“Thank you, Admiral Coth. Godspeed and good hunting to you, too.”
The admiral rang off and Kris began to issue orders to her wing.
Admiral Donn grinned through his pain. He had that mis-chosen human where he wanted her with his finger up her cloaca. He had 476 of his ships falling back, breaking toward the jump and the two eyes hadn’t even noticed them. Or maybe she noticed but failed to see how these tentacles would soon be around her Emperor’s neck.
“Any sign yet that she knows what we’re doing to her?” he asked his staff officers.
“No, M’Lord Admiral,” number one staff officer said. “She just blasted thirty of our big warships out of the top wing.”
“How does she do that?” Admiral Donn muttered.
“They must have better sensors,” number three staff officer said.
“I thought they were supposed to have given us the same design as their warships,” Number one staff officer snapped at number three.
“It is said by some that they did,” three said, defensively. “It is also known that we modified the design to fit better our needs. For example, we added maneuvering bars and hand holds to stand at. We installed our own computer designs.”
“Clearly, we have made some mistake,” Admiral Donn growled through his pain. “Communications, transmit a report to my satrap’s deputy pasha on his ship of state that we must look at the changes we have made to our battlecruisers.”
“It is done, M’Lord Admiral,” the comm officer reported.
Admiral Donn had to wonder how much such a message would be considered by the politicians of the satrap. Who had made the decision to modify the battlecruisers in their fitting out stage? Some Imperial stooge?
Are their ships as fouled up as ours?
“M’Lord Admiral,” number one staff officer said, “the mis-chosen Longknife spawn is reacting to our forces heading for the jump.”
“Finally, she sees her danger. Her failure to protect that infant Emperor of theirs. Put on screen what that two-eyed blind fish is doing.”
The screen zoomed down to show only the top, central, and vanguard wings, as well as the flotillas now headed for the jump. The human-lead vanguard had gone high. It was trying to slide into a place above the vanguard beside the top wing. It was trying, but only halfway there.
Now they angled their course, trying to distance themselves from both wings.
“She still wants to play the coward. She still doesn’t want to cross swords with most of our fleet. Let us make sure that our vanguard is right there in her face. Number one staff officer, order the vanguard to block her. Order the top wing to concentrate on their vanguard as well. I would bet a silver pfennig to a gold pound that the Longknife misbegotten spawn is with the vanguard wing.”
“The orders are given,” number one staff officer said.
“Now we wait and see how long it takes all the clans to agree that I am right,” Admiral Donn said, eyeing the board.
52
Kris angled her wing up and out, aiming for the space above the rebel vanguard and ahead of their top wing. She doubted she’d have much time before the rebel admiral tried to block her. For the moment, she turned her fire on the untouched thousand smaller battlecruisers of the vanguard.
These were older ships, with smaller lasers. Ha, that was a thought. Not seven years ago, 18-inch lasers had been the most powerful for eighty years. The first Wasp, a frigate armed with those size lasers displaced only 18,000 tons. Now, 22-inch lasers were second class and the 50,000-ton battlecruisers were, too.
The older ships not only weighed in at two-thirds of the new ships, but they also had less Smart MetalTM for armor. Kris had seen what her 24-inch lasers did to the smaller battlecruisers when the rebels pulled a sneak attack on her during that training exercise. Now she’d watch them as they did it again to more rebel warships.
The smaller battlecruisers had gotten sloppy. While the 24-inch ships threw themselves around, trying to evade death, the 22-inch ships had taken no hits. Most of them were still jinking the softer, gentler way they had when the battle started. Kris couldn’t blame them. It must be miserable being hammered by hard turns in the acceleration couches they had aboard.
Forty-seven of the smaller ships vanished, were holed, or left rolling adrift after the bow salvo from Kris’s wing. Most of those had been targeted by the human task fleet. By the time the stern battery had finished firing, they’d been joined by another forty-three.
Kris allowed the rebel vanguard to close the distance to 250,000 klicks as her ships reloaded. Ten seconds later, her ships flipped bow on and stripped out another eighty-one ships with their two salvos even as the survivors tried to slam their ships into harder evasions. A third volley cut the rebel vanguard down to close to seven hundred ships, all 22-inchers.
Only at the fourth round of salvos did the evasion efforts of the rebel ships begin to save them. For one minute, the loyalists had had a turkey shoot, as Kris had heard a backwoods type say on the old Wasp. For one minute, the rebels had paid for going easy on themselves. Now, only fifty-three ships died.
“Kris, the rebels are moving their vanguard up to block us. Their top wing is also sliding forward.”
“I was expecting that,” Kris said. “I still have 50,000 kilometers before those 22-inchers can reach me. Let’s keep culling them. Comm, send to flotilla commanders. Have pairs of ships aim for the same ships. Let’s increase our chances of a hit.”
“Message sent and received.”
“Commodore Tosan.”
“Yes, Admiral.”
“I want to steer us closer to the jump, but not close the distance to the rebel vanguard too quickly. Let’s go to a full 3.5 gees.”
“Aye, aye, Admiral. I’ll get this out to the wing.”
Kris lay back in her high gee egg and let it massage her back, legs, and arms. She watched as another pairs of salvos raked the helpless 22-inch battlecruisers left in the rebel vanguard. This time, seventy-three ships burned, blew up, or lost power.
They could not return the fire, but still they stood in the line, dying, waiting, and hoping that sooner or later she would make a mistake and they could return the flame and death tenfold.
Kris had to make sure she did not make that mistake.
The pain in his back was getting worse. No matter how much Admiral Dunn tried to adjust the way he lay on the high gee couch, he could not relieve it. More often, he made it worse. Still, he concentrated on the screen before him.
The ships of the vanguard and top wing were doing their best to sweep around and get between the enemy vanguard and the jump. They were trying but his vanguard had been stripped of all its 24-inch battlecruisers. The remaining 22-inch warships stood stoically in line as they suffered but could give nothing back.
As matters stood right now, in the not too distant future, the entire vanguard would be gas or rolling hulks in space, sputtering sparks as capacitors failed or caught fire.
The admiral studied the scum that ran after the humans. For the moment, he concentrated on the enemy vanguard. How could they have so many ships left? Even if you ignored the minnows that buzzed around the real ships, his vanguard still faced a lot of ships. Most of the enemy flotillas had lost four or five ships. One had lost only one, and it was licking its wounds just out of range. How did they manage that?
Admiral Donn eyed that nearly pristine group. It was in the number three position, the top flotilla closest to the center wing. Closest to the top wing.
“Where would I place myself if I were Kris Longknife and I wanted to do the most destruction to my enemy?”
Number three position looked to be the pivotal point for sweeping up to blast the top wing and back to rake the center.
“There you are,” he told himself, felling almost as if he were talking to that human.
“Staff officer number one.”
“Yes, M’Lord Admiral.”
“Advise the satraps and clans. Every ship that can fire a
t the enemy vanguard’s number three flotilla is to do so as quickly as possible and for as long as possible.”
“That means that the rest of the vanguard will be untouched.”
“I know. Kill that flotilla.”
“It will be done.”
Now, let’s see how you like the pain, Admiral Don said to himself as another spasm wracked his back.
53
The human task fleet fired two more sets of salvos at the long-suffering remnants of the rebel vanguard; their strength fell below five hundred. Then Nelly said, “Kris, we have a problem.”
“Talk to me,” Kris answered quickly.
“It appears that more and more of the 24-inch battlecruisers in the top, central and bottom wing are concentrating their fire on the human flotilla. Four of our ships are starting to heat up and glow. All of us are taking hits.”
Kris blinked, which was about all the expression she could risk at 3.5 gees. She should have expected that, sooner or later, her opposite number would notice a flotilla that suffered no casualties. Her ships had taken a hit here, another there, nothing that their crystal armor couldn’t handle without showing.
“Give me a visual on our flotilla, Nelly.” Now four of her ships were definitely glowing. As she watched, one of the 22-inch Iteeche battlecruisers that had been added to one of her squadrons got pinned by a half-dozen lasers. Its rotating armor held for three, then four, then five seconds before lasers achieved burn through and the ship disappeared in a ball of expanding gas.
“Nelly, order the Iteeche ships out of our flotilla. Have them attach themselves to the ones closest to us. Authorize the hot ships to adjust their vector and speed to distance themselves from the enemy.”
“I’ve passed the word, Kris. All four skippers refuse to leave the line at this time. They’ll stay in the shoot until they get hotter.”
Kris could only shake her head, ever so slightly. Was it courage or folly? Only time would tell. At the moment, she had other fish to fry.
“Nelly, tell your kids that I’m upping their limit on 24-inch battlecruisers. Any big war wagon in range of us is a target. For now, concentrate on the central wing.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Nelly said, enthusiastically.
Another one of the thirteen Iteeche 22-inch battlecruisers that had reinforced the human Battlecruiser Task Fleet Six took several hits as it made its way to another flotilla. It was left limping and falling behind, but still under power and airtight.
Once it fell out of the battle line, the rebels let it fall through their ranks, rendering the honors of war.
For the human battlecruisers, there was no such cease fire. Two of the hot ships got hotter as lasers crisscrossed the space around them. Three more ships began to glow.
The rebels paid for the heat they gave the humans.
The rebel central wing had been fighting it out with Iteeches that were better than they were, but were far fewer. Ninety-two of the enemy’s big battle wagons had been blown up, savaged, or clipped enough to fall out.
Coth’s flotilla had lost nine of the big battle cruisers, and ten of the smaller ones. His two hundred and one 24-inch battlecruisers still faced five hundred of the big rebel ships.
Then the humans took interest in the center wing.
Most of Coth’s ships were firing and reloading almost as one, they were so synchronized. Kris’s ships were also sending massive salvos out on time, but on their own schedule.
Like most of the rebel ships, the Iteeche crew were getting a bit punch drunk from being thrown about as their ships jinked to stay alive. Many captains had taken to timing their hard course changes for just before the reload clock counted down for their opposite number.
All salvos done, they could take it easy for a good eight seconds before beginning a new dance with death.
Kris’s ships hit the center while most of them were taking a breather.
Nelly’s kids were good. They searched the central wing for the ships whose captain was going easy on the crew. Over six seconds, twenty-nine big war wagons blew up, or fell out bleeding air and sparks. Seven seconds later, another twenty-six suffered the same fate.
During the same forty-six seconds, Coth’s ships nailed another twelve.
Sixty-eight battlecruisers, more than a tenth of the remaining 24-inchers in the central wing, died in less than a minute.
The survivors threw themselves into radical course changes. As a result, their fire went wild. Kris’s ships took less heat. Hot ships began to cool.
As the next five minutes slowly ticked by, the central wing lost another two hundred of their big ships. By the time Kris ordered her task fleet to switch fire to the big rebel ships in the bottom squadron, the center had less than two hundred and fifty 24-inch warships left, and most of those were out of range of the human squadrons.
Whoever commanded the bottom squadron was a savvy character. He chose to concentrate all two hundred of his ships that were in range of the human squadron on a single ship. The Irrepressible found herself with nowhere to go that wasn’t full of laser beams. She took hits, heated up, and glowed like a sun.
The skipper did the right thing. She cut power and let her ship fall behind like a rock. Because of the vectors she’d been on, her ship not only shot closer to the savaged smaller cruisers of the rebel vanguard, but she also zoomed off toward the jump. All this was done without risking turning her rocket motors toward her tormentors.
“Nelly, is the Irrepressible okay?” Kris asked.
“She’s about as hot as a ship can get, and she’s boiling off reaction mass as fast as she can vent it, but she’s holding it together. I’m told that the captain has muttered something about the design needing to have a bit more air conditioning, but if they can still crack jokes, they aren’t out of it.”
“Yes, Nelly, if a human can still crack jokes, they aren’t dead yet. How are we doing with that bottom wing?”
“They knew we would be coming for them and were seriously jinking, so our first volleys only got twenty-one. Thirty with Coth’s kills. We’ll soon see who can take it: their numbers or our crystal armor.
On the next salvo, the Princess Royal was the one singled out for destruction.
Admiral Donn glowered at his screen. Every ship he had in range was hammering at that one flotilla. Other than glowing, it was to no effect. Not one of the battlecruisers had blown up or even gone dead in space. One was running to get out of range. Regretfully, it did before more than a few lasers could score more hits.
If only his ships were so resilient.
More of his big battlecruisers were blown up, burned out, or just knocked flat. At least now, what was left of the vanguard was dodging for their life and losing fewer ships per salvo the lackey scum threw their way. The same willingness to hammer themselves in hard dodging had swept through both the top, central, and bottom wings.
He could personally feel that eagerness to slam a ship up, down, right, left, and every point in between. He could feel it in his back every time he was hurled against the sides of his high gee couch.
How in the name of all the stars in the sky and the smiles of the fates did the human ships, and even the Iteeche ships with them survive all the jitterbugging around?
What was clear was that those stooges that followed the humans were desperate to close with the ships he was hurling at the jump. This was critical. This would decide if that poorly chosen spawn of the last water-for-brains Emperor lived or died.
To get at those ships, his enemy must close with his mighty armada.
The more ships he had between that critical detachment and his enemy, the more they would burn and bleed.
“Staff officer number one, order the entire host to bear off toward the vanguard. Put all we have between that doomed for the deep vanguard and our ships headed for the jump.”
“It will be so, M’Lord Admiral.”
54
Kris knew they were in trouble before the trouble slapped her in the face.
The survival tools of the egg kicked in. Cooling water circulated through the cushions that had held her in place, protecting her from hard usage as the ship zigged and zagged to escape hostile fire.
An escape that seemed to have failed.
Then a laser beam cut through her bridge.
Crammed together as they were, it somehow managed to miss everyone there, though the main screen would never be the same. Kris looked to her left and saw the pierced bulkheads of two compartments. Beyond them, she saw a patch of star-studded black. The Princess Royal had been opened to space.
Fast as thought, or maybe Nelly, Kris released the grabbers on the bottom of her survival pod, the holders that merged the Smart MetalTM of the egg with the Smart MetalTM of the deck.
Unrestrained, her egg shot off the deck, eager to follow the air being sucked out into space. Without thought, Kris did the math. The laser was at a bit less than two thirds of a meter. Her pod was a bit more than two thirds of a meter wide. It should fit.
Of course, she wasn’t the only one doing the math. Jack was only a fraction of a second behind her. Fortunately, he was to her left. She was ahead of him.
“Dock your egg, Jack,” she commanded.
He did before he slammed into her. Which was good, because narrowed the egg so it could shoot through the two storage areas, then widened it for the collision egg with the pierced bulkhead. There was no loving hug, still, her egg plugged the hole.
By the grace of some merciful God, the laser had not cut all the way through the ship. One or two more compartments over, the bulkhead had held, though it must have heated up a lot. It was distorted and dished out.
Kris Longknife - Admiral Page 31