The Mammoth Book of SF Wars (32 page)

“Very good, Mr Brierly. Bring us about before they spot us, assuming they have any lookouts at all,” said Fitzwilliam, who clearly had no great regard for the merchant marine.

“An awful lot of sail,” Brierly said, half to himself. He kept his telescope trained on the schooner. “Captain! I think I am looking at two ships, one directly behind the other. I think the Yankee is being chased.”

“Thank you, Mr Brierly,” said Fitzwilliam, calmly. “Signal action stations, if you please, Mr Crowly.”

The ship became a whirl of organized activity. Sarah shrank back on her couch trying to keep out of the way. Her sole duty was to hold herself ready to take the ship into metastasis. She recited the prayer for calmness in her head. She couldn’t enthasize with Hind unless she was reposed.

The ships crept together, mile by mile. Sarah had heard it said that a sea fight was like jousting in slow motion but the reality was excruciating. She fidgeted on her seat until she received an irritated glance from Fitzwilliam.

“The chaser is a large warship with the lines of a galleon,” Brierly said.

Sarah opened her mouth to ask what a galleon was but thought better of disturbing the officers and left the question unasked.

“That’s what we call a Spanish colonial battleship,” Smythe said to her in an undertone. He had clearly noted her puzzlement.

“What’s a Spaniard doing here chasing a Yankee?” Fitzwilliam asked, rhetorically. “Can you see any colours, Mr Brierly?”

“Not Spain’s,” Brierly replied. “There is some sort of odd device on the foresail.”

“A mutineer, then,” Fitzwilliam said. “Some governor of a Spanish colony has rebelled, or maybe the local militia leader has shot the governor and declared himself generalissimo.”

“But why is he chasing a sloop?” Sarah asked, unable to contain herself further.

“Because he needs loot to reward his men; no pay and he will be the next up against the wall,” said Fitzwilliam.

“We will engage?” asked Brierly.

“Of course,” Fitzwilliam replied.

The captain opened the cover of a speaking tube. He couldn’t address the whole crew but his words would be repeated on from man to man through the ship’s compartments.

“This is the captain,” Fitwillliam said, speaking slowly and clearly, pitching his voice to carry. “A Spanish battleship is attacking a Yankee in one of our colonies. That means that the Americans are under Queen Mary’s protection. The Spaniard is three times our size, has four times our men and twice our number of guns but we are the Royal Navy …”

Whatever else Fitzwilliam intended to say was drowned by a cheer coming back up the tube. He gave up and recapped it.

“Don’t be frightened, Miss Brown. Captain Fitzwilliam will best them,” said Smythe.

“I am not frightened,” Sarah said, crisply, rather surprised to find that it was true. All sorts of things scared her – being found out, being laughed at, failing – but dying wasn’t one of them. Nevertheless, she knew bollocks when she heard it and Smythe was full of it. She accepted as a matter of course that the Royal Navy was superior to anything else in the aether but, nonetheless, a frigate against a battleship, even a third-rate battleship, was hopeless. Even she knew that much about naval tactics.

“Mr Brierly, if I fall your orders are to smash up the enemy badly enough that he can’t escape whomsoever the Admiralty sends to replace us. That warship must not be allowed to get away unscathed.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” If Brierly was concerned about being ordered to commit suicide then he hid it well.

“Take personal command of the gun deck, Mr Brierly. I will try to position the ship so you can get both broadsides away. I intend to use our superior speed and manoeuvrability to hit and run.”

“Aye, aye, sir.” Brierly saluted and left the bridge.

“A point to starboard, Helmsman,” Fitzwilliam said. “We will pass the sloop close on her port side, provided her master doesn’t panic and ram us.”

The
Cassandra
had two helmsmen behind large oak wheels. One operated vertical rudders of aetherium while the other controlled horizontal direction.

Aetherium was the only substance yet known opaque to aether. Before the secret of its manufacture had been learned from the Martians, aetherships had been spherical capsules covered in cavorite panels that were navigated by pushing and pulling against heavenly bodies. The death rate had been higher than even Germany’s submersible steam boats.

The sloop’s master showed admirable presence of mind by running straight as the
Cassandra
swept past. The frigate turned to present its port broadside to the pursuing battleship.

The Spanish ship failed to react for some minutes as if the commander could not quite believe the sudden appearance of the RN frigate and was wondering what to do. Then its bow tilted ever so slowly to port, trying to match the
Cassandra
’s turn to exchange broadsides on a parallel course. The battleship was far too slow and the
Cassandra
crossed her bow.

“Fire when ready, Mr Brierly,” Fitzwilliam said down a speaking tube.

Brierly discharged the
Cassandra
’s port broadside battery by battery into the Spaniard’s bow. The ship whipsawed under their recoil. Sarah had never experienced the detonation of naval artillery pieces. She had expected the noise but the shock waves set up in the hull surprised her. Dust rose from every surface and everything rattled. A pencil rolled off the navigational table and danced on the floor.

Sarah could see pieces flying off the enemy battleship as the shells struck home.

“Hard to port,” Fitzwilliam ordered.

The helmsman spun the wheel and a rating frantically pulled levers that operated the signalling arms on top of the bridge’s armoured roof. Topmen in aethersuits winched the sails around to put the ship on a new tack. It was hard gruelling work but the Royal Navy acknowledged few equals at the task.

The second helmsmen hauled on his wheel to counter the roll to starboard generated by
Cassandra
’s abrupt change in course. The Spaniard continued its turn to port so that the ships were momentarily side by side, passing closely on opposite courses. Brierly fired the starboard guns in a single broadside that rolled the
Cassandra
to port. The recoil on the ship’s hull was enough to knock a man off his feet. Sarah fancied she saw the red dots streak away from the ships side. Strikes appeared all over the hull of the battleship.

“Good shooting, Mr Brierly,” Fitzwilliam said, to no one in particular. “She’ll be well armoured but that must have hurt.”

A handful of ragged flashes on the battleship’s upper decks gave notice that she was returning fire. A thump that Sarah felt more than heard indicated that at least one of the enemy’s shots had struck home.

“Two broadsides with barely a shot in return,” Fadden said, with great satisfaction. “Oh, well played, Captain!”

“The galleon is not well handled,” Fitzwilliam said, mildly. “I suspect that she has no officers aboard.”

“They probably went for a walk in the aether out of an access hatch if the crew mutinied,” said Fadden.

“Without aethersuits?” asked Sarah, shocked.

“Oh, no. They will have been given aethersuits,” said Fadden. “To prolong the agony, don’t you see?”

Cassandra
carried on her tack leaving the enemy to stern. The battleship continued in its turn until it was following the frigate.

“We seem to have gained their attention,” said Fitzwilliam. “What is the sloop doing?”

Smythe trained a telescope astern. “She is getting clear of the battle, sir.”

“Very wise,” Fitzwilliam said. “Now, Pilot, I want you to take us into metastasis and position the
Cassandra
just behind the battleship. You understand what I require from you, Miss Brown?”

“Yes, Captain,” she answered.

Her stomach contracted in a knot; this was exactly what she had feared might happen. Fitzwilliam had acquired an exaggerated idea of her capabilities from the lucky metastasis to Lucifer. Now he was placing the entire safety of his ship in her hands.

Something of what she felt must have shown on her face.

“It won’t be easy but I have every confidence in your skills, Pilot,” Fitzwilliam said, gently. “You can do it, Sarah.”

It occurred to her that if she got it badly wrong and placed them under the battleship’s guns then the frigate would be destroyed and all aboard killed – so she wouldn’t have to face the consequences. This thought cheered her up. She felt so much better that she indulged herself in feeling indignation at Fitzwilliam’s cavalier familiarity with her. She calmed herself and began enthasis, searching for Hind.

Nothing happened.

Alarmed, Sarah searched deeper, trying to reach into the spirit world. She slipped out of her body and hit a shining purple barrier, bouncing back. She tried again with the same result.

“Captain, I can’t get us into metastasis. Something is blocking me,” she said.

Fitzwilliam looked at her sharply. “Is this some natural phenomenon or a trick of the enemy?”

“I don’t know,” Sarah replied, nearly in tears. “I have never experienced anything like it. It’s as if we are surrounded by a wall.”

“That is inconvenient,” said Fitzwilliam, with masterly English understatement. He opened a speaking tube. “Mr Brierly, there is a change of plan. We will lead the enemy into Lucifer’s rip tides.”

Fadden interrupted. “That will disrupt our control of the
Cassandra
’s cavorite panels and make it difficult to hold the ship steady. We will have a devil of a job training the guns.”

“Quite true, Mr Fadden, but it will be a bloody sight more difficult for the battleship to use her primary weapons,” said Fitzwilliam.

“True, Captain, her heavy guns will be muzzle loaders, hauled in on hydraulic rams.”

“Badly maintained hydraulic rams,” said Fitzwilliam.

“Which will jam solid on a rolling ship,” said Fadden.

The two men grinned at each other.

“Of course she still has more light breach loaders than our entire armament,” said Fitzwilliam.

“But we are the Royal Navy,” Sarah said, quietly.

“Exactly so, Pilot,” said Fitzwilliam.

Lucifer hung in front like a bloodshot eye growing ever larger until it filled the heavens. Sarah reconsidered her view that it didn’t look hellish. The giant planet’s surface looked like boiling multicoloured water that had been frozen in place. She could see where great arches of gas were in the process of ejection. The world was spinning so fast that she could actually detect a slow movement by eye.

Cassandra
began to roll and pitch, like a seaship in a gale. Sarah tightened the straps on the pilot’s couch. Fitzwilliam stood with bent knees, seemingly unconcerned, but even he, eventually, had to grasp a rail. The ship shuddered and vibrations passed down the hull.

“Having trouble balancing the cavorite panels again, Mr Fadden?” Fitzwilliam asked.

“Sorry, sir. I believe I have the measure of it now,” replied Fadden, adjusting a bank of circular wooden knobs.

Sarah failed to notice any improvement, indeed the aethership shook all the more, but Fitzwilliam seemed satisfied. He trained a telescope aft, observing their pursuer.

The
Cassandra
shook again, whipsawing from stem to stern. Sarah saw topmen hanging desperately to the rolling masts. One slipped but his lifeline held and he was reeled in by a petty officer.

“We must turn back soon, sir. The panels won’t take much more,” said Fadden.

“Just a bit further, Mr Fadden. You want to see the Spaniard if you think we have it bad,” said Fitzwilliam. “They lost a mast in that last wave.”

Fadden gave him an agonized look as
Cassandra
corkscrewed.

“Oh, very well, Mr Fadden,” said Fitzwilliam. “Signal the topmen to stand by for a new tack.”

The petty officer manning the signal lever sprang to work. The
Cassandra
turned to starboard, Fitzwilliam skilfully timing the manoeuvre between aether waves.

Once again the battleship was slow to respond and its own turn was hesitant and choppy. The
Cassandra
managed to deliver a star-board broadside into the port bow of the Spaniard, reverse tack and discharge a port broadside before resuming course. The swirling aether currents made the frigate a poor firing platform so many of the shots missed, even at close range. As Fitzwilliam had predicted, the Spaniard could only reply with light cannon on its upper gun deck. Nevertheless, the
Cassandra
took some nasty knocks in return.

Fitzwilliam repeated the tactic, using the frigate’s greater agility and its sailors’ higher skills to score hits and then dance away before the battleship could return effective fire. All the time, he lured the Spaniard deeper into Lucifer’s tidal drag.

This was Sarah’s first sea fight and she was enthralled. She had been taught basic naval tactics but this was astonishing. The motto of a famous New York prizefighter went through her mind – float like a butterfly but sting like a wasp. The captain danced the frigate around the less agile battleship, avoiding an exchange of blows that they couldn’t win but landing painful jabs all the while. She began to believe that they could win.

Fitzwilliam caught her gazing at him so she wiped the admiration off her face. The man was cocksure enough already without her adding to his ego.

“Any chance of getting us out of here, Pilot?” he asked.

“No, Captain,” she replied. “I keep trying but something is still impeding me. In any case, it would be dangerous to go into metastasis this close to Lucifer.” She felt idiotic even as she made the last remark. At the moment, all their options were dangerous.

“Ah well,” Fitzwilliam said. “I had hoped that the enemy would have broken contact by now but he seems to be somewhat annoyed at us. We will just have to hope that Lucifer’s tidal rips break him first, so that we can extricate ourselves.”

“Your strategy does seem to be working,” Sarah said, trying to demonstrate a proper naval insouciance in the face of the foe.