and leaned her chin on her fist. She studied the tactical projection even though any course change wouldn’t become apparent for a while. How they’d fired thrusters showed Iolanthe was still invisible to the Shrehari who were trying to stay undetected themselves.

  “What are you up to?” She murmured. “You wouldn’t increase the risk of detection without a good reason, and I doubt it’s because you saw us.”

  Sirico was the first to figure it out even though it took almost fifteen minutes.

  “I bet they intend to scan Temar, one ship covering the hemisphere facing Raijin and the other the far side. For some reason, the Ptar is following the Tol on the outside.”

  “Having the corvette swing around Raijin at a greater distance than the cruisers allows it to see further and spot threats earlier,” Dunmoore said.

  “Of course, Sir.” Sirico nodded. “I should have thought of that myself.”

  He winked at Salminen over his shoulder.

  The tactical projection, fed by Iolanthe’s sensor data, now showed each ship’s new estimated course past Temar, confirming Sirico’s conclusions.

  “Unless this is a clever ploy to take us from both sides at once, they still don’t know we’re here. That means they probably plan on doing one reconnaissance pass, then if nothing of immediate concern shows up, slingshot back to the hyperlimit.”

  Dunmoore nodded her approval.

  “It’s what I would do if I were far from home and on what might be a wild goose chase, Thorin.” She studied the projection again. “We will engage both Tols simultaneously when they’re almost past us rather than concentrate on one and leave the other to the orbitals as they’re approaching. That way the boneheads will have less time to react and respond before we’re no longer within their weapons’ optimal arcs of fire. And it might convince them to leave Hecate on the rebound. Dependent on their not spotting us before we light up, of course.”

  “Understood. I’ll prepare a message for Temar control, to go out the moment we’re up systems, telling them about the change in tactics. Our SSB friends can strafe them with the orbitals as they swing past and give them another reason to find the exit.” He paused, then said, “Both Tols are entering effective range.”

  — Thirty-Seven —

  “All ships are on the new course, Commander,” Tol Vehar’s navigation officer announced.

  Urag grunted his acknowledgment. Though happier with Brakal’s plan to make a single reconnaissance pass of the habitable moon before leaving — unless they found a clear and present danger to the Empire — he still felt uneasy but didn’t know why. Urag glanced sideways at the acting commander of Strike Force Khorsan. Brakal seemed lost in his contemplation of the three-dimensional schematic dominating Tol Vehar’s command center, almost as if he was communing with the gods, or perhaps even demons of the Underworld, beseeching them for answers.

  Suddenly, he reared up with a start and cursed volubly, startling everyone within earshot.

  “The co-orbital points,” he roared. “Search the damned moon’s leading and trailing co-orbital points. The diseased ghost is hiding at one of them, waiting for us. I can feel it by my ancestor’s bones.”

  “With your indulgence,” the navigation officer turned to face Brakal, “the co-orbital points of a moon orbiting a gas giant are not considered particularly stable.”

  “Are they stable enough so a ship may keep station on the moon for a few days or even a few hours without using its drives?”

  “Perhaps.”

  “Then they will suffice for our enemy’s purpose.”

  “How did you make such a deduction?” Urag asked.

  “We are chasing a phantom. A human who may or may not be Dunmoore, the trickster, but someone who knows how to hide in preparation for an ambush. What better method to lie in wait without being seen than use orbital mechanics?”

  “Shall I go active, Lord?” Menak, Tol Vehar’s sensor officer asked.

  “No. Look for emissions and a visual signature. If he’s not seen us, I don’t want to give anything away. He may not think I’ve figured him out yet. Best it stay that way until we see him and are ready to open fire. Inform Vach and Qilm so they may search as well.”

  “We and Vach are about to pull level with the trailing co-orbital point,” the navigation officer warned. “If the enemy hides there...”

  Brakal’s face split into a fierce rictus.

  “If the enemy hides there, battle will be upon us shortly. Are you ready to power up so we might fight, Urag?”

  “You need to ask, Lord?”

  “In this ship? Never.”

  Urag gave him a long-suffering stare.

  “Then speak the word. As always, I shall hear and obey.”

  Brakal glared at his erstwhile first officer, t
hen settled back to wait for the sensor operator’s findings, though it tried his exceedingly thin reserves of patience. Answers were not long in coming.

  “Lord, there appears to be something occluding the background stars at the moon’s trailing co-orbital.”

  “Hah.” Brakal’s fist pounded the command chair’s arm with such force even Regar, sitting silently at the back of the bridge, felt the vibration run up his spine. “What did I tell you? Our ghost is hiding.”

  “Or waiting in ambush,” Urag warned. “Menak, resolve the image and put it on the main screen.”

  “At once, Commander.”

  A blurry shape replaced Temar’s image. The shadow appeared to be no more than a blot of darkness against the myriad pinpricks of light, each a blazing star or perhaps even a galaxy distant enough a thousand lifetimes would not suffice to reach it.

  Its lines sharpened and solidified as Tol Vehar’s computer analyzed the image and turned it into that of a starship. But not one fitting the human fleet’s standard combat hulls.

  “Can we determine the size and class?” Brakal asked.

  “Not without going active, Lord,” Menak replied. “But my instincts tell me it is large. A capital ship.”

  “We are within effective engagement range,” the cruiser’s gun master offered.

  Brakal turned his chair toward Urag’s.

  “What do you say, strike force flagship commander?”

  “Perhaps we should avoid tempting the dark gods and leave this one by the wayside so we might study the moon unhindered before leaving.”

  “Two Tols aren’t enough in your opinion?”

  Urag studied the unknown starship’s image.

  “Menak has the right of it. That thing is large. Larger than a Tol, perhaps even larger than Vehar and Vach put together. Larger and more powerful.”

  “But the ghost is reputed to be an armed freighter whose success depends on underhanded tactics and the element of surprise. If so, size does not confer power. It merely means bulk and therefore a bigger target, easier to hit. Pass the order to power systems. The moment gun masters acquire their target, they may fire missiles without delay.”

  **

  “The Shrehari are lighting up,” Chief Yens announced.

  “Meaning whoever’s in command over there thought of checking the L5 point and saw us lying doggo. Mister Holt, up systems. Mister Sirico, engage when ready, all launchers, both Tols.”

  Though nothing seemed to change in the CIC, one of the side displays lit up with data showing Iolanthe’s shields raised and ready to repel enemy fire, her gun capacitors charging and her reactors delivering full military power.

  Soft vibrations coursed through Dunmoore’s soles as the launchers began pumping out missile after missile, fed by magazines beneath the shuttle hangar. The tactical projection shimmering at the CIC’s center narrowed its three-dimensional image down to the sphere of space containing Iolanthe and her foes.

  Two clouds each of tiny red and blue dots winked into existence as the AI added human and Shrehari anti-ship missiles to the mix. The blues, half headed for each Shrehari cruiser, numbered almost as many as the reds, a testament to Iolanthe’s higher number of tubes and larger magazine.

  “Temar ground control is activating the orbital defense platforms. That should increase the boneheads’ pucker factor.”

  The Q-ship’s ring of close-in defense guns — fifteen four-barreled calliopes on each flank — opened fire at extreme range to decimate the first Shrehari missile salvo before it could reach the ship and weaken her shields. Moments later, tiny blossoms of light erupted along both Tols’ hulls as their own defensive fire came into play.

  A second salvo of missiles left Iolanthe’s launchers, crowding the tactical projection even further with blue icons.

  “Do you think the Shrehari commander is wondering whether he blundered?” Sirico asked no one in particular while red and blue icons vanished, only to be replaced by newly launched missiles.

  “I certainly hope so,” Dunmoore replied, fascinated as always by the silent clash of deadly ordnance beyond her ship’s hull.

  **

  “That’s no armed freighter, Lord,” the sensor officer whirled around to face Brakal. “It has the missile launcher capacity, defensive guns, and power curve of a battleship. I also picked up the presence of large bore plasma cannon, bigger than anything a Tol carries. So far, I can make out four mounts with two each of those massive tubes, along with at least six mounts bearing triple tubes of smaller caliber and thirty multi-barrel defensive guns.”

  Brakal fixed Menak with his black in black eyes, momentarily unable to process the information. He expected to find a commerce raider, a converted merchant ship capable of overwhelming unsuspecting convoys and single patrol vessels through guile and surprise, not this behemoth.

  Then the first human missiles, those who passed through Tol Vehar’s curtain of plasma, exploded against his flagship’s shields. A blue-green aurora briefly enveloped the cruiser as competing energies fought for supremacy, but it would take more than a handful of nuclear explosions to overwhelm a Tol.

  “His main cannon are opening fire, Lord. Four barrels on us, four on Vach.”

  Brakal watched with growing dismay as plasma from guns the likes of which few Imperial ships carried blotted out the battleship’s flanks. Moments later, smaller ones joined them, and the aurora enveloping Vehar lost what little green remained as it took on a bluer hue, one that would soon shift to purple.

  “Vach and Vehar are registering hits on the human’s shields. Not many, but some.”

  “Open fire with guns.”

  Brakal rubbed the crest of fur on his skull, thinking furiously about his options. Overwhelming the battleship with his strike force’s weight of ordnance wouldn’t work. He was engaging both Tols simultaneously and forcing a more significant strain on Vach and Vehar’s shields than both were putting on him. This was not a ghost, but a bahnshia, one of the Underworld’s terrifying demon warriors.

  “Lord. Orbital defenses are coming to life around the moon.”

  That news helped Brakal decide. His ships could not scan the moon’s surface, let alone use the gas giant as a slingshot without incurring damage they could ill afford this far from home.

  “We will disengage. Order everyone to accelerate at maximum rate and break away from the gas giant at a perpendicular from our present heading. But keep firing on the human.”

  “I hear and obey,” Urag said.

  How? Brakal wondered. How is it we followed what I thought was our ghost to this system and found a battleship instead? His eyes tracked a fresh missile volley erupting from the human’s launchers, half again aimed at Vehar, the other half at Vach, while massive cannon kept striking both ships’ shields with metronomic regularity.

  Withdrawing in the face of such firepower entailed no dishonor. Not when orbital defenses of unknown strength waited to break him as his ships passed the moon.

  The war was surely tipping in the humans’ favor if they could build powerful battleships capable of hiding so well and others, such as the ghost, able to vanish without a trace.

  For a brief moment, Brakal wondered whether this latest example of the humans’ growing power and his phantom raider were the same, but he quickly dismissed the thought. Even the technologically savvy hairless apes couldn’t mask a battleship so well it might seem no more than a corsair.

  Or could they?

  **

  Dunmoore watched the ammunition inventory tally on a side display change with each missile salvo and gun volley. Her ship carried healthy stocks, but a shock and awe rate of fire was unsustainable. And the boneheads were getting in licks of their own.

  The aurora surrounding Iolanthe where her shields met enemy missile explosions, and plasma gunfire was taking on a deep blue hue. Not as fast as the two Tols or the Ptar now fending off shots from Hersom’s orbitals. But three smaller ships against a battlecruiser was still three against one as proved
by the growing strain on Iolanthe’s shield generators.

  That devil Brakal almost destroyed the massive battleship Victoria Regina, last of her kind, years earlier with smaller vessels before Dunmoore bluffed and convinced the Shrehari commander to withdraw.

  “The boneheads are firing attitudinal thrusters and accelerating.”

  A purple aurora briefly enveloped the Q-ship as fresh Shrehari gunfire struck home. Dunmoore thought she could almost hear the generators howling in protest.

  “It looks as if they’re trying to break away from Raijin orbit. Maybe they’re running.”

  “I’m sure they consider this a withdrawal in the face of something more powerful than they’re willing to handle, Thorin. Running is dishonorable. Retreating to fight another day, not so much.”

  “Smart move,” Holt’s hologram at Dunmoore’s elbow said with grudging approval. “I was afraid we might face one of the true fight-to-the-death boneheads. The way we’re going through our ammo reserves worries me. The Shrehari aren’t the only ones far from home. After this, we must choose our battles carefully until we can meet up with a replenishment ship.”

  “Agreed. Reduce our rate of fire by fifty percent, Thorin.” She examined the projected Shrehari course. “Make that by two-thirds. Just enough for a final push since I didn’t intend to destroy them. Best they return to their own lines thinking the ghost who’s been ravaging their convoys slipped away once more. I doubt anyone will connect it with the Furious Faerie in her battlecruiser incarnation.”

  “Not chasing them will keep Renny happy. He’s already worrying about the strain on our shield generators. You might have noticed us climb into the purple, Skipper.”

  “The boneheads are seeing even deeper purple,” Sirico said. “Their generators must be screaming now that the orbitals are joining the fight.”

  “Hence a withdrawal at full acceleration.” She glanced at the tactical projection again. “You might as well cease fire now. They won’t come back to haunt us any time soon after a course change this drastic.”

  “Do you think they’ll leave?” Holt asked.