"Our formation is gone to hell," Captain Viknorov added. "We lost seven ships. Two of the smaller patrol frigates were only able to intercept missiles by moving into their paths in the upper atmosphere."
"Get us back in formation, Captain," said Macklin. To an aide he added, "Make a note of the ships and crews that sacrificed themselves. They deserve all honors." Hopefully there will be someone left to honor them, he thought. And that was just the first wave. As he watched, another salvo of missiles raced in, this wave targeted straight at the planet along the area were his ships had originally been formed up. He knew that even more of the missiles would get through to the planet this time.
Macklin studied his displays. The Concord Fleet was virtually motionless in relation to Dawn. The planet was too vulnerable a target. The Federation Fleet curved in toward the planet in a ballistic orbit designed to bring them to rest relative to Dawn in about thirty minutes while exposing their engines as little as possible to the Concord forces. It was a necessary maneuver, since a starship was blind directly behind itself when its drive was engaged, and thus could not detect or destroy missiles coming in from that vector. The defenses of the outer system had taken a toll on the attackers, but not enough.
"Order the remaining laser defenses to target the missiles." He was using up his mines to stop missiles, just as he was sure the enemy commander wanted him to do, but he had little choice. He couldn't let any more missiles get through. He couldn't lose any more ships if he wanted to hold the enemy back. Of course, with two hundred ships versus sixty-odd, the enemy could afford to lose a few.
"Sir, Captain Torenth is requesting permission to take the fight to the enemy."
Macklin smiled humorlessly. The two newest ships in the Concord Fleet were equipped with the most advanced propulsion systems humanity had ever created. They could make hyperspace jumps well inside the normal hyperlimit. He couldn't afford to lose one of his flagships, but in war the most bold often won.
"Fortune favors the foolish," Macklin said.
"Sir?"
"Tell him he has permission to execute a surgical strike, but not to get tied up. Also, tell him to leave his fighter wings here, just in case."
Quasi-material, bluish plasma flared along the hull of the Arcadia as the Marcos drive initiated. The quantum field effect of the drive briefly unified the probability waves of the ship and crew, creating a massive condensate pseudo-particle. Mathematically recursive algorithms spun into infinity as the probability signature of the location was translated. The wave altered, and the ship vanished, leaving a fading fractal fracture in spacetime. The ship leapt almost instantly across fifty-four million kilometers, three light-minutes, to appear directly in the middle of the Federation Fleet.
"Fire!" Captain Torenth commanded.
Plasma lances lashed out at the nearest Federation ships, while graser cannon punched holes through those further out. Twenty-four capital ship missiles armed with high-yield antimatter warheads raced out toward the enemy battle cruisers.
The sudden appearance of the Concord ship in the middle of their formation had a devastating effect on the morale of the Federation Fleet, as did the sudden complete destruction of twelve vessels.
The Arcadia shuddered as shockwaves from exploding ships washed over it. The remaining Federation ships fired everything they had at the Arcadia. All sense of order in the enemy fleet had fallen away. Each ship was acting independently. Primary beams swept through space, as much a hazard for their own ships as for the Concord vessel. Point defenses fired continuously. Missiles exploded into blasts of plasma almost as deadly, and multi-megaton fusion warheads detonated against the hull of the Arcadia in three successive hammer blows that threw people against acceleration harnesses despite the inertial dampening in the ship.
Smoke swirled through the bridge of the Arcadia. The crew had donned their helmets before they had jumped in to do battle, but it was still disconcerting and frightening to see the smoke. Damage reports came in from all across the ship, adding to the chaos and confusion on the bridge.
"Captain! Get us out of here!" Mandor shouted.
"Just...another...minute," Torenth panted. The Arcadia was still tearing pieces off the Federation ships. Meanwhile, most of the enemy ships were still concentrating on them and not on the wave of almost sixteen hundred missiles racing out from the Concord Fleet.
"Now!" he cried.
The ship lurched as they jumped away, the transition rougher than usual because of the damage to the ship, and then they were back with the rest of the Concord Fleet, venting atmosphere and pieces of shattered hull-metal.
A signal came through from Admiral Macklin. "You are one crazy son of a bitch, Captain. Congratulations on making it back alive."
"Thank you, sir," Torenth replied. "That shook them up some. How many did we get?"
"Thirteen confirmed kills. Six other ships seem to be badly damaged."
"We put some fear into them, sir. They volley fired at us, determined to destroy us. Our MI estimates we just forced them to expend fifty percent of their available armaments. Most of those missiles never had a chance to hit anything, and we distracted them from your missiles."
Admiral Macklin nodded on the display. He was watching the Federation ships being overwhelmed by his own missiles. Dawn's planetary defenses were one-shot platforms, reloadable after the battle if they won. Without them, the Concord Fleet could launch only six hundred missiles per volley, half that of the enemy. "Very good, Captain. How is your ship? The damage looks bad from out here." The Arcadia was glowing cherry-red in a few places.
"Casualties were moderate, Admiral, all things considered. Damage to the ship was minimal. Also, they don't seem to have many graser cannon, sir."
"Thank god for small gifts, Captain."
"I just wish we could have gotten the Agamemnon. Knocking out their command would have been perfect."
"I thought you had," Macklin said with a frown. "It's been acting erratically since your attack."
"No, sir, we couldn't get close enough to it."
"I wonder what's going on, then," said Macklin.
"I have a suspicion," Mandor said, butting in.
Macklin gave him a questioning glance, but Mandor smiled.
"Call it a secret weapon."
Chapter Seven-Two
Commodore Ffoulkes was shouting orders from his command chair when, impossibly, given their relative velocity to the system and the positions of the enemy vessels, the intruder alert sounded across the bridge.
"What the hell is that?" Ffoulkes demanded.
"The computer has detected an unauthorized person on G-deck, sir," an ensign reported.
G-deck was only one level above the bridge. "Get some marines in there," ordered Ffoulkes. "How the hell did they manage to get people aboard? Boarding torpedoes from that damn battle cruiser?"
"I don't know, sir. No airlocks were breached. The hull is intact." The ships shuddered again under the impact of an enemy missile. "I'm only detecting the one person."
"Is it a computer malfunction?" asked Ffoulkes.
"Not that I can tell, sir."
"Do we have video from there?"
"Inoperable, sir." The ensign double-checked her displays. "Marines are en route, ETA two minutes." The Agamemnon was a large ship.
"What is the Fleet status?"
"We've lost thirty-seven more ships to the missiles from the main fleet, sir."
"Damn it! Order all ships to fire. Fire everything we have left!"
The Federation marines moved cautiously in their heavy, mesh-armored spacesuits. The Agamemnon shuddered occasionally as expanding shockwaves from exploding missiles and ships washed over it. The lieutenant in command used a remote to look around the corner, and then reported in to the bridge.
"You're not going to believe this," Lieutenant Mathers said quietly. "I've got a man in powered armor in the corridor. I don't recognize the armor pattern. As far as I can tell, he's only armed with a sword."
<
br /> "Say again," Lieutenant Medici said from the bridge. "Did you say a sword?"
"Copy that," Mathers replied. "He's just standing there looking around like he can't decide where he wants to go."
"Is he insane? Disarm and detain him immediately."
"Acknowledged, Bridge," Mathers replied. He gestured to his team. "Let's round him up."
The man was tall, pale, and red-haired. His bright green eyes seemed mocking as the marines surrounded him with leveled laser rifles. Under his oddly tailored, long black leather coat, he wore dark metallic armor that looked like black powered armor but couldn't be: it was barely two centimeters thick. In any case, he wasn’t wearing a helmet, so the armor was useless.
"Drop the sword!" barked Sergeant Brigs.
Smoke filled the corridor, mercifully hiding the bodies and parts of bodies from Lt. Commander Dorian's view. The fighting had been particularly heavy outside Engineering as both the loyalist crew and the mutineers tried to gain control of that vital area of the Manticore.
"What have we got, Sergeant?"
"Twenty-three mutineers are holed up by the aft fusion reactors; they're threatening to destroy the ship if we come any closer, sir."
"Damn. Do you think they can do it?"
"I don't know, sir. They could certainly hurt us badly."
Dorian grimaced. "We can't afford to take chances."
"You can't negotiate with them, sir. They'll kill you the minute they have the chance."
"I don't intend to negotiate, Sergeant," Dorian said. "Bridge!"
"Bridge here. Go ahead, Commander."
"Override the safety interlocks on the aft fusion reactors."
"Sir?"
"I want you to eject reactors five and six. Exactly as if the reactors had been damaged in battle. Do you understand?"
"Uh, yes, sir. Just a moment."
"Dorian? What the hell are you doing to my ship?"
"Sorry, Captain." He explained what was going. "I don't think we have any choice."
"You're right, of course. I'll see to it."
"Thank you, sir."
The fusion reactors were designed to be ejected in the case of a containment failure. The hull plates over the reactors would retract, and explosive bolts would hurtle the reactor out of the ship. Of course, most of the mutineers would probably be blasted out as well.
"Have your men standing by, Sergeant. No prisoners."
"Acknowledged, sir."
"Doctor!"
Hoarse, ragged screams cut through the din of the triage area.
"What now?" asked Dr. Cara Nalatu. She was the chief medical officer aboard the Arcadia and normally enjoyed her work, but times like these made her wish she'd gone into pharmaceuticals.
"The starboard shuttle bay took a direct hit from a nuke," replied her aide, Lieutenant Alex Cartier. "Damage crews had to cut through a bulkhead to get these out."
Dr. Nalatu watched her team at work. These newest wounded were fortunate, mostly minor radiation burns and decompression damage. Many of those injured during the battle had died before they got to Medical. With so many wounded pouring in, they had to triage the worst to the side for later. It was more important to get the crewmembers back into the fight as quickly as possible.
The medical bay was overflowing with injured people. Over seven hundred wounded had been brought in, and more were being found every minute. There was a reason military starships carried four times the necessary personnel.
"Drop the sword!" Sergeant Brigs barked.
"That would be unconscionable," said Daeren Drake. "It would leave me unarmed – hardly sporting. I suggest instead that you drop your weapons. It will be much easier that way. I will even allow you to live, provided you surrender quickly enough."
"If you do not comply, we will be forced to kill you. Do you understand?"
"Far better than you, apparently," Drake replied. His helmet folded up around his head, flowing like quicksilver. The marines raised their rifles.
Drake surged into action as the marines opened fire. The impossibly fine edge of his sword swung in blurred arcs, not impeded in the least by the armor, flesh and bone it swept through. Fans of blood, shockingly bright, painted the bulkheads and made the metal deck slick. Drake slowed to observe his handiwork. He was alone in the corridor except for the writhing, dissolving bodies.
Soon nothing would be left there but blood.
He nodded absently to himself as he sorted through sensory data. There! That was what he wanted, the bridge. If he were to destroy that, it would disable the ship most effectively.
He paid no attention to the burned holes in his leather coat; they were already growing closed. His armor was not damaged at all.
Torenth groaned as he saw the missile trace on the screens. There was no way they could stop all of them: six waves of nine hundred missiles each, launched within seconds of each other. Five thousand four hundred missiles, and half of them were kinetic, accelerating up to four tenths of the speed of light as they raced for the planet.
"Helm! Take us out there!"
The ship's computers rapidly computed the jump, and the Arcadia leapt forward two light-minutes to intercept the missiles. The Arcturus joined them seconds later, and the two ships, alone, faced the overwhelming wave of ballistic fury.
Point defense lasers and counter missiles stabbed out. Graser cannon cleared tens of missiles with each shot. Proximity sensors on the fusion warheads detonated hundreds more around the two ships, and for a moment they were hidden from the view of both fleets behind concentric shells of brightly glowing plasma.
Then the missiles were past their position.
The Arcturus jumped back into rank with the Fleet, ready to do it all again when the remaining missiles reached them. The Arcadia tumbled through space, venting atmosphere from fractured hull plates.
"Sir!"
Ffoulkes glanced behind him. He'd ordered the bridge sealed when the intruder had reached H-deck. It took him a moment to identify what he was being called to look at. A shining blade punched through the door. Then the fifteen-centimeter-thick beryllium-steel door began, impossibly, to dissolve. It blew away like tissue paper under a blowtorch.
A darkly armored man in a coat stepped through the doorway, ignoring the small arms fire from the marines stationed on the bridge as security.
"Who wants to die first?" the man asked, and laughed.
That laugh sent a shiver through Ffoulkes. He knew death when he saw it.
Lieutenant Johan Riksen spat blood out of his mouth as he calmly exchanged his shattered helmet for that of the dead ensign next to him. She certainly wasn't going to need it anymore, not with that hole through her chest. The Arcadia was still tumbling; he could tell that from the uncertain feel of the artificial gravity under his feet.
"Sir, I can't raise the bridge," Ensign Fowler reported. She sounded scared.
Riksen didn't blame her. He was scared, too. Half of his damage control crew was dead, or still alive but blasted from the ship, drifting alone, which meant the same thing as dead in a battle like this one. The Arcadia had left its rescue small-craft along with its fighters. They were two light-minutes away, and the enemy fleet was moving in fast.
That brought his attention back. He knew what he had to do.
"Susan." He waited till he had eye contact. "You're my second now. I want you to round up everyone who's still able to function, take half of them and get them to the port-side airlocks. You're going to have to plug into the guns and remote override them. Do you understand me? You're going to have to go outside and man the guns directly."
"Yes, sir!" She swallowed nervously. "What about the other half, sir?"
"Send them to me at the starboard airlock. We'll man the guns on that side. Now get moving!"
It only took a few minutes for his crew to assemble. There were too damn few of them. "You all understand what we're doing?"
They all nodded or voiced assent.
This has got to be the stu
pidest thing I have ever done, Riksen thought as the airlock cycled.
Few of the faint work lights glowed along the gunnery channel. Most of the guns were shattered or slagged. The Arcadia tumbled through a cloud of its own debris, and small pieces of hull-metal pelted them like hail as they moved out of the airlock.
Riksen quickly ordered the twelve people with him to take control of any intact cannon they came to. Despite the damage the ship had taken, many of the guns were still operational and powered; they just couldn't communicate with the targeting computers on the bridge.
All too soon, his meager crew had all been assigned cannon. Riksen himself chose a graser cannon near the inoperative aft airlock. The guns all had gunnery chairs in them, relics from the days when such weapons were fired manually. The seats had stayed in the design specs because no one could come up with a good reason why they should be removed and plenty of reasons why they should be left in place. Riksen wasn't sure if he should curse those designers or thank them. Those chairs might be the only thing that saved the ship. Well, those chairs and his crew.
Riksen datalinked into the gunnery computer, and the holographic projections formed around him, blanking out the chair and bare metal of the inside of the turret. With access to the command and control computers down, sensors were limited to the tracking and targeting arrays on the turret itself, basically just line of sight.
I hope nobody rakes us with a laser, he thought grimly. Starship hull plates were tough enough to withstand direct fusion strikes and primary lasers, but the guns themselves weren't. His thin, mesh-armored spacesuit wouldn't do him any good at all against either.
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