“Go ahead and start fluid injection,” ordered Plislas, looking at his helmsman, who was also the second in command of the vessel.
Janaris nodded his head and started the process. In seconds the clear liquid started to bubble up from the ports in the floor. It was body temperature, and therefore comfortable. Not really water, it carried a high concentration of oxygen. Enough for the lungs and gills to process enough life-giving oxygen for the Alphas to function at full efficiency.
“Estimated emergence in five minutes.”
Now there was no smell of fear, since the liquid masked it. It did leave an acrid taste, though, and the officer was proud at least that he wasn't the only one half frightened to death.
* * *
“Five minutes to final translation, my Lord,” called out the helmsman.
Great Admiral Mrastaran stared at a plot that showed nothing except for his own force. There were some ships still behind, some at the edge of sensor range. Some more ships had translated into normal space out there, setting up a sensor net to warm the Ca'cadasans of anything coming in behind them. Not that a warning would stop such an attack, but preparation was a good thing.
Should I have come out at the hyper II barrier? he thought, having his doubts. Or the III? He thought his plan good, and the scouts, which had been blasting away to the front and all sides with active sensors, had not sent back a warning. However, the humans, of both types, were tricky, and there was no telling what surprise they had waiting for him.
Why they call it a surprise, thought the admiral with slight chuckle. Just that the humans were better at coming up with them than his people.
Mrastaran was considered smart among his people. There were some scientists who were brighter, maybe a couple of officers who were still too young to rise to flag rank. But on the bell curve of intelligence among the Ca'cadasans he was on the far left. Which he knew would put him in the top five percent of humans. That meant there were billions of them smarter than he was. The only thing he had over the vast majority of them was experience. They lived to two or three hundred years if not struck down, while Mrastaran was well over two thousand years old. Having survived the internecine warfare that was Ca'cadasan politics, civilian and military, his mind was quick and cautious. Maybe quick and cautious enough to win this campaign.
“I want cold plasma in the electromagnetic fields as soon as we're in normal space,” he ordered.
The electromagnetic fields were the only shields that the warships on both sides carried. Millennia of research into something better had resulted in a big nothing. Electromagnetic force could blunt the power of light amp weapons, bending and attenuating the beams. Sometimes enough to turn something that could blast right through a hull into an impact that would at most vaporize some of the armor. It might also deflect some particles from a missile blast. Against a direct hit? It did nothing.
Cold plasma, a gas at extremely low temperature, was ejected into the magnetic field and held in place. The plasma would intercept some of the heat from lasers or particle beams, keeping it from reaching the hull. Until the cold plasma was superheated, at which time it would be shuttled to the back of the field and ejected out into space. To be replaced by a new shell of the substance. And while it worked just as well in hyper or normal space, due to its being erected within the hyperfield, it couldn't pass through a translation. Which meant…
“Translation,” called out the helm, and the nausea hit. For the next ten seconds, twenty for some, the males aboard the ships were helpless. Automatic systems would try to cover for them, firing defensive weapons, injecting cold plasma into the fields. Most times that was enough.
* * *
“The Caca fleet is translating in ten light seconds from the hyper I barrier, ma'am.”
Beata looked at the plot, alive with the graviton signals of massive craft opening holes between the dimensions and sliding through. Of course the entire fleet wasn't coming through at once. It was too big, too massive. Thousands of four hundred thousand ton scouts came through first, entering normal space and spreading out. Within a minute the four million ton supercruisers were coming, also spreading as soon as they hit normal space. All of the ships were coasting, not boosting at all, falling off the plot as their graviton emissions ceased.
Except in this case there were ships within twenty light seconds of the fleet, their com techs transmitting the information back so that the admiral didn't lose contact, no matter what. There was a real time delay because of their distance from their targets, but in this kind of warfare that wasn't enough to worry about.
The superbattleships, twenty-five million tons of warship, only out massed by Beata's flagship, came through next, thousands of them. Scouts and supercruisers were still transiting around them, the entire enemy fleet coming into the system. Or as much of it as made no difference.
“We have over seven thousand of their battleships, about the same number of their cruisers, and a little less than twice that of scouts.”
Beata looked over at the com officer with an expression of horror on her face. Of course they didn't have exact numbers, the interference of graviton emissions was too great. But even the estimation was too much. She had known the fleet coming at her was massive. After all, if had destroyed over fifty thousand Klavarta ships in the initial battle. But knowing what was heading toward you intellectually, and actually seeing it appear in front of you, ready to go close in and crush everything she had? That was different. This fleet was on the order of the ones that had forged into the Empire in the early days of the war. Maybe a little larger. If the Cacas had spread out so she could defeat them in detail that would mean one thing. But this commander was too canny for that.
“They're within range of the mines, ma'am.”
Might as well get to this, she thought. “Send the signal. All assets in position are to attack.”
Now she just had to wait and see how her first attack went. And how the enemy reacted to it.
Chapter Twelve
The boy who is going to make a great man must not make up his mind merely to overcome a thousand obstacles, but to win in spite of a thousand repulses and defeats. Theodore Roosevelt
“We have graviton emissions to both flanks,” shouted out the sensor officer, still reeling from translation nausea, unable to think. “Hundreds of small craft.”
Mrastaram could hear the words, understand them, feel the flush of fear through his illness, but couldn't get his brain to work fast enough to fire off orders.
“Missiles in space,” shouted out the sensor officer, as easy a translator as existed in the Ca'cadasan species but still hit hard. “Missiles in space.”
And then they started arriving. The flagship, sitting in the middle of the fleet, was in no danger. The same could not be said for the flagship of Great Admiral Lokastar, sitting behind a thin screen of scouts on the right flank.
* * *
The Klavarta mines fired first, as specified in the tasking order. Tens of thousands of counter style missiles, smaller that the ship mounted variety at ten tons each, carrying fifty megaton fusion warheads, streaked out at twenty thousand gravities from their launching platform. All of the Caca ships had at least someone still cognizant on their bridges. Within seconds every ships started to boost, trying to move out of the kill zone. And highlighting themselves to the passive sensors of the missiles and the remaining platforms.
That was when the gamma ray laser platforms opened up. They only had one shot, each platform aiming for the nearest target, then detonating their built-in fusion warhead. The power of that warhead flowed into the laser rod, which converted to plasma as it pulsed a multi-terrawatt beam of coherent gamma radiation. Some of that was intercepted by the electromagnetic cold plasma fields of the target, but eighty percent made it through as a compact beam, slamming through the armor of the ships and deep into their guts. There were some misses, about five percent. The rest hit something. Damage klaxons went off on over a thousand ships, many of t
hem hit with multiple shots. Some scouts exploded into plasma as their antimatter stores were breached. Supercruisers went off course as grabber units were shredded while others continued to pull. Even a couple of score superbattleships were hit. The latter ships were too massive to be killed by any kind of known light amp weapon, but some still suffered enough damage to reduce their combat capabilities by a half or more.
As soon as all of the laser mines flashed out of existence the mines of the Terran Empire fired, releasing one hundred ton capital ship missiles, carrying their one gigaton warheads at fifteen thousand gravities. More than seventy percent were tracked and destroyed by defensive fire that detonated their warheads too far from targets to do much damage. Against an enemy that hadn't been hit it would have been more, maybe a total loss. Two thousand warheads came in, over a hundred detonating right on target. Scouts and supercruisers shattered, even a couple of superbattleships tumbled through space. There were collisions that caused more damage, and thousands of powerful detonations that sent heat and radiation into nearby hulls.
Before the last missile volley had hit home the more than a thousand fast attack craft boosted forward at maximum acceleration, then beyond, their Alpha crews able to handle the extra in their liquid environments. At the same time the eight wings of warp fighters pulled up and over the fleet at twenty lights, turning their noses in, closing, then firing all of their carried missiles.
* * *
“Here we go,” shouted Ensign Kallaris Plisias in what he had to hope would be a commanding tone. It came out to his ears as a squeak.
Warrant Janaris pushed the throttle lever forward and the captain of the small ship found himself pushed back into his chair. They were going in very hot, five gravities above the ability of the liquid to protect them from gee forces. It hurt his spine, and he immediately had problems filling his lungs, though his gills still functioned properly.
All around FAC Charlie Five were almost five hundred other fast attack craft, all boosting at the same rate, heading in toward the mass of Caca warships that filled the plot. The numbers were frightening. The enemy fleet outnumbered them by twenty to one or more. The ensign couldn't even comprehend the differential in mass and firepower.
Counter missiles and laser fire started reaching out for the attackers. It wasn't well coordinated, but with that mass of ships firing at the mass of craft incoming, it didn't have to be to achieve hits.
“That was too close,” said the warrant officer as the small ship shook. Other fast attack craft disappeared from the plot, not that many, but enough to remind Plisias of his own mortality. The ship shook again, while the timer ticked down.
“Fire,” shouted the ensign when the clock in his implant struck zero. The ship shook again as it released its four capital ship missiles, which took off at fifteen thousand gravities and headed into the mass of ships ahead.
“Break,” ordered Plisias, gripping the arms of his chair hard. The small ship pulled upward, boosting at six hundred and thirty-five gravities, its momentum still carrying it toward the enemy fleet. Craft were still falling off the plot around it, now the victims of revenge fire. They had nothing else they could hit the enemy with, and that didn't matter to the Cacas. They were determined to kill as many of the insects that had stung them as possible.
That was when something else came along to take the minds of the Cacas off of the fast attack craft.
“How many did we lose?” asked the ensign of his sensor officer as they kept pushing away from the enemy, their momentum curing them up and over the hostile force.
“We have three hundred and fifty-eight craft still with us,” said the sensor officer in a quavering voice.
They had lost over a hundred and thirty-two ships, along with over a thousand of their fellow spacers. Plisias raised a hand off the chair arm when the distance had opened enough that he felt safe. The hand shook with the tension he was feeling. Terror, he thought, being honest with himself. But he had survived his first combat mission. The next thought was whether that would make the next one easier, or more difficult.
* * *
“We have warp fighters coming in from above and below,” called out the tactical officer, his voice barely under control. “Over eight hundred of them.”
Mrastaran was still in shock from the punches he had received. Gut punches, not enough to knock him out of the fight, but definitely sufficient to send him reeling. First a mass of missiles like nothing they had ever seen, then some kind of weapon beyond anything he had ever heard of. He still couldn't figure out how in the hell they had fired such powerful lasers from that close without his detecting the firing vessels. Then, while his fleet was still trying to figure out what they were being hit with, the standard capital ship missiles. He knew what those were. Mines. And he wouldn't have been surprised if those surprising lasers had also come from mines, but how they had crammed such powerful weapons into something like that? He couldn't guess how.
The fast attack craft were something he should have expected. If they had come in by themselves their attack would have been almost as effective. But on the tail end of their other hits their attack had been devastating. He had hit them back, hard, but that didn't make up for the fact that they had taken out several hundred more ships. Such a small revenge for so hard a hit. And now warp fighters. The enemy was hitting them with everything but the asset he was looking for. He still had no idea where their warships were.
“Admiral Lokastar's ship was hit by an enemy missile, my Lord. Lost with all hands.”
Another shock that he didn't have time for. He would have to worry about who was going to take over that flank after they were through with this current situation.
“Prepare all warp lances. And get our pilots to the warp fighters.”
The warp lances were effective weapons against the faster than light fighters, if they got within range. His own warp fighters were not as good as those the humans employed, but they could still run interference, and maybe absorb some of the missiles that would have been targeting his fleet. Problem was, less than half his ships had warp lances, and they weren't all in the optimal position to employ them. And his pilots, many still suffering from translation nausea, had to make their way to their craft and launch. The enemy warp fighter attack would be over before they could get into space, and there was no way they would be able to close with them in a stern chase.
And where in the hell is their fleet? he thought as he showed his teeth in a predator's challenge.
“They're launching missiles and turning away,” shouted out a frustrated tactical office.
Smart, he thought. Well before most of the warp fighters entered range of the nearest warp lances. Two of the fighters fell off the plot. The rest raced away ahead of everything the Caca fleet could send after them. And over thirty-two hundred of their missiles came in at just over twenty light, their compression fields sweeping through the outgoing fire, their beams destroying counter missiles and projectiles alike. Lasers hit, most of them unable to penetrate the warp bubbles around the missiles. Some were blasted out of space when enough lasers struck, many more fell to warp lances. The rest flew through the formation of ships, hitting whatever was on their flight path, their compression fields burning through armor and hull before the fifty megaton warheads detonated within their targets.
“We lost five more battleships and over a hundred and fifteen smaller vessels,” called out the tactical officer in a shocked tone.
They had hurt him. What they hadn't done was hurt him enough. The fleet was still heading in, now boosting with the grabber power they had used to try and avoid the enemy weapons. They were no longer suffering from translation sickness, and all weapons were manned and ready.
“Order half of our scouts to fan out ahead and look for enemy mines,” ordered Mrastaran to his com officer. “All are to pulse active sensors all the way in. And I want them spread out far enough that they don't make a good target.”
“Yes, my Lord,” replied
that officer, working his board.
“And work out targeting solutions to all prospective targets in the system, including that inhabited planet.” He didn't want to hit it. That went against his philosophy and religious background. He intended to kill anything in orbit or nearby, and if he hit it by accident? Well, he could live with that.
* * *
“Targeting analysis coming in, Admiral,” called out the chief of staff, standing near the com boards. “As well as our own casualty reports,” continued Janssen, his voice dropping.
“Give me the bad news,” said Beata, looking at the plot that was showing the enemy fleet still on the way in. A wave of scouts was boosting away, spreading out, the obvious tactic to protect against future ambushes.
“We took out almost three hundred of their ships. Complete losses. With probably double that number damaged.”
Beata nodded. Three hundred ships killed was a good start. The six hundred odd damaged could mean anything from ready for the shipyards to able to be repaired on the way in.
“And our loses?”
“All of the mines of course,” said the smiling chief of staff. That smile soon morphed into a frown. “With the addition of about three hundred fast attack craft and only five warp fighters. The remaining fighters are on their way back to their carriers for rearming.”
“And the fast attack craft?” she asked with a sinking feeling. Those craft had destroyed many times their mass, but they were still her people. Or at least the Alphas who had been assigned to her. It was not easy to lose people. At least they had killed a sentient enemy who would also suffer emotional pain for their losses. Unlike the Machines who had no feelings, and couldn't feel fear or loss.
“They are vectoring away to head for their resupply ships,” said Captain Janssen, the frown leaving his face.
The supply ships, fast freighters, were stationed around the periphery of the system, ready to resupply whatever ships of war needed it. They carried the dual-purpose capital ship missiles that could be launched from warship accel tubes or the side launchers of FACs. If they didn't get resupply missions and it seemed like nothing was coming their way, they could set the missiles into space and have them take off on their own. They definitely wouldn't be wasted.
Exodus: Empires at War: Book 15: All Quiet on the Second Front? Page 15