Exodus: Empires at War: Book 06 - The Day of Battle

by Doug Dandridge

  “We have taken the crewwoman under custody, but it may take a moment to unlock the system,” said the Commander, her worried looking face appearing on the holo. He could see someone in battle armor behind the officer, struggling in the grasp of two other Spacers.

  “Your Majesty,” yelled the struggling crewwoman. “I struck the first blow from this ship. Aren’t you proud of me? I did it, Sean. I paid the bastards back.”

  Dammit, thought Sean, looking into the face of his old B ring chief. Why didn’t I listen to the doctor? I should never have put her in a position of responsibility this soon.

  “Be gentle with her, Commander. Take her to medical and have her held there until I tell you what to do with her.”

  The holo went blank for a moment. “I’m so sorry, Sean,” said Jennifer, rubbing her hand over the armor on his left arm. “I know you wanted her to be well.”

  “I’ll think about that later,” said Sean, looking back at the tactical plot that surrounded them.

  “We have missile launches, your Majesty.”

  “Target?”

  “We can’t be sure, but most probably us.”

  * * *

  “What in all the hells was that,” yelled the Great Admiral as a powerful particle beam struck one of his vessels. The velocity reading below the beam was point nine nine nine nine light, and the ship in question had only had a less than one second warning of it coming, not enough time to avoid it. A large gouge appeared in the forward hull of the superbattleship, gas flaring into short lived flames before dying in the vacuum.

  “That was a particle beam, my Lord,” said the Tactical Officer in a disbelieving voice. “From that large merchant ship.” The officer pointed to the middle of the three ships. “I believe it is not what it seems. Maybe all of them are not what they seem.”

  “Then target those vessels and fire spreads of missiles at them.” The Great Admiral stood there thinking for a moment. He zoomed the vid up on the damaged ship, one that had been hit by a one second exposure to one powerful particle beam. The gouge in the side was open through the armor and several levels below. He had never seen anything like it from that kind of weapon, and thought in horror what would have happened if it had been made up of antiprotons. He made up his mind in an instant. “All crew to acceleration couches. Prepare for heavy gee forces. Send that command to all ships.”

  Klaxons started to sound while lights flashed, and the crew ran to their bridge couches. “Prepare to add twenty-five gravities to our deceleration. Continue until we come to a halt.” Twenty-five more gravities was twelve above their safety limit. The males would suffer through that many gravities, up to and through unconsciousness for many of them. Some might die. And the effect on the slaves aboard each ship would be deadly to most, especially since the majority of those beings didn’t have couches.

  “Set the weapons on automatic track and fire, level two.”

  “Not level one, my Lord?” asked the Tactical Officer.

  “We may need to fight our way out of this system,” said the Great Admiral, giving a head motion of negation. “Just set the weapons to my parameters.”

  The Tactical Officer gave a head motion of acknowledgement and turned back to his board. “Weapons engaged to level two automatic.”

  “Command transmitted to all ships, my Lord,” called out the Com Officer.

  “Engage acceleration on my command,” said the Great Admiral.

  “What about the males who don’t make it to their couches?” asked the Helm Officer.

  “Acceptable casualties. Now, engage.”

  The heavy push of pseudo-gravity settled on the bodies of the Cacada as the ship jumped into a greater deceleration profile. The Great Admiral tried to pull in a breath, and was barely able to, thanks to the genetics of his kind, who had originally developed on a heavy gravity world. Still, it was a struggle, and one which his breathing muscles could not win over the long run. Soon he stopped pulling air into his lungs, depending on his internal nanoglobule system to provide his brain with the oxygen he needed to survive. Now they would stop four minutes earlier than before. And even better, they would start on the way back out at a much faster acceleration rate than the enemy could follow.

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  CONGREEVE SYSTEM. NOVEMBER 20TH, 1001.

  “Send a signal to the nearest three task groups,” ordered Lenkowski, watching the approaching enemy forces on the tactical holo. There were three of them as well, made up of over a hundred vessels, but only twelve of them superbattleships. Still, they outmassed his task group, and he wasn’t sure he could defeat them in close combat.

  His task group, comprising his superbattleship, twelve regular battleships, and forty-eight smaller vessels, waited. They had dropped back into normal space and were trying to put distance between themselves and the oncoming Ca’cadasans, while staying outside the hyper barrier and at a low enough velocity to jump back into hyper, to avoid any missiles sent their way by the much larger enemy force that had just gone beyond the barrier and into the system.

  “All of those groups are to fire time on target to our projected position,” he looked over at his Flag Navigation Officer. “Calculate the longest range of the farthest task group’s missiles, and our projected position, then send to task groups.”

  The Com Officer gave acknowledgement and started sending out the signal, while the Admiral studied the holo. Some green arrows, blinking as their positions were approximated on the holo, were on a course toward the enemy task force, travelling at point nine-five light, giving out no gravitons, and therefore invisible to long range tracking.

  “All other task groups are to fire time on target on the enemy force now boosting into the system. Impact time to coincide with that of the projected deep strike from out system. Send our best projected location for the deep strike and their ETA.”

  He knew that the enemy force was forging in to meet up with the larger force that was about to grapple with the Emperor’s local command. Once united, they would try to defeat the human force, or, failing that, fight their way out of the system. I will ream the hell out of those bastards before they get to that point, he thought.

  “Time to enemy force arriving at our locations?” he asked his Tactical Officer.

  “Estimated, fifteen minutes, twelve seconds,” called out the officer.

  And time on target will reach us in twenty-three. Can we hold out that long?

  * * *

  “Enemy force is increasing deceleration rate,” called out Kelso over the com. “Profile puts them at a stop three minutes from predicted.”

  “I didn’t think they had that kind of capability,” said Jennifer, who, at Sean’s prompting, had been studying everything they knew about the Cacas.

  “I think it’s beyond the limit for their bigger ships,” said Sean, staring at the vid of one of the enemy superbattleships. “Which means those crews are suffering from a heavy gravity load. Unless they have acceleration tubes?”

  “From our intelligence, and the ships we have inspected, they don’t use them,” said Captain Mary Innocent over the com. “They seem to feel it is outmoded tech, superseded by their own increase in technology.”

  Sean thought about that for a second. The Empire’s own naval experts had suggested the obviation of the tubes, liquid filled containers that allowed people to travel at over thirty gravities. As new tech increased the maximum inertia that grabbers could convert to heat, the experts kept saying that the tubes were useless tech, but the Fleet kept finding a use for them.

  And they thought the same of plasma torpedoes, only retaining them because some staunch traditionalists demanded their inclusion on new ships. And then Jean de Arc used them to help destroy an Ca’cadasan superbattleship. And I used them later to knock out an enemy missile swarm in hyper, using old tech to solve a current problem.

  “We want a close in fight with the bastards,” said Sean, watching the red arrows of the aliens’ latest strike coming at them. Th
ey’ll be here in one minute. Then, five minutes later, we get hit with the strike aimed at us and the other superfreighters. And the wormhole ship gate won’t be in firing position for another six minutes, as slow as it’s moving. He checked on the progress of the missiles that were scheduled to come through that gate and winced. The first missiles would be coming through in four minutes, and there was nothing he could do about it. He looked back at the enemy fleet, the lowest acceleration figure showing beneath them five hundred and forty gravities. And his battleships could only make five hundred and ten, even with the tubes. The enemy would start pulling away within minutes of their stop. Unless.

  “All ships are to accelerate toward the enemy fleet.”

  “Augustine and her consorts won’t be able to keep up in their current configuration,” said Kelso, an expectant tone in his voice.

  “Then jettison the camouflage and get us into this fight,” said Sean.

  “Yes,” said Kelso and Montoya in unison over the com, and Sean couldn’t keep himself from smiling. They were like little boys, anxious to play with a new toy. Just as he was. Just then another thought crossed his mind and he looked at Jennifer.

  “I would send you out on a shuttle if I didn’t think it would put you at more risk, with all the missiles that are getting ready to fly around here. Or I could reconfigure a wormhole and send you through it.”

  “Don’t you dare,” said Jennifer, her eyes flashing with anger and determination. “You need that wormhole for your weapons. I’m here, and here I stay.”

  There were sounds transmitted through the superstructure of the ship, even this deep within, an indication that something massive was happening to the hull of the ship. He looked at the tactical holo once again, making sure for another of the almost countless times that everything was as he wanted it. Or as close as it’s going to get.

  * * *

  “My Lord,” came the voice of the Tactical Officer over the com link, projected from his verbal center to the audial center of the Great Admiral’s brain. “Something is happening with the enemy freighters.”

  The Great Admiral opened the visual centers of his brain to a projection from the tactical holo. The image zoomed in, and he found himself looking at the huge panels that looked like the hull of the freighter. They were now detached, and the ships within had peeled themselves like fruit. And within them ships that looked like larger versions of the enemy’s battleships, with some noticeable differences.

  “The ships are larger than our largest ships by a small percentage,” said the voice of the Tactical Officer. “I estimate twenty-seven million tons.”

  Another advance for the humans, thought the Admiral. But they can’t have many of them. Three here, against over four hundred of our most powerful units. We can still crush them.

  * * *

  “Order fire plan Alpha Three,” said Sean over the com, sending the signals out to all of the ships with wormhole coms. The hyperdrive projectors of Augustine sent out the binary code telling all the other vessels the same thing. Every ship in the actual system had now received orders for a time on target attack of the main enemy force.

  On asteroids, the moons of gas giants, even a comet that was on a course to take a curving pass around the star, ships came alive. They moved from their hiding positions on grabbers, revealing themselves to the enemy, and initiated their fire plan. The ships from furthest away launched first, their missiles aimed at where it was thought the enemy ship would be when they arrived. Closer ships fired their missiles a little later, their weapons set on an acceleration profile that would get them to the enemy at the same time as the further weapons.

  * * *

  All of the ships in the system appeared on the plot at the same moment, thanks to the almost instantaneous transmission of gravitons through hyper VIII. By all the Gods, thought the Great Admiral when he saw those ships, and realized that he had underestimated the human plan. We can still fight our way out of this trap, he thought, looking at his second force working their way in to meet with him. It will be close, and we’re going to get hurt, but we can still hurt the humans more.

  With a thought he tasked the launch tubes of the fleet and sent volleys at the larger concentrations of human ships out in the system, then switched all tubes to fire on the vessels that were now leaving the orbit of the planet and heading his way. At least I can take out those bastards first, he thought, unleashing a missile swarm they could not possibly survive.

  * * *

  THE DONUT.

  If I can make it to that ledge, maybe I can get a good line of sight on them, thought Cornelius, hefting the rifle in his hands and squatting down, tensing his legs. He looked with a moment of regret at two of the Spacers who had accompanied him, the last two in his command. Both had been torched by Caca particle beams. That seems to be all they’re carrying, he thought. Other Cacas he had fought carried a variety of weapons, including high velocity projectile weapons. These just seemed to be equipped with proton weapons, which made them on average much more deadly. He thought they must be the Caca version of a special unit, though there sure seemed to be a lot of them.

  Walborski leapt into the air, in the one Earth gravity easily clearing the way to the upper tier of the room. The wide balcony ran around the length of the room on both sides, over the wormhole gates that covered the lower walls. He had cringed for just a moment as he was airborne, expecting something to shoot at him. But the Caca warriors were too busy fighting the battle suited Marines, who had finally gotten their shit together enough to launch a spoiling attack. The Marines and the Cacas had met in this room, head to head. A meeting engagement, one in which neither side had a prepared defense, only a hasty assault.

  Cornelius laid down behind a planter and aimed the barrel of the rifle through a gap between it and another one, being careful to not allow it to project all the way through. He centered the scope on the faceplate of a Caca warrior, let out a partial breath, and squeezed the trigger. The M-40 Marine Sniper Rifle sent the twenty millimeter shell out at twenty thousand meters a second. That would have been enough to turn even his reinforced shoulder into splinters if not for the grabber units built into the rifle. They glowed white with heat as they pulled the weapon against the recoil, reducing the shock to his shoulder to merely painful.

  The round struck the Caca just where he had aimed, striking with a kinetic hammering as the shape charge detonated, sending slivers of supermetal through the alloy of the faceplate and into the brain of the creature.

  Cornelius was aiming at the next target before he even assessed the first, so confident was he in he and his weapon’s capabilities. As soon as he acquired the next target he squeezed the trigger again, sending another Caca into the dark. And then a third, before the rest of them realized that death was in place above them.

  That drew particle beam fire that blasted the planter apart in a shower of stone and earth. But Cornelius was already on the move, crawling to another position and setting up shop. I wonder if sniper school might have improved my technique? he thought, taking aim at a Caca who looked like a leader of some sort. That had seemed to be in the stars for him, until it was decided he would make a better leader than shooter. But a decade of helping his father, a late hunt master on New Detroit, had taught him how to stalk and shoot.

  He watched the shot this time the entire way, grunting in satisfaction as the round dropped the Caca to the ground. This time he moved as soon as he made the kill, just before more beams reached up and destroyed the position he had just occupied.

  He was preparing to make his fifth kill when the center of the long room exploded with multiple detonations. He recognized the reports of hyper velocity rockets, followed by the blasts of fired grenades working their way across the Caca positions.

  The Imperial Marines moved forward in concert with those blasts. The room was filled with particle beams, and the cries of men and Cacas as those beams met armor, then flesh. Cornelius looked through the hall, looking for a target,
and caught sight of a large Caca holding a hyper velocity rocket launcher. The Caca put it to his shoulder and started to aim, just before Cornelius’ round took him in the head.

  The human Marines swept the room, among them some alien citizens who had enlisted in the Corps. They checked the Caca prisoners by firing another blast of protons into each one.

  “Come down, soldier,” called out a Marine who seemed to be in charge.

  Cornelius looked over the low wall of planters and made sure there was a clear area below, then jumped over his improvised barrier to land lightly on his feet.

  “Cadet Lieutenant Cornelius Walborski,” he told the officer, knowing better than to salute in a combat environment.

  “I’ve heard of you,” said the Marine officer. “I’m Captain Juan Gonzalez. And I am very happy to make your acquaintance. Especially in a situation like this. How many did you get. Four?”

  “Five,” said Cornelius with a smile.

  The officer looked over the Ranger, still wearing the dress uniform he had been traveling in. He whistled as he saw the Imperial Medal of Heroism around the Ranger’s neck on its distinctive ribbon, two diamond stars on the body of the medal itself. “Looking for a third award,” asked the Captain with a smile.

  “We’re ready to move, sir,” said another Marine in their distinctive medium armor, more effective in the closed quarters of stations and vessels than the heavy suits they wore for planetary assaults.

  Still, there would be some advantage to the firepower they would carry with the heavy suits.

  “Your platoon can take the point this time, Lieutenant Haak,” he told the officer. He turned back to Cornelius. “I would suggest that you move a half klick back, Lieutenant. There are some people gathering there that could use your expertise.”

  A nice way of telling me they don’t require my services, thought the Ranger. He started to argue, then thought better of it. If nothing else he could again become the lone hunter.