Barbarians at the Gates

Chapter Forty-Three

Lombardi System, 4097

Flight Leader Joe Buckley was not a happy man.

First, he had allowed himself to be seduced into joining Admiral Justinian years ago, lured by the promise of merit-based promotion and a fairer deal for the newly-settled colonies, such as the one his family lived on. Second, the admiral had lost the opening battles of the war and had found himself condemned to a war of attrition, a war that Joe was convinced the admiral couldn’t win. And finally, Joe was leading a strike force right into the teeth of enemy firepower.

Joe was no coward—no one who flew a starfighter into combat could be called a coward—but the odds were badly against the rebels, and he knew it. The sane course of action would be to fall back to Harmony or Jefferson, daring the lickspittles to do their worst.

“All wings, form up on me and prepare to kick some serious ass,” he ordered. The Senate’s lapdogs had formed a fairly typical formation, with the lighter units moving into position to shield their bigger brothers from oncoming starfighters and missiles. They’d probably charge in, launch their missiles and then charge out again. “Prepare to…”

He broke off in surprise. He’d expected the enemy starfighters to move out to counter his men’s strike in order to engage them in a brutal dogfight. Instead, they were moving away, as if they intended to dogleg around his force and attack the carriers and superdreadnaughts.

For a few seconds, he puzzled over their tactics, and then decided that the scumbags thought their point defense would suffice to deal with his strike. The thought made his lips curl back into a pitiless smile. His pilots had been drilling constantly since the war had stalemated and knew everything there was to know about their craft. They were the most experienced pilots in the universe. If the sons of bitches wanted to give them a free shot at their hulls without having to worry about opposing starfighters, it was fine by Joe.

“Prepare to engage,” he ordered. “On my mark…go!”

The starfighters wheeled around, rocketing at their new targets. It would have been more amusing if the enemy fleet had been turning and trying to escape, but no superdreadnaught could hope to outrun a fighter, at least in the short term. In the longer term, they’d have their chance to escape while the fighters returned to their motherships for rest and replenishment…yet oddly, they weren’t even trying to run.

He frowned as his HUD illuminated with new search radars and active sensors, wondering just what the enemy had in mind. The starfighters, ducking and weaving as they were, presented an almost impossible target. Any hits to any of the ships under Joe’s command would be made at least partly through sheer luck.

“Leaders, designate your targets,” he ordered as the enemy ships grew closer. They still weren’t engaging his ships with point defense, something that made almost no sense at all. Even if they didn’t hit a single fighter, they would still scatter his formation and make it impossible for Joe and his men to launch a coordinated strike.

Superdreadnaughts flashed red in front of his eyes as he marked targets, knowing that the ugly ships couldn’t hope to escape. An individual starfighter, even one armed with antimatter missiles, wasn’t that dangerous, but the swarm would kill. He ignored anything smaller, knowing it could be mopped up later.

“Prepare to separate…” Joe ordered, but then broke off. “Jesus Christ!”

The small enemy ships, the ones he’d dismissed, opened fire. They put out an impossible rate of fire, thousands of plasma bolts, pulsar bursts and antifighter missiles blazing from their hull, straight into the teeth of Joe and his men. He and his fighter jocks were well-trained and aware of the dangers of enemy point defense, but they’d never—not even in their worst nightmares—dreamed of such a savage defense.

His formation scattered as some of his starfighters began to explode, picked off by Federation ships…dear God, he realized, they must have packed the ships full of antifighter weaponry and nothing else. The Book frowned on single-purpose ships, yet it was clear that the designer of this little stratagem, probably Admiral Drake, hadn’t read The Book. Or hadn’t paid attention. And it had paid off for him handsomely.

“All units, abandon current strike plan,” Joe ordered. “Form up on me and hit those point defense ships!”

He desperately threw his starfighter into a series of twists and turns that should make it impossible to track and hit his craft. Even so, the assholes might score a hit on his ship by pure luck; as no one had ever built a starfighter that could carry shields, a single hit would destroy his ship. If he were lucky, he might manage to eject into space before the ship went critical.

He cursed under his breath as his formation gradually reassembled. Squadrons and wings had been scattered by the point defense storm, leaving each starfighter’s assigned unit well under strength. His squadron had lost five pilots—five out of twelve—and few of the others were in any better shape. No wonder the enemy starfighters had refused to engage; they’d known precisely what kind of shit-storm Joe Buckley and his pilots were about to encounter.

As the fighters formed up on him, he barked orders. He knew, without consulting with the CAG, that they had to take out the new starships first. Their point defense would be even more effective against missiles, which meant that Admiral Justinian’s fleet would be fighting at a severe disadvantage. On the other hand, taking the starships—the battle computers rated them as nothing more than cruisers—would cost the lives of hundreds of his pilots.

But there was no choice, he realized. One look at the overall tactical display revealed that the two fleets were too close together to avoid engagement.

“All units, designate your targets and follow me in,” he ordered, hoping he sounded more confident than he felt. “Here we go…”

The starfighter tilted and dived at its target, a light cruiser spitting fire and death. His pilots followed him, carefully keeping their trajectories random, although that didn’t save a dozen more of his pilots from being blown out of space in the first few seconds. Joe mourned their deaths with one part of his mind, even as another part tracked the enemy craft and silently plotted revenge. A cruiser couldn’t hope to soak up the same amount of fire as a superdreadnaught, so only a handful of missiles would be needed to blow the bastard out of the sky.

He selected his missiles, flew straight for as long as he dared—about four seconds—and fired two shipkillers at his target, just before yanking his craft out of the path of a plasma bolt that would have wiped him out of existence. The enemy computers, tracking the battle as best as they could, were good.

He had the satisfaction of watching seven missiles strike home. The cruiser begin to disintegrate into a ball of fire and light.

And then an errant plasma bolt scored a glancing hit on his fighter’s drive array. The starfighter spun out of control, right for one of the other anti-starfighter cruisers. He reached for the ejection handle and started to pull it, hoping he could get out in time.

But it was too late. He didn’t even have time to curse before a second plasma bolt struck his ship, vaporizing it instantly.

“Admiral, their fighter assault has been blunted,” Raistlin reported. “They’re preparing to launch missiles.”

Marius studied the display. He’d had to use all of his clout to get the anti-starfighter cruisers into production, fighting against an entrenched design bureaucracy, but it had been worth it. Half of the enemy starfighters had been destroyed before they had a chance to launch their missiles. And he knew that Justinian’s fleet would have to strip away the Grand Fleet’s cruisers first, before Justinian’s men could even try to take out the heavier ships. That should give Marius time to act.

“They don’t have much of a choice,” Marius reminded him dryly. “Send a general signal to all ships; fire at will.”

Magnificent shook violently as she flushed her external racks toward the enemy ships. Every other superdreadnaught in the formation followed her lead, launching their own missiles to strike at the enemy in the wake of the starfighter assault. Hundreds of thousands of missiles flew at the enemy ships, which were grossly outnumbered by Marius Drake’s own forces.

Admiral Justinian’s forces returned fire at once, flushing their own external racks to prevent the missiles from being destroyed or detonated by incoming fire, adding thousands of icons to the display. It was the greatest single number of missiles in action that Marius had seen during his long career, although he’d read that some of the battles during the Inheritance Wars had involved more missiles and superdreadnaughts.

Admiral Justinian’s researchers hadn’t been entirely idle, he realized, as the recon drones he’d launched with the missiles started to report back. They didn’t seem to have the rumored miniaturized FTL communications system that the Senate had believed—or feared—Justinian possessed, but their ECM was greatly improved. A hundred phantom superdreadnaughts and carriers shimmered into view, tricking hundreds of missiles into wasting themselves on nonexistent targets. Their ECM was actually better than the ECM the ships of the Grand Fleet carried. It wasn’t good enough to fool recon drones or shipboard sensors, but it was more than good enough to fool the tiny missile seeker heads.

He allowed himself a cold smile as the missiles entered terminal engagement range and roared down on their targets. With so many missiles, he’d had the luxury of spreading his fire over every enemy superdreadnaught and carrier, capital ships already weakened by the starfighter pass that had left nine superdreadnaughts and a dozen carriers nothing more than burning debris. Justinian would have to defend all of his ships or risk losing them, which weakened his defense still further.

Marius smiled. Vaughn had taught him an old Marine proverb—he who would be strong everywhere is strong nowhere—and it applied, even in space warfare.

“We’ve taken out at least thirty ships,” Raistlin reported. “Nineteen more have been badly damaged…”

The intercom blared a warning. “All hands, brace for impact; I say again, all hands…”

Magnificent shook violently, twice. Red icons flared on the damage control screen, then faded as the computers realized that the ship wasn’t badly damaged.

Marius muttered a curse under his breath as he realized that other ships hadn’t been so lucky. Five superdreadnaughts were gone, while General Sampson had been blown out of formation and was now streaming air as her crew fought desperately to save the ship. It was too late; before her captain could issue the order to abandon ship, her fusion plant blew and she vanished inside a ball of expanding plasma.

A number of the anti-starfighter cruisers had been destroyed as well, he saw. The enemy had either decided to take them out prior to hammering the superdreadnaughts or they’d simply been picked at random by missile brains. No one would ever know for sure.

“Minor damage to sections 4623G and 4878F,” the damage control officer reported to the captain.

Marius overheard the transmission through the datanet and allowed himself a moment of relief. Magnificent could still fly and energize a beam. With the two fleets converging, they would be entering energy range shortly…and then the real slaughter would begin.

“Signal to all ships,” he ordered the ops officer. “I am hereby authorizing rapid fire. I say again, rapid fire.”

“Aye, sir,” Raistlin said.

A dull thunder could be heard, even within the flag bridge, as the superdreadnaught switched to rapid fire, launching missiles in sprint mode. Justinian’s men would find it much harder to intercept them before they reached their targets, although the targeting wouldn’t be so accurate.

“Sir, Admiral Mason is asking for orders,” Raistlin informed him.

“Tell him to concentrate on the enemy carriers,” Marius said with a nod. “The superdreadnaughts are to continue firing on the enemy superdreadnaughts.”

Most of Admiral Justinian’s carriers had been taken out, leaving Justinian with only a handful of ships that were able to rearm their starfighters. Once the rest of them were taken out, the enemy starfighters would be deprived of a base. They’d be fucked, completely. And then they’d have no choice, but to surrender—or die.

He kept his face impassive as two of his superdreadnaughts exploded in quick succession. And then Admiral Rodney died when a missile pulsed through her shields, speared through one of her fusion plants and detonated the antimatter warheads in her magazines. Admiral Yamamoto staggered out of formation, seemingly unhurt, but something had blown inside her hull; she vaporized. He barely noticed the death of the battlecruiser Triumph or the heavy cruiser Kimball Kingston. When superdreadnaughts were dying, each one taking over three thousand trained spacers and officers with her, the lighter ships seemed like small change.

“Arunika,” he said, keying his wristcom, “have you located the enemy flagship?”

“Negative,” Arunika said. “The enemy have their datanet locked tight.”

Marius doubted that it would be easy to locate Justinian’s flagship, so they’d just have to hope they destroyed her soon. The only proof he had that the enemy flagship was still intact was that their formation hadn’t shown any signs of panic or disintegration. Even under the best of circumstances, transfer of command wasn’t easy—and the middle of a battle was hardly the best of circumstances. The chaos that had followed Admiral Parkinson’s death bore mute witness to that.

“Understood,” Marius said, breaking the connection. He looked over at Raistlin, who was obviously waiting for orders. “Tell all ships to continue firing.”

Rampant Lion screamed as another missile slammed against her shields and raw energy burned through to her hull. The admiral’s flagship had led a charmed life, almost, until now. With the escorting carriers gone and most of the smaller ships destroyed in the crossfire, the remaining superdreadnaughts were almost alone.

Caitlin looked over at Admiral Justinian. She wondered if he realized that the battle was lost. Charging into the teeth of the enemy formation, energy weapons blazing, would inflict vast damage, but it would also lead to the complete destruction of his fleet.

“Pull us back from the enemy fleet,” Admiral Justinian ordered finally. His voice held the bitter tinge of defeat. “Order the remaining starfighters to cover our retreat.”

Caitlin knew that the admiral now realized that his fleet had been savaged and that he wouldn’t have much chance to extract even the surviving units from the disaster, and that was good. But the math didn’t add up. They would have to alter course and head to the mass limit, as they’d never make it back to the Asimov Point, and flee to Harmony with a much larger fleet snapping at their heels. This did not seem like sound strategy, especially as it reminded her of the Battle of Jefferson…except back then, they’d forced the Federation lickspittles to flee. Now the boot was on the other foot and she didn’t like it.

The superdreadnaught rocked again as another missile slammed through her shields. A second later, a dull thud echoed through the ship, a harbinger of doom. Caitlin didn’t need the brief report from damage control to know that they’d just lost one of the drive compartments. The superdreadnaught could no longer accelerate to her full speed, which left her helplessly trapped within enemy missile range. It wouldn’t be long before the enemy fleet blew the cripple into plasma, or attempted to force her to surrender.

And Admiral Justinian could not be allowed to fall into enemy hands.

“Admiral,” she said, checking her console, “the Apollo is within range for a transfer…”

“I’m going to die with my ship,” the admiral said firmly. “I will not leave her.”

“Admiral, you are the face of the movement,” Caitlin said sharply. “If you die here, the cause ends. You have to survive. Once you leave this ship, the remaining cripples can surrender in good conscience while the intact ships escape to the mass limit and vanish.”

Her logic was impeccable, but Admiral Justinian continued to hesitate.

Caitlin couldn’t wait any longer. Hoping he’d forgive her for this someday, she drew her stunner from her belt and stunned him before he could object. He’d be furious when he awoke, perhaps even order her execution, but at least he’d be alive.

And the cause wouldn’t die with him.

“Take him down to the shuttlebay and order them to transfer him to the Apollo,” she ordered the admiral’s personal guards curtly. Surprisingly, they didn’t shoot her; they simply nodded as one, then grabbed the admiral and got him out of there.

Caitlin sat down in the command chair with her stunner on her lap and watched the battle. Nearly half of the remaining ships were too badly crippled to hope of escape, even if the enemy stopped firing and let them go. And that wasn’t going to happen.

Her console buzzed.

“This is Shuttlebay One,” Lieutenant Gomez said. “The admiral is on his way.”

Caitlin watched the tiny shuttle as it fled towards the Apollo, praying that no marauding starfighter would intercept and destroy the shuttle. They were in luck. The battlecruiser picked up the shuttle, then turned to flee.

Godspeed, admiral, she thought. And pull a rabbit out of your hat once you get to Harmony. You’re going to need it.

Caitlin keyed her console and started to issue orders, all in the admiral’s name. The intact ships were to go to full military power and attempt to escape, while the cripples would cover them as long as possible before surrendering.

And then a second direct hit on her ship took out the remaining drive units, leaving the ship a drifting wreck. She watched the tactical display, eyes fixed on the Apollo, silently urging it to escape the system. Once she saw it safely beyond the mass limit, she turned to her communications officer.

“Raise the Federation Admiral. Inform him that we would like to surrender.”