Ruins of Empire: Blood on the Stars III Page 19

  Too foolish…

  He was sure now, more than he’d been before. The enemy was up to something. But what?

  The Union battle line stayed where it was, nailed to the stretch of space just in front of the transwarp link, even as the waves of Confederation bombers blasted out into space and began to approach them.

  Striker watched as his strike forces moved toward the enemy fighters. He knew this would be a tough fight for his pilots, that if the enemy hadn’t left squadrons behind to defend their ships, they must be planning to intercept the bombers on their way. But as he stared at the display he saw the Union fighters continue forward, virtually ignoring the Confederation bombers and interceptors. Striker’s escort squadrons tore into the Union birds, killing dozens. Hundreds. But the enemy squadrons ignored it all, returning fire, but not stopping, not even adjusting their courses.

  Something was wrong. He couldn’t understand it, not at first. And then, suddenly, it was clear.

  “Commander, the battle line is to withdraw now, maximum acceleration.”

  “Sir?”

  “You heard me, Commander! Now!”

  Striker watched as the Union battleships began to move on the display, not toward his ships, but back to the transwarp link. He’d seen it in his mind a moment before, but now there was no doubt. He knew what the enemy was doing. But a glance at the display told him what his gut already understood. He’d figured it out too late.

  He watched as more of the enemy ships fired their engines, moving back through the transwarp link, retreating from the system and leaving their fighters behind.

  Something was very wrong.

  * * *

  “Got another one! That’s three already…I think the Union’s fresh outta pilots. I don’t know who they’ve got flying these things now, but they don’t know what the hell they’re doing.”

  Angus Douglas sat in his cockpit, listening to the excited chatter on the comm lines. His pilots were cutting down the enemy fighters, and they’d suffered hardly a casualty in return. But something wasn’t right.

  The pilot’s words, “they don’t know what the hell they’re doing,” they reverberated in his head, and from the depths of his mind came the response. They know exactly what they’re doing.

  His eyes darted to the display, watching the vectors of the enemy fighters. They were making evasive maneuvers, but tight ones, in a very controlled range…and nothing that took them off their direct course toward the battleships.

  They’re all interceptors…why take such losses to get to…

  He looked back at the scanners, zooming in on one enemy fighter, then another, watching their flight, the sluggish way they handled.

  These things are interceptors, but they fly like pigs…worse even than bombers…

  He did some quick calculations, watching another fighter as it blasted its thrusters, changing its vector to give its pursuers a harder time getting a lock.

  His vector’s changing too slowly…too predictably…

  He punched at a series of keys, running more calculations through the AI. The enemy fighters were seeing about half the normal change to their vectors that would be expected.

  But that doesn’t make sense. Not unless their mass is…

  “Reprogram the scanners,” he snapped at the AI. “Projected mass on the nearest enemy fighter.”

  A second passed, perhaps two. He knew most of that was the time for the active scanners to send a pulse to the enemy ship and read the result, not the time it took his ship’s AI to reach a conclusion.

  “Estimated mass four hundred twenty-six point one nine tons.”

  “Reverify.”

  A few seconds later. “Results confirmed.”

  But that was wrong, almost double the normal mass of a Union interceptor.

  He got a cold feeling inside, and a moment later his eyes caught the long-range scanner. The enemy battleships were withdrawing, leaving the system.

  “What the…”

  He slapped his hand down on his comm unit. “Intrepid, Douglas here. There is something about these Union fighters…something not right at all.”

  “Commander Douglas, this is Captain Eaton. You are ordered to come about and pursue the enemy fighters…your bombers too. Ignore the enemy battle line. They’ll be gone before you get there.”

  He was surprised to hear the captain on the line, and the instant her tone sunk in, he knew there was trouble. It confirmed what he’d already felt. The enemy was up to something. He wasn’t sure exactly what, but it wasn’t good.

  “Yes Captain. At once.” He flipped the comm unit to the main channel. “All fighters, come about immediately and pursue the enemy attack force. Bombers, this means you too. The enemy battleships are retreating…you can’t get there in time. We’ve got to take out these fighters, any way we can.”

  He angled his own throttle, bring his fighter around. His squadrons had considerable velocity to overcome, and they would have a hard time bringing their vectors around and catching the enemy. He was far from sure his people would make it back before the enemy was in firing range of the Confederation battleships…but all they could do was try.

  “Commander, I don’t understand…” One of his squadron commanders began to question the order, and he could hear other voices on the main line.

  “That’s enough…all of you. Just do as you’re told, and obey orders.” He cut the line, and his eyes darted to the display, confirming they his pilots were doing just that. He could see the fighters blasting their turbos, but the uncertainty had caused a wide variation in timing between squadrons and individual ships. His strike force was a disordered mess, but there was nothing he could do about it. He was already pressed to reach the enemy fighters in time, and if he ordered his lead birds to slow down and wait for the others to catch up, it would just exacerbate the problem.

  He leaned back in his chair, feeling the intense pressure as his thrusters exceeded the ability of the fighter’s dampeners to absorb the force. He breathed deeply, as deeply as he could manage with the equivalent of five times his weight pushing against his chest. He gripped the throttle tightly, holding it all the way back, coaxing every bit of thrust his engines had to give. He had to get back and hit those fighters. He had to…

  * * *

  “Arm all defensive batteries. Prepare to receive enemy attack.” Eaton was leaning forward in her seat, her eyes fixed on the display. Her CSP had engaged the attacking enemy fighters and cut into them with a ferocity beyond anything she could have imagined. They’d taken out dozens, suffering hardly a casualty in return. The enemy ships didn’t seem to care about losses. Beyond a rudimentary, and highly predictable, series of evasive maneuvers, they simply pressed on, firing at any of her ships that wandered within their arcs, but making no effort to pursue targets.

  The Union fighters were all interceptors, at least the scanners had so labeled them. But they handled as badly as a group of bombers, and perhaps worse. Eaton didn’t like it. She didn’t like it one bit.

  “All defensive turrets report armed and ready, Captain.”

  “Very well.” Intrepid’s engines were blasting hard, accelerating away from the enemy attack. It was the right idea, but it had come too late. She could see there was no way her ship was going to escape the enemy assault…no way any of the battleships on the line were going to. There was a cloud of dots in the display, chasing the Union fighters—her own forward squadrons, still following her order to withdraw. There were squadrons all along the line on the way back, but most of them were behind Intrepid’s fighters. Eaton had ordered her people back on her own initiative, possibly even in violation of Admiral Striker’s existing directives, though the fleet order came a few minutes later. Still, those minutes were looking like a big difference. Her returning fighters might—just might—get some shots off before the enemy strike force attacked. Not too many of the other returning wings were going to make it in time.

  There weren’t many enemy fighters left heading
for Intrepid. Six, she counted, her eyes locked on the small screen next to her chair. The CSP had done what it could, and its ships were busy decelerating. But they’d never get back in time for another run.

  She watched as Commander Douglas’s birds came into extreme range, firing as they did. Hits from such a distance would be the dumbest luck, but she’d take what she could get now. And the Confederation birds out-thrusted their Union counterparts, especially these inexplicably clumsy and slow ones.

  Intrepid’s laser turrets opened fire, and they scored a hit almost immediately.

  Five ships left.

  There was a flash in the display, and her head shot around, her eyes trying to focus on the source. It was Nobility. The battleship had taken some kind of hit. Eaton looked back at her own screen, as the scanner reports were coming in.

  No, that’s not possible…

  The energy released was more than five times that of a plasma torpedo. She stared, unable to move her eyes from it, thinking that it had to be wrong.

  But it wasn’t. Suddenly, she understood. The clunky, robotic maneuvers, the slow, clumsy flight. Those fighters weren’t manned by pilots…they were flown by AIs. And they weren’t bombing the battleships of the line…they were ramming them.

  And by the looks of those readings, they’re crammed to the supports with plasma warheads detonating on impact…

  “Get me Admiral Striker,” she shouted. “And advise Commander Douglas he is to do whatever it takes to intercept those fighters. Whatever it takes.”

  “Admiral Striker is already on the fleet line, Captain.”

  Eaton nodded, slapping her hand against her headset.

  “…the incoming fighters are making suicide runs. They are loaded with plasma warheads and attempting to ram. All ships, full evasive maneuvers. Now.”

  She could hear the tension in Striker’s voice, even fear. She’d already done everything possible, and now there was nothing left but to watch as her squadrons and guns desperately tried to save her ship. One by one, they took out the approaching fighters.

  They got all but one…

  Douglas himself was on the tail of that ship…but the range was too close. He wasn’t going to get there in time.

  Then Intrepid shook wildly, and the lights went out. Eaton heard a cracking sound as her body was thrown hard forward, into her harness. The pain came an instant later, and despite her best efforts, she cried out.

  A shuddering sound echoed on the bridge as every workstation went dark.

  She could feel the weightlessness as both Intrepid’s engines and dampeners went offline. She leaned back the best she could, gritting her teeth against the pain in her chest. She’d broken a rib…no, more than one. But that didn’t matter now.

  She reached up to her headset, wincing at the agony of even that small move. “Commander Merton? Engineering?” Nothing. “Sickbay? Gunnery?” She tapped her controls, cycling through every station. But the comm was completely dead.

  “Commander, see if we have inter-ship…” Her words stopped dead, just as the emergency lights came on. The bridge was a wreck, half her people poking at their inoperative stations with varying degrees of panic and frustration, while others struggled to deal with injuries ranging from minor to severe.

  And on the floor, just next to his station, Commander Heinrich Nordstrom. Or at least what was left of him after the structural support had crushed the top half of his body.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Sector Nine Headquarters

  Liberte City

  Planet Montmirail, Ghassara IV,

  Union Year 213 (309 AC)

  Villieneuve was standing behind his desk, poking through the data chips and intelligence reports piled high there. Every few seconds, he took something and placed it in a small bag laying on his chair. The sack contained a grooming kit and a few articles of clothing, in addition to a personal data unit. The intelligence chief was hurrying, and his expression was one of concern, of worried impatience.

  Normally, he traveled with a whole retinue, as befitted his station, and several personal aides handled his extensive baggage. But he was traveling light now, and he didn’t want to make a spectacle of his departure. In fact, he didn’t want anyone to even know he was gone, not for as long as that perception could be maintained.

  “You called for me, Gaston?” Ricard Lille walked into the room, pointedly closing the door behind him. Discussions between the two men were, almost by definition, private affairs. Lille was impeccably dressed, in black as usual, but this time he was in sharp contrast to his friend, whose usual smart attire was looking rather rumpled.

  “Yes, Ricard. I am leaving for the front…and I need you to fill in for me here. I need you to be acting head of Sector Nine.”

  Lille looked surprised, a notable change from his usual non-committal expression. He hesitated for a few seconds before saying, “Of course, Gaston…whatever you need me to do.”

  Villieneuve knew his comrade was competent enough to handle the job, even to keep the Presidium under control…but more importantly, he figured Lille was the least likely of his top subordinates to stab him in the back and make a play to seize his position, and the almost incalculable power that went with it. He considered the agent to be a friend, certainly, though that was third or fourth on the list of reasons he’d pegged Lille as the safest choice.

  Ricard Lille simply didn’t crave power for its own sake, not in the way most functionaries in the Union did. Villieneuve knew the agent wanted to live well and to secure his own position, of course, but he also knew Lille didn’t want the responsibility that went with high office, nor did he particularly want to become a target for rapacious underlings. He wasn’t an administrator by heart. His true love was killing. Lille was an assassin, by trade and by nature, perhaps the best Villieneuve had ever seen.

  The head of Sector Nine was far from squeamish himself, nor was he reluctant to fully employ the methods that had made the intelligence agency feared throughout space. But he didn’t get the same ecstasy, the pure joy his friend did from the artistry of the kill. Lille was a psychopath, but a very high functioning one, and Villieneuve had always taken steps to ensure the assassin had everything he wanted—wealth, women, and first shot at any prominent kills. It was a relationship that had worked well for years, giving each of them exactly what they needed. That was a much better basis for cooperation than mere friendship, and Villieneuve was well aware he owed some portion of the credit for his current position to his associate’s…removal…of obstacles during his rise.

  “The front?” Lille added a moment later. “That sounds…unsafe. What prompts you to go there? Bad news?”

  “Yes and no. We launched a preliminary attack against the enemy’s fleet base Grimaldi. The attack was simply meant to divert the enemy’s attention. We used a novel strategy. Our battleships transited and launched fighters, but the craft were AI-flown and packed with plasma warheads.”

  “A suicide attack?” Lille made a face. “Well, not suicide, exactly, but still…”

  “It was very costly in fighters, feasible only because I was able to expedite shipments of the newer Mark-6 craft to the fleet, leaving the old Mark-5s…available. I’m afraid our logistics will not support a repeat. We may even have trouble replacing normal losses for a while, at least until the production pipeline fills up again.”

  “Did the attack succeed?”

  “Yes. Quite well, actually. Our battleships had all transited back before the assault waves hit, so much of this is conjecture. We left a few scouts behind, but they were only able to collect rather limited data. Still, I’m confident enough to say we caused significant damage to at least ten of their battleships…and possibly destroyed two outright.”

  “With no losses of our own?”

  “None except eighteen hundred fighters…and a good portion of our plasma ordnance. We may have trouble arming a strong bomber attack in the near future.”

  “Still, that is good news.�
� Lille caught his friend’s expression. “Isn’t it?”

  “Yes…and no. In terms of damage inflicted it was a great victory. But, I’m afraid it has backfired in ways too. The latest intelligence intercepts suggest the enemy is actively contemplating whether the unorthodox attack is a sign that our recent offensive is limited in nature, rather than the type of sustained assault we conducted at the start of the war. They would not be taken by surprise if we were able to launch another such attack—but many in their high command seem to believe that a sustained assault on Grimaldi base is not in the cards. If they lose their concern about an imminent full scale invasion, they may send reinforcements into the Badlands.”

  Villieneuve rubbed his temples. “The Presidium is concerned now as well, for different reasons. They are worried that our attacks have suffered losses, that we are weakening our position for the long term. They are beginning to question the entire notion of a diversionary invasion.”

  “They’re right, Gaston, aren’t they? At least regarding losses. I’ve seen some of the casualty reports from the engagements. Despite your holding back somewhat, we have taken serious damage. And the Confeds aren’t stupid—certainly not Admiral Striker. It doesn’t take deep calculation to suggest the existence of another version of Supply One is unlikely in the extreme. It will take more than false intel and a few attacks to convince them otherwise. It will take fear.”

  “The Confederation forces have suffered as well, I will remind you. Our ships aren’t shooting blanks, after all. I believe we’ve created some fear on their end. Despite my concerns, the enemy is still operating as though they expect a full-scale attack on Grimaldi base, and as far as our forward intel reports can ascertain, they have not yet detached significant forces. At least that we know of.” Villieneuve’s emotions were usually very well controlled, but he realized his words were showing his defensiveness. His plan had been a daring one, and the stress was getting to him.