Crimson Worlds Collection II

by Jay Allan

  She was edgy – she would have called it scared shitless. Not of the enemy, but of the crushing responsibility on her shoulders. There were 720 fighter bombers approaching the enemy task force, a number that boggled her mind. Her command included bombers from seven different Powers. There were 11 models of ships, with 3 different primary weapons systems. Language wasn’t an issue – the AIs could easily translate – but training, experience, equipment, and tactics all varied widely. Not to mention lingering resentments from years spent fighting each other.

  Hurley had tried to run some training exercises before the fleet set out. Her people needed to work together, to gel as a single force. But then Admiral Compton moved up the timetable and blasted off with half the fleet, herself included. Now they would have to pull themselves together under fire, in the face of the enemy. It wasn’t ideal, not by a long shot. But Greta Hurley had always taken the hand she was dealt, and that wasn’t going to change now. At least it looked for once like her people had the strength advantage.

  “Attention wing leaders, this is Admiral Hurley.” She’d divided her force into 12 wings, each consisting of 10 squadrons. She stayed within national groupings wherever possible, but she still ended up with a few that were hodgepodges of equipment and doctrine. She was going to have to keep a closer eye on those wings; their commanders had a difficult job.

  “All A wings are to load and arm plasma torpedoes now.” Not all the Superpowers had bomber-deployed plasma ordnance. It was a relatively new system, and only the Alliance, Caliphate, CAC, and PRC had widely adopted it. “B wings, fall into pre-designated support positions.” The bombers armed with rocket-packs were far less effective, particularly against targets as tough as First Imperium ships. Hurley had positioned half of them in the rear of the formation, where they could use their lesser weaponry to finish off targets seriously damaged by the plasma torpedo attacks. The other half had been placed in the front. A far colder calculus was at work with these wings…they were there to divert point defense fire from the far more valuable plasma-armed squadrons. Hurley didn’t feel good about it, but someone was going to be upfront anyway, and she had to make the most tactically useful decisions possible. Even if did make her feel like a cold-blooded martinet.

  “All wings have acknowledged your order, Admiral Hurley.” The AI had a non-descript voice, female, but not overly feminine. It was a new unit, one Hurley hadn’t named yet, and it was specifically designed to help her control hundreds of individual fighter-bombers.

  Hurley watched the tactical plot as the squadrons executed her orders, some of the B Wings decelerating to fall back to the rear, while others thrusted forward, taking their positions in the vanguard.

  “Projected entry into enemy point defense envelope in 14 minutes, 30 seconds.” The AI’s reports were fed directly into Hurley’s earpiece.

  Well, she thought, 21 ships shouldn’t put out too much fire for a strike force this big…but what the hell do those orbital facilities have to dish out? She was still thinking about that when all hell broke loose.

  “The strike force is under fire, admiral.” The AI’s voice was calm, eerily so considering her people were under fire from 20,000 klicks outside maximum enemy point defense range. What they thought was maximum range.

  Hurley felt the tension grip her body. A new weapon, she thought? “Damage report.”

  “Still compiling data, admiral.” The AI’s voice was maddeningly calm. Hurley began to understand the reasoning behind the personality modules…at least those AIs had the decency to act like they were concerned when things were going all to hell. “It appears that 7 units have been destroyed.”

  Hurley’s temper flared. “Units…those ‘units’ are full of my people!”

  “I intended no insensitivity, admiral. I am merely attempting to ensure that you have complete data. Would you prefer an alternate designation for individual fighter-bombers?”

  “No.” Hurley was getting control of her frustration. She didn’t have time to be upset with her AI over foolishness. “I need an analysis of the method of attack immediately.”

  “Yes, admiral. We have inadequate data to…” The AI paused for a second, then continued, “Additional fire, admiral. Another 3 units destroyed…5 units.”

  “What the hell is firing at us?” Hurley’s fists were clenched, her heart pounding hard in her chest. “I need to know.”

  “Preliminary readings suggest an area effect weapon, admiral…a railgun or coilgun, superficially similar to our area effect interdiction systems, however the velocity of the individual projectiles is far beyond anything we have been able to achieve in our own ordnance of this type.”

  “Shotguns.” Hurley muttered softly, almost inaudibly. “But faster and much longer-ranged than ours. Fuck.” She sat silently for a few seconds. “All wings, dispersal pattern Alpha…now.” She had to get more space between her fighters. They had a long way to go through this weapon’s area of effectiveness…and she couldn’t have them taking out multiple units with each shot.

  “Orders transmitted, admiral.”

  We’ve got to close the distance, she thought grimly…now. “All wings, prepare for maximum thrust in one minute.” She took a deep breath, taking a second to center herself. She had to be 100% now. “And get me Admiral Compton.”

  “I want those attack ships thrusting at full in one minute.” Compton was pissed; that was obvious to anyone listening. “Is that clear, Admiral Zhang?”

  The signal took almost a second to reach Zhang’s ship and another second for the reply to get back to Midway. “Admiral Compton, your order would place my command in an extremely exposed position. I must renew my protest.”

  The AI translated Zhang’s Mandarin into perfect English. The translation did not reproduce any emotional embellishments, but Compton’s mind filled in the surly and arrogant tone he knew had been there in the original version. He sensed his anger building, and he felt the instinctive urge to ball his fists, to slam his hand down on the arm of the chair. Fuck the Grand Pact, he thought, seething…I’ve had it with all this diplomatic bullshit.

  Zhang was a pompous ass, the youngest son of a powerful CAC family. He wore an admiral’s uniform only because his father had bought it for him. Compton’s father had been well-placed too. The illegitimate son of a Senator, Terrance Compton had taken nothing from his father, whom he casually hated for the way his Cog mother had been discarded and sent back to the London slums. He’d earned the stars on his collar himself…through years of blood and sacrifice, not by the decree of his father. Political creatures like Zhang infuriated him, and he looked at them all as parasites.

  Compton had already overrepresented his own people in the top command positions, so he’d reluctantly agreed to put Zhang in charge of the fast attack ships. He hadn’t expected to use them en masse anyway, so he figured it was as good a place as any to stick the arrogant SOB. Someplace he couldn’t do much harm. But things had changed now. Greta Hurley’s fighters were getting massacred by a previously unknown enemy weapon. Her wings had to divert from their strike on the enemy fleet to go after the orbital launch platforms that were tearing them to shreds. Compton couldn’t leave the enemy ships unoccupied, free to go after Hurley’s flank.

  His first impulse had been to bring the entire fleet in at full thrust in an all-out attack, but he couldn’t risk his capital ships until he had a better idea of what they were facing. Not even to save Hurley and her people. It was the kind of decision commanders made all the time, and Greta and her fighters were more expendable than the battleline. Hurley and their people knew that too.

  “Admiral Zhang, you are relieved.” Compton’s voice was thick with icy contempt, most of which would be filtered out during translation anyway. “You are to stand down at once and report immediately to your quarters, to which you are confined until further notice.”

  Compton could imagine the apoplectic look on Zhang’s bloated face, and he let a fleeting smile slip onto his lips. “Commodore H
armon, put me on universal com with the fleet.” He knew he should contact Captain Duke and let him know he was now in command, but he wanted to address the entire fleet first…just in case Zhang tried to pull something.

  “You are on universal com, admiral.”

  “Attention all personnel. This is Fleet Admiral Compton.” He spoke clearly, authoritatively. “Admiral Zhang has been relieved from duty for gross insubordination and other infractions. Squadron Captain Duke is hereby placed in command of Task Force C, effective immediately. All personnel in Task Force C are to act accordingly. Compton out.” Compton made a gesture, moving his hand across his throat. Harmon nodded and cut the line.

  Compton knew there’d be hell to pay for this when they got back home. He’d not only relieved Zhang; he’d humiliated him in front of the entire fleet, which, in CAC culture especially, was a grievous offense. But Compton didn’t give a shit. He was far from certain any of them would even get home…and he didn’t care anyway. He wasn’t going to chance Zhang causing any disruptions. Not now. Not when the lives of Greta’s people hung in the balance.

  “Admiral, I have Captain Duke for you.”

  Compton smiled again, not at all surprised to hear from the man who’d just learned he was in command of 103 fast attack ships. “Put him through, Max.”

  Harmon flipped a switch and gestured to Compton. “He’s on your line, sir.”

  “James, what a surprise.” His sarcasm was mild, a friendly mocking tone. Compton had followed James Duke’s career for some time. He’d been very impressed with the younger man’s achievements, and he’d mentored him as he rose through the ranks. Now he was about to throw him into a firestorm. “Congratulations on the promotion.”

  “Yes, sir…ah…thank you, sir.”

  Compton smiled, taking pity on Duke. He sometimes forgot how difficult it was for the younger officers to deal with humor from a creature as lofty as a fleet admiral. “I had to relieve Zhang, James. I couldn’t trust him to follow my orders…and I need your people to back up the fighters. Now.”

  “Anything, sir.” Duke still sounded a little dumbstruck, but there was confidence there too. “What do you want us to do?”

  “I need you to take the entire task force, and attack the enemy fleet. Immediately.” He paused. He knew he didn’t have to give a reason, but he liked to keep his officers in the loop when he could. At least the officers he trusted and respected. “Hurley’s fighters ran into a new weapon, and I had to divert them against the orbital forts. I need you to keep the enemy ships from swinging around and bracketing her forces.”

  “Yes, sir.” His reply was crisp and immediate – at least as immediate as lightspeed communications allowed across 170,000 kilometers. There was doubt in Duke’s voice, hesitation. “But the fighters are way ahead of us…I doubt we can get there in time, admiral.”

  “I realize that, James, but if the enemy sees over a hundred attack ships coming in, I doubt they’ll change position to go after the fighters. The First Imperium is usually conservative. If you get your people moving, I think you’ll fix them in place.”

  “Understood, sir.” The doubt was gone. Mostly. “With your permission, admiral, I will launch my attack immediately.

  “You may begin when ready, Captain Duke.” Compton leaned back in the chair, silent for a few seconds. “Good luck, James. And Godspeed.”

  “Alright people, it’s payback time.” Hurley’s eyes were focused on the tactical display. “All units, fire at will. Let’s make these fuckers pay.”

  She’d lost 150 ships coming in, and her soul was crying for vengeance. Spreading out her formation had cut the effectiveness of the enemy weapon, but it was still a huge threat to fighters…though she suspected its primary purpose was missile interception. Now her first waves were moving into firing range of the orbital platforms.

  The leading wings were armed with rocket-packs. Mostly Europan, RIC, and Imperial units, they packed a weaker punch than the ships carrying plasma torpedoes. But they’d also been in the lead, and they’d suffered the most from the fire of the platforms. Now it was their turn.

  The first five squadrons came in at 0.03c, flying directly at their targets. Almost as one they fired their weapons, short-range sprint missiles, each packing a 50 megaton warhead. The rockets blasted toward their targets. There were six large fortresses in orbit, but the platforms firing the new weapons were separate, smaller installations positioned near the larger structures.

  The bigger fortresses were firing light particle accelerators, but Hurley had managed to angle her approach to limit their fields of fire. The forts were a problem too, but Hurley wanted those railgun platforms first. She was staring down, watching the attacking units go in when her tactical screen flared white. A second later the com went crazy.

  “Admiral Hurley, three targets have been destroyed.” The AI spoke just as she was opening her mouth, about to ask for a report. “A single hit destroyed each unit, and a very large detonation resulted. I am still calculating, but the energy output appears to be in excess of 40 gigatons.”

  Hurley sat quietly for a few seconds, absorbing what the AI said. It was hard to hear a number like that, especially when it was presented without emotion or emphasis. Forty gigatons? She’d never even heard of an explosion that large from any source outside an astronomical event. “All three?” It was all she could think to ask.

  “Yes, admiral. I have an updated report. Four additional units have been destroyed. All seven have exploded with similar magnitude.”

  Hurley tried to wrap her mind around it. They’re so easy to destroy and those explosions are so large…are they booby traps of some sort? Mines? Then it came to her. “Antimatter,” she finally blurted out. “Those things are powered by antimatter. No wonder those projectiles have so much range and velocity.”

  She was just talking out loud, not speaking to anyone in particular, but the AI responded. “Affirmative, admiral. Preliminary spectral and radiation analysis of the area is consistent with antimatter annihilation.”

  “Motherfucker,” she whispered softly. “These fuckers have antimatter-powered weapons besides missiles.” Louder: “Get me Admiral Compton!”

  “Yes, admiral.” The AI was silent for a few seconds. “I am ready to transmit. Please be advised that we are now 117 light seconds from the flagship, which will result in a delay of almost four minutes in any two-way…”

  The ship shook hard and started spinning wildly. The lights went out, and the emergency power activated, providing a dim but usable level of illumination.

  “Activate positioning thrusters now.” Commander Wilder was Hurley’s pilot. He was shouting to the AI as he frantically worked at his board, trying to get control of his wounded bomber.

  “Commander, the reactor is currently offline. There is no power available at this time.” The AI was as irritatingly calm as it had been when speaking with Hurley.

  “Use the compressed gas jets.” Wilder frowned. He didn’t know how he was going to land back on Midway without the air jets, but that was a problem for later. Pulling his ship out of its death spiral was his major concern. “We need to get this rolling under control.”

  “Affirmative, commander. Calculating optimum thrust plan now.” The delay was barely perceptible. “Ready to initiate thrust on your command, sir.”

  Wilder barely hesitated. “Engage.”

  Hurley sat back quietly and watched. Wilder was a first rate pilot, and he didn’t need her second-guessing him now. He was doing everything she would have done anyway. She looked down at her workstation and punched a few buttons. Whatever had hit them took out the com as well as the reactor. Great, she thought, an admiral who can’t communicate with her ships is as useless as tits on a bull. Her face darkened. “How am I going to report back to Admiral Compton? He has to know we’re dealing with antimatter weapons here.” She was talking softly to herself, her hands curled into tight fists in frustration. The wing commanders will report to the admiral when they ca
n’t reach me, she finally told herself…assuming any of them are still alive.

  They were all going in now, she thought, running the gauntlet…and I’m cut off. “Fuck,” she muttered to herself, and she gripped her handholds tightly as the bomber spiraled wildly out of control.

  “Give me another stim.” Duke’s voice was low and gravelly, and he tended to speak slowly, even when he wasn’t drugged out of his mind and crushed half to death. His orders were to distract the enemy fleet and prevent them from attacking Hurley’s fighters. Fulfilling that order meant getting there in a hurry, so he ordered everyone into their acceleration couches and thrusted toward the enemy at full blast.

  “You have exceeded the safe dosage for stimulants under pressure, Captain Duke.” The AI spoke clearly and professionally, totally unaffected by the 38g of pressure that had the crew reduced to spaced-out zombies encased in their protective shells.

  “I understand that. Now give me the fucking shot.”

  “Yes, Captain.” The AI ignored the captain’s anger. The early AI personality modules had encountered significant difficulty in dealing with casual profanity. They tended to assume the human subject was extremely angry when it was nothing more than annoyance that had provoked the language in question. They tended to overcompensate, making for some interesting interactions. Newer AIs compensated, usually by identifying and ignoring casual swearing.

  Duke felt the shot and, an instant later, the rush of clarity. It was hard to keep your mind clear at high thrust levels. The pressure-equalization drugs were moderately hallucinogenic, and the gee forces involved considerably worsened the effect. Enough will power and discipline could help a little with mental focus, but the only thing that really worked was a massive dose of stimulants.