Alien Death Fleet [Star Frontiers 1]

by Robert E. Vardeman

  “Monitoring flight path.” Sarov lounged back and locked his fingers behind his head. His work was done for the moment. The ships in the Death Fleet would find themselves under attack from all directions—and with no obvious attacker in sight.

  “Computer analysis of chance of success,” Norlin requested.

  Sarov bent forward and pressed a single button. The result flashed on Norlin's HUD, but the tac officer still gave his verbal report.

  “Deceleration and the resulting radiation emission blocks their detectors. Our sneak circuits are good; the missiles are almost undetectable. Projection is ninety-five percent contact.”

  “Destruction rate?”

  Even as he asked, Norlin knew it was impossible to estimate. They had no idea of the alien ships’ quality of armor, survivability or control systems. The missiles carried warheads varying in type from solid projectiles with kinetic activation to small power drills that bored into hull metal and then exploded. Even if the enemy couldn't detect them, they might be able to take incredible damage and still fight.

  “Launch a dozen atomics,” Norlin said.

  “They might detect the transuranics. Also, those warheads launch slower than the others.”

  “Put them on independent mode and launch.”

  “But—”

  Norlin gave the bulky tac officer no chance to argue. Of Miza, he asked, “Is everything clear?”

  “Your course is laid in.”

  “Liottey?”

  “What is it, Captain?”

  “Report, dammit! Life support? Incidentals secured? Give me everything.”

  “All aye, Captain. Sorry.”

  Norlin snorted. He glanced in Liottey's direction and scanned the XO's summary displays. Life support appeared nominal. He didn't have time to double-check the rest of the officer's responsibilities.

  “Engineering, give me full control.”

  “The engines are begging to be abused,” came Tia Barse's voice. “Whip ‘em till they bleed. Then they'll ask for more.”

  Norlin craned his neck and picked up the summary display from the engineering station, aft of the main bridge. As with the other summaries in his HUD, all looked good.

  “Liottey, join Barse in aft engineering. If anything happens, you're in command. Understand?”

  “But, Captain Norlin!”

  Norlin wasn't sure if Liottey refused to obey because the bridge lay in the center of heavy armor, vibration dampeners and reactive shock defenses while where Barse toiled was just forward of her precious engines and vulnerable to an ass-end missile shot. Although he had never heard of a situation where the bridge had been blown off and the remainder of the ship survived, he wanted there to be some small chance of the Preceptor limping away if he died.

  “Do it. Now!” He turned back, not caring if Liottey obeyed or not because things had heated up fast. His proximity display flared red with danger. The Death Fleet was almost on top of them.

  “Blast—now!” He sagged into the chair's pneu-matic cushions as the mighty engines sent them hurling along their orbit around Lyman IV. He kept a full navigational display parading in front of him. Using the planet's gravity well to slingshot the Preceptor away, he gained another advantage. For a brief time, he used the bulk of the planet to shield the ship from the Death Fleet.

  “There goes the station,” came Sarov's deep voice. “They hit it with atomics. Six, eight, twelve bombs of fifty megatons each. Good shell temperature on detonation. Upward of ten eV. Nice design on their devices.”

  Norlin changed the view in his HUD from readouts to external. In vivid three-dimensional display, he saw the expanding cloud of superheated plasma that had been the system's most heavily fortified base. With full defensive armament in action, the station might have held off the alien attack for hours. He checked and found no outlier residual ionization cloud to indicate anyone had attempted to interdict the deadly alien missiles.

  “Goodbye, Captain Emuna,” he said softly. The officer's body was now nothing more than scattered ions. “It wasn't a choice post for a first command.”

  “First missiles finding targets in their formation,” advised Sarov.

  “Effectiveness?”

  “Good. I'm reading sixty-seven percent destruction rate. We can kill them.”

  Norlin jerked around, more from instinct than instrumentation warning. He worked frantically on his computer console, wishing he could speed up input by using voice control. Even though the computer differentiated voices, no captain allowed voice during combat. If the hull was breached, they might lose atmosphere. Such a pressure change altered the frequency of a voice and often resulted in computer rejection.

  Norlin also suspected that too many combat officers developed a dry mouth and found it difficult to enunciate clearly enough for the computer's acceptance. His own mouth tasted like desert sand.

  “Cap'n,” came Barse's voice over an isolated command circuit. “How're we doing?”

  “A scoutship spotted us leaving orbit. It's after us. Miza will pick it up in a few seconds.”

  “You got it before her? That's rich. She owes me a liter of whiskey. She claimed you'd—”

  “Engineer, what do you want? I'm busy.”

  “Sorry, Cap'n. If your mouth's going dry, Dukker always kept a small tube of thirst-kill in the left arm of the chair.”

  Barse clicked off, and Miza's cold tones informing him of the scout's detection replaced the engineer's more pleasant voice in his ear.

  “Already working on it,” he informed her. She mumbled to herself when she saw the computer had already begun feeding Sarov fire control coordinates.

  “Want the lasartillery brought up to full capacity? We can take a ship of that mass. We outpower it.”

  Norlin toggled his acknowledgment of the request—and denied Sarov's desire to engage. Full power remained on the drive engines. Norlin launched a small missile and watched the scout easily deflect it.

  “We're in for a battle,” he said over the general circuit.

  “Let me—” Sarov started.

  “Quiet, Lieutenant-Commander. Run AI battle plan projections, mark seven, mark nine, mark ten.”

  “Very well ... Captain.”

  Norlin let Sarov work on the preprogrammed combat control programs to see if any of the three offered a good chance for survival while he studied the alien scout with growing uneasiness. It massed a tenth of the Preceptor's bulk, but it moved well, and something about its aggressive pursuit showed that its crew had no fear of them.

  He had seen the way they surreptitiously reprogrammed sensitive cometary detectors to allow their entire fleet to enter a system unchallenged. The aliens’ knowledge of human technology had to be good. That meant those aboard the scout knew they faced a fully armored cruiser.

  “They've turned their radiation cannon on us,” came Miza's and Sarov's simultaneous warning. The displays went crazy in Norlin's HUD. He ripped off the command visor and turned to the slower readout on his control panel.

  “Damage?”

  “Engines are still running. I've got them on manual, though. That bastard took out all my auto-control circuitry,” reported Barse.

  “Sir,” came Liottey's wavering voice. “Life support is damaged.”

  “Then fix it, dammit.” Norlin punched off Liottey's individual circuit. The only way Liottey could reach him was through the general circuit they all shared. He doubted this would keep the XO from whining, but ridicule by the others might hold him in check for a while. By then, the Preceptor would either be safe or an expanding, superheated ball of high-Z plasma.

  “Combat control, what are the best weapons for on-the-run fighting?”

  “Missiles. We can lay them behind us like a mine field and make it more difficult to follow.”

  “Lay them along our course and set them for random detonation. Have a few lay doggo and then lock on after the scout passes them. Get him from behind. Keep the intruder vessel busy!”

  “No ind
ication any other alien craft is onto us,” came Miza's cool appraisal. “It wouldn't surprise me if they thought the scoutship alone could take us.”

  “It might be able to,” said Norlin. He turned his attention to the main body of the fleet. Even though he had a hundred different command decisions to make, he couldn't take his eyes off the vidscreen.

  The Death Fleet moved into orbit around Lyman IV with eerie precision. Each ship fit perfectly into a matrix of destruction. Rainbow-colored beams licked at the planet's surface. Norlin increased magnification and saw the resulting devastation. Buildings remained; people, plants and animals died instantly from the ionizing radiation. In a few spots, the Death Fleet dropped a deadly curtain of neutron bombs that blanketed the landscape. The explosions flared in silence and forced the computer to adjust for violent intensity changes. The blast damage on-planet remained small; only life was lost.

  “Getting some reports on their fleet, Captain.” Sarov's voice cut through his growing despair. “Our missiles destroyed nine of their craft. Fourteen more were damaged. They remain functional, however. Six missiles have struck the scout craft pursuing us—all inflicted less than detectible damage. That's one tough mother.”

  “Keep tracking.” Norlin studied the damage within the Preceptor and decided they had weathered their first battle in good condition. Barse and Liottey had robot repair units—RRUs—hard at work to fix the worst of the damage. No structural or major-systems damage had been inflicted. The brief brush with the scoutship's radiation weapon had played havoc with their controls, however. Entire banks of superconducting ceramic block circuits had to be replaced. Replacing or reprogramming would take precious time. And from what Norlin could tell, the brunt of the radiation had left their engines at half-capacity. A smile crept to his lips. Barse would be fit to be tied at the alien impudence, damaging her engines.

  Norlin saw how the scout avoided their missiles; the aliens had learned his tactics from the destruction meted out to their main fleet and had already relayed this to the pursuing ship.

  “Request permission to recharge lasartillery, Captain. We diverted power during the fracas.”

  “Denied. We need the juice to keep moving, since we're limping along at half speed. The scout's overtaking us.”

  “We can't get any more delta-vee out of the engines, Cap'n,” came Barse's voice. “Control is still spotty. That radiation cannon of theirs is one hell of a nasty weapon.”

  “Sarov, can we fight? What are our chances?”

  “The computer's given us less than ten percent chance. I don't believe this. It's only a scoutship!”

  Norlin chewed his lower lip. They had little chance of fighting the smaller vessel and living to brag about it. Outrunning it held little promise, either. Without consciously wanting to, he shifted so that he stared into the vidscreen display focused on Lyman IV.

  The Death Fleet had finished scouring the surface of all life. The gravid mother ships disgorged ferries and the automated factories that stripped the surface. Within days, everything of material worth would be removed from the planet, and they would go unmolested on their way to another human colony.

  Norlin swallowed hard. He had already lost what mattered most on the planet. Neela's body floated as vapor in the atmosphere.

  “We run. Give it all she'll take, Barse.”

  The Preceptor shuddered as the scoutship began a serious attack that caused warnings to flash across his control panel. Even fleeing as fast as they could, the cruiser sustained increasing damage.

  They couldn't fight; they couldn't run.

  All that remained was for them to die.

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  * * *

  Chapter Seven

  “He's on us like epoxy,” Chikako Miza reported. “No matter what maneuver you try, he's there and countering us. He knows what you try before you do it.”

  “His weapons are coming up,” said Sarov. “He'll be at full power in a few more seconds. We don't dare take another full hit from his radiation cannon.”

  “Add another layer of shielding to the bridge,” ordered Norlin. His neck developed knots in muscles he hadn't been aware of possessing. The constant flood of information across his HUD kept him constantly on alert trying to get the best picture of their trouble. He wanted to take a few minutes off—to catch his breath, to have a nice, long, cool drink of the former captain's amino-acid-laced thirst-kill and then return to the fray.

  The alien vessel wasn't likely to pull back enough to give him any respite.

  “Permission to power up the lasartillery,” asked Sarov.

  “No, we need the energy for the engines. We either stand and fight or run like hell.” Norlin bit his lower lip hard when he said that. He was the Preceptor's captain. He had no need to explain his orders. The others only had to obey and know he had good reasons for the command. Norlin realized how new he was at this—and how unlikely he would be to gain more experience.

  “What are the computer projections on the AI systems maneuvers?” he asked Sarov.

  “None stand a chance. I tried several other likely candidates—based on the general schemes in each of the plans you suggested,” he added, as if to assuage Norlin's hurt pride.

  Norlin was more interested in finding a way free of the alien scoutship with its impossibly potent arms and dense armor. He could lick his wounds later. First, he had to fight through to reach “later.”

  He tapped the keyboard on his chair arm and saw that none of the usual evasion paths looked as if they would provide escape.

  “More force shielding added, Cap'n,” came Barse's voice in his left ear. “I had Liottey power it up. He needs something to keep him busy. He's so scared he's cratering.”

  “I'll see to it.” Norlin reactivated Liottey's direct circuit. To his first officer, he said, “I need maximum shielding. Keep it up. The scout is going to hit us with the radiation cannon again. Keep me apprised of the danger levels.”

  He clicked off before the obsequious XO could answer. This served a small purpose and kept the man busy while the others tended to their duties. Norlin blinked up a more complete summary display on the life support systems, since he doubted Liottey would be paying as close attention to them as he should.

  “Pre-discharge corona observed,” reported Sarov. “We're in for another shot.”

  The tactical officer had barely warned them when Norlin cringed. Warning lights flared across his board and in his eyes from the heads-up display. He worked quickly to assign damage control to Liottey and Barse. The engineer didn't need to be told what to do. Liottey was increasingly harried and unable to make good decisions. Norlin cut him out of the command circuit. He could issue orders and push console buttons all he wanted; they would do nothing without first going through Norlin's display for approval. That added to his personal burden, but any mistakes the XO made in life support might kill them all.

  Just as any mistake Norlin made could. What should he do? What? What?

  “Was it necessary to put him in trainee mode?” asked Barse. The engineer had noticed instantly what Norlin had done.

  “Yes. We've got big problems. Are you close to returning full power to the engines?”

  “Right, Cap'n. Count on us. Some of us.”

  “Radiation damage to controls minimal this time,” Miza warned. “We're in for a bigger dose, though. The enemy's powering up again. Rapid cycle time. That's one hell of a cannon.”

  Norlin precessed the Preceptor then applied thrust at a vector that almost wrenched him from his chair. The ship responded well. It had been made for abuse—and the heat of battle. The violent maneuver helped them avoid the sweeping beam of the radiation cannon.

  “We've got to fight. We can't run,” said Sarov. “That's a computer decision as well as mine, Captain.”

  Norlin nodded, although neither his tac officer nor the computer could see. His fingers tapped rapidly to spray out a thin shield of missiles, each with a different intercept and det
onation characteristic. He hoped one might lie doggo long enough for the scout to pass it. A shot directly up the alien's tailpipe would finish it.

  Norlin sagged when one missile after another exploded prematurely, detonated by the flashing radiation cannon. The alien's detection system proved too good; they had been alerted to know what to look for by the survivors in the Death Fleet. Another way to destroy the scout had to be found.

  “Are you on the nav, Captain?” demanded Miza. “We're three light-seconds from Lyman. The Nereid Cluster of asteroids is ahead.”

  “I know,” Norlin lied.

  An idea came to him. They couldn't outdrive or outfight the scout. They might dodge through the small cluster of asteroids that trailed Lyman IV at a libration point. He checked for size. Two asteroids were a half kilometer in length. The rest were too small for the use he intended.

  Norlin twisted the Preceptor around violently again. Liottey complained. No one else noticed—they were too intent on their computer readouts. Sarov was the first to understand what Norlin intended.

  “Power up on the lasartillery now, Captain?”

  “Do it. Power down for maneuvering,” he ordered Barse. “Get ready to give it all we can on offensive weaponry.”

  His HUD went black when the scout hit them squarely with a blast from the radiation cannon. The computer struggled to cut in backup displays. Norlin ended up with only minimal control over the ship and even less in the way of direct information about its condition. Not one system in ten appeared on his HUD.

  “Get me nav data on largest asteroid only,” he ordered. Miza furnished him the data he needed. Norlin sent the Preceptor twisting in a crazy spiral and then turned the ship end for end and applied thrust. The cruiser did not come to a complete stop relative to the asteroid; it didn't have to.