The Grapple

by Moshe Ben-Or

  Relativistic velocity jinxing. The last recourse of the desperate.

  All in vain, thought Jean Leroy as his bomber’s shield flashed white from a nearby detonation.

  The hull pinged and crackled with thermal expansion.

  The radiation alarm was beeping. A tiny red blot ticked just out of focus and out of the way, in the corner of his eye. He didn’t care to look at it. It was red, turning black, and that was all he needed to know. The exact number didn’t matter.

  The Zin gunners’ efforts, too, were all in vain today. The battleship would not escape. These Zin were coming with him across the curtain. All fourteen hundred of them.

  * * *

  “Situation update!” barked Rear Admiral Khurrsayn al-Mrrlikikh as he pushed out of the escape pod.

  A holographic globe unfolded before him as the AI rattled off the task force strength report, following as he floated toward the hatch.

  “Ugly business,” thought the admiral. “Damned ugly business.”

  “Welcome aboard the Selim, sir!”

  They’d sent an ensign to greet him in person. No, a marine lieutenant. Still a stupid waste of personnel on a ship cleared for battle.

  The admiral hissed in pain as his tail reflexively tried to twitch to correct his motion. His claws almost missed the edge of the hatch.

  The radiation armor made him clumsy as a newborn kitten. A splinted tail didn’t help.

  He needed to schedule more practice, thought Khurrsayn al-Mrrlikikh. If it wasn’t for Corporal Makhmad and the self-rescue bots, he would never have made it out of the wreckage. He’d barely managed to put on his cuirass and helmet, deploy his recon crawlers and cut his way out of the smashed-up control pod. At least the EVA armor’s limb sheaths were automatic, like his ship suit’s rescue hood. Otherwise he would’ve probably screwed them up, too.

  “Saydikh, you are injured!” came a solicitous voice. The ship’s doctor, no doubt.

  Yes, there he was, floating at the far end of the hallway. He’d even brought a pair of medbots along, for company. Utterly ridiculous!

  “Nobody has ever died of a broken tail, a knocked-out fang, or a few bruises, doctor,” replied the commander of Picket 37.

  The Selim’s chief surgeon didn’t need to know about his splitting headache. The radiation suit’s automedic had given him a shot to take the edge off, and that was good enough for now. He had bigger issues to worry about.

  “Where’s my control pod?”

  “Saydikh, I must protest...” stuttered the doctor.

  “Protest away,” replied admiral Khurrsayn, “but do it from your assigned duty station. You have plenty of worse injuries than mine to deal with, commander. Leaving your post in order to greet a lightly injured senior officer under the present circumstances can be viewed as dereliction of duty.

  “Lieutenant, my control pod!”

  “This way, saydikh!” replied the lieutenant smartly.

  It was a damage control direction center, only two blast doors down from the docking bay. Most probably literally the nearest suitable control pod on the ship. The lieutenant’s duty station, no doubt.

  The damage control team snapped to attention at their corporal’s shouted order as the admiral floated into the compartment.

  “As you were,” said the admiral, returning the corporal’s salute as he floated past racked engineering and security bots.

  “We have bridged to the main network, saydikh,” noted the lieutenant helpfully. “The pod is reconfigured for battle command. Anything else you need at this time, my lord?”

  “Thank you, lieutenant,” answered the admiral, already stripping off his cuirass, “that will be all.”

  “Saydikh,” interrupted Corporal Makhmad, “perhaps you should consider moving deeper into the ship.”

  “In due course,” replied the task force commander, handing over his radiation armor. “Right now there is no time to waste.

  “Have your injuries attended to, corporal. Then arrange for another pod. You have half an hour.”

  The admiral’s hand paused on the armored rim. A private link-text unfolded on his rescue hood visor.

  “The situation is dire, saydikh?”

  Among Makhmad’s most admirable qualities, thought the task force commander, above even his utter imperturbability under pressure and his remarkable athletic prowess, was his affinity for keeping his mouth firmly shut. Only the good corporal’s loyalty was more worthy of praise.

  “Most dire,” he replied just as privately. “Make sure of multiple escape routes, and a pinnace. Another emergency transfer of flag is likely.”

  The armored lid slid into place. His rescue hood pulled back as the pod pressurized.

  It was worse than he’d expected, thought Khurrsayn al-Mrrlikikh as he dropped into the virtual world of the battle command network. Far worse.

  “...Where did they come from? How?! Out of the black, without jump points! Black magic! Witchery! There was no warning! No warning at all!!!”

  “...This is the Tariq. We’ve lost half our compartments. Two main reactors are breached. All our heatsinks are leaking. There aren’t enough sickbay beds for the wounded! Please, somebody!”

  “...They fired their torpedoes from three kilo-kays! Three!!!”

  “…I swear, he tried to torch!”

  “...Believe it. They torched the Saifulakh!”

  “...The Zaid has no heatsinks! The Tahir has no jump drive! The Qutaibakh burst like a water balloon! I have no group, damn you! I barely have a ship!”

  “...Where is the Admiral? Does anyone know what happened to the Admiral?!”

  “...Admiral Khurrsayn is dead. Commodore Akhmat is dead. Commodore Nurshakh is dead. Commodore Abdallakh is dead. Commodore Tariq is dead… We should go by date of rank...”

  “...This is Alishakh al-Thanikh! I am in command!”

  “The hell you are, you lowborn lout! I’ll take no orders from the likes of you!”

  “...We must retreat! We must retreat! There are more of them! Another strike might arrive at any moment!”

  “...Who is in charge?! Is anyone in charge out there?!! We need instructions!!! WHAT ARE WE TO DO?!!!”

  “SILENCE ON THE NET!!!” roared the admiral. “Do I hear the mujahideen of Allakh, or do I hear a clutch of scared old mollies?! Your enemy shows no fear of death, and you cluck like laying hens!

  “Is it attainder that you cluck for, or is it the executioner’s sword?! Or is it a decree of proscription?!!

  “The next coward who dares yap about retreat will lose his head along with his rank!

  “Captain Alishakh bin Maslamakh al-Thanikh is second in command of the task force! Captain Ruhollakh bin Nureddin al-Firanikh is third in command of the task force! Following that, see attached table!

  “The foe approaches! Comport yourselves as befits officers of the Ahmirr!”

  Where would he run? He didn’t have a single undamaged heavy warship. Not one carrier had survived the torpedo strike. Some torpedo releases had occurred at less than three thousand kilometers from the target! A few of the enemy bombers really did close to naked-eye range on the heels of their torpedoes and scorch the targets with their torches. Not that it really mattered. The penetrator impacts had done damage enough.

  Those pilots hadn’t given a damn about their lives. All they’d cared about was hitting the targets. And they’d damned well hit them. They’d bought what they’d paid for.

  Up the gradient, down the gradient, it didn’t matter. If he tried to run, the enemy would pick his task force apart piecemeal, like a herd of milling sheep.

  Win this battle, lose this battle, there would be a reckoning regardless. Somebody would bear the blame for what had already happened here.

  Forget the public disgrace of attainder. Forget loss of property and title. Forget hunger and homelessness, the shame of begging in the streets and heirs left penniless. Forget even potential loss of head.

  They all had sons, fathers, brothers… Pr
oscription really was on the table here. The Mace of Battle would petition His Majesty in the worst instance, if only to cover his own ass.

  The task force had been ordered to defend the Loki jump point, and that is precisely what the task force would do. He who stood and fought, followed his orders to the letter, did his duty to the last and fell a shaheed in battle was blameless by definition. He who played the coward and ran in violation of orders…

  Murad al-Suidikh had chased off after the enemy with well over half his light forces, and every surviving small craft. Of course he had. Completely in character and the dumbest possible thing to do right now.

  Good thing Alishakh al-Thanikh had refused to follow. One sensible head among this bunch of dolts. The fellow commanding the independent light cruiser detachment; surprise, surprise. He’d even shaken his lot out into a screen, pretty much exactly where they belonged.

  Well, no helping it when it came to Murad, thought the admiral as he threw icons around on the task organization table. Either those light units would come back or they wouldn’t. Right now, he had bigger fish to fry. Reorganize, reform, prepare for engagement.

  Time. He had to buy time above all else. The engineers and the self-repair systems needed time.

  “Task Force, fragmentary order follows!” transmitted the commander of Picket 37.

  “In the name of Allakh, the Merciful, the Compassionate.

  “Task organization is modified as per attached table. Mission is unchanged. It is my intent to accept battle within the jump zone and defend the jump zone at all cost. Execution is as follows:

  “Detachment One, the main effort, forms wall of battle and holds current position in order to defend the jump zone. Facing 19263+4981. All priority to damage control and repair.

  “Detachment Three screens 19263+4981 cone 10800 in order to detect and disrupt enemy approach. Upon encountering enemy main effort, detachment withdraws in contact in order to delay the enemy. Detachment Six deploys in spherical screen around main effort in order to detect and destroy enemy raiders.

  “Upon detection of enemy main effort, Detachment One repositions to vicinity 6600 flat:6 and accepts close gun engagement. Detachments Three and Six operate as per SOP. Refer to attached maneuver sketch.

  “We seek refuge with Allakh from Shaitan the Accursed, and there is no victory but from Allakh.”

  “AI,” he continued, watching the icons rearrange themselves on the battle command display, “ansible message to the Mace of Battle: ‘Surprise attack. Enemy possesses previously unknown General Solution for Loki outer system. Engagement in progress.’”

  “Attachments?” asked the AI.

  “No attachments.”

  The last thing he needed was that peasant brute Sayf al-Masrikh learning exactly how badly the surprise attack had gone. If he lost, he wouldn’t live to see the Board of Inquest, and Allakh was merciful. If he won, all would be forgiven. But right now, with that creature’s temper...

  “Message sent,” replied the AI.

  * * *

  “We’re even,” thought Baron Papadakis, watching his situation display. “My men are better men. My ships are better ships. I will crush you. No matter the cost, I will crush you.”

  The Zin had no carriers. He had no bombers. With luck, a couple of hours from now, Glorie and Victoire between them might be able to regenerate a composite torpedo wing or two from the wreckage. The fighters had fared better. But even among those pilots, a good quarter were going straight to sickbay with acute radiation poisoning. Maurice Roix’s whole detachment literally could not muster a single undamaged light craft.

  Moshe Barzel had died trying to extricate Maurice’s bombers, but Ephraim Baumann had arrived with his frigates just in time to turn the massive light forces furball into an orderly withdrawal, and bleed his pursuers white in the process. The Zin had chased him right into the destroyer and gunboat screen advancing in front of Detachment One.

  Some of the attackers did get through. The Tel Aviv got grazed by a torpedo penetrator, and the Gat took a burn-through from a well-aimed missile salvo. But, overall, the Zin pursuit was a bloody wash.

  Too damned bad the enemy capital ships hadn’t joined in, thought the commodore. Whoever had taken command of their remaining force looked to have his head on straight. Cool customer. Sensible. He’d had almost two hours to repair what damage he could. Smart of him to pull back and play for time. Every moment he could give his engineers would be precious.

  His light cruiser screen and missile raiders had bought him another ninety minutes. But now the maneuver games were over.

  His choices were three. He could jump out and turn this into a chase he would lose. He could pull back and play for more time, but that meant giving up the jump zone and all option of retreat. Or he could stand and fight.

  Zin light cruisers were reforming into a second wall of battle behind the enemy’s heavy units. The missile ships were spreading out in a ring to guard the flanks. He was going to stand and fight.

  Longitude 6600, flat on the ecliptic, six light-minutes from the star. Smack in the middle of the jump zone he was tasked to defend. Demonstratively following his orders, probably. He had to know which way this would end.

  The Zin still outnumbered and outgunned the humans, on paper. Six battleships to four, eleven battlecruisers to eight, nine light cruisers to four. But it wouldn’t matter. Not one of the enemy’s capital ships, save the light cruisers, had escaped the torpedo strike unscathed. Some couldn’t even break c. That much was already apparent from the sensor data. What the torpedo hits had done to the heatsinks, the shield generators and the guns, he didn’t know yet. But Target Intelligence could hazard some guesses, based on the gaping holes, the fresh scars, the new welds and the uncontrolled eddies in the shield clouds.

  They could still put up one hell of a fight. They would, without a doubt. But the outcome was preordained. Maurice’s pilots had bought his victory for him.

  No sense in fancy maneuvering, then. Forward, and have done.

  “Eighteen, Battle Drill One!” ordered the commodore. “Engage at will!”

  The walls of his control pod sang a basso note as the Hector’s microjump drive stepped up the oscillations. A dozen bells tolled in unison as the battleship’s main battery fired on the enemy.

  * * *

  Here it was, thought Rear Admiral Khurrsayn al-Mrrlikikh, the moment of truth. He knew the outcome of this engagement already. There was no doubt whatsoever as to what would happen here.

  The signature list rolled before him. He knew these names. He knew all of them. He could even quote from memory the color of the dyes that marked their shell bursts. Purple Three for the Hector, Red Two for the Ramak, Blue Eleven for the Arizal…

  The enemy’s best ships. Not one drive cycling slower than two hertz at flank. The Slava-class light cruisers could push two point nine in a sprint, almost as fast as the average frigate. All but untouched, heat sinks still nice and cold, elite crews raring for a fight. Against his battered lot.

  It was supposed to look like a raid in force, nothing more. But it wasn’t that. Not with that list of ships. Not with what their torpedo bombers had done. They’d been sent to possess this jump zone. Possess it at any cost. To win, or die trying.

  It didn’t matter why, ultimately. Not to him. Not anymore. They would seize what they had come for. But they would pay for it a price they would never forget.

  The enemy’s torpedo bombers had set the tone for this battle already. He would show them how mujahideen of Allakh faced death!

  “Main effort, advance at nine-tenths c. Supporting detachments, Battle Drill Six,” commanded the admiral.

  “AI, ansible message to the Mace of Battle: ’Enemy force superior. Wedding imminent. All glory to Allakh!’ No attachments.”

  Let Sayf al-Masrikh form a Board, and send scouts to chase wavefronts in a system infested with drones and mines, if he had time for that sort of nonsense, thought Khurrsayn al-Mrrlikikh. He would not
hand his enemies a sword against his own kin. Allakh was merciful. Inshallakh…

  “Message sent,” replied the AI.

  “Forward, mumineen!” exclaimed the commander of Picket 37 as the Hector’s signature purple-tinted, eleven-megaton fireballs burst all around the Selim, “The dark-eyed ones await!”

  “Allakhu akbar!” chorused his captains, as the Zin walls of battle volleyed back at the foe.

  * * *

  “Good afternoon, Sister,” said Yosi, stepping out of the truck. “How’s the new algae tank working out?”

  It was nice of the Ministry of Infrastructure Reconstruction Team to have fixed Señor Diaz’s pickup trucks for him. They came in quite handy.

  “Good afternoon to you, too, Colonel,” answered Sister Sophia. “The tank is working fine, thank you. We just harvested the first crop yesterday. It’s the first time in ten months the children haven’t gone to bed hungry.”

  “That’s good to hear.

  “I’ve brought you some corn, some polywheat, and a pair of milch goats for the children. And eight wounded men, I’m afraid.

  Señor Diaz fought quite hard. Two are pretty bad. The rest are ambulatory, though one is missing an arm. They can help with your garden, and with the orchard. And to guard this place, of course. In the worst-case scenario, Señor Desousa will vouch that these men have been wounded in a fight with bandits, just like the ones at his hacienda.”

  “We’ll do our best to care for them, Colonel,” replied the nun. “Sister Luiza, the two badly wounded men will go into our dormitory, on the first floor. Please tell Sister Maria and Sister Beatriz that they have to move back upstairs. And please get some students to clean up the groundskeeper’s cottage for the others. Sister Livia, if you please, see to the grain and the animals.

  “Would you like some tea while you wait for dinner, Colonel? I presume you and your men will be staying the night?”