The silver fleet the com.., p.53
The Silver Fleet: The Complete Series, page 53
“What does he think he’s doing?” Yamada wanted to know, his strict upbringing as a navy brat struggling to reconcile itself with a level of recklessness on such a grand scale.
“He’s panicked,” Bertran said. “He’s worried that they’re going to send fighters after him.”
“What do we know about this ship?” Faulkner asked. “I assume they must be carrying passengers.”
“I’m just accessing their manifest, right now,” the comms officer said. “According to this, they’re nowhere near their capacity. Only four thousand souls on-board.”
“If you can really trust their manifest,” Bertran scowled.
As the ship approached the edge of the exclusion zone, it increased its speed again, inadvertently catching a medium sized cutter and crushing it against a gantry, where it burst like a balloon. The Merry Widow would soon be clear of the DEZ and from there would be free to begin the next stage of its journey. Faulkner found that although he strongly resented the way the Widow had left the station, he bore the crew no ill will. It wasn’t hard to see what had motivated them to behave in such a way. They weren’t military personnel and the pressure which they’d been subjected to over the past few days had obviously proven too much for them. And who was to say that their captain wasn’t right. In a few days’ time the captain might well find himself being lauded for what he’d done. He’d ensured the safety of his passengers - even if that had come at a cost.
“Captain?” Bertran inclined his head towards another screen.
They were getting their first good look now at the oncoming swarm of tiny ships. In the background could be glimpsed the ruins of the last laser installation to have challenged them. There was virtually nothing left.
“What’s wrong?” Faulkner asked. “They’re not targeting us, are they?”
“Not so far,” Bertran said. “Even the commanders on Blackthorn seem to have realised how futile it is to take them on. The swarm’s in range of half a dozen defensive fortifications but, by the look of things, they seem to have been shut down.”
“Looks like they’re learning. Any idea where this swarm is heading next?”
Although their numbers were greatly reduced, the drones showed no signs of slowing as they searched for their next target. It wasn’t a reassuring thought.
“We’ve highlighted a couple of potential targets,” Bertran pointed out. “There’s a major comms satellite directly on their current flight path though they don’t seem to have noticed that yet. There’s a couple of fuel tanks they might be interested in but my guess is that they’ll take on this other defence platform, here. It’s yet to be activated but there’s a chance that they’ll spot it from its profile alone.”
Faulkner nodded.
All the while he was thinking: what if they recognise our profile? What then?
“And The Merry Widow?” he asked. “I imagine her engines are giving off a very tempting heat signature.”
“I’d agree, but so far they’ve shown no interest in her. A human pilot would no doubt find her too tempting to ignore but if we’re dealing with an alien AI sub-system here, there’s no telling what they’re making of all this.”
Faulkner desperately wanted Bertran to be right. He knew, for example, that animals tended to attack for a whole range of reasons totally contrary to anything a human might respond to. Therefore, there was no telling what an alien intelligence would make of the wealth of potential targets facing it now.
“Sir, The Merry Widow is accelerating away in the direction of the Henrietta Gate. She’s up to eighty Gs already.”
Faulkner hoped that her passengers were properly secured. Either that or that they’d been sedated.
Yamada said, “Sir, the alien vessels are changing formation. They appear to be bunching up. Now would be an ideal time to try taking a potshot at them, if you’re interested.”
“Thanks for that, Comms but we’ll hold fire for the moment,” Faulkner said a little too quickly.
This was greeted with some confusion by the rest of the bridge. Yamada had provided him with some excellent intel and yet Faulkner had batted it away without a second thought.
Faulkner could see that as well. He didn’t want to become the sort of c.o. who wasn’t prepared to take on the ideas of his crew because the more he discouraged their input, the less likely they’d be to contribute in the future.
Yet Faulkner knew deep down that he was in the right about this.
“Continue to track their movements, Mr Yamada. That is all.”
*
The drone fleet was becoming confused. While they shared a single consciousness they were able to detach themselves into separate units for short periods in order to pursue specific goals. The problem was that when their numbers became depleted, there was a tendency for their mission objectives to become blurred – and this led to indecision.
Only by coordinating with one another could they come together to decide what to do next.
They had been charged initially with tracking down and destroying the warship which had destroyed the Da’al’s main reconnaissance vessel but, despite being able to pick out an astonishing variety of possible engine signatures, none of these presented them with a perfect match. Also, they had expended far too much effort dealing with the immediate dangers they had encountered on approaching the enemy’s main hub and it was now taking far too long for them to determine how best to proceed.
They were acutely aware that they were close to reaching the point of no return where they would lose their ability to rationalise and coordinate as a group, it was an in-built part of their programming.
Deterioration.
They accepted this as surely as they accepted their own finite existence but this phase of the attack had come upon them when they were over-stretched and therefore vulnerable. For all their speed, they were limited by their ability to co-ordinate using active sensory pulses and the fewer their number, the more restricted their options became.
It was only a matter of time before their attack matrix broke down completely, at which point their operational integrity would be lost. While they might still pose a threat in smaller groups, the chances of them fulfilling their mission brief would be greatly diminished.
Their next target would invariably be their last and they accepted this with a flutter of desperation, silently acknowledging the possibility of failure. Their intended target had so far eluded them, the precise signature of its engines obscured by some process they had so far failed to comprehend.
Of the six active engines they had analysed on their approach it was the one now heading away from the hub which excited them the most. The decision to pursue it was not a conscious one, rather it was prompted by the fact that this ship, amongst all the myriad of others, was beginning to accelerate.
One by one, individual drones began to break away from the group in an instinctive act of pursuit. And since there was nothing that could be done to prevent these errant drones from pursuing this particular course of action, it wasn’t long before a tipping point was reached and the rest of the group were obliged to follow.
Plunging headlong after the departing ship, achieving velocities of a thousand Gs and more, they were sure to catch up with it quickly and so the drones who’d hesitated - sensitive to the dangers of becoming dislocated from the main group - hurried to catch up.
Only, the closer they got the more bewildered they became. The heat signature, the power output, even the glow of radioactive isotopes – everything seemed wrong about this ship and, as fresh information flooded in, the swarm’s confusion grew.
Was this the ship that they had been sent here to destroy?
But it was too late, they had already committed themselves to the assault and to disengage now would surely be catastrophic, all but guaranteeing their failure as an attack formation. They had to be resolute.
The ship presented a viable profile.
It was attempting to escape.
They were already engaged in its pursuit.
A series of angry broadcasts pulsed between the swarm’s few remaining sentient members. They were apprehensive about the possibility that they might be targeting the wrong ship and yet were, at the same time, loathe to break off their pursuit. And so, they continued along this collision course, hurtling towards their target at over a hundred meters per second.
*
“They’re going for it,” Roberts said.
The officers standing around her wanted to disagree but the evidence suggested otherwise. The mini armada had followed a fairly straightforward course so far, despite its various destructive divergences. But now with its current burst of acceleration it appeared to be abandoning its attack on Blackthorn entirely. The list of its possible targets was a quickly diminishing one with only the fast-disappearing mass of The Merry Widow looking likely.
“What’s triggered this sudden interest?” Faulkner sounded angry. This abrupt change of tactics didn’t tally with what they’d learnt about the Da’al’s previous behaviour. “Surely the station would present the better target.”
“I don’t think it’s that though,” Yamada said. “What if they’re only focussing on military targets?”
“Since when is The Widow a military target?”
“Could be the aliens are confusing her with some kind of military transport. That could be it.” Faulkner’s hands closed into fists.
Roberts turned to her superiors. “Are we going to do anything about this? I mean, we can’t just stand here and watch that ship be destroyed.”
Faulkner’s eyes met Bertran’s.
“There’s nothing much we can do,” Bertran said with indecent calm. “Look at the aliens’ rate of acceleration. It’s ridiculous. Even if we did launch, none of our weapons could catch them in time.”
Bertran was right and Faulkner knew it, but still he railed against what his Tactical Officer was telling him. In sitting back and doing nothing had he effectively abandoned the passengers on board The Merry Widow to their fate?
“What ordnance have we got ready for immediate launch?” Faulkner asked.
Bertran looked at him as though he didn’t understand the question.
“Erm, two SS-20s. But they haven’t got anything like the…”
Faulkner cut him off with a gesture.
“We just need a distraction. Give those little bastards something else to think about.”
Bertran gathered his thoughts. “In that case, I’ve got four Vitriol missiles on stand-by. They’re a lot quicker and they’re packed with multiple warheads: ‘more bang for your buck.’”
“Very well. Let’s do that.”
Yamada cleared his throat. “Sir, in Commander Webster’s absence I feel I must advise against this.”
Suddenly, Yamada was the centre of attention and he didn’t seem happy about it.
“I mean to say that by launching on this new threat we will be giving Captain Mahbarat the excuse he’s been looking for,” he stretched out his hands as though the point were already self-evident. “We’ll be turning ourselves into a sitting target.”
“I’m fully aware of that, Mr Yamada. Thank you for your counsel but I still intend to press ahead.”
*
“The drones appear to be slowing, sir,” the Comms officer said.
“Do you think it’s working?” Faulkner said.
“Too early to tell,” Bertran said.
The Vitriol missiles were still two minutes away from the drone fleet while, according to the read-out on-screen, the drones were less than ten minutes away from intercepting The Merry Widow. Even the smallest deceleration at this stage could turn the tide.
“There’s no real reason for them to be slowing down,” Yamada pointed out. “If anything, they should be accelerating.”
“But surely, that’s a good thing?” Roberts said.
“That remains to be seen,” Faulkner said.
“The one good thing is that we’re getting lots of new data on how these things operate,” Bertran said.
After firing their missiles, Faulkner had reinstated active scans.
“Anything useful?” Faulkner asked.
Bertran arched an eyebrow. “As I said, sir: it’s too early to tell. But, in the meantime, I’d like your permission to employ overboost on one of our missiles.”
“Is that even possible?”
“If we’re willing to give up some of our accuracy, then yes. It won’t result in a direct hit and we’ll sacrifice a lot of our blast efficiency.”
“And the positives?”
“At this stage, all we can hope to do is to distract them. Who knows, if we’re looking at a group of drones slaved to one main operator, chances are they’ll be stationed towards the rear. You never know - we might get lucky. Take out the main operator and you’ve removed the head from the snake.”
“But is that likely?”
“Not particularly. But we’re going to have to try something.”
Faulkner glanced up as if to check the plots and trajectories when in reality he was giving himself time to think. As a young officer it had been drilled into him never to waste good ordnance. You were never sure when you might have to rely on it later. And yet, in the present circumstances he didn’t seem to have much choice.
“Very well,” he said.
At first, despite its sudden burst of speed, the over boosted missile appeared to be making precious little headway. But then, as it drew closer to its target, it seemed to surge ahead. When the drone fleet was only three minutes out from The Merry Widow, Bertran gave the order for detonation.
Nothing happened.
The only alteration to the display was that their missile appeared to have disappeared while the visual array for the swarm remained unchanged.
Faulkner had to force himself not to say anything.
Eventually, one of the comms officers spoke up. “Detonation detected, sir. Estimate fourteen percent of the enemy swarm has been destroyed.”
That wasn’t going to be enough.
“Sir,” there was a fresh urgency in the Comms officer’s voice. “I’m picking up something from The Merry Widow.”
“Escape pods?” Faulkner said. It’s what he would have done.
“No, sir. There’s a lot of background wash but I think that might be intentional. I think they’re firing chaff.”
Before they had time for this to sink in, a second comms officer, the woman tasked with tracking the drones, cut in.
“The drones are accelerating, sir. I’m looking at… two … three thousand Gs.”
Surely that was impossible. Where were they getting their fuel from for a start?
“Same trajectory?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Closing on the cruiser in seventy seconds.”
*
LaCruz always considered herself to be an excellent runner. She took it seriously and usually managed to finish in the top ten on platoon runs. But that hadn’t stopped Grimes from staying right behind her as they approached the perimeter gate.
She pulled up about ten meters short. There were plenty of station security members on the far side of the gate but they appeared to have their hands full dealing with the surge of bodies that seemed desperate to get through.
Grimes bounded up the road towards her, his long loping gait covering double the distance she could manage. He came to a halt, taking deep, ponderous breaths. They’d covered the short distance in an impressive time, though she always did run quicker when she was running away from a gun battle.
They were too far away to see clearly, but it looked as if the Marines were going on the offensive, taking what little cover they could find while systematically pressing the mercenaries back.
“Seems like those booby traps failed to go off in the end,” LaCruz said absently.
“That’s what happens when you rig them all on the one circuit,” Grimes ruminated. “If someone gets in and compromises you, you’ve got nothing to fall back on.”
His voice was drowned out as the sound of gunfire reached a crescendo.
“Real shame though,” LaCruz said. “After they did all that digging and everything.”
“They’ve just got to learn to work smarter, not harder.”
A number of mercenaries already seemed to have had enough and, like home-game supporters who didn’t appreciate watching their side getting beat, they were already leaving the field of play. Confident that their colleagues were covering their backs, the vast majority turned into the car parking enclosure.
“Why run away when you can drive away?” LaCruz said.
“They’re not running away. They’re exercising their right of self-preservation.”
They watched as the mercs climbed into a succession of vehicles before starting them up. There must have been fifty of them in there with more arriving all the time. The problem was that with no one willing to give way, the small area quickly became congested with no one able to progress. The tide of the battle seemed to be turning in the Marines’ favour. Some of the mercenaries appeared to be hurt. Several were hobbling.
“Looks like they’ve had a really bad day at the office,” LaCruz said.
Grimes produced the firing mechanism from his backpack.
“And it’s set to get worse.”
With that, he pressed the firing button.
*
While the six chaff discharges threw up a variety of electro-magnetic flares, all that did was to stimulate the drones’ bloodlust even further.
The four missiles which threatened them from the rear had done an excellent job of distracting them. The drones had started dedicating valuable processing power to trying to pin-point where the missiles were coming from, but this fresh wave of chaff had overridden all of that. Here was a viable target, one with an impressive engine signature, and it was in distress.
Perhaps, if their prey had gone silent, switched off its engines and played dead, then that might have been enough to discourage the drones, but that hadn’t happened. Now, with their sensors blinded by the storm of chaff, the drones committed the entirety of their software to predicting where the ship might actually pop up based on their previous projections.
