by Blaze Ward
And he had made a mistake.
Saveliy could see that now.
His left wing had orders to assault the missile cruiser and her escort on that wing. And they would, but the two cruisers and their destroyer escort had shifted that flank extremely wide on him while he was concentrating on the nearer battles.
Instead of moving with them, his force had maintained their formation. Fire had been exchanged, but desultory and at a long range. Little had been accomplished, and the closure rate was too great to correct the maneuvering error in any meaningful manner.
He ignored that flank. Nothing useful would come of that battle.
Auberon was nearly atop him.
Kozlov reviewed his boards.
Keller had responded too quickly. It was as if she knew in advance what he was going to do and had been waiting for him to open his lines.
By sheerest luck, only four missiles had gotten through the wall of fire from his escorts and defensive gunners. And those had been spaced out well enough that none had hit an unshielded part of the vessel.
Still, Varga had been stripped nearly bare of protection along a whole flank until his engineers could regenerate those shields.
He had settled for rolling nearly onto his back, relative to the plane of battle, and diving away from her a little. Not much, but he had the unfortunate psychological feeling of turning his belly to a predator.
Unsettling.
“Continue firing,” he ordered when asked. “Use Type–3 beams defensively if necessary. Use all missiles defensively until ordered otherwise.”
Varga was hurting. He knew that.
But Auberon had been kicked savagely as well. His Gunners were experts, and had continued to pound on the gray behemoth as they passed.
Now they were both through the valley of death. Only rear–facing beams were able to range, unless someone turned and disrupted their own formation.
At his speed, they could not catch him anyway.
And suddenly, silence.
Well, defensive guns continued to chirp, little tones indicating the size and placement of the turret, so commanders could listen to the music of battle and know the flavor of it without looking at other screens.
But the two fleets had merged, passed through each other, and were headed away from each other.
Saveliy reviewed the damage logs. And nearly cried.
Auberon had a series of hotspots scattered across her hull, the mark of his own gunnery team’s excellence.
But just as many tattooed Varga’s hull.
Both of his cruisers had come through nearly unscathed. That made no sense. Novo Daysahn should have been badly damaged by a battlecruiser at that range, even as Wintergold traded soft slaps at long range with her opponent.
Ah. There.
Saveliy Kozlov knew rage again.
The Aquitaine Battlecruiser, Nyamboya, had almost completely ignored the Flag Cruiser, and concentrated his fire on the wolfpack, to devastating results.
Yokohama was a wreck, barely managing to hold formation. Toothless. Blind. She might not even be able to escape the system. Cerberus had been bloodied as well, although not as badly. Just what you would receive if a battlecruiser decided to hit you with everything she had, after first savagely mauling your teammate. The speed of closing had probably been all that saved Ayakashi from a similar fate. There had simply been no time to go after the third vessel.
Even one of the escorts, Darbyshire, had been hammered after flying too close to the line of the two Aquitaine destroyers suddenly moving in and escorting Auberon.
Only the fighter squadron had come out ahead.
His squadrons had lost five fighters destroyed and eight badly damaged enough to force their withdrawal, although he was unsure where they might go. Aquitaine had suffered eight losses and another dozen were fleeing back to their various carriers as the two fleets moved out of range.
“Squadron, begin orbital maneuvering,” Kozlov ordered. “Waypoints four, seven, and fourteen.”
Deep in his heart, Saveliy growled quietly.
It was probably impossible to win outright at this point, but he could always withdraw and repair his vessels. If Keller left, she lost.
This was still an Imperial world, close in to Imperial space. They could not hold it if Keller was driven off. If he could not destroy her, perhaps on the second pass he could punish Auberon enough to push.
He just needed to convince her to leave.
Chapter LXXXII
Date of the Republic July 19, 396 SC Auberon. Above Thuringwell
She couldn’t tell if the man wanted to cry, or rage, even after as many years as she had known Denis Jež. Jessica leaned closer to the screen to study his face.
He was closed off in a way she had never seen before. His eyes had grown shadowed. There were lines in his face that hadn’t been there an hour ago. Jessica could even see a few gray hairs starting to peek out above his ears. He had a ways to go to catch up with her on that score, however.
“How bad, Denis?” she asked simply.
He had been on ships damaged before, but never ships he commanded. This was a first for him, and was probably as traumatic as BrightOak’s first major battle had been for her.
“Worse than Petron,” he replied quietly, as if the volume could hide the rage running like a cold tide underneath. “Not as bad as Qui–Ping or Ballard. But we left after those two. Recognize we aren’t leaving now.”
Jessica silently agreed with him.
Nyamboya had been through the wringer, but had given worse than she got, since all Robbie’s foes had been blasting different parts of his shield walls. And those could all be repaired before round two. BrightOak was mildly scorched, but her previous two commanders, both here on the field of battle today, had taken her through worse.
Auberon had fared the worst.
Jessica had to agree. Any other time, and she would have gladly called it a day and retired across the border.
She couldn’t do that now. This was her side of the border now, and Fribourg needed to be pushed back. Two Primary mounts on her port side were currently wrecked. A third of her beam emplacements were damaged enough not to count, and she had suffered significant casualties on the flight deck when a shot got through downed shields. Iskra was still in command from her armored little box, but she was down a third of her crew between those killed outright, those fighting fires, and those being transported to medical bays.
It was ugly down there.
At least Varga was limping.
And of the seven frigates he had brought with him today, at least three would be in long–term dry–dock after the battle.
And two Fleet Carriers currently missing in action, badly damaged but not lost.
What was it about Jessica Keller that caused Fribourg commanders to lose all sense of proportion?
A decade ago, battles were rarely this bloody and protracted. Planets could not be conquered and held. It was simply impossible to bring enough troops to occupy a whole world. You simply held orbital space and controlled things, at least until you were driven off.
But now, her presence on the field of battle seemed to guarantee an insane disregard for casualties. It was almost like a religious crusade.
Jessica stopped.
That was exactly it. A religious crusade.
Jessica wondered if she had already won her personal war with the Fribourg Empire, on that score alone.
But wasn’t she here, right now, trying to upset the old order of things by proving that you could conquer an enemy planet if you brought enough honey with you?
Nils Kasum, years ago, had ordered her to commit economic warfare on Fribourg. To cost them men, ships, and resources, at a faster rate than they cost Aquitaine. Four years later, she had certainly succeeded. The cost on both sides had been atrocious, but Fribourg still faced a bill at least an order of magnitude larger than she did.
Was this the endgame? Would Imperial commanders grow suicidal in attacking her? Try to w
in at any and all costs?
Jessica kept those thoughts to herself and off her face.
“Shivaji will be with us next time, Denis,” she said into the gap. “And Nyamboya. You won’t have to win alone.”
“Can we win?” he asked quietly.
Of all the men and women here today, Denis might understand her if she said they already had, but she didn’t want the rest to hear it. They would misunderstand, thinking she meant the battle.
Jessica meant the War itself.
After all, Thuringwell was a meaningless, little planet, in and of itself. There was nothing about it that rated the costs this battle had already racked up.
But it wasn’t about Thuringwell. It was about changing the nature of the war between Aquitaine and the Fribourg Empire.
And Fribourg was dancing to her tune. Badly.
“Patch her up, best you can, Denis,” Jessica replied. “Fly everybody who needs it to one of the other carriers for repairs. We’ll ignore reloads for now and get everyone safe. They can’t reload at all with their carriers gone.”
Jessica took a deep breath and fixed her closest friend aboard with a cold stare.
“I intend to send this man home with a personal message for the Emperor.”
Chapter LXXXIII
Date of the Republic July 19, 396 Somewhere, Thuringwell
“Damn it, Dash,” Vo yelled over the sound of pounding hooves. “Slow down.”
She wasn’t listening.
This was hell for leather into the valley of the shadow of death.
Half a league, half a league, half a league onward…
At least Shevi could keep up. But Vo had no intention of running full–tilt into this mess.
And if Dash wouldn’t listen, he did know someone that would.
Aoibhín was close, looking like a damned centaur atop her Arab stallion Thorsten.
Vo edged his own black monster close.
“Curator,” he yelled across the terrible rumble of charging hooves. “Sound Hold and Withdraw.”
She looked at him like he had grown a second head. “What?”
“Hold and Withdraw,” he yelled, probably far louder than necessary across a meter of space, but he was beginning to lose his temper at this point.
“Why?”
Vo grabbed Thorsten by the bridle closest and leaned about as far out as he thought his own mount could hold.
“Because I gave you an order, Curator,” he snarled savagely.
That seemed to break through the layer of crazed rime frost that had surrounded everyone else and turned them all into northern berserkers. Aoibhín pulled the horn from her hip and sounded the notes.
It had the intended effect.
The riders might not be willing to listen, certainly not that one crazy woman on point, but the horses knew those tones at least as well. They dropped from a hard canter to a walk in twenty steps.
Dash rounded on them like a dragon as she pivoted Göll.
“What the hell is going on?”
If a woman could stomp from horseback, Dash had managed. Maybe the roan mare picked up her rider’s anger.
Aoibhín took the easy way out and pointed at Vo, still holding loosely onto her own horse’s head.
“I ordered it,” Vo said, probably louder than necessary right this moment, but he was tired of yelling at the back of her head as she ignored him in her charge down into the valley.
“You don’t command here, Arlo,” Dash snarled. “This is my unit.”
“And it’s my mission, Dash,” he said back quietly.
Right now, his butt and his back hurt from the unaccustomed hard bouncing. His humor had long since gone out the window.
She looked like she wanted to make something of it.
Vo fixed her with a cold, angry stare.
“Try me, Centurion Mitja,” he said with a cold, lethal edge. “Just try me.”
Something got through to her. Maybe the look in his eyes. Maybe the set of his shoulders. Perhaps the way his hands flexed when he got this angry. His sisters had always been able to read that fine line and know when enough was maybe too far.
Something human came into her eyes, replacing the wild–eyed demon that had been there a moment ago. Around them Scout Patrol turned back into a military unit, no longer a pack of baying wolves.
“Gaucho’s down there,” Dash said.
It was quieter this time. Less hostile. Almost plaintive.
Vo knew why. And he understood.
He was here to keep her from doing something stupid.
“And we’re going to get him,” Vo agreed. “But we’re going to do it right.”
He patted Shevi on the neck and dismounted. Horseback, he had to pay attention to not falling off, even after this long. A–ground, he could think and speak clearly. He could be a proper officer.
That was not something his parents or his siblings would have ever expected. His old mates either, but most of them were dead or in prison now, a fate he probably would have shared but for a lenient judge on a good day.
“Curator,” he turned to Aoibhín and fixed his determination on her. “Contact Freefall and have them hold as well. Not to dig in, but prepare for maneuvers that do not include a dead charge into an obvious ambush.”
“Acknowledged, sir,” came the immediate response, followed by a hard blush that went all the way to the girl’s hairline.
Dash even seemed to be breathing normally by now. That was a good sign. She had been burning white hot.
Vo could see maybe twenty troopers clearly in the brush and scrub. The rest were probably close enough to hear if he yelled, but he was sure they would all get the message, as if by magic. Probably secured pocket comms.
“That is a trap,” he snarled loudly and pointed into the bowl below them.
There was remarkably little smoke visible, but he could see the top of Cayenne’s hull from here, so he knew which way to go.
Vo had no idea how many Imperial Security troops were down there. He didn’t really care.
They thought they had enough to shoot down Gaucho and then rough up whoever came to his rescue.
It was his job to dissuade them of that notion.
“You are the Scout Patrol, First Cohort, of the Fourth Saxon Legion,” he continued, pitching his voice to carry.
If there were bad guys close enough to hear, let them know what hornet’s nest they had riled.
“You are meaner, sneakier, and crazier than they are,” Vo challenged the men and women around him.
They growled at that. Maybe a few of the horses too. It was hard to tell.
“They think you are dumb enough to walk right into their hoof trap and break a leg,” Vo said.
That did get a growl. Injuring horses intentionally was just about the fastest way to piss these people off.
“I would rather not,” he considered aloud. “But I don’t know a damned thing about how to maneuver Hussars in the field. Dash?”
If he had poked her in the hip with a cattleprod, she probably wouldn’t have started as hard as she did. Maybe.
She did come into herself. Hard.
“Seventh Lance,” she hollered loudly across the field and pointed.
A group of men and woman howled back.
“I want a sniper team on that rise yesterday. Third Lance, put your anti–tank missiles on the slope in front of them. Eight and Nine, roll right and swoop. Five and Six down the middle. One, Two, Four and the tanks circle left. Move it people.”
It looked like ants in a kicked–over hill, but resolved itself by the time Vo had climbed his weary legs back into Shevi’s saddle and drawn his pistol. Sabers were for Cossacks. He could still probably outshoot nearly anyone here.
He had done his job.
That much he could promise the Fleet Centurion tomorrow.
The mad energy was back, but this time it was focused, controlled.
Intent.
Mean.
Dash might have the hots for Gaucho
, but that just meant that there was an entire Patrol looking out for the pilot and his crew.
Vo rode forward in the wake of First Lance.
And hell followed with him.
Chapter LXXXIV
Imperial Founding: 174/07/19. BB Varga. Thuringwell Orbit
Varga could be repaired.
The damage was not even particularly bad, once enough men had cut away the shattered and twisted metal to get at the bone underneath.
Kozlov’s anger went deeper.
He would be a laughingstock now if he retreated. At best, he could look forward to retirement in disgrace, and not the sorts of Imperial protection that cloaked the Emperor’s cousin from scorn.
That woman had done this to him.
He would not grind his teeth. Not here. Not on this deck. Someone would report his every word and tic to someone higher up, at this point.
How had he responded to pressure? Was he all used up? Should he be put out to pasture?
Never.
Saveliy Kozlov would die like a gentleman if he had to, but she would not make him crawl.
“Squadron, this is Admiral of the White Kozlov,” he intoned firmly into the microphone. “For the second half of the battle, we will concentrate all fire on the enemy flagship. Without it, they cannot remain, and our flight wing will be able to take possession of the planet below. The Emperor has chosen us to drive the barbarians back across the frontier, and he is counting on every man to do his duty.”
Saveliy cut the input and stared down the rest of his Flag Bridge from the moment of silence that had bubbled up.
“Wardroom,” he said out loud, knowing someone would relay the message. “Dinner for the Flag Bridge now, and then the fighting stations. We will have some time before the next act.”
And then he would take the battle to that woman, and do something Emmerich Wachturm never had.
Kill Jessica Keller.
Chapter LXXXV
Date of the Republic July 19, 396 SC Auberon. Above Thuringwell
Denis’s face filled part of one screen, next to a schematic of the minefields that Wombat had been weaving above Thuringwell.
Jessica watched his face, and her other commanders on the secondary screens, as the two Imperial forces began to coalesce back into a single fleet and begin their slingshot run around the planet. They could get a reasonable amount of speed going since there were no ships in any orbital plane at this moment.