Extremis-ARC, page 27
The carnage as they did so was unspeakable. At one point, Sarhan lost no fewer than eight SDHs in the space of twenty seconds. But finally attaining close range, several of his SDHs—having been retrofitted with tractor beams—exploited the rigidity of the forts’ structures by literally pulling them apart; the beams, once locked on, began to swiftly alter their polarization. It was a desperate tactic, useful only at just such close ranges, but the forts, being immobile, had no means of dancing away from this unanticipated threat. The same reinforced and inflexible structures that gave them such wonderful resistance against missiles and the other destructive energies of most attacks now became their Achilles’ heels: unable to run or bend, they broke.
But Sarhan paid the price. In order to keep his ships in place long enough to do this strange execution, they were compelled to endure the full, desperate fire of the forts—and most of them died in the attempt. And when Krishmahnta’s fleet came charging forward to intervene, Sarhan’s uncommitted SDHs—although terribly outnumbered—screened the others that were still working on the forts. They did not survive—but they lasted long enough to seal the fate of the forts: three were shattered, two more disabled, the remaining three isolated on one flank and unable to bring their fires to bear on the more distant areas of engagement.
Which was when, ten minutes ago, Narrok had transited the warp point with the bulk of his fleet. He moved it quickly out of the last forts’ fields of fire and began swinging it through an arc that would ultimately bring it into direct engagement with Krishmahnta’s main body, which was still trying to annihilate the last of Sarhan’s ships.
But just as Sarhan had expended SDHs to give his ships enough time to tear apart the forts, so Krishmahnta sent a fast screening force of carriers and cruisers to delay Narrok. The human ships were vulnerable but nimble, and although they did more to distract and delay than to inflict damage, their form fit their function: not to close and destroy, but harry and hamper.
As they did, Krishmahnta pulled her main body away sharply, losing three superdreadnoughts and two older, slower monitors in so doing. But her newer supermonitors remained mostly unscathed, and, leaving her last three forts behind to carry out whatever assignment she had given them in the event of her withdrawal, the human admiral made for the warp point to Agamemnon.
Which was what Narrok had anticipated. For Krishmahnta to have fled “north” along this arm of the Rim—to Aphrodite—would have been pointless: she would have been abandoning Odysseus and Tilghman, the two industrial worlds that sustained her forces. To defend them, she had to fall back on Agamemnon.
Which meant there was a possibility—if Narrok kept the pressure on her, stayed hard enough on her heels—that the terrible price he had now paid at Ajax might buy him another system as well. And if he was lucky, as the humans fled before him, using carrier squadrons to delay and harry his pursuers, he might also find the opportunity to cull one of the humans’ less speedy fighters from its flock, by damaging it selectively, moderately—and so have a relatively intact model for his technical intelligence specialists to analyze. Maybe some good would come of this day yet.…
*
Willing the recent memories into oblivion, Narrok opened his eyes and saw the viewscreens that ringed the multi-tiered oval of his bridge as if they were the inward-facing facets of a gem turned inside out. More than half of the screens showed wrecks floating in space. These were the proud smooth-shaped hulls favored by his people, the ones he had led into battle: rent, outgassing, some still convulsed with internal explosions that flared from jagged wounds in their sides, sending flame and fragments and his writhing brothers and sisters into the merciless vacuum of space.
Narrok looked away. Half a year ago, when he witnessed such scenes of agony and devastation, he had routinely envisioned a fur-topped human face as the architect of that misery. It was a face he had imagined ripping and tearing and sundering until it could no longer have been recognized even by its own murdering breed.
Now, he did not see a human face.
Now, he saw Torhok’s.
RFNS Gallipoli, Further Rim Fleet, Ajax System
Erica Krishmahnta rubbed her eyes and leaned away from the tacplot. “We’ve hardly started fighting, and we’re already running. And leaving the forts to fend for themselves.”
Captain Watanabe shrugged. “They’ll be able to use escape pods when the time comes. That’s a better chance than the crews of the other forts had.”
“Gods, Yoshi, I just didn’t see that coming. I mean, you can find it in the fine print of the training and doctrine manuals: alternating-polarity tractor beams used against the fortresses. And sure, it works—too damned well. But the expense in ships to get that close—I couldn’t believe that even the Baldies would stand for losses that bad.”
Watanabe shrugged. “Given what they’ve been losing up to now, it was probably a pretty good trade for them. Which is probably why almost none of us anticipated it.”
Erica looked up. “Almost none of us?”
Watanabe looked away uncomfortably. “Uh…a lieutenant pointed it out in a memo recently. He cited the Baldy willingness to absorb casualties and that the alternating-polarity tractor-beam concept might be the only reasonable way they had to break through our defenses here, since they didn’t have the monitors and supermonitors that could stand up to our massed fires long enough to survive.”
“And why didn’t you tell me about this memo?”
“Because it wouldn’t have made any difference. You might be surprised that the lieutenant didn’t advise against the placement or design of the forts. Quite the contrary, he thought it was our best option. If we handled it correctly.”
“Oh? And did I handle it correctly, according to the lieutenant’s expectations?”
“Uh—actually, you followed his recommendations to the letter. Let the Baldies come in, commit to the assault, and use their need for an extended close engagement with the forts as a way of pinning them in place. Their sacrifice of free maneuver is what gave us the opportunity to inflict murderous casualties on them—as long as we remembered to stay light on our feet to avoid the predictable Baldy follow-up strike from the warp point.”
“Which of course means we were following a plan which necessarily ends with us running like hell and giving up the system. Again. Damn it, Yoshi, I’m awfully tired of showing the Baldies our heels.”
“Me, too, Admiral. But we blew apart almost ninety SDHs back there.”
“Yes, but there are almost twice as many again coming after us. And they’re close, Captain. Too close.”
Watanabe nodded. “Yes, it’s going to be tight getting through the warp point, getting turned around, and getting in formation to defend in time.”
Krishmahnta looked at the plot, watching the lead edge of the pursuing Baldies pushing at the remaining carriers and cruisers of her covering screens. Those fragile ships were falling back, tucking in behind the main van of her fleet, feinting, striking, harrying in an attempt to delay the attackers. Their success was moderate; their losses were mounting. “Captain, you’re going to need to draw up an alternative plan for our arrival in the Agamemnon system.”
“Sir?”
Erica closed her eyes and spoke each word slowly, distinctly, hating each one as she uttered it. “I need a contingency plan for making an immediate and orderly withdrawal to Penelope. I need all the fallback points preplanned, all detachments for delaying actions rostered and assigned, so that as we cross the Agamemnon system, we can attenuate our van and get it into a sequence that allows us to get everyone through the warp point to Penelope without breaking stride—and then turned right around into a defensive line on the other side.”
Watanabe looked as if he had swallowed a live stun baton. Sideways. “But Admiral, we can still keep them from pushing through the warp point into Agamemnon. It will cost us a bit to keep them from following us through the warp point in force, but once we do, we’ll have the time to get our line sorted out and—”
“All that presumes that we can turn and hold them when they’re this close on our tails.” She raised her voice. “Ops?”
Samantha Mackintosh looked up from her screens. “Yes, sir?”
“I need a hypothetical-evolution timeline for our formation: specifically, our ability to get through the warp point to Agamemnon and reform to meet the Baldies in good order on the other side.”
“Already calculated, sir.”
Which means the news is worse than I expected. “Let’s hear it, Commander.”
“Admiral, the Baldy SDHs actually have better speed than we do now. Not much—only about two percent—but better. And their whole formation has the Desai drive. We’ve still got old-style monitors, sir, and half of our auxiliaries were pulled from mothballs. Most of those were slated for redesignation as target-practice hulls when the Baldies arrived.”
“Commander Mackintosh, you have informed me why the news is going to be bad. Now I need to know how bad it is.”
“Yes, sir. All metrics remaining constant, the lead Baldy unit will reach the warp point approximately two hundred seconds after our last one goes through.” Her voice lowered. “I don’t need to tell the admiral what that means regarding our ability to repel their attempts to enter the Agamemnon system.”
“You surely do not, Samantha.” Krishmahnta turned to Watanabe. “That’s it, then. We don’t even have enough time to turn and fight. They’ll be in among us while we’re still milling about, trying to get into our defensive formation. And with all the new forts still back in Penelope, we don’t have a ready defensive line to form up on.”
“We’d have to deactivate Agamemnon’s warp-point minefields, too,” considered Watanabe. “We’d be so mixed in with the Baldies when they come through that the mines would be equally deadly to both of us.”
“Right. But if we keep moving straight through the warp point, we can leave the mines operational. That will slow the Baldies down some more, maybe inflict a few casualties. Meanwhile, we deploy a sequence of delaying forces, just enough to ensure that we get all our hulls on the other side of the warp point to Penelope in good order and moving straight into a preplanned defensive formation.”
“With forts all around us.”
“That’s the idea.”
“Admiral, I’ll get Commander Mackintosh to start working right away on a—”
“No, Yoshi. Samantha has received her last assignment on this bridge. I want you to get her on a courier to Penelope—with a warning about what we’re doing—and out of harm’s way. Right now.”
“Sir?”
“Yoshi, we’ve been putting off her full-time transfer to Tilghman for too long. She has to take charge of the shipyards and second-phase emergency industrialization throughout the cluster. And don’t look so worried, Yoshi; I’ll find someone to handle ops just as well as Samantha.”
“Oh? And who would that be?”
“I don’t have the faintest idea. How about we promote the genius lieutenant you told me about? We could brevet him to lieutenant commander and give him a crack at the big show here on the fleet flagship.” Krishmahnta had meant it as a joke—but only partially: top-shelf thinkers were always at a premium in the command ranks, and in a fleet winnowed down by the casualties of almost five months of constant engagement, such minds were either already assigned or in deep denial and hiding.
Watanabe shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh, about this lieutenant…you’re not serious, Admiral?”
“Well…maybe I am.”
“Sir, the lieutenant in question—he’s in combat right now.”
“We all are.”
“No, sir. I mean the ship he’s on—a carrier—is currently taking fire. It’s part of the screen that’s covering our withdrawal.”
Krishmahnta looked at Watanabe, trying not to look startled or disbelieving. “You’re not serious. It’s not—”
Watanabe sighed and nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir. The lieutenant in question is—
PSUNS Celmithyr’theaarnouw, Delaying Detachment Charlie, Further Rim Fleet, Approaching Myrtilus, Agamemnon System
Ossian Wethermere finished his update on the Baldy pursuit elements and made his way, datapad in hand, down to where Least Claw Kiiraathra’ostakjo, master of the CV Celmithyr’theaarnouw and commander of Admiral Krishmahnta’s third and final delaying force, sat brooding over the tacplot.
As Wethermere approached the con, Lieutenant Zhou caught his eye and glanced meaningfully at the distance the Orion staff was keeping from their commander. It was clear that he was not happy, and whereas human COs often showed their mastery by adopting a measure of stoicism that a Spartan would have envied, Orion COs achieved the same result—as well as some stress relief—by, figuratively speaking, biting the heads off of injudicious subordinates. It was rumored that, in ancient times, this rather messy form of decapitation had been a literal, not figurative, punishment.
Wethermere, undeterred, came to stand by the con and hoped that the Least Claw would, as Orions often did, show more restraint when interacting with humans than they did with their own kind.
Least Claw Kiiraathra’ostakjo eventually let his eyes slip sideways toward Wethermere, who stood ready to report, his arm in a sling and his head still wrapped from the injuries he had sustained in Suwa. With surgical stores tight, and his injuries modest, Wethermere had received medical care that would have been as familiar to the wounded at Antietam as at Agamemnon and Ajax. Oddly, Kiiraathra’ostakjo seemed to approve of that. “Visible wounds are the best testimony of a warrior’s spirit,” he had pronounced by way of welcoming Wethermere, Zhou, and Lubell to his carrier shortly before the Baldy fleet started pouring into Ajax. Although an Orion hull, the Celmithyr’theaarnouw’s crew and fighter complement were now almost one-third human; her own losses had been made up by orphaned TRN craft and crew—and whatever differences existed between the races, they shared a gnawing sense of loss and a burning desire to avenge their lost comrades.
Kiiraathra’ostakjo did not acknowledge Wethermere right away. Whether that was pride, or a mighty attempt at improving his mood before attempting to address a non-Orion, was unclear. “Yes, Tactical?” he asked at last.
“I have the sitrep and recommendations, Least Claw.”
“I do not remember asking for recommendations, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir. You did not. I simply prepared them in the event the captain had an unexpected and sudden need of them.”
“Prudent. Continue.” Which was also Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s way of saying, You are free to share your recommendations, human—now that you have made it clear you are not trying to suggest that I need anyone to do my tactical thinking for me.
Wethermere checked his datapad. “The two Baldy SDHs that could still jeopardize the fleet’s evolution for fast warp-point transit to Penelope remain in pursuit. However, the rearmost veered off in pursuit of the battlecruiser Kwajalein, when she maneuvered to outflank the other Baldy dreadnoughts. The SDH on point, which seems a modified semi-carrier version, is still stern-chasing us.”
“Outcome of pursuit?”
“They are matching our speed and course, sir. They will arrive at the main body of the fleet in three hours. The leading edge of their van will be an hour behind them.”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo growled.
Wethermere elected not to take that as a warning. “Lastly, we passed the Desai limit twenty minutes ago and are now coming abreast of the outermost planet in the system, the gas giant Myrtilus.”
Kiiraathra’ostakjo nodded. “It is here that we must die, then. We will launch all fighters and stand with them within the planet’s own Desai limit. Our enemies will be compelled to cease pursuit and engage, lest we take them from the rear when they pass. They will, of course, with their vast superiority in fighters, and even greater superiority in armor and armaments, destroy us—but they will lose crucial time in their pursuit of Admiral Krishmahnta’s main van. With luck, the fleet will get through in time to hold Penelope firmly against their lead units.”
Zhou, at the engineering board, swallowed hard and blinked at the epitaphic quality of Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s pronouncement.
But Kiiraathra’ostakjo seemed to be waiting for something; he turned to look at Wethermere and then a slow, tooth-concealed smile cut an upward curve into the black fur around his muzzle. “Unless, that is, the lieutenant has a different option for us to consider.”
Wethermere smiled back: it was always a test with the Orions. At first they tested you to see if you were something better than a cowardly chofak (or, literally, “dirt eater”—which they often suspected of humans), then they tested you to give yourself a chance to prove that you could be a creature of honor who understood and embraced the dictates of something at least vaguely reminiscent of their code of theernowlus, and at last they tested you because—being their friend—it would be an insult not to give you the opportunity to acquire more honor and refresh your reputation in the eyes of others. So, with the Orions—one way or the other—it was always a test. How Wethermere proposed his idea was the first, but prerequisite test; the utility of the idea itself was the second and final exam. So he’d stick to his notes and the answers he’d prepared. “Least Claw, if we were to follow a conventional concept of engagement, what outcome would you foresee?”
“They will swarm us with their two-to-one fighter superiority while using their SDH to constrain our main hull’s orbital path so that we will be unable to retrieve or refit our squadrons unless we come under their fire. Once our fighters are gone, their remaining small craft will pin us in place so that the SDH may close and bring all its weapons to bear. We will be finished. There will be no survivors. But we will at least have given a good account of ourselves.”
