Exodus: Empires at War: Book 2 (36 page)

“I’m sure the Captain
will let us know when we need to know,” said CPO Gorbachev, her own armor
peeling off into the storage unit.  She stretched her arms over her head and
waited for the tank to rise up from the floor.

I just hope it’s not
something to do with me
, he thought as he put his gloves and helmet into their
carriers in the cubby.  It would be just like them to do something to protect
his hide even at cost to the group
.  I’m a serving officer
, he thought. 
But he kept his thoughts to himself.  His subordinate would just think he was
bitching or moaning. 
She’s so good at just obeying orders without question
,
he thought, then reconsidered.  It really wasn’t a fair assessment.  He had
known the woman long enough to know that she thought out commands, and what
they might mean to her.  But she was a professional, and knew her place in the
scheme of things.  While he had been raised an Imperial, with ideas as to his
own value and how others should treat him.  Which was not always the way the
navy treated him.

“I’ll talk to you in a
bit, sir,” said the CPO as she stepped into her tube and sealed it behind her.

The Prince stepped into
his own tube and sealed it, then seated his breathing mask as the liquid
bubbled up around him.  He waited a few minutes, making sure that he was jacked
into the laser ring system.  The system came up clear and he could look at all
of the laser emitters and the storage ring, noting that they were in perfect
order and ready to go.  He tried to branch off a little further into the net,
to get the overall tactical situation that generally all of the crew were able
to gather.  And ran into a wall.  Much of the awareness of the net was blocked
to him.  He couldn’t see the path the ship was on.  When he attempted to find a
reason for that block he ran into a security block.

The last klaxon sounded
outside the tube and he knew he was trapped there for the duration of emergency
boost.  Unless he could figure a way to hack the system, get the tube to let
him out, and somehow miraculously survive thirty gravities of acceleration. 
Instead he tried to hack the block, using all of his IDs, including his
Imperial Family code.  To no avail, as the system continued to lock him out.

They’re doing something
they don’t want me to know about
, he thought, clamping down hard on his mouthpiece
in anger.  He attempted to get through to the Captain, and ran into the same
block.  The ship went through higher acceleration as he worked, and was up to
full emergency boost by the time he realized he would not be able to get the
commander’s attention.

They don’t want me to
know or be able to do anything about it
, he thought. 
And I’m trapped
.

He beat a hand against
the hard transparent plastic of the tube, cursing to himself in frustration. 
There was nothing he could do.  They were doing something to protect him.  Not
a serving officer of the fleet.  But the youngest son of Emperor Augustine. 
And there was nothing he could do.

Chapter 16

People have asked
through the centuries why the Terran Empire needs an Emperor.  There was even a
War of Independence fought over this question, and the establishment of the
separate Terran Republic.  But one thing has become clear over the years.  A
people need a leader they can look to, they can fight for, they will even
willingly die for.  And the head of a Royal Family supplies the best figurehead
of all.  More so than any president, premiere or prime minister in history.

Speech by the Emperor
Augustine I at the opening ceremony of the Imperial Thousandth Anniversary.

“One of their large
vessels is doing something,” said the tactical Subcommander of the flag vessel.

Low Admiral
Hrisshammartanama looked up from his meal and stared at the tactical display,
noting the one ship blinking with a changing vector arrow.  To the left and
below the ship a smaller dot was also changing vector.

“What’s the current
range?” he growled around a mouthful of roast meat animal.

“About one hundred and
sixty million kilometers,” said the tactical Subcommander, glancing with a
twitching snout at his superior.

“Under nine light
minutes,” growled the Low Admiral.  “And they still have not fired a missile at
us.”

The junior officer
looked at him blankly for a moment, while the Admiral waited for a comment.

“Missiles are most
effective at range,” he said, his eyes wide with exasperation.  “They would do
well to get them up to high velocity by firing at long range.  Yet they wait. 
I wonder why.”

The tactical Subcommander
continued to stare and say nothing, while the Low Admiral wondered to himself
about the thinking processes of younger officers.

“Well, I guess we
should do something to stir them up,” said the Low Admiral.  “Have all the
ships in the force fire a salvo of missiles at the enemy formation ahead.  And
another salvo at their orbital platforms.”

“We might hit the planet
if we fire at their orbitals,” said the other Lord, looking intently at his
commander.  “The priests won’t like that.”

“The hell with the
priests,” growled the Low Admiral.  “We won’t try to intentionally harm the
planet with its precious life,” he said with an upturned lip, showing a tusk in
the sign of a sneer.  “But we are not attempting to take this planet for our
own use, but only as a temporary base of operations.  The systems we will
settle will be taken by other forces to establish our presence in this border
region.  I want those orbital platforms hurt, if not destroyed.  And longer
range missiles come in faster.”

“Aye, my Lord,” said
the tactical officer, turning back to his board.  “Two salvos will be fired.”

The Low Admiral grinned
again before he attacked his food.  He would sweep the humans from this system
before another day had passed.  How could they hold damage to a planet against
him if he accomplished that?

*     *     *

At two hundred million
kilometers to the port of the alien force were seven ships that had so far
escape enemy detection.  The task force commander watched as the clock ticked
down, then gave the order.  Within a million kilometers of the Fleet Carrier
Sargasso
Sea
, her two accompanying light carriers and the four escorts waited the
assembled strike.  Over four hundred strike and attack fighters were arrayed in
space, sliding sideways in the General direction of the local star with the
same velocity as the ships that had launched them.

“Go,” ordered the
senior Captain in charge of the Fleet Carrier.  Her orders were transmitted to
the waiting fighters and the strike commander, the senior wing commander from
Sargasso
Sea’s
fighter compliment.  That worthy signaled the rest of the strike,
waited a few seconds, and then ordered her own pilot ahead at nine hundred
gravities.  The first part of the human counter strike was put into motion.

*     *     *

“They’re firing sir,”
called out the tactical officer.

Admiral Sir Gunter
Heinrich looked up from the message he had been reading to stare at the
tactical display.  Hundreds of red arrows had blossomed among the larger red
arrows of the enemy fleet.  The vector arrows were starting to open some
distance, piling on acceleration above that of the seventy-one thousand KPS of
the launching ships.  But they would still take some time to move a significant
distance away from the force.

“We were expecting this
any time,” said the Admiral to Flag Captain Myra Lamborgini, who was standing
near his chair trying to look nonchalant, in the best tradition of the Fleet. 
She nodded her head as she watched the plot alongside of him.

At least we don’t have
to walk the decks while sharpshooters from the rigging of other ships shoot
down at us
,
he thought.  He could sit in his chair and cringe all he wanted, and most of
the crew wouldn’t know.

“The fighters should be
on their way,” said Captain Lamborgini, looking intently at the plot.  “They’re
eleven light minutes out, so we should be seeing their IR signs, soon.”

“And the enemy will see
them a few minutes later,” said the Admiral, looking up at her.  “I guess we
can’t let them launch unchallenged,” he continued.  “Even though it’s still
almost two hours before we have them in close range.”

“Missiles are better at
long range,” she said, parroting the old military adage.

“I wanted them to be
part of the layers of attack,” said the Admiral, pouting.  “I guess I don’t get
everything I want.

“Tactical,” he called
out, looking over at the Commander’s station.  “I want a salvo of capital
missiles from every ship that carries them.  Battleships and battle cruisers. 
How many will that give us?”

“Five hundred and
sixty-two, sir,” called out the Commander.  “Leaves us with seven thousand
ninety-eight in the group, not including the smaller missiles from the
destroyers and cruisers.”

“Order a salvo on the
enemy, then,” said the Admiral, tapping a finger against his temple.  “Better
make that two of them.”

“Yes sir,” said the Commander. 
“That will give them something to think about.”

“I would wish it were
enough to blow them out of space,” said the Captain, her eyes boring into the
tactical officer at his station.

“That would be too much
to wish for,” said Heinrich.  “We know they have technological superiority over
us in some areas.  We may be superior to them in others.  But I don’t think we
can come to any kind of conclusion that they will have a hidden weakness to our
weapons.  No.  They will take some punishment and give some punishment, and we
will have a fight ahead of us.”

The green icons of
missiles appeared on the tactical display.  The first salvo went out over a ten
second period, the ships not fully synchronized on their launch.  Salvo two
took an even longer time to dispense.  Soon it too was on its way, and two
waves of missiles accelerated away at five thousand gravities.  They would
actually be losing speed for over twelve minutes as they killed the velocity
the launching ships had imparted to them on the wrong vector.  And they would
never be traveling as fast when they reached their targets as the missiles
launched from his heavy cruiser force or the orbital forts.

And probably won’t do
as much damage
,
thought the Admiral as he watched the numbers appear below the enemy missiles. 
Thirty five minutes flight time from launch, or about twenty-six minutes from
time of detection.  And they were essentially chasing his force as he was
accelerating away from them.  His own missiles would reach the enemy in about
forty-two minutes, taking into account the opposing force’s velocity toward the
missiles.  That was a plus, as they would come in faster relative to the enemy
than they could under their own power against a stationary force at the same
flight time.

Now we wait
, he thought as he
looked at the numbers again.  Never the most pleasant thing to do while objects
were flying at significant fractions of the speed of light, aimed at taking
your life.  But all he or any of the other members of the group could do at the
moment.  That, and making sure that everything they could do to stop the enemy
missiles was done.

*     *     *

“We’re picking up
objects on an intercept vector to starboard,” called out the tactical officer. 
“Infrared signatures indicate over four hundred.”

“Missiles?” asked Low Admiral
Hrisshammartanama, looking up from his force tactical screen.

“I don’t believe so, my
Lord,” said the officer, looking over his own readouts.  “They are accelerating
at about nine hundred gravities.  Well below the capabilities for missiles that
they have so far shown.”

“Must be more of those
small attack craft they hit our scouts with earlier,” said the older Commander
who served as the Low Admiral’s staff officer.  “That means at least sixteen
hundred missiles when they get closer to us.  Much closer.”

“Can we hit them at a
distance with our own missiles?” asked the Low Admiral.

“Uncertain,” said the Commander,
scratching at a horn in a sign of contemplation.  “They are very small, and can
dodge much quicker than a larger vessel.  But maybe some missiles actually
armed with our countermissile warheads might take out some of them.”

“Mate a salvo with
those warheads and send them at them,” ordered the Low Admiral.  He looked over
at the tactical Subcommander.  “How long before our missiles hit their main
body?”

“About nineteen
minutes, my Lord,” said the young Lord, his snout wrinkling.

“You have a worry,
young Lord,” said the Admiral, baring his tusks with a sarcastic smile.

“It’s just that I’m
wondering why they don’t,” stated the officer.  His eyes went wide as he looked
at his board.  “We have incoming from the main enemy force.  Over five hundred
incoming.”

“Estimated time of arrival
and velocity?” asked the Low Admiral, leaning forward in his chair.