by David Drake
The assault boat was in formation near Target, as it had been since the first minor attack almost two hours ago, when the order came through:
Hold your ground.
“What ground?” muttered the pilot. “We’re twenty thousand miles off the surface, or hasn’t anyone noticed?”
“Be quiet,” said the commander, concentrating on an incoming message emanating from his ear implant. He frowned. “The Syndicate just showed up.”
“Who were you expecting?” said the pilot sardonically.
“See if you can get them on the screen,” said the commander.
The screen hummed to life, and the three men quickly studied it.
“Seven cruisers,” said the commander. “Not much of a force.”
“Pawn to King Four,” said the pilot. “It’s early in the game yet.”
“Still, I wonder where the rest of them are,” mused the commander.
“Probably heading for Khalia,” offered the engineer. “As far as I’m concerned, we ought to pull back and let ‘em have it.”
“It’s a possibility,” conceded the commander. “We can’t defend both worlds. If I was going to let the Syndicate blow one to pieces, it would be Khalia.”
“I hate to break up this lovely idyll,” said the pilot, “but the other side has just brought its queen into play.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the engineer.
”A dreadnought just joined the cruisers.”
“It’s a feint,” said the engineer confidently.
“You’d sure as hell better hope so,” said the commander.
“I’d hate to go up against a dreadnought with an assault boat. It’d be like attacking an elephant with a gnat.”
“I don’t know,” said the pilot dubiously. “You don’t risk that valuable a piece this early in the game.”
“May I remind you that this is a war, not a game?” said the commander.
The pilot shrugged. “All wars are games, and all games are wars.”
“Duane knows what’s going on,” offered the engineer. “If we can see them, he can see them, too.”
“I wonder where he is?” said the commander.
“Probably doesn’t want to move too soon and frighten them off,” said the engineer. “He’s probably got the whole Fleet in attack mode; and he’s just waiting for the rest of the Syndicate’s dreadnoughts to show up.”
“The rest of them?” repeated the pilot. “If he doesn’t show up pretty soon, one’s all they’ll need. We’re a bunch of very expendable pawns facing one hell of a queen.”
“Relax,” said the engineer. “No one’s going to let us die so they can defend Khalia.” He practically spat the word out.
“It must be a comfort,” murmured the pilot.
“What must be?”
“Having the absolute, unimpeachable knowledge that you’re right.”
“It keeps me warm on cold nights,” agreed the engineer with a boyish smile.
“Keep it down,” said the commander. “New orders are coming through.”
“See?” said the engineer triumphantly. “Now we’ll beat a quick retreat and the bulk of the Fleet will move in.”
“Pawns can’t move backward,” said the pilot grimly.
“Shh!” The commander placed a finger to his lips.
He lowered his head and closed his eyes, concentrating intently for almost thirty seconds. Then he looked up.
“What’s our new course?” asked the pilot.
The commander frowned. “There isn’t one.”
“What are you talking about?”
“When the dreadnought appeared, we torped Duane and asked for clarification of our orders.” He paused, puzzled. “He told us to hold our formation.”
“Don’t retreat or attack?” queried the pilot.
“That’s right.”
“See?” said the engineer. “It’s got to be a feint! He’d never leave us here like sitting ducks if there was any chance that we’d be under attack from a dreadnought.” He nodded, as if confirming his initial reaction. ”The Syndicate’s got no more use for Khalia than we do.”
The commander turned to him. “Do you realize what you’re saying?”
“Sure,” answered the engineer. “It’s a feint, and the Syndicate is going after Khalia.”
The commander shook his head impatiently, “If it’s a feint and Duane doesn’t respond, what does that imply to you?”
“That they’re going after Khalia, like I said.”
“It also means that the Fleet is defending Khalia.”
“No,” said the engineer adamantly. “He’s just biding his time.”
“For what?” demanded the commander. “For the dreadnought to blow us apart?” He frowned again. “If he was going to defend Target, he’d be here already–or he’d at least allow us to break formation and retreat.”
“You’re wrong,” said the engineer. “No human commander is going to waste a single life defending Khalia–not while we’re out here exposed to attack. He’s just waiting for the proper moment to move.”
“Well, he‘d better not wait too much longer,” interjected the pilot. “They’ll be within range in another twenty minutes.”
The commander waved them to silence again as another transmission came through.
“Jesus!” he whispered. “I can’t believe it!”
“What?” demanded the engineer.
“We torped for permission to retreat when the dreadnought appeared, and again he ordered us not to break formation.” His youthful face bore a puzzled expression.
“I told you,” said the pilot. “Pawns are expendable.”
“I’m not a pawn!” snapped the engineer. “I’m a man, and I’m not going to let him hang us out to dry while he’s defending Khalia!”
“You can’t pick up your pieces and go home,” said the pilot sardonically. “We are the pieces.”
“We’re facing a dreadnought in an attack boat and you keep talking about chess!” exploded the engineer. “What are we going to do?”
“We’re going to hold our position and defend Target,” said the commander, struggling to put a note of authority into his youthful voice.
“That’s crazy!” protested the engineer. “You could peel the hull of this ship with a can opener. How can we stand up to a dreadnought?”
“We’re not totally alone,” the commander reminded him. “We’re in a defensive formation along with the rest of the ships.”
“You talk about formations and he talks about chess games!” raged the engineer. “Look at the screen! We’ve got a dreadnought bearing down on us!”
“Shut up!” ordered the commander.
The engineer glared at the commander, but made no reply.
The three men watched the screen for another ten minutes. Then the commander asked if there had been any change in orders, and received a negative reply.
“What in hell is he thinking of?” he mused, staring at the screen. “If we can’t get reinforcements, why can’t we at least get out of range?”
“If we all get out of range,” answered the pilot, “five minutes from now there will be one more enemy dreadnought on its way to Khalia. Our function in this battle,” he added grimly, “seems to be not only to die, but to take our time doing it.”
The commander stared at him, but made no comment.
“Come on, Duane, come on, Duane!” whispered the engineer, staring at the screen.
“He’s not coming,” said the pilot.
“He can’t be defending Khalia!” said the engineer. “He can’t be!”
“Well, he’s sure as hell not defending Target,” said the pilot. “Here they come.”
The commander whispered into his mini-mike, waited for an answer, and then sighed deeply.
“Well?” asked the pilot.
“Same as before,” answered the commander. “We’re to hold our position.”
“Are we at least allowed to defend ourselves?”
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“I don’t see how we can hold it without returning the enemy’s fire,” said the commander.
“Well, we might as well pick out a cruiser,” said the pilot. “We’d just be wasting our ammunition against the dreadnought. Besides,” he added wryly, “there’s no sense in calling attention to ourselves.”
“I’ll make the decisions around here, mister,” said the commander.
“So now it’s ‘mister,’ is it?” said the pilot. He saluted. “Aye-aye, sir,” he said, making no effort to keep the sarcasm out of his voice. “Would the commander care to select a target?”
The commander looked at the screen again.
“A cruiser,” he said lamely.
“Excellent decision, sir,” said the pilot with a smug smile.
“Shut up!” snapped the commander, listening intently to his earphone. Suddenly he looked up. “Jesus! We’ve lost eleven assault boats already!”
Suddenly the pilot’s smile vanished. “Whatever he’s planning, I hope to hell he thinks it’s worth it.”
“He’s not coming,” said the engineer dully. “He’s really not coming.”
“Give the man a cigar,” said the pilot.
“We’re going to die, and he makes jokes,” said the engineer.
“Quiet!” said the commander. “New orders coming through.”
The other two stared at him tensely as he concentrated on the message he was receiving.
“Well?” demanded the pilot after a full minute had passed.
“It wasn’t an order at all,” said the commander. “Just a status report: we’ve destroyed one cruiser and damaged a second.”
“And what have they done to us?”
“Forty-three ships dead or disabled.”
“There’s no way we’re going to be able to protect Target, not with that kind of loss ratio,” said the pilot. “Can you request permission to break formation?”
“I already did,” said the commander. “The order stands: hold our position.”
“It doesn’t make any sense!” snapped the engineer. “Even if he’s not coming to support us, why the hell can’t we cut and run and regroup with the rest of the Fleet?”
“That’s why,” said the pilot, indicating the screen.
“What are you talking about?”
“There’s still only one dreadnought, and only seven cruisers,” explained the pilot. “This was a feint to draw Duane to Target while the Syndicate attacks Khalia in force, and he didn’t buy it.” He grimaced. “If it’s any comfort, the history books are going to say he did the right thing.”
“Who cares about the history books?” demanded the engineer bitterly. “None of us will be alive to read them.”
“Probably they won’t even mention this action,” said the commander. “We’re just a sideshow now. The real battle’s probably being fought around Khalia even as we’re speaking.”
“Well, let’s hope he’s winning.”
”Who gives a damn?” muttered the engineer.
“I do,” said the pilot. “I don’t know about you, but if I’m going to be a pawn, I want to know that I wasn’t sacrificed for nothing.” He paused. “I want to be avenged.”
“I just want to live,” shot back the engineer.
“You can’t always have what you want,” said the pilot. “Settle for making them pay for what they’re going to do to us.”
“Four cruisers have been disabled,” announced the commander suddenly. He looked at the pilot. “Maybe we’ve got a chance after all.”
“Disable the dreadnought and maybe I’ll believe you.”
“It’s not impervious to firepower,” said the commander with more confidence than he felt.
“It’s impervious to our firepower.”
“If enough of us can concentrate our fire on a few vital areas,” suggested the commander, “if we can coordinate our attack, if the dreadnought will–”
“And if my aunt had balls, she’d be my uncle,” interrupted the pilot sardonically.
The assault boat shuddered as the commander was about to answer him.
“Check our structural integrity!” he ordered the engineer. “It seems to have been a glancing blow,” announced the engineer as he read his instrument panel. “We’re still airtight, and we still have power.” He checked the panel again. “But our weaponry is inoperative.”
“Then maybe it’s finally time to get the hell out of here,” suggested the pilot.
“We’ve got our orders,” said the commander stubbornly.
“Our orders were to hold our position,” said the pilot. ”We can’t possibly do that with no weaponry.”
“You’re the one who explained it all so logically,” said the commander. “We’re here to be sacrificed. I can’t see that it makes any difference whether we’ve got operative weaponry or not.”
“At least we had a chance, however slim, to defend ourselves before,” the pilot pointed out.
“Do you think I like the thought of sitting here waiting to be blown to pieces!” demanded the commander. “I’ve got a family and a home I’m probably never going to see again. I’m twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake!” He paused, trying to control his emotions. “But I’m a serving officer in the Fleet, and I’ve got my orders.”
“Check with Command again,” said the pilot. “Tell them our situation. Maybe they’ll give us permission to retreat.”
The commander closed his eyes and concentrated on his earphone.
“The command vessel has been destroyed,” he announced.
“Who’s in charge now?” asked the pilot.
“No one. We’ve taken massive losses. The chain of command has been broken.”
“Then we’re on our own!” said the engineer.
“So is everyone else, and no one’s breaking formation,” said the commander.
“To hell with them!”
“If we try to retreat, our own men will destroy us,” explained the commander. “They’ve already shot an assault boat that cut and ran.”
“But this is crazy! We can’t take another hit! It doesn’t even have to be a direct hit–anything at all will rip us apart!”
“I know,” said the commander.
“Then explain it to somebody!”
“There’s no need to. It wouldn’t make any difference.” The commander leaned back in his chair. “We’re not here to win; we’re here to be sacrificed.”
“But what’s the point?” persisted the engineer.
The commander sighed, “If you can find a point to this whole stupid conflict, I’d love to know what it is.”
“The point is destroying the Syndicate, not sitting here waiting for them to blow us out of space!”
“And six months ago, the point was destroying Khalia,” said the commander. “And now we’re being sacrificed to save their home planet.” He paused. “I’m not a betting man, but I’d be willing to wager that in a year or two, or maybe five at the most, we’re fighting side by side with the Syndicate against some new enemy, real or perceived.”
“What are you getting at?” asked the pilot.
“Just this,” said the commander. “I can accept being a pawn in the grand strategy of the battle. I can even accept the fact that pawns get sacrificed.” He paused. “But there’s one thing that’s driving me crazy.”
“What?”
The commander looked at the screen, where a Syndicate cruiser had just appeared. “Here we are, about to be wiped out by a human enemy so that Duane can save Khalia.” He paused.
“I just wish I knew,” he said wistfully, “whether I was a white piece or a black piece.”
The three pawns watched in silence as the opposing pieces bore down on them.
Articles of War
Article V
Every Person subject to this Act, and not being a Commanding Officer, who shall not use his utmost Exertions to carry the orders of his Superior Officers into execution when ordered to prepare for Action, or during the Action
shall, if he acted traitorously, suffer Death; if he has acted from Cowardice shall suffer Death or such other Punishment as is herein-after mentioned; and if he has acted from Negligence, or through other Default, be Dismissed, with Disgrace, or suffer such other Punishment as is herein-after mentioned.
The battle began almost an hour before the first shots flared across space. The Syndicate fleet dropped back into normal space just beyond the outermost planet in the Khalian system. This allowed them time to scurry into formation. Seeing the Fleet ships in a globe, indicating defense, the Syndicate ships formed themselves into a loose cylinder whose open end pointed at the smaller Fleet formation.
Reacting to the cylindrical formation, and an analysis that gave the two fleets near equality in numbers, Duane reacted by opening the globe out into a tightly formed pancake shape that would allow him to overwhelm each section of the attacking cylinder as it passed through.
Passing into the system proper the Syndicate ships reacted by maneuvering a similarly flat formation. Now minutes apart Duane ordered the dreadnoughts in the center of his formation to pull ahead of the edges, turning the formation into a cone whose point was aimed at the opposing flagship.
When the main forces were still several AUs apart, each side released a swarm consisting of hundreds of smaller ships. The goal of these fighters was to harass and disrupt the other fleet’s formation while protecting their own from receiving the same treatment.
“IF I DON’T come back, you can have my stuff,” Pilot Patrick Otlind said, mining through his small personal goods locker for the padded collar that fit into the neck of his flight suit. He sealed the coverall seams, feeling to make sure that the circuit conduits and medical monitors were in place.
“Good luck,” Dr. Mack Dalle offered, his voice full of concern. He stood propped against the door of Pat’s shared quarters, watching his friend suit up. “At least you’ve got something to do. We’ll be back here sitting on our butts waiting for news.”
With a critical eye, Otlind regarded his friend, a long, lean figure in a white medical tunic. “You can fly a scooter. Why don’t you come along, too? I’m sure Meier would be glad to have another one of his scooter pilots volunteer, even if you will have to bend over to fit in the cockpit. You med staff aren’t going to have any action until it’s all over.” The day before both men had taken a ribbing from two fighter pilots who had stopped in to have Mack give them their annual flight physicals. The men had made a big thing about the three kill ribbons one was wearing, inferring any pilot who hadn’t taken on another fighter and won wasn’t in their class. The memory still irked Otlind and he added, “Wouldn’t you love to see the faces of the next pilots you examine with you wearing your own kill ribbon?”