Barbarians at the Gates (7 page)

Of course, a single superdreadnaught possessed an awesome amount of firepower, while an entire fleet could render itself almost impregnable. But if he thought about that too long, he’d start worrying about his mission—and that would never do.

Jack gritted his teeth as his squadron zoomed into engagement range. None of the pilots, including himself, had seen action outside of simulations, and that lack of experience was going to get far too many of them killed. But he intended to be one of the survivors.

“Go!” he yelled.

The squadron rotated in place—a tricky maneuver at the best of times—and swooped down on its chosen target. The enemy ships retargeted their fire, sending thousands of plasma bolts and missiles flaring through space, picking off Jack’s fellow pilots one by one. They only had to get lucky once, while the starfighter pilots had to get lucky every time. Sooner or later, Jack knew, luck ran out. The only question was if he would manage to get off his missiles before the enemy got him.

“Prepare to engage,” he ordered his wingmates. “Fire on my command.”

The enemy fire hadn’t abated. Instead, it grew ever more savage. They knew—they had to know!—what he and the others were doing, all right.

It didn’t take a genius to realize that some overpaid admiral had decided to start a civil war. Jack paid as little attention to politics as he could get away with, but it was clear to him that some of the admirals positioned along the frontiers had been effectively operating as independent warlords for a long time.

Besides, the superdreadnaught he was closing in on was clearly of Federation design.

The enemy superdreadnaught drew closer, its weapons spitting deadly fire towards Jack and his incoming fighters. It was a monstrous hulk and it seemed unbelievable that it could be brought down by a bunch of swarming gnats, but Jack knew better. Individually, the starfighters were harmless; collectively, they were lethal. The enemy superdreadnaught was putting everything it had into driving off Jack’s fighters before it was too late.

“Fire,” Jack ordered. The fighter shuddered as it unleashed both of its standard missiles. A moment later, his remaining fighters added their own missiles to the barrage. “Scatter and retire; I say again, scatter and retire!”

He smiled as he yanked the fighter through a tight turn and accelerated away from the enemy ship. The Federation’s standard starfighter missiles carried a shield disruptor that allowed them to penetrate the enemy ship’s shields and detonate against the unshielded hull. They seemed the perfect weapon, apart from the minor detail that they had to be launched at close range and most of their weight was drives, which meant they couldn’t carry a heavy warhead. It was a shame that there had been no compressed antimatter on hand, but Federation Navy regulations were clear. Antimatter was not to be carried onboard starships and battlestations without an active state of war, as the risks far outweighed the benefits.

And earlier today, they’d been at peace. Or so everyone had thought, including Jack.

The enemy superdreadnaught flared with light as the missiles that made it through the barrage of point defense struck home. Explosions, each one devastating on a planetary surface, but almost unnoticeable against the vastness of space, billowed against her hull. For a moment, Jack allowed himself to wonder if the enemy ship would survive—superdreadnaughts were armored heavily to protect against just such an attack—before the superdreadnaught fell out of formation and exploded. The sheer fury of the explosion suggested that the ship had been carrying antimatter warheads, as well as the more conventional nuclear warheads.

Why would anyone fight for such people?
Jack thought.
What does their stupid admiral over there think he’s doing?

His computers shrilled with alarm, too late. An enemy fighter had drawn a bead on him; it was too late to evade. Jack reached for the emergency cord, hoping against hope that somehow he’d be able to eject before the ship was hit…

Then three plasma bolts slammed into his starfighter. In the instant before his ship blew up, Jack wished the invading admiral and all those who followed him to oblivion.

And then, there was nothing but a ball of radioactive fire where Jack’s ship had been.

* * *

Marius watched as dispassionately as he could as his cadre of starfighters swarmed around the enemy fleet, which had settled into a position that allowed them to exchange missile fire with the defenses of Earth. He had the uneasy sense that the enemy commander had definitely expected Earth’s defenses to be completely uncoordinated, for his tactics would have made perfect sense if he’d expected each battlestation to be thrown back on its own resources. As it was, he was giving the defenders of Earth time to reorganize and cripple his fleet.

And which of the admirals
, he asked himself,
would rely more in sneak attacks than brute force
?

He turned to Fallon, who watched the display in disbelief. The commander was far too young to have seen service in the Blue Star War, but the scale of the engagement could hardly have come as a shock. After all, before the Federation had won the Inheritance Wars, many young men must’ve seen battles that had involved thousands of starships on both sides.

“As you will observe, commander,” Marius said, “you can see certain patterns appearing in the data.” He quirked an eyebrow, inviting Fallon to reply.

“Ah,” the commander stammered, “you mean their reluctance to risk serious losses?”

“Precisely,” Marius said. He had to smile. An orbital battlestation outgunned a superdreadnaught, but it was hardly as mobile, even with the orbital maneuvering drive units. Dodging incoming enemy fire wasn’t an option. “They could have won by now if they’d flown into orbit and engaged us at close range, yet instead they’re choosing to bombard us at extreme range. Why, I wonder?”

It wasn’t a question, but Fallon tried to answer it anyway. “Because they’re short on material?”

Marius shook his head. “They have to know that Home Fleet is around here somewhere, even if they think that Titan Base is still in blissful ignorance of events on Earth. The only way they’re going to win against Home Fleet is by taking the high orbitals and forcing the Senate to surrender on pain of bombardment. So why aren’t they trying to soak up the damage and punch through?”

He smiled as another enemy superdreadnaught was blown into flaming debris. The victorious starfighters broke off and headed back to the orbital fortresses for rearming before returning to the fray. And there was another interesting question; standard doctrine said that fighter platforms had to be obliterated to force the fighters to fall back, so why weren’t the enemy ships trying to take out the fighter bases?

The answer seemed clear.

“They’re wondering if they’ve been tricked,” he said finally.

Fallon frowned in incomprehension.

“Think about it,” Marius urged him. “Whoever they are, they’ve launched a series of sneak attacks on Earth that should have crippled our defenses. They came very close to crippling us, in fact, yet we’re still fighting. Could it be that whoever is in charge over there is having second thoughts?”

Fallon voiced the obvious objection.

“Sir,” he said slowly, “the Senate isn’t likely to forgive this attack.”

“No,” Marius agreed. “But if the enemy thinks they’ve been tricked, they might be wondering where the Senate actually is, or what is really going on with Home Fleet...and then they might start thinking about contingency plans for what they need to do if they lose this battle.”

He sat back in the command chair, thinking hard. The tactical section still hadn’t been able to ID the superdreadnaughts, but Marius was mortally certain that he was facing a rogue Federation Navy admiral. And that meant...what? There were a dozen possible candidates for the rogue officer, all of whom were smart enough to know that he or she had crossed the Rubicon. Failure in the environs of Earth would mean certain death once the remainder of the Federation Navy, having mobilized their reserves, came for them. He frowned as another flight of enemy starfighters left their carriers and rocketed down towards the network of orbital battlestations surrounding Earth. The enemy commander had moved from launching a very bold stroke to playing it carefully, but Marius still had no idea who he was facing.

Who among the admirals would be so brazen on the one hand and so overcautious on the other?

Absently, he tapped the command display and checked on Home Fleet. It had been centuries since there had been more than minor piracy in the Sol System, but Home Fleet was responding about as well as could be expected. If Earth held out for another hour, perhaps less, the enemy would find themselves caught between a rock and a very hard place.

“They’re retargeting their fire, sir,” the tactical officer observed.

“Thank you,” Marius said.

He nodded to himself. The enemy force had enough superdreadnaughts to produce mass fire against a number of different targets at once. The real mystery was why they had waited so long to do it. It suggested a certain inclination to conserve force and weaponry. After all, he reasoned, if they were caught by Home Fleet—having used up all their missiles in the Battle of Earth—the result would be disastrous.

For them
, Marius thought. For
him
, it would be very satisfactory.

“They’re focusing on this station,” the tactical officer added unnecessarily.

“Move our automated platforms to provide additional coverage,” Marius ordered calmly. A steady voice, he’d been told at the Academy, could prevent a commander’s subordinates from panicking. Besides, it wasn’t as if there was anywhere to run. They would either stop enough of the missiles to save EDS3, or die once the missiles knocked down the shields and blew through the heavily-armored hull. “Start updating EDS13 with our datanet coordination systems. Prepare them to take over from us if we lose the communications section.”

“Aye, sir,” the systems operator said.

“Enemy units opening fire,” the tactical officer reported. All of the enemy superdreadnaughts were belching missiles, so many that Marius found himself wondering how they intended to control them all. Even a superdreadnaught only mounted so many fire control links, and they were firing more than any standard superdreadnaught could hope to coordinate at once. He understood a moment later when new emissions signatures appeared among the incoming swarm of missiles: gunboats, each one doubtless carrying fire control software, followed the missiles towards their targets.

“Order the CSP to take out the gunboats,” Marius ordered, keeping his voice calm. “Redirect everything else to cover both us and the planet.”

Inwardly, he was seething. The enemy commander hadn’t just targeted his station; instead, the enemy commander ran a very dangerous risk of accidentally bombarding Earth in the process. Even without antimatter warheads, a single missile impacting on the surface at a significant percentage of the speed of light would do colossal damage. And, in a very real sense, the rogue admiral was holding the planet hostage.

Marius knew that taking out the gunboats meant more uncontrolled missiles flying through space, yet there was no other choice. He had to stop this rogue admiral, and stop him right now.

Space became a maelstrom of weapons’ fire and destroyed missiles as the incoming attack came within range. All of the surviving battlestations launched counter-missiles, opening fire with massive primary beams, weapons designed to target enemy superdreadnaughts. Smaller point defense weapons were targeted on the missiles that broke through that line of defense, picking off hundreds more missiles before they had any chance of reaching their targets. Rail guns and pulsars added the final line of defense, detonating missiles just before they reached the station. At such ranges, the antimatter warheads were still dangerous, overloading the sensors and blinding the defenders.

And, inevitably, some got through.

“Brace for impact,” the tactical officer shouted. His voice was automatically relayed through the entire station. “All hands, brace for impact...”

The entire station shuddered as four missiles slammed into the shields. Compressed antimatter was the most dangerous substance known to man. Huge explosions flared against the shields, burning out several shield generators and allowing the fires to rend the fortress’s hull. Marius hung on for dear life as red icons flared on the display, warning of terrible damage. One red icon caught his eye—the containment systems had failed—and by all rights everyone on the station should be dead right now. Marius wasn’t sure how they’d survived such a terrible hit, to be honest; if they’d been carrying antimatter warheads, the entire station would have been vaporized when the containment systems failed. Unlike a nuclear warhead, antimatter didn’t need a complex triggering mechanism. Simply lowering the containment field sufficed.

“Report,” he barked. Apart from the shockwave, there shouldn’t be any damage to the station’s armoured core. “How badly are we hurt?”

“Major damage to outer sections,” the sensor officer reported. Blood streamed from a cut on his forehead. “We’ve lost most of our weapons, sir, but structural integrity is reasonably stable.”

Marius glanced at the report flashing up in front of him and shook his head. “And the enemy?”

“Shifting their fire to EDS6,” the tactical officer reported. “They must think we’re dead.”