by Blaze Ward
“The Twenty-Seven boats,” Jessica nodded. “The war destroyers are heavy on Primaries, but not modern weapons like the Type-1-Pulse. They’ll crush things, but will work better for me as an escort element, even though the D-Class was better designed for it.”
“I can escort you just fine from the van, Jessica,” he said seriously. “All those defenses you’ll be facing will be built around missiles and fighters. You and the destroyers can have the frigates and catamarans.”
“There you go, then,” she smiled. “You’ll transfer your flag to D-2706-C and I’ll take Achterberg as a personal escort for the big ships, like I used to do with CR-264, when Kigali was a sheepdog for all the carriers at Thuringwell.”
“I know this is not supposed to be fun, Jessica,” Reif said. “But I am rather looking forward to teaching these punks some manners.”
“After the news you’ve brought me from Vo and Denis, it will be more than manners, Reif,” she growled. “I will teach them to fear me forever.”
CHAPTER LV
DATE OF THE REPUBLIC SEPTEMBER 2, 405 CARGO GUNSTATION-1, PETRON
AINSLEY LOOKED over and chuckled as Yan sighed heavily.
“How did we end up here?” he asked in an exasperated tone.
“Nobody would do this for the money you and David were willing to offer,” she snarked back at him. “At least not anybody I would trust with it. That’s why I’m here. You’re just too lazy to scrub your own back in the shower.”
“True,” he sighed again, leaning back and looking around the bridge they were currently controlling.
Ainsley handled that part of things. The ship was kind of a dump. Big, bulk-cargo ships like this were the very bottom of the social ladder around here. Silly-ass pirates would rather walk than make an honest living. Didn’t help that everyone looked at this particular ship like a death trap.
It probably was, but if the invaders showed up with that much firepower, David’s standing orders involved cutting and running, rather than dying for no reason.
Fool kid had read too many King Arthur stories along the way. Hide in the dark forest until the scary Sheriff wasn’t looking, and then pull the sword from the stone.
Or something.
It also hadn’t helped that Yan and Pops hadn’t bothered coming up with a prettier name for the beast than Cargo GunStation-1. Pirates liked their steeds to come with sexy monikers, like the various MotherShips currently on station for the day when the bad guys finally came. Ships like Warduck, Ares, and Sky Dancer were all names Ainsley remembered from her own once upon a time at First Petron.
“We think it’s going to happen today?” Yan asked, obviously bored out of his mind to not be down drinking on the planet with Pops and the Bartender. But then he’d have to shower alone.
The horrors.
Ainsley shrugged. Reports from David’s spies and scouts suggested a major Aquitaine force headed this way, Operational Security notwithstanding. Lincolnshire’s government still leaked information like an old sieve.
For the dozenth time today, Ainsley checked her boards. Two little ships docked aft, ready to launch on five minutes warning. Other ships and the main palace station were deep enough in the gravity well that Jessica’s old trick of coming out of JumpSpace at max speed still wouldn’t get you there before the alarms could sound.
Nothing Aquitaine had sent to help Lincolnshire rated anywhere close to what First Expeditionary Fleet had possessed for quality, there at the end. Third-rate fleets sent to junior varsity neighbors for a food fight in the quad. In the middle of a blizzard.
Morons.
Ainsley had retired. Done with this warfare shit. And yet, here she was, seated next to the goofball pirate with the perfect smile and just the right fingernails to get that spot in the middle of her spine that she could never quite reach.
Command Flight Centurion, retired. Captain, Imperial Navy, retired. Commanding babysitter on this hunk of junk.
A ping on her board caused Ainsley to wake up. It nearly levitated Yan out of his seat, next to her on the otherwise empty bridge, but that was because he had forgotten to hook his seatbelt. If this was it, he’d be there momentarily.
“Bridge to all hands,” Ainsley triggered the ship-wide for the ten other souls aboard. “Stand by for possible combat emergence.”
She brought the engines up from quiet, but didn’t engage them yet. Too much mass to have to stop and turn around. And her role wasn’t in the opening salvo, anyway.
She checked the signal. One of Uly’s pickets, a little Jump-capable sled he had parked out just beyond the usual distance that Aquitaine fleets liked to emerge when they were scouting. It helped that Ainsley could tell him exactly what that distance was and where to hide while waiting.
Sure enough. Major fleet incursion had arrived out there and was probably preparing to bounce out and say hello. The little ship hadn’t hung around long, and didn’t have the computer power to do much, but it had counted ten signals before it fled. One monster, two big, three medium, and four small.
Ainsley assumed that was a corvette team of four, an old destroyer squadron of three, and probably two cruisers. The only key question was if that monster was a dreadnaught or a carrier.
How far behind the curve of planning and technology were the attackers?
Didn’t matter. The flag was dropping now.
“All hands, battle stations,” she yelled into the comm.
For now, all that extra energy would go into shields and making sure all the beams and batteries were charged.
A second line chirped. The secured laser she could use to talk to the two flagships.
“Ainsley here,” she said as Wiley’s thunderously-dark face appeared.
“Wiley,” the woman answered. “I read the same signal you do. Launch the twins now.”
“Neon Pink, Rocket Frog, you are clear to launch when ready,” Ainsley keyed the two of them into the command line.
Somehow, she wasn’t surprised when both ships showed green in only thirty seconds and then began to bang and thump as they undocked. The two women must have been sitting in their respective cockpits, already hooked up and just waiting.
Like maybe they had had the same premonitions that Ainsley had felt this morning.
Above, far outside the usual gravitational well edge that Jessica’s folks liked to dance, trouble emerged.
At least, they probably thought of themselves as trouble. Ainsley checked the readout as every scanner in the local system suddenly got pointed up at the Republic fleet.
“Pirates of Corynthe, this is First Fleet Lord Gotzon Bengoetxea of the Republic of Aquitaine Navy,” a man’s heavy voice suddenly got broadcast over most frequencies. “We are taking control of this system and all military forces therein. All ships will surrender to my authority immediately or be destroyed without mercy.”
Ainsley checked her boards, just to be sure. David had been living aboard his old 3-ring MotherShip Sky Dancer for the last week. Not because he had any business being in the middle of a battle for the skies above Petron, but so he could make a rapid escape, had her old friends shown up with something closer to what the Emperor had brought for the wedding.
They hadn’t, but that just meant that the ship would maneuver like any of the other old MotherShips. That is to say, launching their wings and trying to stay the hell away from enemy warships that could kill them. Kali-ma was the only MotherShip on this side built tough enough to stand in main combat. Wiley and Galen, commanding Qin Lun, would have to hold the line.
At least until Ainsley could waddle this great beast into position. Cargo GunStation-1 could take the abuse. And, for a very brief, magical time, dish it out.
On the boards, it looked like a plague of locusts taking off from the edge of a pond as the MotherShips cast their children into the skies. Above them, one of those two cruisers turned out to be a carrier as well. From the power curve, it was an Expeditionary Carrier at that, a sister of II Augusta that had flown with J
essica. RAN Alexandria. Maybe the most dangerous ship over there, even as a carrier, given the amount of power she had at her disposal. The big ship was the old fleet carrier RAN Adamant. Nearly forty StarFighters. First lines stuff, rather than the second, third, and fifth tier of warriors rising to engage them, hoping that numbers would tell.
“Monarch forces, the mine field is active,” Wiley called on a secured command line. “Move to engage enemy flight wing accordingly.”
“Ya know, right now I wish I could be a fly on the wall of that dickhead’s flag bridge,” Yan laughed as he started keying various controls from the co-piloting stations.
“Why’s that?” Ainsley didn’t bother looking over. She knew what the grin on his face would be. She was busy waddling this beast off to the right line, where the invaders would hopefully ignore her as an unarmed tub trying to escape to deep space, away from the battle.
“There look to be two flights of strike bombers with that mix,” he snarled triumphantly. “Boy, won’t you bastards be surprised?”
A signal on Ainsley’s board turned red. Theoretically, a primary-equipped JumpMine had just deployed itself into that other universe and detonated itself, scrambling all of JumpSpace for most of near orbital space.
If they blew it now, everyone on the friendly side would have to run quite a ways to escape, or at least evade the silly buggers for several, long minutes while they got to the edge. The Bartender had done some preliminary calculations showing where the edges would be, but nobody had a scanner capable of reading it.
Just surprise.
Above, the battle began to take shape, as those three destroyers turned out to be missile versions. A huge salvo of stinging gnats emerged from the force like arrows.
This was going to be a freaking mess.
CHAPTER LVI
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: SEPTEMBER THE SECOND AT PETRON
SHE STILL THOUGHT of her new sled as Neon Pink, even though it wasn’t the famous killer fireball she had flown and upgraded for so long. Still Asra knew everyone else called her that name. Mostly because they still couldn’t spell fuchsia. Hell, most of them couldn’t even pronounce it.
“Rocket Frog, this is Neon Pink, I read chaos on my boards,” Asra giggled as two thirds of the attacking flight wing suddenly blinked out of space, and then blinked right back less than a second later.
Interestingly, even in that brief of a period, their formations had collapsed, with ships pointed every which way and scattering like someone had dropped a bowl of hex bolts and now had to chase them all over the floor.
“Confirm that, Younger-By-Eight-Minutes,” her goofy sister replied. “Think I have the flight leads identified. Transmitting lock coordinates.”
Asra suppressed the evil giggle that wanted to escape her lips. Aquitaine Flight Wings, not counting Jessica’s folks, tended to be almost as rigidly trained as Imperials. Jouster, even though he might be roasting in hell now, had taught his kids how to fly crazy.
Three targets lit up with secondary rings on her targeting system. Asra touched one with a finger to lock it and began to zero herself down on it with the gyros as her GunShip moved across the field of battle just close enough to engage.
The two of them were off to one side, compared to all the other fighters coming out to engage, with the big surprise ship sitting in a high orbit. On the plus side, that meant that she ended up closer to the bad guys and could engage sooner. Downside, she didn’t have anybody but her sister protecting her out here. Well, that wasn’t true. Ainsley Barret was bringing four Type-1-Pulse turrets over, as quickly as that turtle could move. But at some point, those missile destroyers would be angry enough to send a salvo her way.
First one wouldn’t hurt. She and Rocket Frog had enough counter-missiles to kill most of a salvo by themselves. But only that one. Then she would have to have help.
Or the rest of the fighters getting close enough to the big ships that the enemy had to ignore two snipers on their flanks.
“You sure we want the C-2 Lead?” Rocket Frog asked.
“Strike Bombers fly like pigs in melee,” Asra replied. “Big hammer. Lumbering thugs. The knife-fighters need us to soften up the goons who can maneuver.”
“Roger that,” Rocket Frog laughed. “Locked. Engaging in three, two, one, mark.”
Thumbs on trigger and hold. Bedrov’s Light GunShip could do something nobody had ever really considered wise or maybe possible, with all the other weapon options available out there these days: Pulse a Type-3 beam.
She could type faster than the bursts of energy going down range, but a ring of batteries and generators situated behind her could lance out one shot every six-tenths of a second for as long as her fuel held out. Over there, the flight lead of the escort fighters was suddenly getting his shields hammered to shit by two someones with destroyer firepower, at least in that narrow of a band.
Better, he was already defensive, so he didn’t have much thrust going, as he waited for the pirates to come to him.
Bestest, because the Republic had left all their E-2 fighters at home for the surprise of bringing Strike Bombers, they didn’t have anybody with the range to shoot back. Triple-Type-2 clusters were great against warships, especially with surprise. But you had to be sitting at Buran ranges to use them effectively.
Asra had to give that pilot credit, though. Ijit spun, overloaded the engines and tried to escape. But she and her sister were on-pulse. His shields failed on the fourth strobe, and then she was licking bare metal. Hopefully, he managed to eject in time, because the fighter itself came apart quickly.
Still, scratch one Lead. That should soften up the ensuing battle some. Aquitaine pilots were better trained than pirates. Usually just flat better, although there were a few, like her and her sister, who could argue precedence. Still, two to one odds wasn’t enough to sweep the skies clear. Not with a battlecruiser and an Expeditionary Carrier starting to charge forward with two corvettes in escort.
“We’re getting a targeting lock on us,” Rocket Frog murmured. “Someone finally decided to hit us with missiles.”
Neon Pink nodded, knowing her twin would hear it across the depths of space. She checked the boards of the destroyers.
“Wyvern or Mongol?” she asked, naming two of them, along with the third: Longboat.
“Gut says Mongol,” Saša replied.
“Blowtorch time,” Asra said.
That was the trailing of the three enemy destroyers, as they started to move in the direction of the fighters and the two warships that would clash just like the bad old days of the original Battle For The Pirate Crown. The sisters steadied themselves and cut loose again.
A destroyer had much heavier shields, but they were still localized, and these were a way-old design, if they were missile ships. Intended to sit back and fire arrows over the wall, while using their point defenses to protect the cruisers from other missiles and fighter craft.
Asra counted eighteen missiles suddenly turn her direction and attempt to lock on. Bedrov had been expecting this, so they had pretty good scramblers they could point at the sky, making ghosts and hash for the weapons to stare helplessly at.
“GunShips, this is Ainsley,” the voice of the heavens suddenly came over the line. “Cut thrust now and I’m close enough to cover you with defensive fire.”
“Yee haw,” Neon Pink called back and dialed back her engines.
More power for the gun. More power for the electronic counter measures. Maybe even enough for shields, but that many missiles would still kill the two of them. But every missile launched at the Twins wasn’t going after the Queen’s Own or the rest of the Monarch team.
Just for fun, Asra locked on four of the incoming and fired her defensive missiles, never once letting up on the Chinese water torture she and Rocket Frog were laying on Mongol. He could twist to bring new shields to bear, but that messed with his defensive planning. Or he could sit still under orders and take it, like the idiot Adm
iral in charge over there had apparently demanded.
Definitely no Jessica in charge today.
On her screens, Cargo GunStation-1 opened up with the deadly, short-range woodpeckers and the salvo of ugliness coming this way started to melt.
She might just survive this stupid raid, after all.
CHAPTER LVII
IN THE TWELFTH YEAR OF JESSICA KELLER, QUEEN OF THE PIRATES: SEPTEMBER THE SECOND AT PETRON
“STAND BY TO FIRE THE STARFLOWER,” Galen ordered as he lined up a shot at that cruiser.
Transponder identified the ship as an old Founder-class Heavy Cruiser, RAN Washington. On paper, the thing had more tonnage than a Patrol Cruiser like Qin Lun, but that ship design was older than Galen himself was by a few years, and he was flying an advanced, Expeditionary-class ship designed for exactly this sort of day by someone who expected it to happen.
Smaller than the beasts Jessica had taken to Buran: VI Ferrata and VI Victrix, but still meaner than even an old Republic battlecruiser, like Robbie had flown before The Expedition.
“Are these people that stupid?” Donal McKiersky yelled with a disgruntled tone obvious even the length of the bridge.
As Combat Officer, it was Donal’s ship to fight. Galen was just the Captain, like Kari was the Company President.
“Rich and arrogant, Donal,” Galen answered. “He’s got a Fleet Carrier and an Expeditionary, too. Still thinks that we’re a bunch of barbs on the galactic fringe, banging rocks together and still impressed by indoor plumbing.”
“My Da’s not here today, Galen,” Donal laughed harshly.
There was a kernel of truth to it. Until Jessica, that had been the case more often than not. She and David had brought wealth and competence to the government. And helped a pirate nephew of Uly Larionov get so filthy, stinking rich that he could afford to commission his own light battlecruiser designed to sit in the middle of a swarm of SnubFighters and swat them with great efficiency.