The enemy ships were already firing a second salvo of missiles, followed rapidly by a third. His own salvo was just entering attack range, forcing the enemy to concentrate on their own defense, just for a moment. He scowled as Bogey Two started to come within range as well, offering the threat of vastly increased missile salvos. At least his starfighters were having an impact, even though he knew that most of those fine young men would be lost. He quickly checked the mass limit reading, and scowled again. If they could just hold out for a few more hours, they would be able to escape. If...
“Multiple hits on Bogey One,” the tactical officer reported. “Five of their superdreadnaughts are falling out of formation.”
Marius smiled tiredly. Maybe they could pull it off after all.
“Continue firing,” he ordered. At this rate, they would shoot their magazines dry before too long, leaving his ships defenseless. The enemy would have the same problem, but standard doctrine insisted that superdreadnaughts be escorted by ammunition ships in battle. Transferring missiles from transports to superdreadnaughts at speed wasn’t easy—and sane officers blanched at the dangers—but it could be done. “Knock as many of their ships out of formation as you can.”
“Aye, sir,” the tactical officer said.
* * *
“The remaining invaders are surrendering, captain,” Elf’s voice said over the intercom. “Do you want us to secure the prisoners?”
Roman wondered absently if she knew how unlike a captain he was feeling. Enterprise might have linked up with the remainder of the fleet, yet they were still in battle—and still vulnerable. The carrier’s point defense had taken a battering, and her drives were dangerously unstable.
“Captain?” she asked.
“Yes, go ahead,” he ordered, even though he felt like a fool. Elf had vastly more combat experience than he did. “Confine them as best as you can and then report to the damage control master.”
He clicked off the intercom and stared down at the internal systems display. Enterprise had been vastly overpowered for her size, something that had saved the ship’s life. Commander Duggan had told him that certain admirals had wanted large starships to serve as their flagships, insisting that the ship be built to their personal specifications. The Federation Navy could have built four fleet carriers for the cost of one Enterprise, but that very overdesign had saved their lives when a standard fleet carrier would have been destroyed. The starship might look like Swiss cheese from the outside, yet she was still going strong.
Or maybe not, he thought sourly. One of the drives had been destroyed in the attack and two more were showing alarming harmonic fluctuations, which suggested they were on the verge of burning out. Losing one wouldn’t be fatal; losing both of them would mean that Enterprise would have to drop out of formation, exposing her to the tender mercies of Admiral Justinian, who might not feel like taking prisoners. Roman’s trick of waiting until the enemy battlecruisers had come within point-blank range would hardly encourage the enemy to accept an offer of surrender. They’d be more likely to put a missile in the carrier’s hull instead.
He pulled up the starfighter display and shivered. There were no organized flight groups and squadrons, not any longer. Instead, pilots were flying with whatever wingmen they could find and rearming at whatever carrier could take them. The perfect organization of the Retribution Force was a thing of the past. If Enterprise fell out of formation...Admiral Drake hadn’t mentioned it, but Roman knew what his orders would be. Enterprise’s fighters would transfer to another carrier and the fleet’s former flagship would make its final stand alone.
“The CAG is reporting that they’re having trouble transferring supplies from the holding bays to the flight decks,” Sultana reported. At least she sounded calm. Maybe she really was; Roman saw nothing more than a thin sheen of sweat on her forehead. “The damage control crews are asking for permission to cut through the bulkheads and transfer the supplies directly.”
“Check with the engineer,” he ordered. It felt like an abdication of responsibility, but he didn’t know if cutting through the bulkheads risked damaging the ship. “If he agrees, tell them to go ahead with it.”
He turned back to the main display. Enterprise wasn’t being targeted directly—he suspected that Admiral Justinian still wanted the carrier intact—yet there was always a possibility that one missile would lose its target and lock onto Enterprise as a substitute. Or perhaps the admiral would change his mind and decide to end Enterprise’s charmed life.
“Two hours to the mass limit,” the helmsman reported. “Once we cross, we can escape.”
Sultana looked over at him. “And go where? Can we double back and find a chain of Asimov Points leading home?”
Roman said nothing, as she was right. Asimov Points were far quicker than the stardrive. It would take years to get back to Earth without re-entering the Asimov Point network, which meant that Admiral Drake would have to head for another Asimov Point. And Admiral Justinian could certainly guess where he was going, and perhaps have a fleet in place to block their retreat...
“Stow it,” he ordered sharply. “We will concentrate on getting out of here. The rest we leave to the admiral.”
* * *
Marius wanted a shower desperately as his fleet crawled towards the mass limit. It felt as if they had been fighting for days, not hours, and he was alarmingly aware of his own stink. The crew looked tired and worn, looking to him to get them out of this nightmare. He rubbed the side of his chin and felt stubble, taunting him. The only consolation was that Justinian’s fleet had to be in the same condition.
“Admiral, they are launching starfighters,” the tactical officer reported. He should have been relieved long ago, but the secondary tactical officer was needed on the secondary bridge. “They seem to be preparing a final strike.”
“Prepare our own fighters for launch,” Marius ordered slowly. The fighter jocks were exhausted. He’d given the order to have stimulants issued to the pilots, even though they knew that stimulants could impair judgement and coordination. There hadn’t been any other choice, even when one of his remaining pilots had nearly killed a second one under the impression that he’d been an enemy. “Combine our squadrons and stand by to launch them on my command...”
The enemy fighters screamed in towards his ships and his own weary pilots went forward to meet them. Both sides were clearly tired—thankfully, their mechanical servants never got tired. Many of Justinian’s fighters died as they were picked off by the point defense network, their reaction times clearly impaired. But two more of Drake’s superdreadnaughts were blown apart before Justinian’s fighters started to fall back, evading Drake’s vengeful starfighters as they retreated.
Marius knew that it wouldn’t be long before Justinian’s starships opened fire again.
“Admiral,” the sensor officer reported, “they’re falling back!”
“What?” Marius demanded. “They’re falling back?”
The display showed the enemy fleet reducing speed and recovering their fighters. If it was a trick, they gained nothing from it, not even a chance to convince Marius to slow his own ships at the same time. The distance between the two fleets widened sharply, until every bit of the remaining Retribution Force was safe. At this point, even Justinian’s starfighters would have problems catching up with them before they crossed the mass limit and escaped…that is, if Justinian had any pilots left in any shape to fly.
“Bring up the stardrive on all ships as soon as we cross the mass limit,” Marius said. He’d barely had any time to think about their course, but he had to pick something that might work once they went FTL. He pulled up a star chart—with bright white lines showing the Asimov Point network—and frowned. There weren’t many options. “Set course for FAS-836393.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. He sounded relieved. “Stardrive activation in...seventeen minutes.”
Chapter Sixteen
A star’s value can be measured in three w
ays. Does it have a life-bearing planet or one that can be easily terraformed? Does it have a gas giant that can be mined for He3? And, most importantly of all, does it have any Asimov Points? A star with nothing but Asimov Points may be of immense significance to the astropolitical planner.
-Federation Navy Tactics and Strategy, 4000 A.D.
Jefferson System/FAS- 836393/Boskone System, 4092
“The enemy fleet has crossed the mass limit,” Caitlin reported.
She was too much of a professional to show her surprise, but Justinian had known her long enough to guess what she was thinking. He hadn’t given up the chance to destroy the Senatorial lackeys, no matter what it looked like. Yet he could have crippled or destroyed many more ships before the remainder escaped, so she had to be wondering why he didn’t do it.
“They will be going FTL as soon as possible,” she said.
“Leaving behind a number of cripples,” Justinian said. He allowed himself a smile. Marius Drake had done well to extract most of his force from what had been intended as a death trap, but he’d had to abandon nearly thirty starships. “Pass on the message; I want the Marines to accept surrenders and take the ships intact.”
“They’ll blow the computers,” Caitlin warned. “Sir, why...?”
Justinian smiled again, doing his best to project some warmth.
“We could have pressed our advantage and perhaps destroyed additional ships,” he told her. “This way, however, those lackeys know that we will accept surrenders and may not be willing to fight to the death—not for the Senate.”
He grinned up at her, and then looked back at the display. “And that way, we can regroup and advance against the nearest fleet base before Drake’s forces can get back in contact with the rest of the Federation.”
He stood up and strode to the airlock. “Stand the fleet down and start repair work at once,” he added. “I want to be ready to move within seventy-two hours.”
* * *
“Stardrive engaged, sir,” the helmsman said. “We’re clear.”
Roman allowed himself a moment of pure relief. His mind had come up with all kinds of theories about what Admiral Justinian might be playing at when he allowed the remainder of the Retribution Force to escape. Justinian might be sending a force around outside the mass limit to intercept and destroy the fleeing ships, or he might have other plans...or he might even have run out of missiles. But whatever the reason, Enterprise was safe…at least for the moment.
Intercepting a starship under continuous displacement drive was almost impossible. The entire fleet had gone into FTL together—allowing them to communicate and even shuttle from one ship to another—but any pursuing forces would have to somehow insert themselves into the displacement field surrounding the fleet.
“Stand down from condition-one,” he ordered. He was mildly surprised that Admiral Drake hadn’t relieved him the moment he’d heard that a mere lieutenant had assumed command of the Federation’s flagship. “The damage control crews can continue to make basic repairs; the tactical and conning crew can get some rest.”
He turned and looked up at the ship’s status display. The damage control teams had worked wonders, sealing off the damaged parts of the ship and ensuring that the ship’s structural integrity would remain intact. It didn’t take years of experience to know that Enterprise would need at least six months in a shipyard before she could be declared fully operational, but they’d make it home. Roman was in no doubt of that.
He flicked through the next part of the report and shook his head. They’d fired off most of their missiles in the final engagement, and needed to rearm. And they’d lost over three-fourths of their fighters.
“Sir,” Sultana said slowly, “you need to get some sleep yourself.”
Roman hesitated. He didn’t want to leave the bridge. There might be another crisis that would require his personal intervention, at least until he was relieved of command. And then there was the problem that there were only a handful of command-track officers left alive. They all needed sleep. His tired mind refused to grapple with chain of command issues. He honestly couldn’t place who was next in command and who didn’t need sleep. The chief engineer wasn’t in the chain of command, nor was the ship’s doctor, or the intelligence officers who had been attached to Admiral Parkinson—those who remained alive. He made up his mind and scowled. Appointing someone outside the command track to take command, if only for a few hours, was a violation of regulations.
He keyed his console anyway.
“Chief engineer, this is Garibaldi,” he said. Captain Garibaldi sounded pretentious and not a little absurd. “I need you to assume command for a few hours. You have full authority to command the damage control teams in repairing the ship.”
“Understood,” the chief engineer said. His voice was oddly reassuring. He’d had years of experience in engineering and damage control and that was what Enterprise needed. “I’ll see you on the next watch.”
Roman yawned as he stumbled off the bridge and staggered down towards the shared cabin. It crossed his mind that he was captain and really should sleep in the captain’s cabin, but the thought felt absurd. Besides, the captain’s cabin had been depressurised in the attack. The airlock hissed open and he almost fell. Once inside the cabin, he collapsed on his bunk, not even bothering to take off his shoes and uniform jacket. Tiredness overwhelmed him and he fell asleep.
He woke up a few hours later, shaking. He’d been in command of the ship—and he’d killed thousands of Justinian’s soldiers. Former Federation Navy soldiers. Roman had known, intellectually, that he’d have to kill in the name of the Federation, and yet...he’d somehow never realized it, not really. And then he’d been in command...it was a miracle that the ship hadn’t exploded the moment he’d assumed command. He’d given orders and somehow they’d survived, yet he had no clear memory of what he’d said or done. Everything was a blur.
There was no sign of Sultana, he noted, as he sat upright. It took everything he had to stumble to his feet, strip, and stagger into the fresher, cold water washing away the sweat and grime from the battle. As water ran down his body, he activated his communications implant and accessed the damage report. The damage control crews had managed to fix most of the easy problems, but the rest would have to wait until they reached a shipyard. It made him wonder when that would be, if ever. The only shipyards in this sector were controlled by Admiral Justinian.
Shaking his head, he stepped out of the fresher and started to dress. There was work to do.
* * *
Marius ran his hand through his hair as he stared at the star chart, considering. “Once we get to FAS-836393”—the red giant had never been honored by a name—”take us through the Asimov Point at once to Delta Bannerman, and then through there to Golden Harbour.”
He scowled, running through the possibilities in his head. The strange network of Asimov Points doubled back on themselves, leaving relatively few links to the Core Worlds, unless there was an uncharted Asimov Point somewhere in the sector. It wasn’t impossible, but it wasn’t something they could count on, not when Admiral Justinian would be preparing his forces for a rapid advance.
The olden days must have been easier, back before the continuous displacement drive. On the other hand, without the stardrive, the fleet would have been forced to surrender, or it would’ve been destroyed.
“From there, take us through the Gamma Chain to Boskone,” he concluded unhappily. “We can link up with the Fleet Train there and use the base’s facilities to reload and repair our ships.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. “I am relaying the course to the remainder of the fleet.”
Marius barely heard him. He was still considering the implications. It would take at least ten days to reach FAS-836393 and slip into one of the red giant’s Asimov Points. From there, it would take at least another twelve days to reach Boskone, while Admiral Justinian—if he pushed it—could be there in ten. In fact, if the Admiral was willing to
gamble, he might be able to cut the remains of the Retribution Force off and destroy them. It wouldn’t be a peaceful flight. If they beat Justinian to Boskone, they might be able to hold him until reinforcements could reach them from the Core Worlds. If...
He keyed his console, accessing the Marine channel.
“Toby, take a squad of Marines and get over to Enterprise,” he ordered. “I want those prisoners transferred over here for ONI’s interrogators. I need to know what they know.”
“Understood,” Vaughn said.
Marius released the console and studied the fleet’s status. Seventy superdreadnaughts had entered the Jefferson System. Forty-eight had escaped, almost all of them damaged, some badly. And then there were the damaged carriers, cruisers and destroyers. Nearly half of his starfighters had been wiped out in the fighting, along with most of his gunboats and light support craft. He couldn’t remember such a defeat in the years since the Blue Star War, even back when he’d been commanding the fleet stationed along the Rim. The pirates and Outsiders had never managed to inflict major losses on his ships. They’d preferred to avoid the Federation Navy and pillage undefended civilian ships and planets instead.
You need sleep, he told himself tiredly. There was no way around it. Taking stimulants would only come back to haunt him. Promising himself that he would sleep once he finished reorganizing his fleet, he studied the display. The senior CAG had been killed on Illustrious, leaving Commodore Mason in overall command of the starfighters. Marius barely knew Mason, but he had a good reputation as a hard-charging commander.
“I need you to reorganize the starfighter squadrons,” Marius ordered without preamble once his communications officer had gotten him in touch with Mason. “Consider yourself promoted to Fleet CAG and start work after you have some sleep.”
Barbarians at the Gates Page 16