In the battle tank, the tactical representation winked out and was replaced over the next several seconds by a large-scale ship diagram, built up line by line in blue light as the sensor data came in.
The TAO whistled. “Good call, sir. Those are friendlies, all right. Fighters—Eldan dual-seaters.”
“Good,” said Gil. Eldans were long-range fighters with short-burst hyperspace capability; less agile in close quarters than single-seaters, they carried heavier weapons and could deliver a powerful blow before dropping back into hyper for their return to base. “Signal them into our docking bay. We need all the fighters we can get.”
There wasn’t much time for relief; already the crew member at the sensor panel was calling out again, “Hostile craft, many, sectors blue nine and blue ten. Inbound fast.”
“Launch missiles when they’re in range,” said Gil. “And signal
Shaja
to take a blocking position between them and the Net Station.”
The fighter-craft image in the battle tank vanished, and the tactical display came up again. Gil watched the diagram shift as the sensors and the lightspeed comms fed information into the ’
Pavo
’s comp systems—old data, all of it, minutes old in a situation where seconds could mean everything.
With nothing but lightspeed comms, getting updates is like pouring syrup on a cold morning,
he thought.
And if we’re not lucky it’s going to kill us.
The vacuum-tight door of CIC sighed open to admit a messenger escorting the senior pilot from the flight of Eldans. Shoulder flashes on the pilot’s pressure suit said that she was a JG; she carried her helmet in the crook of one arm, and her eyes were dark with fatigue.
Her salute was weary but professional. “Lieutenant junior grade Orialas reporting as ordered.”
Gil returned the salute. “Under the circumstances, Lieutenant, we’re very glad to have you aboard. Now—tell me what you’ve seen at your end of things.”
“There isn’t much,” Orialas told him. “My buddies and I were ready squadron on board RSF
Sovay
. Word came down to launch, and we were vectored over to investigate a long-range contact. As soon as we dropped out at the contact point, we got ambushed by a flight of small fighter craft. By the time we finished them off and jumped back to base,
Sovay
was gone.”
The JG swallowed and went on. “I don’t know who it is we’re fighting out there, but they’ve got some bad stuff to shoot at us with. We ran into a kind of multidirectional energy lance, and a collimated beam weapon that seems to work at lightspeed—it’s a lot faster than our plasma pulses, anyway—and some sort of large-aperture pulse weapon that could probably blow an asteroid out of orbit if it had to.”
“You’ve got sensor records on all this stuff?”
She nodded. “They’re pulling the datachips out of our recorders down in Space Ops right now. You should be getting profile updates any moment.”
“Very good,” said Gil. “And what happened after you found out that
Sovay
had been destroyed?”
“Well, we shot at hostile targets until we’d used up all our missiles and our energy weapons were running empty, and then I decided to jump for the Net—didn’t have the range or the data for anything else, really, and we figured that if anybody was still alive out here they’d have some more work for us.”
“We certainly do, Lieutenant,” Gil said. “Have your craft rearmed and prepare to launch as soon as you’re combat-ready.”
The lieutenant said, “Yes sir,” and departed, guided by the messenger. Gil turned back to the TAO.
“Have we got those profile updates yet?”
The TAO checked the board. “Just came in. Interesting stuff, too—especially if you figure the Mageworlders built it all out of smuggled bits and pieces from our side of the Net.”
“Nobody ever said they were stupid, Patel. Lock the profile data into our secondaries, and sent it over to
Shaja
and
Lachiel
.”
It might even reach them in time
, Gil added to himself.
The comms tech looked up from the board and said, “Net Station B-Fourteen is no longer transmitting, Commodore. We’re unable to reestablish contact.”
“Assume B-Fourteen is down, then,” Gil said. “TAO—how many stations do we still have?”
“In this sector? B-Twenty-three is hanging out there on visual and still transmitting; and B-Twenty-five and B-Twenty-one both turned up on the last long-range comms sweep.” The TAO shook his head in frustration. “Without hi-comms, there’s no way to tell about the rest.”
It doesn’t matter about the rest,
Gil thought.
Once the last three stations in this sector go, the Mages will have a hole big enough to jump their warfleet through.
He sighed. “Very well. We’ll hold Station B-Twenty-three until relief arrives or the tactical situation alters.”
“Fighters report ready to launch,” said a comms tech.
“Launch fighters,” said Gil. “Vector to intercept inbound Mageships and identify targets for long-range standoff weapons.”
“
Lachiel
reports multiple hits,” another tech reported. “Unable to maneuver in realspace. Losing airtight integrity, requests permission to withdraw.”
Gil shook his head. “Send to
Lachiel
, ‘Permission denied. Take targets under fire as long as you are able to bring weapons to bear.’”
Sorry about that
, Lachiel.
But as long as they’re shooting at you they aren’t shooting at the Net Station … and every minute we can keep up the Net is a minute longer before the Magefleet can jump for Galcen.
“We’ve lost Station B-Twenty-five,” said the TAO a moment later, as if Gil’s thoughts had been the signal for more bad news. “Net integrity less than fifty percent in this sector. There’s nothing to stop them from jumping out.”
“They won’t jump yet,” said Gil. “Not until their whole fleet can go. Hang on.”
A bright light blossomed on an internal-view monitor, briefly illuminating the red-lit dimness of the CIC.
“Who just went up?” asked Gil. “Ours or theirs?”
“Our secondaries just took out one of the Mage fighters,” said the TAO, after a glance at the status boards. “Son of a bitch was pretty damned close.”
“They’ll get closer,” Gil told him. “How’s engineering?”
“Engineering reports minimum standards available; Damage Control reports temporary repairs complete.”
“Good,” said Gil. “We can move and we can fight.”
A crew member looked up from the sensor analysis panel. “They’re massing out there, sir,” he said to the TAO. “Just out of range.”
They’re getting ready to jump,
Gil thought.
They’ll head straight for Galcen—they have to; surprise is their big advantage, and if they don’t take out Prime it’s all wasted—but if anybody can handle this fleet, General Metadi can do it. As long as he gets the word in time …
He looked over at the TAO. “What’s the Net integrity now?”
“Down to thirty percent and falling fast. Stations B-Twenty-three and B-Fourteen can’t hold up the field between them for long.”
“Every second counts,” Gil said. “The longer we can hold them, the more time Captain Rosselin-Metadi has to spread the word on the other end.” He turned back to the crew member on the sensors. “Where are the Mageships located?”
“Netward of us, sir; none behind or below relative. They appear to be pulling away from active engagement with any targets besides the Net Stations.”
“Getting ready for their jump run,” said Gil; then, to the TAO, “Send to
Shaja
and
Lachiel
, ‘On my signal, fire all available homers at the center of mass of Mageworlds tactical group. Reserve missiles until that time’.”
“Lost carrier signal to Net Control Station B-Fourteen,” the comms tech broke in.
“Sensors picking up radiation consistent with catastrophic energy release at location B-Fourteen,” another crew member reported. “Net integrity fifteen percent … ten …”
“Stand by to sortie,” said Gil. “We’re going to take the war to the enemy. Beam and plasma weapons only.
Lachiel,
remain on station, fire at will.
Shaja,
take posit one-niner-five relative; I’m going to take posit zero-zero-three Fighters, scan Mage comm frequencies. As soon as someone in the Mage formation starts transmitting, attack that unit—it’ll be the commander.”
He drew a deep breath. “Stand by, execute.”
The deckplates under Gil’s feet vibrated as the
’Pavo
’s already-stressed engines responded to the demand for more power. A few seconds later, alarms on the main control board began pipping as the ship’s sensors detected the first inbound homers from the mass of Mageworld ships ahead. In the monitor screens, ugly flashes and streaks of light showed where the
’Pavo
’s own secondary weapons systems were sending out energy beams and slower-moving but even more deadly plasma slugs to intercept and destroy the oncoming missiles.
“We’re within half-range now,” reported the TAO.
“Close enough,” said Gil. “Send to
Shaja
, weapons free.”
“Weapons free, aye.”
“Fire main batteries,” he ordered, thinking,
With the Net failing, every second we can buy is vital. They can’t fight and make a jump-run at the same time.
“Engage as many targets as possible. Send to
Shaja
, on my signal, fire all homers, empty the tubes.”
“
Shaja
rogers for it.”
“Send to
Shaja
, fire missiles.”
“Fire missiles.”
“Missiles away.”
Gil let out his breath in a faint sigh.
And that’s about all the damage we can do. “Shaja
and fighters, guide on me. Return to Net Control blocking stations. TAO—take us back to the Control Station.”
“On the way.”
“Sir!” exclaimed the crew member at the sensor analysis board. “Net integrity is down to five percent. The Magefleet is starting to move Galcenward.”
Gil felt the sinking sensation of inevitability.
It’s the jump-run.
“Stay with them,” he said. “Engage as many as possible.” A gory explosion lit up another monitor. A red dot winked out in the main battle tank just as a massive thud, not so much heard as felt, sounded in the
’Pavo
’s CIC.
“Engine hit, sir,” reported the TAO. “One of their homers got through.”
“Keep going—keep firing,” said Gil.
“Keep firing aye,” said the TAO. He was bent over the sensor analysis board, reading the data as it scrolled in. “The Magefleet isn’t firing back anymore. They’re passing us—Net integrity at three percent—they’ve got a hole—”
His voice dropped and flattened. “They’ve jumped.”
WARHAMMER
: GALCEN NEARSPACE RSF
FEZRISOND:
INFABEDE SECTOR
W
ARHAMMER’S
HYPERSPACE transit to Galcen ended up taking close to two Standard weeks. Jessan stood watch-and-watch with Beka the whole time. He barely saw the captain, except for the few minutes every four hours when she came forward to the cockpit for another stint of pushing the hyperspace engines to their limit and a shade beyond. Then Jessan would make his way aft through the common room to their darkened quarters, seal himself into the zero-g sleepsack, and fall into a thick, dreamless slumber. Four hours later the alarm on the far bulkhead would bring him awake with a jerk, and he’d head back to the cockpit for another watch.
With the galley off-line as nonessential, the
’Hammer
’s crew had to subsist on uncooked space rations, chewing up the dried bricks of unreconstituted food and washing the powdery mouthfuls down with cold-water instant cha’a. Ship’s laundry and the sonic shower had also gone by the board in the name of speed. It didn’t really matter; Jessan and the captain slept in their dirtside clothes for lack of time to change them, and cleanliness, like uninterrupted rest, became nothing but a fading memory.
On the fourteenth day of the run, Jessan was off-watch and asleep in the captain’s cabin—the deep, unmoving sleep of someone whose exhaustion has penetrated clear to the bone. Then, without warning, he was awake, snapping back to consciousness and pulling himself out of the sleepsack so quickly that he floated across the cabin and into the far bulkhead before he could recover.
“What the
hell
?” he muttered.
Something was wrong. He couldn’t hear any alarms or warning signals, but he knew that the ship was in trouble just the same. He made his way to the door, then worked his way handhold by handhold through the common room, nearly colliding with Ignaceu LeSoit on his way toward the cockpit.
“What’s up?” asked the gunman. He was pulling himself hand-over-hand along one bulkhead like an experienced free-spacer.
Jessan didn’t stop moving forward. “Damned if I know. But I sure as hell don’t like it.”
The two of them reached the pilot’s compartment together, with Jessan a little in the lead. What he saw didn’t do much to ease his feeling of disaster. Beka had the cover off part of the console, revealing the diagnostic readouts beneath, and there were stars outside the cockpit viewscreens. That, he realized, was what had jolted him awake from a dead sleep: the dropout from hyper.
He cleared his throat. “Beka?”
“Imbalance in drive number one,” she said without looking up. “Don’t know how bad yet.”
“Damn.” Jessan pulled himself forward to the copilot’s position. “I’d like to check our comms and get a navigational fix. Permission to put nonessentials back on-line?”
“Go ahead. Do it.”
Jessan started flipping switches. The copilot’s seat gave a little beneath him as the gravity eased back on, and for the first time in two weeks he was able to sit there properly instead of just occupying a position in space a millimeter or so above the padded surface. A faint thud behind him suggested that LeSoit had let go his handhold and dropped onto the deck.
“I’ll be right back,” the gunman said.
Beka only nodded. Jessan brought up the rest of the nonessential systems and set the ship’s navicomps to working on a proper fix. Finally the captain straightened up from the diagnostic screens and put the cover back onto the console.
The long hyperspace run had left its mark: her hair was dingy and unkempt, and dark smudges shadowed the skin around her eyes. She pressed the heels of her hands against her forehead and sighed.
“Hell and damnation,” she said. “Nyls, have you got anything from hi-comms or the navicomps?”
“No, and, unfortunately, yes.”
“Damnation,” she said again. “How bad is it?”
The cockpit doors slid open before Jessan could answer, and LeSoit’s footsteps sounded on the deck. The rich, bitter-sharp aroma of fresh-brewed cha’a struck Jessan’s nostrils, and Beka smiled faintly.
“Bless you, Ignac’,” she said, reaching out to take the mug LeSoit handed her. “I may live after all.”
“Rule one of the spacer’s trade.” The gunman passed another mug to Jessan and kept the third for himself. “No problem is so bad that cha’a can’t help it.”
“There’s a first time for everything,” Beka said. She drank off almost half of the mug’s contents without stopping, heedless of the near-scalding temperature, and turned back to Jessan. “What were you going to say about the navicomps?”
Jessan had both hands wrapped around his mug of cha’a for warmth. Two weeks without temperature control had chilled the ship almost to freezing. “Well, I have good news and bad news.”
“I don’t have time for jokes.”
Jessan shook his head. “No joke. The bad news is that hi-comms are down hard in this sector, too. The good news is that we’re only twelve light-days out of Galcen.”
Beka scowled. “What the hell kind of good news is that? We might as well still be on Eraasi.”
“I’ll admit that it’s a little too far to walk,” he said, “but Space Force patrols this far out. There’s a chance we can find someone who’ll pass the word along.”
“We’d better,” she said. “Ignac’, you stay up here and start broadcasting ‘mechanical breakdown’ on the distress frequency. Nyls, you and I have got some work to do.”
“How long will it take?” LeSoit asked.
Beka shook her head. “I won’t know until we can make a visual inspection of the hyperdrives. After they cool we’ll have to realign them at least. Maybe reset the reference coordinates. Maybe more. Damn piece-of-junk Gyfferan engines.”
Warhammer
’s outsized power plant had been Beka’s pride and joy for as long as Jessan had known her.
“Was it that bad?” he asked quietly.
“Bad?” She drained the rest of her cha’a, and Jessan saw for the first time that her hands were shaking in the backwash of an adrenaline reaction. “Bad? We almost went nova.”
Being the head of a department on a flagship, Ari had discovered, required endless administration—or, as his sister Beka would have put it, hell’s own supply of paperwork. He was sitting in his office aboard RSF
Fezrisond,
trying to project the next quarter’s consumption of lint-free wipes and disposable bandages, when the buzzer sounded at his door.
“Yes?” he said, still working. “Can I help you?”
The door slid open. A tall lieutenant (junior grade) from the Operations department stood on the threshold, looking uncertain. “Can we talk privately?”
“Sure. Close the door.”
Ari placed a small bet with himself. Either the fellow had caught some kind of venereal disease at a port call, or else his wife back home on Wherever was going to have a baby and he wanted to know what the process entailed.
“Well, it’s a little embarrassing,” the JG said as the door slid shut behind him. “Maybe you could take a look at this rash I’ve got … .”
Port call,
Ari told himself, mentally paying off his bet. He had already reached into the storage cabinet behind him for the appropriate medication—the problem was a common one, even here on the admiral’s flagship—when he saw that the JG was holding a folded piece of paper in one hand. Ari looked at it and raised his eyebrows. The JG unfolded the slip of paper and laid it on Ari’s desk.
Ari picked up the note and read it while the JG continued to babble nervously of rashes and other embarrassing symptoms.
“This compartment is wired for sound,” the note read. “We need to talk in a secure space. Meet me at the starboard sensor nacelle in twenty minutes.”
Ari crumpled the note and stuffed it into his trouser pocket for later disposal—in some other compartment, since the eavesdroppers, whoever they are, could have gotten to the trash recycler.
“Well,” he said, “that certainly is an interesting rash, but I don’t think it’s anything serious. Keeping the area clean and dry for two weeks should do the trick.”
The JG nodded. “You’ve been very helpful.”
“Think nothing of it,” Ari said. “See you later.”
“Thank you,” the JG said, and left.
Ari checked his chronometer.
Twenty minutes? Well
,
why not?
He straightened up his desk, punched the Send button on the work he’d done, and walked out.
It was quiet on the big ship, midway through the forenoon watch. He made his way quickly to the sensor nacelle, after first stopping by his cabin to pick up a Berthing and Workspace Sanitary Inspection Module for his clipboard. He was going to have to do those inspections this week anyway; if anyone asked him why he was wandering around, he’d have a legitimate excuse.
What am I thinking of?
he wondered.
I’m a lieutenant commander, on board the ship where I’m assigned, carrying out the duties of my position. Why should I have to explain anything to anyone?
Just the same, he found himself wishing—and not for the first time, either—that Llannat Hyfid could have come with him to the
Fezzy.
The Adept had a knack for sensing these things; maybe she could have told him what was wrong.
Because there sure as hell is
something
going on, and it’s so rotten that I’m even beginning to smell it.
Twelve light-days out from Galcen,
Warhammer
drifted in vacuum. Tethered to the ship’s hull by lifelines, two pressure-suited figures worked over the external hyperdrive components.
“Test pad one,” Beka said over the link.
“Test one, aye,” Jessan replied. He pushed the button.
“Test pad one sat,” Beka said. The voicelink from her suit’s helmet picked up the sound of her breath along with the words. “Test pad two.”
“Third-party modifications screw up everything,” Jessan muttered. “You should be able to do voyage repairs without having to suit up and go out in vacuum.”
“Save your philosophy of design for later,” said Beka. “Test pad two.”
“Test two, aye,” Jessan responded, and pressed the next button.
LeSoit’s voice broke in over the link from the cockpit. “Captain, Doc—I just picked up a response on lightspeed comms. Looks like Space Force is out here.”
“Great,” Jessan said. “Respond to them. And say these words, exactly; ‘Cosmic daylight break authenticate one five echo.’ Repeat it back to me.”
“‘Cosmic daylight break authenticate one five echo.’”
“You got it,” Jessan said. “Now transmit and let me know how they respond.”
“What was that?” Beka asked.
“Remember I told you that getting through the Net wouldn’t be a problem? Assuming the skipper of whoever’s out here has the clearance, what I just told him should bounce him right out of bed.”
“Fine,” said Beka. “Now test pad three.”
“Test pad three, aye.”
Ari reached the starboard sensor nacelle exactly twenty Standard minutes, by his chronometer, from the time his unexpected visitor had passed him the cryptic note.
He wasn’t particularly surprised to meet the same JG coming down the passageway from the opposite direction. The young officer nodded to Ari without speaking and gestured to him to follow. In silence, they made their way back along the outboard passage into “fighter country,” the part of the
Fezzy
that was reserved for the fighter detachment.
They halted at the door of the pilots’ ready room. Ari palmed the lockplate, but nothing happened. He looked at the JG. The younger officer reached past him and touched the lockplate. The door slid open, and Ari followed the JG inside before it could close again.
In theory, as head of the
Fezzy’
s medical department, Ari should have had his ID scan on file in ship’s memory with override access to all spaces—but in theory, the head medic’s office shouldn’t have had snoop-buttons planted in it, and junior officers shouldn’t be inviting him to mysterious private meetings.
Somebody jury-rigged a new ID filter on that lockplate, Ari thought as the door slid shut behind him. I hope they remember to switch it back before the next time one of them needs a medic in a hurry.
The ready room was packed with what looked like all of the pilots and other ranks from the fighter detachment, crammed in so tightly that the ventilation systems were having trouble clearing the air. The senior officer of the det, another lieutenant commander, stood by the forward bulkhead.