by John F. Carr
Only if the Imperials proved themselves bent on genocide would he initiate his final option. Only if they demonstrated that the society they wished to preserve was not worth living in or dying for.
Hawksley watched as Falkenberg’s target began to shimmer with burn-throughs; the violet egg of the overloaded Field suddenly swirled with yellow-white lesions that spread, flared…then it was gone.
“One more down!” Hawksley shouted. And a hundred and four to go, he thought. “What’s happening with those carriers?”
“Launching fighters, captain. Nine…ten…twelve squadrons; looks like they’re all those new Morgan-class Imperial heavies.”
Willoughby turned. “Morgans? What carriers are those out there?”
The Sensor operator called out the immersion display’s recognition estimates based on the configurations of the enemy vessels: “Looks like we got the Aquila, the Ranger, two Eagle-class ships…and the Centurion, sir—” he stopped short and shot a glance at Hawksley.
Hawksley caught the look and addressed his exec. “Mister Willoughby,” Hawksley made himself heard over the din on the bridge. “Are you going to have a problem with this?”
Willoughby began locking the Falkenberg’s weapons onto the next target in Intruder Three. “No sir, Skipper.” He did not turn as he added in a low voice, “Just as long as you don’t ask me to shoot down my brother, I’ll be just fine.”
II
Ire of Eire was about to die. Captain Shannon had brought the New Ireland cruiser in too close to the onrushing cylinder of Intruder Three’s formation. Computer controls might not be suited for adroit maneuvering or intuitively-timed attacks, but they are splendid for coordination. Fourteen broadsides along the cylindrical formation’s starboard aspect struck as one, peeling away Ire of Eire’s Field at one stroke. Debris from the New Irelander paced the stricken cruiser as it continued, out of control, into the midst of Intruder Three.
Had the Imperial ships been programmed to avoid objects in their path, there might yet have been survivors from Shannon’s crew; but that was exactly counter to their purpose.
Ire of Eire tumbled into the path of the Imperial attack cruiser Camlann, 75,000 tonnes traveling now at twelve gravities’ acceleration. The New Ireland cruiser disintegrated into fragments, splashing back from the Imperial’s bow and flowing over its hull. Camlann fared little better, her forward section splitting like a hammered eggshell, frame cracking down the spine, the wreckage shattering, splintering, tumbling off course and through the formation, grazing another ship of Intruder Three, the heavy cruiser Lütjens.
Lütjens survived the impact, but her course was irrevocably altered; hours later she would plunge into Landyn’s Star and be consumed.
Aboard the Fomoria, Second Rank noticed brief spikes in various readings at her station, and instructed Sensors to concentrate their instruments on the wreckage of the Camlann.
She moved her acceleration couch beside Diettinger’s and reported in a low voice: “Dictator, readings indicate tremendous levels of radiation in the debris from the Camlann. If this is indicative, the ships of Intruder Three must be packed to capacity with solid nuclear waste.”
“This was not previously detected; not even in the debris from the destroyed vessels of Intruder Three.”
“It would be heavily shielded while on board, if only to prevent our sensors from discovering it and guessing Intruder Three’s true purpose,” Second Rank replied. “All previous losses to Intruder Three have been high energy burn-throughs. The collapse of a Langston Field on a ship of this mass releases more than enough energy to mask the presence of such radioactive material even while it is being converted to plasma.”
Diettinger considered this newest information. “Then even the reduction of mass from atmospheric burn-up works in their favor; what mass doesn’t reach Sauron will spread radioactive waste into the atmosphere.” He cocked his brow at her in a grim smile. “How very thorough.”
Their voices had been kept low during the exchange, but it was simply not possible to keep them low enough. Köln turned in his seat and addressed Diettinger once again. “Dictator.”
“Speak.”
“I call your attention to the results of Ire of Eire’s collision with the Camlann.”
“Elaborate.”
“It is a viable tactic,” Köln stated.
“It is absurd. We are outnumbered, Cyborg Rank Köln. Sacrificing all of our remaining vessels in deliberate ram attacks would save the Homeworld from Intruder Three only to expose it to the remnants of Intruders One and Two and their reinforcements.”
“Then I require release authorization for the remaining EVA Commando units in Task Force Fomoria.”
Diettinger did not answer immediately. He reviewed the Fomoria’s position, made a few brief passes over his console, then looked up at Köln. “Cyborg Rank Köln; given the performance capabilities of the Commando’s delivery torpedoes, what is the probability that your Cyborgs can intercept and board the vessels of Intruder Three?”
Köln’s eyes glittered. “I would estimate approximately twenty percent of the enemy force could be captured, if TF Fomoria is able to match velocities before launching. I point out that this figure would be substantially higher had Task Forces Keegan and Damaris been brought into the operation earlier.”
“Wasted seed, Cyborg Rank Köln,” Diettinger used the Breedmaster’s equivalent of ‘spilt milk,’ a mild Sauron profanity which he delivered with condescension.
“Second Rank,” he turned his attention from Köln for the moment. “Will a twenty percent reduction of Intruder Three significantly reduce the impact damage to the Homeworld?”
“No, Dictator. Even if all of those ships are carrying this poison, it will require only a few to pollute Sauron’s seas and atmosphere for several thousand years. But it would provide us with a significant number of reinforcements able to attack the other elements of Intruder Three from within its own formation, at point-blank range. If nothing else, they could alter course within the Imperial fleet element and perhaps throw the bulk of Intruder Three into disarray. And that would reduce the potential damage to Sauron significantly.”
Diettinger thought for a moment, then shook his head. “No. It would mean the loss of most of TF Fomoria’s Cyborgs. A minimum estimated return of twenty-percent casualties to Intruder Three is not sufficient to warrant the expenditure of such assets.”
Köln replied, “That estimate is based on my coordination of the effort from this station. The capture estimates rise to sixty-five percent if I participate in the operation personally and coordinate it on-site.”
With only one eye remaining, Diettinger nevertheless managed to generate a glare of sufficient intensity to make Second Rank grateful that she was not the object of his attention. A long moment passed; at the instant Köln was about to repeat his demand, Diettinger cut him off.
“Do it!”
Köln left the bridge so quickly he almost seemed to vanish.
Second Rank waited a moment longer before speaking. “Dictator.”
“Not now.”
She thought his rage, though contained, seemed almost palpable. “First Rank,” she prodded in a quieter voice.
Diettinger blinked, turned to her and finally, his sigh fading into his weary gaze, said, “Speak.”
“Let the Cyborgs be the heroes of the hour. The more that are lost now, the fewer that will remain to contest your policies should we survive this.”
Diettinger watched her for a long time. “You have no love for the Cyborgs, do you, Second Rank?”
Her gaze was level, remorseless. “They see themselves as instruments of Sauron’s future. I see them as instruments to Sauron’s future.”
“That is a profound difference.”
“I am comfortable with the distinction, Dictator,” she said, and returned to her station.
“Weapons,” Diettinger addressed the ranker before him. “Patch communications from Cyborg Rank Köln’s delivery t
orpedo through to me.”
“Cyborg Rank Köln is entering his torpedo cockpit now, Dictator,” Weapons Rank informed him.
“Status EVA Commandos, TF Fomoria.”
“All stations ready.”
“Cyborg Rank Köln,” Diettinger said to the panel before him.
Köln’s face appeared; the Cyborg was sufficiently occupied with pre-launch procedures to prevent his addressing the transmitter. “Dictator,” he acknowledged. Now that he was getting his way, Köln could afford to be magnanimous; he had even deigned to leaven his speech with an actual tone of respect.
“I will continue to provide you and your unit commanders with data on Intruder Three as TF Fomoria closes with it. I will notify you when launch of your forces will coincide with maximum fire support available from the Task Force. Although your release orders will pass through this station, they will cycle directly from Fomoria’s bridge throughout the Task Force to coordinate your operation. Will that be satisfactory?”
Köln blinked, looked at the transmitter. “Perfectly,” he answered.
“I will deactivate the pre-launch lock-down procedure, if you wish,” Diettinger added as an afterthought. The lock-down flooded the torpedoes’ interiors with a shock-dampening gel which immobilized the occupant and isolated him from much of the effect of the twenty-five gravities’ brought on by launch acceleration. While it was crucial for the survival of Sauron norms in such operations, it was less so for Cyborgs.
Köln, however, became suspicious. “That will not be necessary, Dictator,” he said. “This is arguably the most crucial operation of the war. It will not do to have even one of my Commandos arrive with sprained ankles or a broken arm.”
Your commandos, Diettinger thought, but he tried to show only slight disappointment. “Very well,” he answered. “Standby for launch order.”
Sixty Morgan heavy fighters swept toward the seven remaining vessels of TF Damaris. Emory’s flagship was at the fore, leading her formation toward the front of Intruder Three. Falkenberg and its remaining companion, Banshee, were vectoring to intercept the Morgans and cover the Sauron units.
III
Aboard the Falkenberg, Hawksley was counting the seconds to intercept range. “Exec, what’ve we got left?”
“Uh… all turrets still operational,” Willoughby reported after a pause. “But… we’ve only got eight missiles, Skipper.” Falkenberg’s executive officer seemed far too distracted for his captain’s liking.
Hawksley’s voice took on the steel-in-velvet tone of the Burgess aristocracy. “What seems to be the problem, Mister Willoughby?”
“Nothing, Skipper; just trying to get a lock on the Morgans’ flight controllers; confirm their targets.” He did not look up.
Hawksley didn’t lack brains, of course. What he did lack at the moment were crewmen. Falkenberg’s bridge crew was now down from ten officers and non-coms to six. Willoughby was one of only two men besides himself qualified to crew both the Weapons station and the helm. Hawksley caught the eye of the other; Chief Cooper, now running the sensor suite, who nodded his understanding. Both men hoped it wouldn’t become necessary. But Coop was up to the task if it did.
“Mister Willoughby,” Hawksley ordered, “Put the signal intercepts on audio. We might catch something you miss.”
Looking even more miserable than a man should after a week under high-G stress, Willoughby threw a switch, filling the Falkenberg’s bridge with randomly intercepted chatter between the commanders of the Morgan squadrons and their controllers.
“TF Damaris signaling preparation for launch of full missile spreads on Intruder Three from extreme range,” Chief Cooper reported. “They’re going to try to put about two hundred fish into the Impies, Captain, but after that, their bays’ll be empty.”
“Let’s keep those Morgans off their back, then. Mister Willoughby, target a spread for our remaining missiles. Put them in staggered intercept courses for the enemy fighter formation. I want to knock as many of those Morgans out of the sky as possible before they can screw up TF Damaris’ fire solutions.”
“Aye, Captain,” Willoughby acknowledged. Hawksley turned his attention to the audio of the signal intercepts. He knew what Willoughby was listening for, and he wanted to be sure he heard it first.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
I
Damaris, with the six surviving ships of her task force trailing at her flanks, was closing with the forward point of Intruder Three. Muted combat lighting did little to mask the damage of fires that had broken out after the last burn-through of Damaris’ Field; overworked air recyclers did little to scour the smell of burned flesh from the starship’s closed environment.
Vessel First Rank Mara Emory concentrated on the data lines suspended within the flickering immersion display around her. It made her head ache, but kept her attention from her scarred bridge.
“Weapons: status?”
“Fire solution optimal in twenty-four minutes, First Rank.”
“Communications: maintain open signals to the rest of the Task Force. Guarantee me synchronized launches.”
“Affirm.”
“First Rank!” It was her Sensors Ranker.
“Speak.”
“Two full squadrons of enemy heavy fighters to starboard of formation, now engaging the Mago. Mago signals her Field capacitors approaching critical.”
Emory bared her teeth in rage. The Imperial attacks were relentless. No Sauron vessel was gaining any respite to bleed off the captured energy stored in its Fields. If Mago went, it would be just the latest in a long line of warships beaten to death since this grim endgame had begun. Worse, it would open a breach in TF Damaris’ formation which other fighters could exploit.
“Signal Mago: ‘Breakoff. Switch weapon locks to the fighter squadrons and engage at will.’ We have to do something to keep them off our backs for the next… Weapons?”
Weapons’ head was bent over his console; he only raised his eyes, looking up at her from beneath his brows: “Twenty-two minutes, First Rank,” he answered.
Emory heaved a sigh. Well. Every little bit…
Hawksley checked the Falkenberg’s chronometer. “Helm; time to intercept?”
“Full locks on seven missiles, Skipper; missile number three is showing a malfunc light. All batteries in range in seventeen seconds.” Willoughby was obviously straining to hear the signal intercepts, and Hawksley was just about to relieve him when he caught the signal fragment amid the clutter.
“… roger that, Hydra; closing on your three, standing by for launch go…”
Hawksley’s eyes instantly went to Willoughby, but the XO seemed to have missed it. Willoughby was the eldest of seven brothers, two of which had remained loyal to the Imperial faction in what was essentially a civil war. The youngest, a fighter pilot assigned to the INSS Centurion, had chosen as his call sign a mythological beast whose seven heads served as his reminder of the supposed homogeneity and survivability of Burgess siblings.
Besides Hawksley’s XO, he was the only one of Mrs. Willoughby’s sons still alive. Hawksley had no desire to destroy the lad; but he had less to be destroyed by him.
“What about those Morgans, Mister Willoughby?” Hawksley asked quietly.
“They’re ignoring the Mago, Skipper, just like you figured.” He turned to face Hawksley; his expression showed he clearly did not want to finish his report. “They’re in range now, sir.”
Hawksley tried to let his tone show that he understood; still, he had no choice. “Fire at will.”
Willoughby’s fingers flew over the console, Banshee’s Weapons Officer followed suit, and the Morgans began to disappear from the display. After the first wave of fire, scattered Imperial fighters began to regroup; they headed straight for the Damaris, lead ship in the Sauron Task Force.
In the display, Hawksley saw that Task Force Fomoria was mauling Intruder Three, but not enough. Worse, the bulk of the reinforced Imperial fleet was now bearing down on their position. The lead s
hip of Intruder Three’s remaining one hundred and three vessels was now less than three hours away from entry into Sauron’s atmosphere; at its current velocity, impacts would begin eighteen seconds later. Assuming Intruder Three lost another twenty percent of its ships, they would continue for a full rotation of the planet.
So, Intruder Three had to be stopped, TF Damaris had to be protected to launch her missiles, and TF Fomoria had to remain intact to have any chance of fighting off the rest of the Imperials. Hawksley almost laughed out loud.
Next time, I’ll try looking for a real challenge…
“Helm. Intercept the Morgans and send us right through the middle of their formation. That ought to break them up.”
“Helm, aye,” Willoughby acknowledged; Hawksley could hear the relief in his XO’s voice. Willoughby obviously thought that the Falkenberg’s skipper would try to avoid shooting down the Morgans for as long as possible.
Hawksley caught Chief Cooper’s eye. Coop nodded.
II
Diettinger’s attention had been occupied by the battle, but Second Rank finally interrupted him. “Dictator, Intruder Three now at two hundred and fifty thousand kilometers and closing.”
“Yes.”
Second Rank was taken aback. “Cyborg Rank Köln…?”
Diettinger checked his system panel. “Lock-downs in place in all EVA pods?”
Second Rank nodded. “Yes, Dictator. Cyborg Rank Köln is awaiting clearance signal to launch.”