by David Weber
And now, forty seconds before Schmiede could possibly fire, those four missiles’ impellers sprang to life and hurled them at their targets at an acceleration of ten thousand gravities.
It took them just under two seconds to cover the 7.8 thousand kilometers between them and those targets. Two seconds in which the defenders could see them coming but couldn’t possibly stop them. There simply wasn’t enough tracking time, enough response time. They were inside every defensive system, and Feyman watched in impotent horror as both of Schmiede’s missile platforms disappeared in blossoms of nuclear flame.
“Captain, I have an incoming transmission,” the com officer half-whispered into the stunned silence.
Stoffel, his expression as stunned as Feyman felt, waved at the main com display.
“Put it up,” he grated.
A white-haired officer in the uniform of the Andermani Navy appeared.
“You know who I am,” he said. His voice could have been frozen helium. His eyes somehow managed to be even colder. “You also know you will be in my engagement range in thirty seconds. If you want to live longer than the next five minutes, strike your wedges.
“You have twenty-five seconds to comply.”
* * *
The silence of Odin’s bridge roared around Gensonne as he stared at Captain von Belling’s face on the com display. He couldn’t look away. For a handful of seconds, he literally couldn’t while his brain tried to process the burst transmission’s information. Tried to understand that Adder and Mamba were simply gone, blown treacherously out of space in a sudden, unprovoked attack.
No, not in an attack, he realized.
In an ambush.
One which had to have been carefully planned far in advance of its execution. He didn’t know—yet—how von Belling had managed to avoid the fate of Copperhead’s consorts. But that didn’t matter right now. What mattered was that the ambush must have been prepared well ahead of time, and that meant—
“Com, get me Banshee,” he snapped. “And I don’t want any more damn excuses from Rhamas about how busy Llyn is talking to these people.”
He switched his glare to Odin’s captain. Imbar was pale, his expression as shaken as Gensonne felt.
“Bring us to a reciprocal heading immediately,” he grated. “And take us to two hundred gravities decel.”
“Yes, Sir,” Imbar said, and started barking orders.
Gensonne took a deep breath, trying to force his mind into some sort of logical action. All right. Adder and Mamba were gone. Copperhead was running from Bergen 3 as fast as his wedge would take him, though if their attackers had been smart there would undoubtedly be another layer or two waiting between him and the hyper limit.
That left Odin and the rest of the Volsung ships currently heading into their own ambush. Imbar would have ordered the others to conform to Odin’s movements, which should at least start buying them a little time.
The problem was that until he knew more about the Bergen 3 ambush he couldn’t anticipate what might be waiting for them at Bergan 2. Until had had some kind of clue, all he could really do was to slow his approach.
But until then, there was one other matter that he would be more than happy to attend to.
On the com display, Captain Rhamas’s dour face appeared. “Admiral Gensonne,” he said with a small nod. “How can I help you? I’m afraid Mr. Llyn is still—”
“I know exactly what Llyn is doing,” Gensonne cut in savagely. “And if he doesn’t want to get blown out of space in the next three seconds, he’d better get on the damn com.”
Rhamas looked at him a bit oddly, without any concern, let alone panic, in the face of Gensonne’s threat. A small part of Gensonne’s mind took note of that and wondered.
But there was too much else going on for him to care. He opened his mouth to underline the threat—
“Of course, Admiral,” Rhamas said. “Give me a moment.”
“One moment.” Gensonne’s voice was icy.
* * *
Banshee’s main computer had spent the last four and a half hours monitoring the Volsungs’ communications. It hadn’t had a great deal else to do during those hours.
Its software had been called upon to tweak the Captain Rhamas image a half dozen times during various exchanges with Admiral Gensonne, but its artificial Rhamas personality had managed to deflect any actual conversation between the artificial Llyn and the Volsung commander.
That would no longer be possible. The computer’s filters had recognized no less than eleven flagged keywords in Copperhead’s transmission to Odin even before Gensonne demanded to speak to Llyn. That had triggered an entire cascade of commands.
And deep inside Banshee, half a dozen systems none of the Volsungs had ever suspected were already spinning up.
* * *
“Course change on Swenson One,” Lieutenant Commander Ravel announced crisply from Damocles’s TO station. “They’ve reversed acceleration and increased to two-point-one-two KPS squared. That’s eighty-six percent of theoretical max for a Bayezid-class battlecruiser, Captain.”
“Obviously they’ve heard the news, too,” Marcello said quietly to Lisa, his voice grim. Like the rest of Casey’s bridge crew, he was clearly trying to grapple with the report from Bergen 3.
“You think he’s seen us, Sir?” Lisa asked.
“I can’t see how he could,” Marcello replied. “But he doesn’t have to see us to realize we’re out here. And if he does—”
“All units, this is the Flag,” Commodore Charnay’s voice came over the squadron frequency. “Stand by to bring up wedges in ninety seconds from…mark.”
“Set it up, Maneuvering,” Marcello ordered. “Confirm receipt, Com.”
“Wedge in ninety seconds from mark, aye,” Lieutenant Vespasiano Guiccardini said.
“Order receipt confirmed, Sir,” Chief Ulvestad added. “And the Flag is transmitting to the pirates now.”
* * *
“Admiral Gensonne,” Llyn said from the com display. His tone was so much like Rhamas’ last greeting, Gensonne thought, that it had to be clearly and infuriatingly deliberate. “What can I do for you?”
“You can die like the lying bastard you are,” Gensonne told him harshly. “And if you even blink wrong from now on, you’re going to do it. I know you’ve been screwing with us, and I also know you’ll be dead before anything else happens.”
Deep in Banshee’s computer, the programmed systems quietly jettisoned two small sections of hull plating, then shifted the com program to a slightly different communications file.
Llyn smiled.
Gensonne stared, feeling his blood pressure soaring. He smiled?
“I see,” the face on his display said. “Should I assume something unfortunate has happened?”
For a second Gensonne couldn’t find his voice in the face of such utter chutzpah. Unfortunate? Smiling? “Is that what you call this?” Gensonne demanded. “Unfortunate? Because you’re about to find out what unfortunate really looks like. Whatever you did to my cruisers at Bergen Three isn’t going to work here. We’re on to you, you smug little bastard. We’re not going to Bergen Two, and if Danak’s pathetic little system force tries to get in our way, we have more than enough firepower to turn the whole damn thing into superheated atoms. They cough up reparations for Mamba and Adder fast enough, I might not do the same thing to the rest of the system.”
He ran out of words and turned up his glare another couple of notches. If Llyn wasn’t shaking in his fancy boots, he damn well ought to be.
Only he wasn’t. The damned little snake was still just looking at him, eyebrows raised politely.
Gensonne ground his teeth. His thumb twitched toward the red button on his armrest; with a supreme effort he forced it to stop.
“And I wouldn’t count on any last-minute surprises,” he continued. “See, Danak hasn’t got a beef with us. There’s no way they would have attacked us unless you goaded them into it. So if they balk at reparatio
ns, I’m going to offer to sweeten the pot.
“I’m going to give them you.”
He paused again. But Llyn just continued to gaze placidly out of the display.
“You’re the one who kicked off this mess,” Gensonne went on. Something in here had to get a rise out of the man. “You’re the genius who just got a whole bunch of their citizens killed. I’m pretty sure that once they know what happened, they’ll be real eager to get their hands on you. I’ll trade you for a promise that I won’t come back and grind their pathetic little star system into dust.”
Still nothing.
“And after that,” Gensonne concluded, “I’ll make sure Manticore knows who hired us to trash their miserable star system.”
“I see you’re upset,” Llyn said soothingly. “Surely we can work this out somehow, Admiral.”
Gensonne stared at him. Had the little man even been listening?
“Incoming burst transmission, Sir,” the com officer broke into Gensonne’s confused disbelief. Gensonne turned a glare on him—
The man’s mouth was hanging open, his face rigid. “Sir, it’s from a Commodore Charnay.”
Gensonne’s first reflexive thought was that Com had stupidly gotten it wrong. Charnay was Secretary of Industry, not a—
The thought broke off. Of course. Charnay was just another part of Llyn’s scam, and a pretty pathetic part on top of it.
“Commodore Charnay?” he bit out. “Commodore?” He spat contemptuously. “Danak has one hell of a delusional government if they think they rate a commodore. Or was a promotion your idea?” he added to Llyn’s image.
“He’s not Danakan, Sir,” the com officer managed, his voice coming out half strangled. “He’s Havenite.”
Gensonne felt an icy hand grip the back of his neck. Havenite?
And with that, his improvised plans, his quick-thinking adjustment to Llyn’s treachery—it flashed away like vapor in vacuum.
And if the man really was a commodore…
“Put it up,” he ordered, his lips feeling numb.
On the secondary com display a man appeared: middle-aged, grim-faced, wearing the uniform of the Republic of Haven Navy appeared on a secondary display.
“I am Commodore Gustav Charnay, Republic of Haven Navy,” he identified himself. “Be advised that my squadron is position and prepared to intercept and engage your forces. You will stand down and strike your wedges to await my boarding parties upon pain of your destruction.”
His eyes narrowed another millimeter. “You are also informed that should any harm befall the Baird family, you individually and all of your personnel collectively, will be held personally responsible and tried accordingly. Charnay, clear.”
Gensonne blinked. Baird—wasn’t that the alias Llyn said he used in the Republic? When the hell had he picked up a family?
He brushed the thought aside, trying to think. All right. If Charnay had the firepower to back up his warning, then it was over.
Still, despite a questionable activity or two in the Volsungs’ past, there was no reason Haven should be mad at them. Certainly there was no paper trail connecting them to anything Nouveau Paris might take exception to. As far as Haven knew, he and his people were as respectable as any other mercenary group, and as far as Gensonne himself knew the Republic had no extradition treaties with the Andermani Empire. Surrender might be professionally disastrous, but surrender and survival beat the hell out of glorious defiance and fiery death.
Besides, as he’d just told Llyn, he had plenty of information to trade. Haven would probably pay even more for it even than Danak would.
“Admiral, Banshee is changing attitude,” Tracking announced suddenly. “Rolling to starboard and changing heading to zero-three-seven degrees.”
Gensonne’s eyes darted to the tactical plot. Where did the sneaky little bastard think he was going?
Because if the RHN was really waiting out there somewhere, the last thing Gensonne wanted was for his best bargaining chip to go running off somewhere.
“Whatever you’re thinking, Llyn, forget it,” he snapped at the com. “I swear to God, I’ll blow you right out of space if you don’t.”
“I don’t understand why you seem so irritated,” Llyn said.
“Still changing heading, Sir.”
“Llyn, stop,” Gensonne bit out. “I said stop. Now!”
“What was that you said, Admiral?” Llyn asked, his expression still placid. “I’m afraid I didn’t hear you clearly.”
“Sir, Banshee’s increased its acceleration,” Tracking said, the urgency in his voice mixed with disbelief and rising panic. “It’s pulling away to starboard.”
“It’s been a pleasure doing business with you Admiral,” Llyn continued from his display. “Regretfully, I must inform you that I’m terminating our relationship. One final parting gift: a warning to you that Captain Katura has informed the Republic of the sizable reward that’s been posted for you by the Andermani Empire. I’m sure you recall the relevant incident. Under the current circumstances, I imagine the only question Noveau Paris will have for Emperor Gustav is whether he would prefer you alive or dead.”
Raw, red fury boiled suddenly in Cutler Gensonne’s brain.
Fury, and deep, gut-wrenching fear. Screwed. He was absolutely and utterly screwed.
All he had left was to screw Axelrod in return. And if Llyn himself was going to be useless as a bargaining chip…
He looked at the visual display centered on Banshee, his lips curling back in a savage smile. Reaching to the red button, he slammed his fist onto it.
Nothing happened.
He stared at the image in disbelief, and hit the button again.
Again, nothing.
“Something wrong, Admiral?” Llyn inquired calmly. He frowned as if thinking, and then his expression cleared. “Of course. You just triggered the bomb, didn’t you?”
Gensonne’s jaw dropped.
“I must say, I was deeply saddened when I learned you’d planted it on Banshee’s hull,” Llyn continued, his tone gently chiding. “I’d thought we were building a mutually trusting relationship. And then for you to go and demonstrate how wrong I was…” He shook his head sadly. “I couldn’t decide whether I was more disappointed by your treachery or by your assumption that I was stupid enough to fall for it.” He shrugged. “But then, there really isn’t any point in being disappointed with you. Not anymore.”
And in that moment, Gensonne knew that death had arrived for him.
“Llyn,” he breathed, the word a curse, a last spitting of defiance.
The computer image on Gensonne’s display froze as the masquerade came to an end. “Goodbye, Admiral,” the recorded message said through the now motionless lips.
“Tactical!” Gensonne roared, shaking himself out of his paralysis. “Target Ban—”
The pair of torpedo launchers in Banshee’s port broadside fired.
Energy torpedoes were light-speed weapons, devastating in their ability to slice through hull and plastic and ceramic.
But battlecruisers were big, tough ships. They didn’t die as instantaneously as smaller ships might have under the same punishment. Gensonne had one final, fleeting fragment of a second, his mind finally understanding the full extent of Llyn’s treachery, before Odin vanished in a twisting, roiling eruption of fury.
Three seconds later, the bomb Gensonne had planted on Banshee’s hull detonated and a second small, furious star blazed briefly in the Volsung formation.
* * *
Charnay’s mouth tightened as a pair of impeller signatures abruptly disappeared from his tactical plot. Ten seconds later, his passive sensors caught the light-speed emissions of the explosions.
And as the associated beacons cut off, his worst fear was confirmed.
One of the destroyed ships had been Banshee.
That was the thing he’d feared most from the outset. Not that his plans for dealing with the pirates might fail, but that the innocent merchant family
might be killed right before his eyes.
“Sir, CIC is reporting something…a little strange,” Commander Laforge said.
Charnay shook away the hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach. What was done was done, and there was no longer anything he could do about it.
“How do you mean strange, Isadora?” he asked.
“Sir, the bigger of those explosions was one of the battlecruisers—presumably Odin, given its proximity to the freighter, but it could conceivably have been Loki,” Laforge said. “The strange part is it looks like she blew up just before the freighter did.”
“Before?”
“Yes, Sir,” Laforge said. “The range is over ten light-seconds, and we’re still refining the data. But the timing seems pretty clear.”
Her eyes met Charnay’s, and the confusion in them matched his own.
“Well, keep at it,” he told her. “We’ll get to the bottom of it eventually.”
In the meantime, the cost in lives for Banshee’s death could now be added to the deaths that Brigadier Massingill’s people and the civilians aboard Bergen Three had suffered in these bastards’ hands.
It was time to balance that debt.
“Com,” the commodore called. “Alpha One. Transmit execution.”
* * *
“Execute Alpha One, Sir,” Ulvestad called from Damocles’s com station.
“Acknowledge receipt, Com,” Marcello ordered.
“Acknowledging, aye, Sir.”
Finally.
“Helm, execute Alpha One.”
“Aye, aye, Sir. Executing Alpha One.”
* * *
Captain Harcon Jaeger stared in disbelieving horror at the visual display. The news from Copperhead had been devastating enough, but he’d had no idea just how spectacularly wrong things had gone until Commodore Charnay’s surrender demand.
The blood-freezing implications of that had still been sinking in when Banshee’s vector began to change.
And then, without a whisper of warning, Odin had blown up. Jaeger’s brain was still reeling over that when Llyn’s freighter had also disintegrated.
Jaeger didn’t have one single clue what the hell had just happened.
“Sir, we’re picking up impeller signatures, range two-point-five million kilometers,” Loki’s tactical officer spoke up, her voice holding disbelief and sudden dread. “Directly between us and Bergen Two.”