No honor in death, p.32
No Honor in Death, page 32
“Commander,” the shaggy, ursine navigator turned around, eyes wide with fear, though he strived to perform like a true servant of the Empire, “our shields will not stand up to their fire.” His growling voice held a note of finality. As it should.
Verkont nodded, his features composed and serene. His life may not have been glorious, but in death, at least, he would prove himself worthy of his ancestors. “Thank you, Trank. You have done well. All of you have done well. May your forefathers greet you with honor.”
The shaggy Gardal nodded back, baring his teeth. Though his culture did not practice ancestor worship like the Overlords, preferring the gods of their natural world, he appreciated the regard implied by Verkont’s words. The lieutenant was a respectful and honorable officer, better than many Overlords who openly despised the subject races.
“Tvant,” Verkont turned to his Gardal first officer, “prepare to return fire. We will show the humans this ship serves the Emperor.” His guns would be like pinpricks on a dragon, but the humans would know that even the Empire’s lowliest ships had honor and spirit.
*
“Mister Guthren, we'll pass the transport on the starboard side, at a range of one-hundred kilometers, then come about on the port side, same range. Mister Devall, individual fire under control of the gun captains. No missiles.”
“A bit close, if he chooses to self-destruct.” Pushkin seemed dubious.
Siobhan smiled. “Imperial transports have no self-destruct mechanism. The High Command doesn't want to risk some glory seeking ship captain committing suicide and utterly destroying the precious cargo. They count on recovering some of it if something like us happens.” Know thine enemy, Gregor.
“Captain,” the gunnery chief raised his arm to attract her attention. He had taken over surveillance duties, to leave Devall free for the engagement. “One contact at sublight heading toward us at zero-seven-three mark one-five. I make it a Gecko-class corvette.”
“One of the escorts.” She nodded as if she had expected this. Which she did. Gecko-class corvettes did not pose a significant threat to a well-handled frigate unless commanded by an officer with Brakal's abilities. Fortunately, the Empire had managed to produce only one of those, and he commanded the Gorgon-class cruiser Tol Vakash.
“Time to intercept?”
“Ten minutes.” But Chief Penzara was not finished yet. “Another contact FTL on a heading two-nine-five mark four-five.”
This caught Siobhan's attention, though she took care to remain as unconcerned as before. A new player, not part of the convoy. A shadow? Unexpected, but of no immediate danger.
“Time to intercept?”
“Approximately fifteen minutes.”
Pushkin and Devall looked at Dunmoore, expecting her to change tactics and destroy the transport as quickly as possible from a standoff position, the better to slip away before enemy warships arrived. But she only nodded, cool and composed. One target at a time.
“Put the contacts on tactical. When the guns bear, Mister Devall, your gun captains may open fire.”
The first officer turned back to his console, worried. He knew she was giving the gunners a chance to draw first blood personally. It was good for morale and confidence, but she cut it close, too close for his comfort, and it broke all the rules of proper raiding: fast in, fast kill, fast out. Was Dunmoore succumbing to bravado? Pushkin realized he still knew very little about the captain. And what he knew did not seem to apply now that her blood was up.
Slowly, too slowly for the first officer, Stingray pulled abreast of the wounded transport and the main as well as the starboard guns opened fire in a measured and steady cadence. The transport replied feebly, its shots splashing on the frigate's energy shields like bugs on a windscreen. At first, the Hurgan's dying shields dispersed Stingray's shots, but each round hit the target precisely, and the weakened force field collapsed. The next rounds hit the hull with devastating effect, punching black holes through the armor. A salvo from the main two-oh-three millimeter turret destroyed the starboard hyperdrive in a shower of sparks and crackling energy, then the frigate was past.
Guthren brought her around the Hurgan's stern, giving the humans a clear view of the torpedo's damage. Devall whistled softly. “That was damned good shooting indeed, captain. I didn't know Lako had it in her.”
Their view of the transport flipped one-eighty degrees as Guthren turned the ship on its axis to give the portside guns a chance to engage on the undamaged side. Then, with the same slow precision, the frigate raked the transport again.
They would never know which shot finally ended the target practice. Suffice to say a heavy plasma round found its way through a hole burned into the main hull moments before and hit the now unprotected fusion reactor sitting atop the cargo holds. Lieutenant Verkont and his Gardal bridge crew never felt the final explosion that tore apart their ship. A direct hit from the frigate's main gun had already sent them to oblivion.
The crew of Stingray watched Hurgan die in silence, aware that they had just condemned thirty-odd sentient beings to death. A chain of linked explosions ripped apart the transport's hull, spewing frozen atmospheric gases into space. Then, a bright flower of pure energy blotted out the ship as the antimatter fuel tanks blew. When the light faded, what had been a large, ungainly but serviceable transport was gone, replaced by an expanding cloud of wreckage.
The Stingrays felt none of the triumph they expected from their first victory in over a year. They were no longer used to dealing out violent death and the whole business had an unpleasant taste to it. Simply put, it had been too easy, like clubbing a baby seal to death. But it had been a kill, and it had value to the Commonwealth's war effort.
“Scratch one consignment of arms and equipment that'll never reach the imperial ground forces on Cimmeria,” Siobhan commented coldly, aware of her crew's feelings. She had met the same attitude at the start of the war when computer simulations that hurt no one turned into bleak and deadly reality. She had not expected it in an experienced crew, though she should have. Killing was a habit that had to be fed regularly, or human scruples gained ascendancy. That, more than anything else, blunted a crew's edge in battle.
“It'll make re-taking the system that much easier for our Marine colleagues.”
“That it will,” Pushkin commented flatly.
Siobhan gave him a sharp look.
“This one was the easiest,” she said. “The next will be more of a challenge.”
“Next, sir?” Pushkin was surprised. He never considered that Siobhan would want to hang around, now that their advantage of surprise was blown. A quick kill and a quick run back to their side of the line seemed the sane course of action, and no one would fault them for it. After all, a kill was a kill, and they had damaged engine components.
“Do the unexpected, Mister Pushkin,” Siobhan grinned cruelly. It was time to lay out the cold reality of war, and force them to acknowledge the true nature of their duties: to kill as many Shrehari as possible, before they killed more humans.
“I'm not finished with these bastards yet. Every transport we get weakens the Empire's position here just that much more, and we haven't even hit a troopship yet.”
The first officer repressed a shudder at the thought of slaughtering a transport filled with hundreds, if not thousands of defenseless troops. Siobhan read his thoughts as they flashed across his face. Her voice hardened.
“Every imperial trooper we kill here will mean one less to kill our Marines later. They started this war. We'll finish it. Chief, range and bearing of the escort?”
“Same course as before. Intercept in three minutes.”
“Mister Shara. Program a micro jump of three seconds on bearing two-five-three mark seven-five. Cox'n, the moment we emerge, take the ship around one-eighty degrees. Let's try something more challenging.”
“Course laid in.”
“Engage.”
*
Sub-Commander Yorganth of Ptar Korsh watched the death of the Hurgan with rage, unable to accept his helplessness, knowing his life would be forfeit if the Fleet Commander chose to make an issue of his competence. He offered a pro forma prayer for the transport’s dead crew, although his beliefs had been sorely tested of late.
His only chance remained in taking the offending human frigate. Yorganth recognized it as a Type 203, an old, outclassed model and he ordered his helmsman to push the corvette beyond the safe sublight speed limits. Then, to his even greater horror, the human jumped, escaping his stillborn attempt at revenge.
“His course?” He snapped at the gun master.
The younger officer glanced at his scanner and swore. Before Yorganth could reprimand him for using offensive language, his gun master blurted out the horrible truth about his situation.
“Commander, the human is behind us and closing in at maximum sublight!”
“Helm, emergency turn. Gharl, prepare to engage.”
“He has launched missiles, commander.”
“Argh!” Yorganth slammed his fists down on the arms of his chair. The human commander was an evil magician. “Defensive fire on the missiles. All spare power to shields.”
*
“Birds away, captain.”
Dunmoore nodded, bloodlust dancing in her eyes. She had surprised not only the enemy but also her own crew. The sharp turn right after emergence had strained the ship, but after hearing a battleship's dying creaks, Siobhan could easily ignore the feeble protestations of an undamaged and far more agile frigate. Not so her first officer, but then, his duty in battle was the health and continued functioning of the ship.
Four antiship missiles streaked toward the corvette. Though she doubted more than one would get through to damage the Shrehari's shields, the spread of birds kept his guns busy while she brought her frigate to the optimum firing range. She could have saturated his defenses with another spread of missiles, but she needed them for later. Siobhan had no intention of running for home even after she took care of this one. Four transports still sailed to Cimmeria, and she intended to bag them all.
“Mister Devall, centrally controlled salvo from all guns at my order.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” He touched his keyboard, slaving all weapons to his own fire control system. This was more to his liking: hit 'em hard, hit 'em fast and get 'em out of the way before another ship came within range.
On screen, the corvette grew at an alarming rate, both ships now closing with each other head-on. Guthren glanced back at Siobhan, a knowing look in his eyes. “We're on a collision course, sir.”
Dunmoore smiled. “Excellent. Remember the last time you and I played chicken, cox’n?”
Guthren chuckled. “It's graven in my memory forever, skipper,” he replied, his attention divided between the enemy and his captain. He did not share the crew's misgivings. After what he and Dunmoore had survived in Don Quixote, none of her tactics would faze him. He trusted her with his very existence.
Catching Pushkin's dubious stare, Dunmoore's smile turned into a vulpine grin. “Ask Mister Guthren about his hair-raising experiences during the first battle of Cimmeria, Mister Pushkin.”
“Engaging our missiles,” Devall reported. Streams of plasma tracked across the starlit background as the corvette's less able computer tried to nail the birds in mid-flight. One exploded with a brief flash of light, but the other three kept coming. The gunnery officer found himself holding his breath as if the missiles were an extension of himself.
“Got another one,” he reported, feeling his heart beating wildly. The two remaining birds were getting closer to the target, and he mentally cheered them on, as if they were sprinters in an inter-Academy race.
The imperial ship's gunner fired without ceasing, but it was in vain. Both missiles struck Ptar Korsh's bow shield, and the five-megaton nuclear warheads exploded simultaneously, bathing him in the glow of a thousand suns. Stingray's scanners blanked out momentarily under the assault of radiation, but she remained on her collision course, Devall's hand hovering over the firing button.
*
The flash of both missiles exploding a hundred meters from Ptar Korsh’s hull overloaded the ship’s cruder electronics and burned out the heavily shielded visual pickups. On the bridge, Yorganth and his officers were blinded by the flash in the fraction of a second before the screen went blank.
Genuine fear now possessed the sub-commander and panic threatened to choke him as his gun master reported the collapse of the bow shields. Yorganth blinked several times, willing his eyes to see clearly again, and in that time, the human frigate came within firing range, but he could not know that. He was blind until the backup systems came online.
When the screen lit up again, Yorganth faced his greatest nightmare. His entire bow was open to the enemy’s guns, and these now winked brightly as they spewed round after round of destructive plasma.
“Helm, bring the ship to port. Gun master, open fire as you bear.” Yorganth was pleased his voice remained strong and steady, hiding the fear he felt.
The helmsman moved too slowly, and the first salvo came through the hole created by the missiles, striking Ptar Korsh’s gray hull. Yorganth’s ship shuddered under the impact, groaning with pain. A console flared as feedback from the plasma strike traveled down the shielded conduits and shorted out the bridge electronics. The sickening smell of burned polymers and plastics assailed Yorganth’s nostrils. He suddenly knew he would explain himself to his ancestors and not his admiral.
*
“He's wide open,” Devall's excited voice cut through the sounds of the straining ship. “His front shields are gone.”
The gunnery officer hit the firing button, releasing the full weight of the frigate's broadside again.
Ptar Korsh's responding salvo, however, found fully charged and operational screens, and though the frigate's shields flared under the impact, none punched through
Siobhan, working only on instinct now, saw the hole created by the first lucky missile strike slowly slip away. “Guns, fire one missile down his throat. NOW!”
Instinctively, Devall's hand found the controls, and he released another bird at point-blank range. His mind caught up with him seconds later, but by then, Siobhan had already ordered the cox’n to shear off to starboard, abandoning the game of chicken just as the Shrehari began his turn. The two ships passed each other within spitting distance, each shuddering under the hammering of the other's guns.
Devall just had time to admire Dunmoore quick mind before the five-megaton warhead exploded on the corvette's main hull. The explosion, contained for the first second or so within the ship's remaining shields, cracked its armored hull as if it were an egg.
The Shrehari crewmen closest to the hull died first, flash fried inside their suits. On the bridge, Yorganth's mouth opened to speak, but whether it was for an order or a prayer, no one ever found out. The hull imploded under the pressure of the released energy, and then exploded outwards as the pressure of the contained atmosphere pushed at the broken seams. The magnetic bottles holding the corvette's antimatter fuel collapsed simultaneously, adding the propellant's immense power to the chaos.
Everything seemed frozen by the violence of Ptar Korsh's death throes as if the Stingrays could not believe the rapid destruction they visited on the imperial ship. Siobhan, however, was in her element at last. She had not forgotten the other oncoming ship. The tactical display showed it emerging at the site of the Hurgan's death. But the captain had already planned one step further.
“Mister Shara, lay in a course three-one-five, mark zero.” To her credit, the sailing master responded as fast as she could. “Done, sir.”
“Engage.”
With a nauseating lurch, Stingray left the scene of the battle and vanished into hyperspace. The physical sensation jolted the others back to life, and they glanced around, uncertain of what their eyes had seen.
Siobhan smiled at them, though it was a chilling smile. “Scratch one corvette. Mister Kowalski, give me ship-wide.”
“Stingrays, this is the captain. In the last ten minutes, you chalked up an imperial transport and a warship with barely a scratch on our hull. Well done. Well done, indeed. As far as I'm concerned, we have now proved that Stingray is far from being a jinx. This ship is as good as any in the Fleet, and we're just starting. Our raiding patrol is far from over, and you'll have more chances to prove your worth to the Fleet. For now, we will take a breather and let the Shrehari wonder about us. I'm proud of you this day. Keep it up. Dunmoore, out.”
Pushkin looked at her curiously, as if coming out of a dream. “What now?”
“Now? We shake that other imperial warship, review the battle log, and take our next kill.”
“Wouldn't it be more prudent to return to our patrol route? We've got two of them.”
“That's the predictable move, Mister Pushkin. I don't like being predictable. No, we can still take out one or two more transports. Take a look at our course. We're heading deeper into the Empire. Our opponents would hardly expect that.”
Her tone was utterly reasonable, matter-of-fact, but her eyes were very, very bright. Pushkin repressed a shiver. By his more sedate standards, Dunmoore was a madwoman, but one who could run circles around the opposition. Judging by the happy grins around the bridge, the crew had finally caught her madness and were willing to follow her wherever she took them.
Commander Brakal did not even feel the desire to curse as he looked at the expanding debris field which marked the graves of two imperial ships. He was too late, a first in his impressive career, and it was a feeling he did not like. The crew felt his mood and remained silent. Even the smirking Khrada held his peace before the deaths of over two hundred imperial spacers.
