Winds of Vengeance (19 page)

Frette hadn’t known what to expect from the mostly-unblooded pilots, but as the data began streaming in, she realized McDaid and his people were performing brilliantly, their kill ratios a match for the most experienced squadrons during the fleet’s battles. There were less than eighty enemy missiles left…and McDaid’s fighters were still at it. By the time the wave of warheads moved into range of her point defense turrets, there wouldn’t be many left.

That’s a good thing…because all of those birds were antimatter-armed…

She hadn’t believed it when she saw the scanner results coming in. The old fleet’s scanning capability had been inadequate to reliably identify whether missiles were fusion or antimatter equipped, at least until the range was too close to allow any reaction. But the improved sensor suites allowed the task force to scan the enemy missiles at far longer ranges. She’d felt her stomach tighten when she saw the reports coming in, one after another. Antimatter. Even the task forces that had attacked the old fleet had launch mixed volleys, their antimatter supplies apparently inadequate to arm all their weapons.

What the hell are we facing?

But then she saw the anti-missile rockets attack…and McDaid and the fighters went in next. Her panic faded with each missile destroyed.

“Point defense batteries…prepare to fire.” She turned toward Kemp. “Order Commander McDaid to disengage.” Her strike force had done its job and then some. It was time for them to return to base, to land before the two fleets closed to point blank range and opened up with their massed energy weapons.

She sat as the few seconds passed, time for the message to reach the fighters and the response to return.

“Commander McDaid acknowledges, Admiral. Fighter squadrons disengaging.”

“Very well.” Her eyes were focused on the display, watching the ranges drop. There were forty-nine missiles left, and they were closing fast. She waited perhaps twenty seconds, long enough for the fighters to move away from the missiles. Then she turned and looked over at Kemp.

“Defensive batteries…open fire.”

She could hear the distant hum in the background,
Compton’s
reactor feeding power to the needle guns, the high-powered lasers designed primarily as an anti-missile defense. The ship’s AI would normally give the authorization to fire, but Frette was old school—a dinosaur in the eyes of many of her people. Whatever the younger officers thought, she wasn’t ready to abrogate her authority to some pile of quantum computer circuits, no matter how sophisticated…especially after she’d spent years fighting against the artificial intelligences and robots of the First Imperium.

The needle guns were rapid fire weapons, shooting bursts of concentrated light less than a millimeter in width, more than fifty times a second. Hits were largely ineffective against an armored warship’s hull, but they were more than adequate to slice into a missile, and disable its drive systems or cut open its warhead containment. The rapid rate of fire counterbalanced the extreme difficulty of targeting something as small as a missile, and the hundreds of shots it typically took to score one hit.

Frette watched as the dots on the screen slowly winked out of existence, one at a time, as the immense barrage of the fleet’s point defense batteries fired again and again. The needle guns were a last ditch defense, their short range restricting them to a limited period of effectiveness, often as no more than one to two minutes before the missiles closed enough to begin detonating.

The lasers had taken out two dozen missiles…and they were still firing. But Frette knew her defenses were running out of time. The warheads were moving toward the fleet at high velocity…and her own orders to accelerate toward the enemy were further reducing the time until detonation. Her ships had launched first, but now they would endure the enemy’s barrage before their own missiles launched their attacks.

Her eyes darted to the secondary display. Her own wave of missiles was faring better than the enemy’s, almost one hundred twenty of them closing rapidly. The First Imperium point defense was as effective as hers…the difference was the fighters. She had them, and the enemy didn’t, and not for the first time since men engaged the First Imperium, the small, maneuverable craft were proving their worth.

“All ships prepare for enemy missile detonations. Damage control crews on standby.” Thirty years before that order would have put dozens of ship crew on alert, ready to repair whatever damage their ships took from enemy missile detonations. Now, she knew, the scene down on the engineering decks was quite a different one. Even on
Compton
, there were only seven real engineers, plus a few techs assigned to damage control in battle. For the most part, the ‘hands’ that would work to keep her ships functioning in battle belonged to the legions of AI-controlled maintenance robots.

Frette understood the reasons behind the automation…and she knew the bots could endure radiation, vacuum, and a whole list of other conditions that would kill her living, breathing crewmembers. But she didn’t like depending so much on machines and manufactured intelligences. It felt too close to the road the Ancients had gone down, the one that had led to their destruction…and unleashed the homicidal Regent on the universe.

“All ships report ready for impact, Admiral. Twenty-one missiles still inbound.”

Frette’s hands moved unconsciously toward her harness, checking that it was correctly fastened. War was a dangerous business, with enough unavoidable ways to get killed to add carelessness to the dangers stalking her. She’d seen too many comrades die or suffer terrible wounds from foolish nonsense. Like forgetting to strap in before battle.

Her eyes were still fixed on the screen when the first of the small dots expanded, one of the missiles detonating. The circle was surrounded by concentric larger rings, each depicting the estimated areas of effect. The first circle—a sphere on the 3D display—was the kill zone, the volume of space where the heat and radiation was expected to destroy most vessels. It was a small volume, with a radius of perhaps one or two kilometers. The First Imperium’s antimatter missiles had a wider area of effect than the fusion warheads used by the humans, closer to two kilometers than one.

But two kilometers was extremely close for combat taking place over areas of space measured in cubic light seconds, and most of the damage done by the missiles took place within the second zone, ranging out as far as three to four kilometers from the detonation. Here the damage was mostly caused by radiation, intense gamma rays slamming into ships, scrambling systems…and killing crew members. Missiles did destroy ships outright, there was even the occasional direct hit, which would vaporize even the largest battleship, but their primary purpose was to damage vessels and overload systems, just as a fleet was closing to energy weapons range.

The third zone, the farthest line out, stretched out as much as seven or eight kilometers, a range at which residual radiation from the blasts could damage scanners and exterior-mounted systems. The damage suffered at this range was mostly easily repairable, though not necessarily in the few minutes ships had before the energy weapons opened up. Scragging a ship’s scanners right before the energy weapons fight could be the difference between victory and defeat.

The screen lit up as more and more tiny dots grew into larger symbols surrounded by the wider circles. Frette gasped she saw one of the blue squares representing her ships caught in the first zone of one of the explosions. The icon stayed for a few seconds as the symbols representing the missile disappeared…but then it followed, winking out of view.

Then Kemp’s voice, grim, somber, telling her what she already knew. “
Evermore
was destroyed, Admiral.”

Frette nodded. It had been a long time since she’d watched ships die. A few had been lost fighting the waves of residual First Imperium forces, but those were her only experiences watching people she commanded die. She’d been too junior during the old fleet’s terrible battles, though she’d listened more than once as Erika had recounted stories from her flag bridge, guilt and sadness that had remained with her, despite her reputation as the coldest officer ever to mount an admiral’s station.

“All ships, I want up to the moment damage reports.” There was no point in dwelling on
Evermore
. She was gone, along with Captain Hume and the sixty-one other members of her crew. That was one lesson Erika had beaten into her head. Forget the dead, there’s nothing you can do for them…and the living still need you.

“Yes, Admiral.”

Frette stared back at the display.
Evermore
had fallen to a lucky shot, and it was the only one of her ships to do so.
Falcon
and
Greely
were caught in the heavy impact zone and suffered significant radiation damage…and both ships reported fatalities as well. Frette could imagine the conditions on the two vessels, radiation everywhere, systems failing. Wounded crew lying in the compartments, struggling to reach the overloaded sickbays. She didn’t have complete casualty figures yet, but none of that mattered. Not yet, at least. Her mind was focused on only one thing…the firepower each of her ships had ready to go.

“
Falcon
is reporting intermittent power drains, Admiral. Captain Swann is trying to keep his main batteries online.”

“Very well, order
Falcon
to fall back out of the formation.” Doug Swann was a good officer, but he was very young, and he’d been
Falcon’s
captain for less than a month. She was confident he could complete repairs on his ship, but if the cruiser took more damage, it could end up a total loss.

“
Falcon
dropping back, Admiral.”

Frette stared at the display, at the last of the enemy missiles. Her eyes focused on one…heading directly toward
Compton
.

“Full thrust, course 340.110.045!” She snapped her head around, staring at Kemp. “Now, Commander!”

“Yes, Admiral.” Kemp was hunched over his board, punching at the controls.

Frette leaned back in her chair. She could feel the faint sensation as the positioning thrusters spun
Compton
around, lining the ship up for the course she’d ordered. Then the roaring sound, the faint feeling of gee forces pushing beyond the dampeners’ ability to offset them.

Her eyes were fixed on the screen, waiting for the detonation she knew was coming. She knew her ship was shifting, the heavy thrust altering its vector, pulling it out of the missiles’ trajectory…even as the weapon sought to match her move, to change its angle to intercept.

This is going to be close…

Then the antimatter warhead exploded, and ten gigatons of energy blasted out from where the missile had been…and right toward the republic’s flagship.

Chapter Sixteen

Special Order 9

Maximillian Harmon, President, Republic of Earth Two

All units of the First Marine Regiment are hereby ordered to proceed immediately to designated assembly point Alpha, in full armor and prepared to put down an insurrection in progress at the Cutter Research Compound. The enhanced hybrids, more commonly known as the Mules, are in armed rebellion, and they have refused multiple demands to surrender.

All companies of First Battalion are to be equipped with stun guns and flashbang grenades. If at all possible, the citizens of the republic currently in rebellion are to be apprehended by non-lethal means and returned to Victory City to face trial and judgment.

If the use of non-lethal weapons is insufficient to complete the mission while preserving the safety of Marine combatants, all units are to fall back to station Alpha and await authorization to attack utilizing standard weapons.

Cutter Research Compound (Home of the Mules)

Ten Kilometers West of Victory City, Earth Two

Earth Two Date 11.26.30

“President Harmon is trying to show you he doesn’t want this to go any further. Why else do you think he sent that transmission in the clear so you could receive it?” Cutter had been sitting on the sofa along one corner of the suite the Mules had provided for him. His creations were holding him against his will, but they’d treated him with the utmost respect and kindness.

He’d been wracking his brain for ways to stop the tragedy he saw unfolding. Then Achilles came through the door. The Mule was calm, impressively so for the leader of a band of rebels about to be surrounded by a regiment of armored Marines.

“Father, you know I respect you…we all respect you. But your attempts to advocate for President Harmon are clumsy, and they do not do your intellect justice. I know you feel we should have waited to take action, and I understand your motivations, the way your loyalties and opinions are divided. But we have waited twenty-five years, and our patience has only served to allow us to become further marginalized…and this despite the outsized contributions we have made to republic society.” Achilles walked across the room, sitting in a chair facing Cutter.

“You speak well of the president, and indeed, I agree with you more than you know. Harmon is a good man, I do not question that. But you are as capable as I of analyzing conflicts beyond the primitive constructs of good and evil. Neither side in this impasse is evil. President Harmon has failed us out of weakness, not malice. He has allowed restrictions against us, humored the fear people feel of us, because it was expedient for him to do so. And unless we take action, there is little rational reason to believe that will change. And I reject the assertion that we are morally wrong in pursuing our most basic natural rights. Many claim we are arrogant, that we think ourselves more than human. But have we not been treated as less than human all these years?”

Cutter wanted to answer, but he simply didn’t know what to say. He saw the Mules’ insurrection as a disaster, one that would damage, even destroy the republic. But he knew his creations had legitimate issues, that their complaints were valid. And it was inarguable they had been patient. How could he convince them after twenty-five years that waiting longer was the answer?