The final cruiser died as the superdreadnaughts moved closer, followed by two of the bulk freighters. A third was hit badly and heeled over, spewing out plasma before losing containment on its antimatter warheads and vaporizing into a fireball. The enemy fighters threw themselves on the superdreadnaughts, only to be engaged by the CSP and the supporting gunboats.
Marius allowed himself a brief moment of optimism. Perhaps they could hold after all.
“Sir, enemy superdreadnaughts are transiting the Asimov Point,” the sensor officer reported. “I have at least five superdreadnaughts...no, seven...”
Marius watched as at least seven superdreadnaughts emerged from the Asimov Point in a tight stream of death and destruction. Admiral Justinian wasn’t taking the chance of ordering simultaneous transits—not with ships that took two years to build—but he was funnelling them through as tightly as possible. As the earlier assaults had temporarily cleared the field, the superdreadnaughts were safe from immediate attack. The mines and automated platforms that should have engaged them were already destroyed.
“Send a signal to all ships,” he ordered. One way or the other, the battle would be decided now. “The battle line will advance and engage the enemy.”
* * *
Flight Leader Elspeth Grey cursed as her starfighter flashed towards the newcomers, already spitting deadly plasma fire into space. They couldn’t hope to hit a planet, let alone a starfighter, with random fire, but they were successfully disrupting the wave of incoming starfighters. The squadrons—hastily patched together after the Battle of Jefferson, although she called it the Fuck-Up of Jefferson—had drilled as hard as they could once the fleet had reached safe harbor, yet they weren’t as disciplined as they had been at Jefferson. Half the pilots had never worked together before. The remainder had barely graduated from various training camps when they’d been scooped up and told to crew carriers from the Naval Reserve. It was typical of the brass to throw together a few scraps of meat and try to make a sausage out of them—and it wasn’t very pleasant for the sausage.
“Form up on me,” she ordered, swallowing her anger. She hadn’t expected to be promoted to Flight Leader so quickly, but her former commander had bought the farm at Jefferson along with his second, leaving Elspeth as the most experienced pilot in the squadron. It was a sign, she told herself, of just how desperate they were to put her in command. Her experience had been limited to simulations and chasing down pirates, who often didn’t have a clue how to use the equipment they’d somehow obtained from the Federation Navy.
She designated a superdreadnaught as a target and waited for her pilots to check in before issuing a second order: “Follow me!”
The enemy superdreadnaught grew larger in her HUD as her starfighter rocketed towards it. At least it wasn’t protected by a CSP of its own, she reasoned, and the remainder of the enemy starfighters seemed to have been tied up by the Federation Navy’s superdreadnaughts.
She led her flock towards the rear of the nearest superdreadnaught. The superdreadnaught’s point defense was getting more and more accurate as they approached, picking off a handful of inexperienced pilots before they could evade. Elspeth barked orders and dire threats into the communications channel, reminding the remaining pilots that randomness was the key. A predictable flight path meant certain death.
“Hold on to your missiles,” she ordered when several inexperienced pilots brought up their targeting systems too early. She didn’t blame them—it was easy for inexperienced pilots to misjudge distances and fear a collision—but it wasn’t the right time at all. They were only making themselves bigger targets. “Stand by...now!”
Her squadron of starfighters turned and fell into attack formation, shifting as a blizzard of plasma fire burned through space towards them. Two pilots—both men she barely knew, as they’d been assigned to the Illustrious before the carrier had been blown out of space—died as they were picked off by the enemy’s point defense. The remainder did her proud, holding on to their missiles until she finally barked the order.
They fired in one great salvo. The great hulk of the superdreadnaught was pockmarked with balls of fire, which merged together into one great explosion that wiped the superdreadnaught from existence.
Elspeth laughed, picked off an unwary enemy fighter that had approached too closely, and led her flock back to the barn. They would rearm and return to the fray.
Grinning, she allowed herself the thought that perhaps the newcomers—maggots, as they were known—weren’t so bad after all.
* * *
“Fire at will,” Marius ordered.
Magnificent shuddered as she unleashed a swarm of missiles towards the remaining enemy superdreadnaughts. This time, the firepower advantage was on his side, and he used it ruthlessly. The massed fire of entire squadrons of superdreadnaughts were launched against isolated targets, forcing them to struggle to survive.
One by one, the enemy superdreadnaughts blew apart and died in the darkness of space. The remainder were fighting a losing battle.
He scowled. None of this made any sense, unless Admiral Justinian had one final trick up his sleeve.
* * *
Justinian forced himself to remain calm as the loss rates continued to mount. He hadn’t led his fleet into the Boskone System personally, something that probably hadn’t endeared him to men who were committing treason on his orders, but that had helped to save his life. He didn’t have the force to punch through the Asimov Point without bleeding his fleet white, leaving them easy meat for a counterattack from Home Fleet or one of the other loyalist forces.
“Recall the remaining ships,” he ordered. There was no point in forcing a victory that would ruin him and his cause. He had his shipyards, his newer innovations—and his backers on Earth. The game was far from over. “We’ll concede this battle.”
“Aye, sir,” Caitlin said, sounding relieved. “Do you want to fall back on the Asimov Point?”
“Negative,” Justinian said. He doubted that Admiral Drake had the firepower to punch through the Asimov Point. “If they come through, we will hold them here.”
He settled back, watching as his surviving ships retreated through the Asimov Point. The Federation had to hold Boskone—that was a given. On the other hand, Justinian could fall back and make a stand closer to Jefferson, which allowed him a degree of flexibility the Federation lacked.
And yet, he knew he was pinned, at least until he rebuilt his forces and launched a second attack. The war had effectively stalemated.
* * *
“That’s confirmed, admiral,” the sensor officer said, “Their remaining ships have pulled out of the system. We won!”
“So it would seem,” Marius agreed. There was no way to know what was going through Justinian’s mind—which meant that Drake’s forces would have to stay on the alert, knowing that a second attack could come at any time. “Admiral Mason, designate a fighter wing to serve as CSP and recall the remaining pilots. Hold them at condition-two, but let them get some rest. They deserve it.”
He allowed himself a tight smile as the fleet slowly stood down. They’d held! They’d stopped Admiral Justinian dead in his tracks. Morale, which had been rock-bottom after the disaster at Jefferson, was going to skyrocket. And it wouldn’t do his reputation any harm, either. The Senate would have problems trying to smear his reputation now.
“And pass a message on to all ships and personnel,” he added. “Well done.”
Chapter Eighteen
Federation Navy medals may be handed out by the commanding officer, once confirmed by the Admiralty—confirmation that is almost invariably forthcoming. Federation awards and decorations are the exclusive gift of the Senate, although a commanding officer may recommend a subordinate for them.
-An Irreverent Guide to the Federation, 4000 A.D.
FNS Magnificent, Boskone System, 4092
The summons to report to Admiral Drake onboard Magnificent had come nearly a week after the Battle of Boskone. R
oman had spent nearly twenty minutes trying to decide what to wear while his shuttle was prepared for the flight. As a captain—even an acting captain—he had a right to wear dress whites, but somehow he doubted that Admiral Drake would be impressed by a lieutenant putting on airs. As a lieutenant, he should wear his dress uniform, yet very few people in the Federation Navy enjoyed wearing dress uniforms. The issue had been settled by the discovery that there were no captain’s uniforms on Enterprise, so he’d reluctantly worn his more standard dress uniform. He was honest enough to admit to himself that worrying over the uniform was a substitute for worrying over what the admiral was going to say, considering the hostility of Admiral Mason. Roman was sure Mason had burned up the airwaves with his complaints about having to report to a very junior officer.
It wasn’t the first time Roman had been onboard a superdreadnaught, but somehow it felt very different. No formal party met him when he disembarked from the shuttle, much to his relief, as he had no idea how to handle the protocol when one captain visited another. Yet everyone he met seemed to know his name. Officers, including some astronomically senior to him, found time to shake his hand and congratulate him, adding to the air of unreality. He was almost in a daze when the Marine guard opened the hatch to the admiral’s office and motioned for him to step inside.
He’d never met Admiral Drake before, but he’d taken the opportunity to use his new command codes to read the classified section of the admiral’s file. Drake was shorter than he had expected, reminding him of Major Shaklee, yet he was clearly in control of the situation. Short, dark hair framed a classically handsome face and brilliant dark eyes. Roman marched across to the desk, threw a perfect salute, and stood at attention. The only other admiral he’d encountered—briefly—was Admiral Parkinson, but he hadn’t commanded this level of respect. Admiral Drake had pulled the entire fleet out of a deadly trap.
“At ease,” Admiral Drake said. He had a faint Martian accent. “Cut the cadet crap. There’s just the pair of us here.”
Roman relaxed, very slightly.
“I said relax,” Admiral Drake added dryly. “You’re not in trouble, Mr. Garibaldi. I assure you of that.”
Roman did his best to stand normally, as he would if he were around Sultana before he’d been so abruptly elevated to acting captain.
The admiral settled back and grinned, an expression which transformed his entire face. “First things first, Mr. Garibaldi. I have nominated you for the Navy Cross, with Gold Stars. I believe that it will be confirmed automatically by the Admiralty, but don’t gloat too soon about being the youngest officer to win it in combat. They may feel that I have been too generous.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said. The Navy Cross was only issued to personnel who had served with distinction in combat. The only officer below the rank of captain to win it had been a lieutenant-commander during the Blue Star War. The recipient had to show uncommon valor and skill. “I...thank you.”
“I believe there may be other rewards coming your way,” Admiral Drake said in an almost jovial manner.
Roman flushed, and then realized that he was being teased. But before he could respond, the admiral carried on.
“I recommended you for several Federation awards, although those will have to be granted by the Senate. You’re also entitled to a cash reward for saving the Enterprise from certain destruction. The taxmen will probably try to take a bite out of it, but hire a good lawyer and they will discover that they don’t have a leg to stand on.”
He paused. “And you have my thanks as well,” he added. “Many people showed uncommon valor in the Battle of Jefferson, but you stood out among the crowd. Your assumption of command was precisely the right thing to do, as were your actions when the enemy started to land troops on your ship. Allowing them to land on your ship will probably annoy the traditionalists—you didn’t have any way of knowing if they were carrying an antimatter mine to destroy Enterprise if they couldn’t take her intact—but it paid off. As a very old commander once said, it’s better to be lucky than good.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said carefully.
Admiral Drake leaned back in his chair. “You do realize that you won’t be allowed to keep Enterprise?”
Roman nodded. It wasn’t a surprise, even though part of him had dared to hope as the weeks went by without his being relieved of command. Traditionally, anyone who assumed the position of acting captain was automatically confirmed as captain, but he’d looked it up: The most junior officer to assume the position permanently had been a lieutenant-commander. And he’d only commanded a destroyer, not the Federation’s flagship.
“You’re too young and too inexperienced,” Admiral Drake said seriously. “I did think hard about letting you take her back to Earth and transferring command there—she will have to go into a shipyard anyway, unless they decide to scrap her...”
“No,” Roman said before he could stop himself.
“Your first command is always something special,” Admiral Drake said, showing no sign of annoyance at the interruption. “I read your report—very professional, by the way—and she will need at least six months in a shipyard, perhaps longer. It depends on how many other ships need to be repaired—they may just dry-dock her for a few years until there’s a slip free for an expensive and time-consuming repair job.” He shrugged. “I’m going to be stripping out most of her crew to fill holes elsewhere—I think they’ll probably give her a whole new crew and commander.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said again.
“I understand how you feel,” Admiral Drake said. He looked up, meeting and holding Roman’s eyes. “The Navy doesn’t usually bother to take account of its junior officers’ preferences when it comes to assigning berths, but I’m going to give you a choice. The Navy Cross will ensure that you’re promoted one full grade in any case. So. Captain Singh on the Vengeance needs a new tactical officer. You’d be promoted to lieutenant-commander and assigned to his command. You’d be on the fast track to a command of your own—you’ve certainly proved that you can handle it.
“The second possibility is the Donna Noble,” he added. “She’s a destroyer with seventy crew, under Captain Homchoudhury and she needs an XO. I’ve stolen both her XO and his second for filling in other holes. You’d be in the spotlight, but her captain has a good reputation for getting young officers ready for higher command. He’ll even teach you what fork to use first at a banquet.”
Roman blinked, and then realized that he was being teased again. Luna Academy hadn’t taught many social graces beyond basic formality in the mess and how to act at the captain’s table. Blake Raistlin, on the other hand, had introduced him to the concept of a whole upper-class social strata that excluded everyone who couldn’t or wouldn’t fit in. It hadn’t occurred to him that a captain would have to fit in, but it made sense.
He smiled. A useful life lesson from Blake Raistlin. Who would have thought it?
“You get to choose,” Admiral Drake said. “Whatever your choice, I will endorse it.”
“Thank you, sir,” Roman said. He was tempted to ask for advice, but suspected that it might be a test, not unlike some of the tests the cadets had undergone at the Luna Academy. “When do you need my decision?”
“As soon as possible,” Admiral Drake said. “The fleet really doesn’t have time to waste. Enterprise and a small escort will have to take our casualties back to the Core Worlds, along with my report on this battle. It might stop unreasoning panic and start more grounded panic.”
He smiled at his weak joke. “But I can give you an hour or two. After that, I will have to assign you myself.”
Roman considered it. He had to admit that he’d enjoyed command, once he’d gotten over the blind panic and crushing sense of responsibility. And he liked to think he’d done well for the Enterprise, besides saving her from total destruction. Losing command of her hurt, even though he’d expected it. Being a tactical officer would be exciting, but it was still a small fish in a big pond. An XO, even of
a destroyer, had far more responsibility.
“I’ll take the Donna Noble,” he said finally.
“I thought you would,” Admiral Drake said. He picked a chip off the desk and passed it to Roman. “Your promotion and official orders. Return to the Enterprise, enjoy command for the last time by ordering the stewards to pack your supplies, and then take a few days of leave on Maskirovka. I’m going to be rotating as many crew as I can through the shore leave facilities so they all get a chance for a rest.”
He shrugged. “You can report to the Donna Noble after that. Be sure to enjoy your leave, as it will be the last chance for quite a long time.”
“Yes, sir,” Roman said.
“And please accept my congratulations as well,” Admiral Drake said. “I expect to hear a great deal more about you in the future.”
Roman stood to attention, saluted, and turned to leave through the hatch. If he had to lose Enterprise, serving as an XO on a destroyer would more than make up for it. And his name would be entered in Enterprise’s Captain’s List. He shook his head and headed towards the shuttlebay. Once he was back on Enterprise, he would ensure that his successor received a ship in as near to perfect condition as humanly possible before he went on leave.
* * *
“Was I ever that young?”
Vaughn did him the honor of considering the question seriously. “I don’t think you were born wearing an admiral’s uniform and a silly hat,” he said after a long pause. “You were a young officer when we first met, a young man who’d earned a First and thought he knew everything.”
Marius snorted. He’d arranged for Vaughn to watch the brief interview, trusting the Marine’s sense of character to compensate for his own willingness to believe the best of someone with an excellent combat record. And Roman Garibaldi had accepted his semi-demotion calmly, without becoming upset or angry. Marius had demoted officers before for incompetence and some of them had lost their tempers completely.
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