Tyche's First
Page 9
Sumner let out a whoop, but fell silent at a glance from the captain. Wadle said, “No time to celebrate. Where’s the other one?”
As if on cue, the Manticore dropped out of jump off their port bow. She didn’t use rail guns or torpedos, instead electing to fire off particle cannons. The Nostradamus shook as a hole was punched through decks three and four. The main holo lit red, warnings cascading across it. Wadle was trying to bark orders over the klaxon on the alarm, but El knew what they needed to do. She played her fingers over her console, space outside the Bridge windows stretching, and El felt—
The anger of the Manticore, bright and dark at the same time like a raven’s eye. The shuddering of the Nostradamus as she cried at the sailors lost from her breached decks. The thousands of souls gone as the Ramses’ reactor blew, circling her heart, trying to find a way in. The pure thrill of acceleration, impossible, unbelievable acceleration. She couldn’t feel it. She was it. She was everything. She was the universe.
Stars stretched, made points of light that streaked past the Nostradamus’ cockpit.
They jumped.
• • •
The alarm klaxons still blared, red warning light filling the Bridge. “Shut that noise off,” said Wadle. Sheri complied, the noise dropping away like it had never been. Wadle turned to El. “I didn’t give you the order to jump.” They’d arrived back at Shyke Alpha, the sun’s heat and radiation once more blasting the hull. This time it was worse, as there was no longer a hull on decks three and four. Killing heat would fill the Nostradamus. Bulkheads would seal. The ship would do her best, but before long the sun’s fire would cook them like a pot roast.
Space bulged outside as the Manticore arrived, hungry for blood. El took one look out the Bridge windows and said, “You didn’t order me to do this either.” She jammed the throttles forward, the Nostradamus surging ahead on a massive column of thrust.
“Helm—”
“You can court marshal me later!” shouted El. “When we’re alive!” She checked her console’s bookmark, finding the particular part of the hard black she wanted. The Nostradamus sought it out like it was hungry for an escape, the Gs of thrust pushing past the easy three they’d had before and through six, then seven, and into eight. They didn’t have a lot of time, but distance could buy them the illusion of more life.
There was a clank as something small, about the size of a grapefruit, hit the Bridge windscreen. “Close shutters,” croaked Wadle. Metal rolled down over the glass, providing more protection. El didn’t need to see where she was taking them. She knew exactly where they needed to be, and another clang told her they were hitting the edge of that space.
The sounds of metal impacts against the hull grew louder and more frequent. El’s hands trembled with the strain of trying to fly the ship while under heavy Gs. She couldn’t keep this up forever, but she didn’t have to. The holo said the Manticore was in kissing distance. “Sumner,” she gasped.
The Tactical officer tried to nod, but gave up under the strain of thrust. He manipulated his console, sending commands to the Fury Sand waiting in the hard black. Thousands of the small mines woke up, took stock of the situation, and made for the Manticore. By the time the Manticore hit the edge of the Fury Sand cloud, similar clanging against her own hull, it was too late. The mines sought enemy metal, and exploded. The Bridge holo updated, showing the thousands of mines as tiny points of light, the Manticore dissolving as it hit the cloud like a snowball on a grill.
It was done. The Manticore and the Ramses were both gone, turned into clouds of expanding debris. All hands on those ships would be gone. Crew who would never make it home to see families. It was the nature of war, but it made El feel sick. It wasn’t the Republic Navy’s fault their captains were inexperienced, their crews untrained. But it was El’s fault that her plan left no room for surrender. No matter it had been us-or-them. She tried to mask the feeling by rubbing another stim across her gums, but the sickly fluid made no difference to how her moral compass spun, unable to find its true north.
El eased back on the thrust, looking to her captain. He took stock of her expression. “Helm, chart a course for Shyke Gamma.”
“Sir?”
“We’ve still got Vaeclite,” he said. “We’ve still got the mission.”
El nodded. If they destroyed Vaeclite, there would be fewer warships the Republic could throw at them. But it would still be another twenty thousand souls lost to the hard black. She keyed her console, preparing for jump.
“Helm?” said Wadle.
“Sir.”
“Orders are supposed to help,” he said. “If I tell you to do it, it’s on me. Do you understand?”
El nodded, then said, “Helm, clear for jump.”
Wadle nodded. “Make it so.”
• • •
Ending the Vaeclite shipyard was an anticlimax. Captain Wadle, tight-ass though he may have been, gave the facility a couple hours to evacuate. Heavy lifters, shuttles, and escape pods rained from the structure, getting humans out of range. Minimizing civilian casualties was what the rulebook suggested. El knew it made good sense. People who made it out alive might see it as a mercy. They might be enemy conscripts and want to help their saviors. And even if they hated you, you wouldn’t carry their ghosts with you forever.
They’d destroyed the Guild Bridge. There was no calling for help. No way to get a message out. Unless another Republic ship lucked into this system, Vaeclite was going down.
On the two hour mark, Sumner lit the station up, torpedo after torpedo hitting the structure. Debris would whirl out into space or fall into Shyke Gamma’s gravity well. Either way, there would be no more warships made here. No more eager men and women throwing themselves against the bulwark of the Empire.
Wadle let them have a moment of silence on the Bridge, the bright explosions of Vaeclite’s destruction wondrous and terrible. After the explosions subsided, leaving glowing metal to cool in space, he said, “Helm?”
“Sir.”
“Take us home.”
El nodded. Sol it was. They’d need to take the Nostradamus into a shipyard of her own to repair that hole in her skin. And to take on more people, grist for the mill, to replace the crew they’d lost. Her hands shook as she keyed in the jump coordinates. Maybe if they won this damn war the shaking would stop. She hoped so.
• • •
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