Fall of the Terran Empire, page 15
Still, Pearson couldn’t help but shudder. After receiving the last surviving messages from the late Emperor Eglon, he was now in a very difficult position. Mihialovich was a traitor and branded an outlaw. Princess Geneviève was interrogating Traci Ganner to see what other Orion spies they might have in their midst. And in theory, Admiral Pearson was now the heir presumptive. Fortunately, tradition afforded him some time before he was crowned sovereign.
In order for him to become emperor, there was an established process to transfer power from one sovereign to another. The high court of nobles was required to attend and confirm the choice of sovereign. Under normal circumstances, this passed from the emperor to his chosen heir. However, there were historical precedents where one emperor seized power from another through conquest, intrigue, or murder, in which case the victor would present himself to the court and declare his sovereignty. The heir apparent would travel to Earth and be crowned in a rather elaborate ceremony, in which he would take oaths of fealty from the nobles themselves.
The navy was another matter altogether. The first space marshal had jurisdiction over the entire admiralty, and by extension, the navy. While the first marshal answered to the emperor, his loyalty must be without question, since he also wielded Home Fleet as an extension of the emperor’s power.
But these were not ordinary times. Even if Pearson wanted to be the next emperor—which he didn’t—as he reminded himself sternly, he couldn’t physically present himself to the noble court on old Earth. He didn’t even know if any had survived.
Dragging his mind back to the here and now, he forced himself to maintain the calm, laid-back countenance everyone had come to expect from him. Be brilliant, so you can prove you should still lead this fleet, he told himself.
“Very well, Admiral,” he said. “Begin the attack.”
Admiral Charleton turned away from the video transmission pickup and issued the necessary orders to get the task force underway.
Operation Fuse Box was simple. Sending in a mobile task force comprised of eight battle cruisers and ten fast heavy cruisers, Charleton would march down the enemy logistics train, through Gamma Hydrae, and attempt to secure the far side of Acamar. If he could not, he was to retreat to the far side of Gamma Hydrae and hold there.
In the meantime, Pearson had his work cut out for him. His minelayers had already sown some seven hundred explosive mines across the open face of the rift. Although he couldn’t define the exact opening, he could sow mines as close as he dared. Some of them drifted into the rift’s spatial field and disappeared. Some reappeared; others remained gone.
His engineering team had also restored partial functionality to the watch station built on the Antarian moon. That gave him back communication and some weapons manufacturing capability for the system, but agricultural and industrial capacity were in shambles. It seemed the Valdi had no interest in taking either the metal fabrication or agricultural processing stations intact. They had simply destroyed them. Perhaps they had a slash-and-burn policy. Somehow Captain McKenzie had been able pass back and forth through the rift under the nose of the Imperial navy and none of the Valdi fleets intercepted him.
Pearson watched along with his staff as Charleton’s task force proceeded to the system’s edge and entered hyperspace. He would know if his task force commander survived the transit to Gamma Hydrae in about seven hours. Unfortunately, he was taking nearly one-third of his entire order of battle with him.
* * *
“Alright, Captain. Put this on.” Geneviève’s interrogator threw a set of orange coveralls at Traci Ganner’s feet. Traci stooped to pick them up and noticed the size stenciled in the back of the shirt opening--too large. There was also a blood stain on the left sleeve that had never washed out, indicating that these were reused for all prisoners in the detention area instead of recycled. Well, in a way, she thought, that’s recycling.
When she finished putting on the jumpsuit and had folded her uniform carefully and set it aside, she was led to a more permanent area of the detention block. She had still not seen Captain McKenzie since they had arrived. She hoped he was still alive. The walls were dirty and foul in this section of the ship. Clearly, they did not do inspections here very often.
Traci had spent some time in her cell mentally preparing herself for the interrogation to come. Would the Orion planners forget about her? Had she outlasted her usefulness? No, she told herself firmly. They were not like the Terran leadership. They would remember her in her time of need.
It was 0400 ship’s time. The sleep deprivation and poor food were designed to intimidate her, break her down. She was expected to question her loyalties and options, and determine that her time had run out. But Traci Ganner was made of more stern material than that. And she had hope--hope for a day when Imperial evil would be gone forever. Hope that one day, a true federation of worlds would bring the kind of peace and security that the Empire could never understand.
She was led into a cell with no windows and only one door. The walls were featureless, and when the door was closed, there was little to distinguish it from the walls. Sensory deprivation.
In the center of the room was a small table with two chairs on opposite sides. She was expected to take the one nearest to her. She recognized Princess Geneviève in the other one. The woman watched her with eyes as cold as glaciers, eyes that revealed nothing of their intention. Traci shivered involuntarily. The woman’s eyes merely reflected the emptiness of the room.
Traci willed her feet to move and took the chair. Folding her hands on the table top, she waited for the questions to come. She would not answer them.
The marine interrogators connected a collar around Traci’s neck to that was connected to various electrodes and sensors.
The princess was thorough. She started with accusations, innuendo, and conspiracy. Then she shifted to Traci’s ruined military career and her failure as an Imperial citizen. At each level, they intensified the power to the neural collar which overloaded every nerve in Traci’s body causing her to scream in pain. She lost count of how many times she had passed out, only to be revived and sat back into the chair.
When that did not prompt answers from her, Geneviève vowed to see her family brought to Imperial justice. That was a mistake, for it only underscored her belief that what Traci was doing was right. In the end, Traci went into convulsions and lost consciousness for several hours. Geneviève seemed thrilled that Traci was not easily intimidated. She seemed to take sadistic pleasure in strategically designing each session for maximum physical and emotional agony to slowly deprive Traci of her mind.
* * *
“Admiral, perhaps we should recover our task group from Epsilon Hydrae and consolidate our power here,” Commodore Pirelli suggested as he came over to the table in the admirals’ mess. “The Orions haven’t attacked, and I would feel better knowing we had a few more ships here in Antares.”
“No, Bernie, we’ve been over this. We’ve got to get our position secured here before we can think of moving any units from that front. The last thing I want is a second defensive axis to try to coordinate.” Pearson paused to make sure his instructions were understood. Pirelli paused, considering, and then nodded his head in confirmation.
“Anyone else have anything to add?” Pearson asked, looking around the wardroom table at his officers as his steward began to serve lunch. “Very well, Bernie, let’s see what we can do with the ground stations while we’re waiting.”
As his staffers began to pick up their utensils to eat, the communication alert chimed.
Pirelli, who was closest to the communication relay, pressed the switch. “Yes?” he asked as the rating’s image appeared on the video receiver.
“Message incoming from Fourth Fleet.”
Everyone stopped what they were doing and looked at Admiral Pearson. He folded his arms and considered a moment.
“Ensign, I’ll take the message on flag bridge,” he said, and filed out with his officers.
* * *
“Admiral on the bridge!” the lieutenant of the watch announced as the other technicians and officers rose. Pearson seemed not to notice as he strode up to the command plot and mentally counted the ship classes. Commodore Santos waved the others back to their duties.
“Pipe it through, Lieutenant,” Santos responded to the communications officer.
The main bridge monitor switched from the tactical view to an image of Duke Gherlof Mihialovich in his own command chair aboard the Minotaur.
“Admiral Pearson,” he said, grinning a shark’s grin. “What a delightful surprise.”
“What are you doing here, Admiral?” Pearson asked. “You are supposed to be in the Sol sector.”
“One might ask you the same question, Admiral,” Mihialovich said, tilting his head to one side as he had observed the emperor do upon occasion. “As it turns out, I have come to aid you in repelling the invaders. With our combined fleet strength, we stand an excellent chance of carrying the initiative into their rear areas.”
Pearson took a deep breath and leaned back in his chair. “I must ask you to surrender your fleet, Admiral. You have been charged with treason against the crown.”
“Surely you know by now that there is no crown,” the duke offered in a cold voice. “It is just you and I. And I couldn’t help but notice that your fleet is under strength at the moment.”
“Rear Admiral Charleton has detached a task force to harry the Valdi fleet and determine their defensive posture. We also suffered losses attempting to secure Acamar.”
“Ah,” the duke grinned. “Yes, that explains it. It is fortuitous that my fleet, which is not under strength, happened along at this most opportune time. And you’ve given the invaders such a clever name now,” he mocked.
For a moment, both fleet commanders looked at each other, neither one breaking the silence, locked in a battle of wills.
“Let us dispense with the formalities, Admiral. I will offer you the same proposal I offered the emperor.” The duke sniffed, taking on an aristocratic air as part of the stage-setting for presenting his magnanimous offer. He leaned back in his chair and draped one arm over the back in a very relaxed posture. “You will resign your post as admiral of the fleet and you will turn over Geneviève Eglon to me. I will give you safe passage in any ship you would like to any star system you choose. You will then retire from military service and never enter it again. And,” he said slowly. ”I may let you live.”
Pearson crossed his legs and folded his hands together in his lap. What nerve, he thought. “My lord duke,” he began. “You are a confirmed criminal in accordance with Imperial law and tradition. You have one minute to surrender yourself to my command. After that time, your ship will be destroyed.”
Mihialovich leaned back his head and laughed a very hearty laugh.
“Excellent,” he said at last. “Excellent.” And then he cut the circuit.
“Get me the repair train on channel one,” Pearson shouted. “I want them to discontinue repairs on our damaged ships and spread as much hull and debris around their vicinity as possible. Also, get the mine layers away from the rift at best speed.”
Pirelli started issuing the necessary orders.
“Captain Veiga,” Pearson said, calling up the channel to the dreadnought bridge. “Alice, we’re about to engage Fourth Fleet in a battle of movement. I need you to get the flagship moving at best speed to the rift.”
“Are we going to enter the rift, Admiral?” she asked.
“No, but if he knows about the rift, I want to make us look like we are. And get ready for a rough ride. Duke Mihialovich is not going to let us go without a fight.”
Commodore Santos turned from his operations station. “Admiral, I am unable to raise any of Mihialovich’s commanders.”
“Keep trying,” Pearson said. “Send a broadcast message instructing them to stand down and move away from the battle. Let them know that if they continue to maintain silence, they will be fired upon.”
Santos nodded and gave the orders to the relay officer.
“Plan, sir?” Pirelli asked.
“Send an ansible message to Admiral Charleton to return to this system at all speed,” Pearson responded. “And get yourselves strapped in. It’s going to get rough.”
* * *
“What is he doing, sir?” Juhars asked. Duke Mihialovich steepled his fingers under his chin and regarded his operations officer.
“He’s trying lead us into a convenient mine field he has set up in quadrant seven. See how the mine tenders are leaving that area? He wants them out of the way when the shooting starts. They’re slow and clumsy, not really worth having in an engagement of movement.”
“Yes, sir,” Juhars responded looking at the plot. “But why have a mine field at all?”
“He must be laying a net for an invading fleet to stray into, although I can’t imagine how he thought he would lure them to it. His mine density is so high I can see them from here!”
“Well, he’s taking his fleet right into it. Orders sir?”
“Get the fleet moving at flank speed. Cut an arc across the field and intercept him here,” Mihialovich said, pointing to a location on the plot. “Once we are in range, pour every missile in the fleet on his flagship--Thor, I believe it is. Do not let up for any reason unless I specifically order you to. Once his ship is destroyed, the next in the chain of command will be more likely to see reason and surrender.”
As Mihialovich watched his plot, he saw the flagship of Third Fleet tuck itself into the midst of the dreadnought horde and tack in reverse toward the center of the mine field. It was a good tactic, except for two important facts. First, Mihialovich’s superior fleet could cut an axis across his fleeing ships and intercept him just inside the field. Second, the mines that were emplaced had already been given targeting packages. Those targeting packages did not include starships with IFF beacons. Fourth Fleet’s IFF transponders would keep the fleet safe as it entered the mine field, just as Third Fleet had. In order to change the mine targeting parameters, the minelayers would need to approach the mines and deliver new target instructions. However, the minelayers had already left the field, and were regrouping near the damaged fleet units undergoing repairs in the massive dry docks.
“Admiral?” the battleship commander asked over the secure link to the flagship. The range had just fallen below two hundred thousand kilometers, the maximum range of the fleet’s missile targeting systems.
“Commence firing,” the Duke announced. He was beginning to get the battle fever. It was one of the things he enjoyed about fleet command. His very words would enjoin the two massive fleets into battle until one was beaten into submission or destroyed. Even if Third Fleet did surrender, he might still destroy a few of their ships, just because he had the power to do so. It would also serve to set the tone for his new Imperial reign.
Over three hundred and fifty fresh missiles left his starships, all with a single target--the Third Fleet flag. Defensive fire spat back from Third Fleet as every ship in the armada responded with beam cannons and missile seekers. Some escort ships even interposed themselves physically between the missiles incoming and their intended target, taking their fury upon themselves. Mihialovich knew they could not keep that up indefinitely, as some of the missiles were bound to get through eventually. He sneered as his ship entered the minefield completely unharmed.
Answering fire came from Third Fleet, with some missiles targeted on the leading ships. But the majority was targeted on Minotaur. There were more ships in Fourth Fleet to provide defensive fire, and none of the missiles reached the flag.
What were you thinking, trying to hide here, my young opponent? he thought. Surely you know as well as I that your mines have to be retargeted in order to use them against a friendly fleet?
A second and third wave of missiles came roaring in on Third Fleet, and this time some of them did get through to the flagship. Six missiles evaded all efforts to stop them and impacted on the forward and secondary shields. As the shields collapsed, the missiles detonated against the dreadnought’s armor, causing damage to its hull structures. But dreadnoughts are built to be tough starships, designed to survive the brutality of war. Pre-dreadnought ships such as heavy and light cruisers would have been brutally wounded by such a beating.
Sensing the impending destruction and apparently unable to reach its intended objective, Third Fleet veered sharply out of the mine field and back toward the waiting ammunition freighters stationed near the repair docks. Mihialovich smiled to himself, knowing what the other admiral was thinking.
“No, my friend,” he said aloud. “You will not have the benefit of rearming your ships with more missiles. I will not give you the time.”
He turned to his ops officer. “See to it that all ships continue to pursue at best speed. If his ships slow down, we will bring him into beam range and annihilate him with our superior numbers. If he continues to flee, we will slow the fleet once we arrive at the missile colliers and rearm our own missile racks. It was kind of him to give us those for ourselves.”
Juhars smiled a shark smile that matched his admiral’s.
The stage is set, Mihialovich told himself calmly. I have but to reach out and wipe you away, Admiral, and the Empire is mine!
“Sir,” Commodore Juhars called over to the admiral. “Sensors are showing a lot of debris in the field.”
“Irrelevant, Commodore,” Mihialovich said. “Any ship that slows down to avoid debris will answer to me.” The commodore turned back to his station and watched as huge girders and hull segments floated into view.
