The Oncoming Storm (51 page)

Admiral Junayd bit down a curse as he saw the tiny squadron that had devastated his occupation force. Seven warships, a number clearly damaged, had hammered the forces on the ground so badly that even his most urgent calls couldn’t provoke a response. Beyond them, their transports were already on the move, followed by streams of fleeing shuttles.

They didn’t want to recover the planet, merely their people, he thought, coldly. Maybe they knew about the other attack fleets, maybe they were just playing it cool, but in the end it didn’t matter. They want a cheap victory they can use against us.

“Open fire,” he ordered.

“Admiral,” the tactical officer said, “we only have a hundred missiles left.”

Junayd clenched his teeth. “Then fire them,” he snapped. It was imperative to deny the Commonwealth a propaganda victory. “Target the transports and open fire!”

“Captain, the enemy fleet has opened fire,” the XO said. “They’ve targeted the transports.”

Kat nodded, watching as the missile swarm rocketed towards their targets. And yet . . . she looked at the display, silently calculating everything they knew about the enemy superdreadnoughts. They should have been able to fire enough missiles in one salvo to vaporize Kat’s entire force. But they hadn’t. Indeed, she had a suspicion that she would be able to swat almost all of the missiles out of space before they even reached their targets.

Understanding clicked. “They’ve run out of missiles,” she said. “They’ll have to close to energy range if they want to press the offensive.”

“So it would seem,” the XO agreed. “There’s nothing to be gained by being subtle.”

“True,” Kat agreed. The irony was chilling. There wasn’t a ship in her squadron that couldn’t outrun the enemy superdreadnoughts if they hadn’t had to coddle the transports and shield them from incoming fire. And that meant disaster when the superdreadnoughts finally lumbered into energy range. “Order the transports to expedite the recovery of the shuttles.”

She ran through it again, calculating vectors in her head. The 6th Fleet had come out of hyperspace close enough to batter the enemy fleet, but if the enemy remained fixated on her squadron it wasn’t likely to matter. In their place, Kat would have broken off and ordered a retreat, yet the Theocracy didn’t seem to know the meaning of the word. Instead . . .

Missiles lanced towards her ships, only to be blown out of space or decoyed aside. But three of them slipped through the defenses and slammed into the rear transport. Kat watched helplessly as the starship died, taking over three thousand men and women with it. The remaining transports altered course slightly, ordering the shuttles that would have docked with the destroyed starship to dock with them instead. But there were just too many limits on the loading.

“Enemy ships launching gunboats,” the XO reported. “The 6th Fleet is launching its own gunboats.”

“Align the point defense,” Kat ordered. At least they had hard data on gunboat performance from First Cadiz. This time, the enemy gunboats were facing interlinked shield generators, a working datanet, and computers that had a better idea of just how well they could perform. “Engage as soon as they enter range.”

“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.

“Captain,” Roach said, “I believe I have identified the enemy flagship.”

Kat looked at the display. A single red icon was flashing on and off. “Are you sure?”

“No, Captain,” Roach said. “But she does seem to be serving as the communications hub for a superdreadnought squadron at the very least.”

“Then target her with everything we have,” Kat ordered. If they did kill the enemy commander, there would be some confusion in the ranks until the next commander took charge of the fleet. Even if they didn’t, at least they’d give their opponent a fright. “And fire at will.”

She watched as missiles launched from her ships, passing the gunboats as they swooped in to attack. Several gunboats died as point defense picked them off, but a number survived long enough to launch their missiles before falling back. They’d targeted the cripples first, Kat noted, cursing the bastards under her breath. Amherst fell out of formation as her drive nodes failed, leaving her to be overrun by the oncoming superdreadnoughts. She kept firing, her weapons raking at their shields, but it was futile. One of the enemy superdreadnoughts blew the battle cruiser apart with contemptuous ease.

“Ablative armor is not as effective as we had been led to believe,” Roach noted.

“At that range, it wouldn’t matter,” the XO countered. “She was just blown to bits.”

Kat looked down at the display. “Time to finish embarking the men?”

“Two minutes, if the remaining shuttles parasite on the hulls,” the XO said. “The enemy will enter attack range in one minute.”

“Evasive action, deploy decoys,” Kat ordered. The minute rapidly ticked down to zero. “Fire at will; I say again, fire at will.”

She braced herself as the enemy opened fire. Even at extreme range, even with decoys, her ship took hit after hit. If they’d been firing at closer range, she knew all too well, Lightning would have been atomized as quickly as Amherst.

“Shields are taking a pounding,” Roach reported. The entire ship started to quiver, as if raindrops were falling on the hull. “They’re breaking through . . .”

“Reroute all nonessential power to rear shields,” Kat ordered. It might keep them alive a few seconds longer. The enemy commander was ignoring 6th Fleet in his determination to catch the fleeing refugees. “Continue firing.”

“Sultan is gone,” the XO reported. On the display, there was nothing more than an expanding cloud of debris where a light cruiser had been seconds ago. “They’re retargeting their weapons . . .”

“The transports are ready to leave,” Ross snapped.

“Open a vortex,” Kat ordered. “Get us out of . . .”

The entire ship bucked like a maddened horse. Kat clung desperately to her command chair as the lights flickered, then came slowly back to life. The display vanished and then slowly booted up again, covered in red icons. The entire lower rear section of the ship seemed to be completely pulverized. If the vortex generator was gone . . .

“The generator is fluctuating, but still online,” Lynn reported. “Recommend we get the hell out of here!”

“Open a vortex,” Kat ordered. Lightning was losing speed as her drive field started to fail. It wouldn’t be long before she was blown into atoms. “Get us out of here!”

The lights dimmed again, then the vortex shimmered into life on the display and they plunged forward into hyperspace. Moments later, the portal snapped closed behind them.

They had escaped—but only barely. And her ship was too badly damaged to be considered combat capable any longer.

“Set course for Gamma Base,” she ordered. She shook her head, wiping sweat off her brow. Force Two had started the battle with nine ships, but only three of them had survived, all badly damaged. If the enemy gave chase now, they were doomed. “Best possible speed; 6th Fleet can catch us up later.”

“Aye, Captain,” the XO said.

Kat rose to her feet. They’d won, for a certain value of won. The mission had been a success, but it had cost them dearly. She couldn’t help feeling that they hadn’t won anything in the long run. But they had given the Theocracy a bloody nose.

Perhaps that’s all we need right now, she thought. Proof the Theocracy can actually be beaten.

She shook her head. It wasn’t reassuring at all.

And civilians will still see Cadiz in enemy hands, she thought. They might see it as a defeat.

“Order engineering to start repair work as soon as possible,” she said. It was possible that they wouldn’t be able to make it back to Gamma Base without help. “And signal the remaining transports. I want a full head count as soon as possible.”

And then, she added to herself, we might know if the battle was worth it after all.

Admiral Christian stared at the display, silently calculating the odds.

He could press the offensive, he knew. The enemy superdreadnoughts had to have emptied their missile magazines completely. There might not be a better chance to smash four squadrons of superdreadnoughts with long-range fire, hammering the enemy ships from outside their energy range. And yet . . . he could win the battle, but not the war.

No one knew how many superdreadnoughts the Theocracy possessed. Four squadrons might be a large fraction of their military—or it might be tiny, a drop in the ocean of their naval might. No matter how he looked at the problem, he knew he didn’t dare risk prolonging the engagement and overplaying his hand. His 6th Fleet was the sole intact Commonwealth naval squadron for seventy light years. It had to be preserved.

And they’ll be sending more attack fleets than just this one into our territory, he thought. I’ll have to oppose them elsewhere.

“Signal all ships,” he ordered. “It’s time to take our leave.”

Admiral Junayd sat in his cabin, staring down at the knife in his hand.

He’d lost. He knew he’d lost. The enemy had reentered the system, devastated the forces on the ground, then escaped with a number of former POWs . . . and they’d taken out the facilities orbiting Cadiz VII. By trying to avoid a futile engagement, he’d accidentally ensured that the battle, although a tactical success, was a strategic defeat. And he’d shot his ships completely dry in the process.

And worst of all, he knew, was the simple fact he owed his mere survival to the enemy commander. If their fleet had pushed the offensive after their transports had retreated into hyperspace, he would have had to retreat himself and flee through hyperspace, knowing that he couldn’t even fight back if they came after him. He owed his life to an enemy officer . . .

He lifted the knife, admiring the light glinting off the blade. He’d done everything right, he told himself; he had prayed, he had served the Theocratic Navy well . . . and he’d thought he’d been rewarded with his command. But everything had turned to ash. His defeat would mean certain disgrace, now that he looked to have lost the favor of God. Enemies would turn on him, friends would shy away from him, and even his wives would eye him doubtfully. He’d lost a battle he should have won. Was there a reason God no longer favored him?

But I did nothing wrong, he protested, mentally. I did everything right!

The thought was a bitter one, but it had to be faced. Were they doing the right thing?

It wasn’t something he had ever questioned, not really. The True Faith’s history had taught the foolishness of turning the other cheek to those who would destroy them. They had once been pacifists, intent on developing themselves and serving as a beacon of hope to others. No more. Those who had mocked and attacked them were dead, while the True Faith lived on. Their mere survival seemed a sign of God’s blessing . . .

Yet he’d lost a battle.

Could it be that they were wrong? Could it be that all their other conquests were the result of invading worlds too poor or idealistic or stupid to raise the forces to defend themselves? He had always seen that as a sign of God’s favor. But might it have been a temptation instead?

He pushed the thought aside, bitterly. It no longer mattered. All that mattered was expatiating his failure before it was too late. His wives and children wouldn’t suffer if he admitted his guilt through suicide. He would no longer fail his people . . .

The hatch sprang open. Three men in red robes ran into the cabin. Junayd had only a moment to recognize them as Inquisitors before the first one knocked the knife out of his hand, then sent him flying to the deck. His hands were wrenched behind his back and secured with heavy chains, followed by his feet. And then he was rolled over and forced to look up into the eyes of his cleric.

“Admiral,” the cleric said, his voice very flat, “you will be taken back to face the Speaker for your failure.”

Of course, Junayd thought bitterly. The cleric will be blamed for my failure unless he manages to put all the blame on me.

But if he was put on trial, his wives and children would be held to account for his failures too . . .

He opened his mouth to argue, but it was already too late. Something touched his neck and he plunged into darkness.