Homeworld (Odyssey One) (79 page)

They also had a nice supply of low-yield rockets, automated guns, and other nasty sundries that should be effective against the enemy fighter screen at least.

“Activate all defenses,” she ordered. “All systems are to consider Block IFF signals as friendly. Additionally, all recorded IFF signals are to be considered friendly.”

“Confirmed,” the computer intoned in a female voice that had always gotten on her nerves. “Load drill scenario?”

“Negative. Live fire,” she said. “Load signatures, code name, Drasin.”

“Loaded.”

“Designate Drasin as hostile.”

“So designated.”

“Engage.”

“Engaging.”

The orbital defense network was almost entirely automated. Most systems at the scale they were dealing with had to be. Unlike ship’s munitions system, there were no humans involved at any step of the process, not even reloading. That was because the system couldn’t
be
reloaded. It was strictly a one-engagement deal until shuttles could be sent out to rearm the satellites.

That was one operation she didn’t expect to be happening after this engagement.

“Targets designated hostile Drasin have breached cislunar space. Locking targets.”

The enemy signals shifted from white to ugly red, then began to blink steadily until the icons surrounding them on the screen turned green.

“Targets locked.”

“Fire at will,” Gracen ordered, face a stony mask.

“Engaging with all available launchers,” the computer announced blandly as the icons for the defense network shifted from blue to red.

“We have nuclear weapon launch.”

The bizarrely calm statement from a lieutenant seated a dozen meters away was an odd punctuation to the most poignant moment of her career, and Gracen found herself grateful for the wakeup the statement provided. She’d just authorized the use of nuclear weapons in cislunar space, something that violated so many treaties she felt a cold chill run down her spine at the very idea of the paperwork it would involve.

Would normally involve, I suppose. Ah well, a bright side to everything.

On the screens, the nuclear weapons were accelerating smoothly toward their targets when the HVM launcher opened fire.

The distance from Earth orbit to the limits of cislunar space was in the range of three hundred and eighty-five thousand kilometers. Nuclear warheads could take as long as three hours to cross that span, but the HVMs could cross the same distance in under thirty minutes.

They quickly passed their slower moving nuclear brethren, roaring through space like nothing more than beams of light running just a tad slow, and continued onward toward the incoming targets.

From Earth, all screens were watching.

NAC Shuttle, Entering Cislunar Space

Oh, what have I done to my poor doomed Mars?

Commodore Wolfe was not in what one might charitably consider a good mood. His thoughts refused to leave Barsoom base and he’d spent the long trip down-well to Earth digging deeper into a depression he couldn’t give less of a damn about escaping.

Mars had been his home for so many years, a place he’d helped nurture from little more than shacks in a frozen desert to a place that he could proudly call home, and now…well, he’d read the reports, he knew what those things were doing to his home.

What they wanted to do to
Earth
.

“Holy shit, what the hell was that!?”

Wolfe looked up, only vaguely interested by the pilot’s exclamation, and saw immediately what had prompted it.

“The war has come to Earth, boys. That is nuclear fire in the skies,” he said, his voice somewhat apathetic. “Just the admiral telling those bastards…‘Welcome to Earth.’ ”

“Yes, sir,” the pilot said shakily, glancing at his co-pilot. “Let’s adjust course a little and give them some breathing room.”

“Good idea.”

Wolfe ignored the byplay. His heart and soul were a long ways from Earth. Somewhere red.

N.A.C.S.
ODYSSEY

TO HAVE COME so far in so little time, and still be ended before we finish the race. There’s something fundamental about that, about the perverse nature of the universe.

Eric watched the relay feed from the lunar satellites, knowing that he was seeing information over thirty minutes late. Nothing he could do would change what was about to happen, and even if he were there in orbit right then, that fact would probably hold just as true.

The
Odyssey
was flying into the battle, though, an order no one questioned, at which no one even gave a funny look. He was proud of them for that because Eric was well aware that his crew were more than smart enough to know what they were facing and just how slim their chances were.

He supposed that they believed there was still a chance, still hope to win.

He chose not to disabuse them of that thought.

Hope was a powerful thing, after all.

The
Enterprise
had joined them, but Carrow was holding the ship back. It was clear that he wasn’t aiming for a direct engagement, but would probably shift to a lunar orbit instead
of taking his ship into Earth’s gravity well. Eric didn’t blame him. There was no need to sacrifice himself and his crew on this little mission.

There really wasn’t anything to gain.

“Sir, word from the deck,” Roberts said, walking over. “The Angels are restocked, minor repairs done. Samuels won’t be flying anymore missions for a while, though.”

“Is she alright?”

“She’s fine. Her plane is shot to hell.”

Eric grimaced. That was his old plane, but at least Jennifer hadn’t bought it. He nodded, waving Roberts away, then reconsidered. “Commander, tell Jennifer I’d like to speak with her. My office.”

“Yes, sir.” Roberts sounded confused, but he didn’t question the order.

Jennifer Samuels didn’t know what she was being called on carpet for, but frankly she’d rather still be out in the furball with her shot-up plane. She stood at attention outside the captain’s office for several minutes before he appeared around the corner and walked up the hall toward her.

He didn’t say anything as he passed, just opened the door and nodded his head.

She took the message and marched into the small room with as much military muster as she could, trying very hard to be the epitome of a perfect little officer who hadn’t just managed to get their captain’s personal fighter shot up.

Weston walked around his desk, taking a seat, and turned on the computer embedded in the furniture before looking up at her and cracking a very slight smile.

“At ease before you break something, Lieutenant. You can take a seat.”

Jennifer’s mind swirled, but there was one clear answer to that. “I’ll stand, sir.”

“Sit down, Lieutenant.”

Oookay,
she thought as she mechanically sat down. Once a suggestion turns into an order, the one clear answer morphed as well.
Funny that.

He was reading something, not looking at her, and she got more and more nervous as time went by. Finally she broke. She just couldn’t sit there anymore without asking.

“Sir?”

“Yes?” he looked up, that very slight hint of a smile in his eyes now, or more likely a smirk she supposed.

Bastard was waiting for me to break,
she thought, chagrined. She should have held out longer, but so be it.

“Why am I here, sir?”

“Glad you asked, Lieutenant. I understand that you’ve been working on a personal project,” he said.

“Uh, yes, sir. I’ve been studying the NICS device.”

Weston nodded. “Then I have something I want you to do for me.”