A Sword Into Darkness (38 page)

Nathan turned back to the main screen and pulled a flexible mike mounted to his chair’s intercom panel closer to his mouth.  He looked at the Deltan formation.  Currently, all four vessels were in view, the Junkyard at the bottom of the drive-star, closest to them and preparing to go behind the drive in its orbit.  The Control Ship was at the top and swinging down, preceded by the organic form of the Polyp.  The Cathedral had just emerged from the limn of the drive.  The
Sword
’s recon probes beside each vessel were invisible at this distance and magnification, but they were there nonetheless.

Nathan pressed a button for the radio circuit and spoke.  “This is Commander Nathaniel Robert Kelley, of the
USS Sword of Liberty
.  To the beings in charge of the alien ships now approaching our solar system and world, I greet you in peace.  To us, your arrival has been anticipated and dreaded for over twenty years.  So much so, that we have done what was deemed physically impossible.  We built this ship and climbed within her, and we made the long journey to meet you.  We are here, and we only wish to speak with you, to make whatever contact we can.

“You are an enigma to us.  You show off a vast technological advantage.  You have traveled for twenty light-years over seven decades to reach us, to come to our world physically, yet you have made no attempt to contact us, to let us know why.  We are not a people for whom peace comes naturally.  It is something we must all work at, and when it fails, through either a lack of trying by one side or another, or in response to a deliberate aggressive act, it is a sad, terrible thing to behold.

“Right now, you, the people we refer to as the Deltans, are a worrisome reality … either a potential threat which must be dealt with, or a potential friend that we do not want to strike unjustly.  I don’t know if you understand me, or even if you can hear me, but we are here to resolve that question, and we aren’t going to leave until you make contact with us.”

Nathan and the bridge crew stared at the main screen.  All over the ship, the other crew looked at their own screens as well, following the long attempts at contact with nervous, worried anticipation.  Back in Engineering Central Control, Kris held her breath.

Nathan let the silence stretch out.  The Deltan formation continued to revolve sedately about.  Shaking his head, he pressed down the radio key again.  “Please.  Please give us some sign that you’re alive, that you understand us, that you acknowledge our presence here.  Please give us some sign of how things are going to proceed between your people and my own.”

The formation suddenly stopped revolving, held in place by unknown, unimaginable forces.  Aboard each alien vessel, heat surged to the surface.  Before Yvonne Clark at Weps/Sensors or Mike Simmons back in CIC could tell the bridge and Nathan what was happening, beams lashed out from the vessels.

Three of the recon probes were struck down, reduced to slag and vapor by lasers from the Polyp, the Cathedral, and the Junkyard.  The Control Ship also fired, but with the silvery beam it had previously used on
Promise
.  As before, the recon probe wavered, becoming indistinct, collapsing into fine, brilliant dust.  This cloud of dust then maneuvered of its own accord, streaming into unseen vents between the lobster-like overlapping plates of the Control Ship, rendered and captured as some scintillating prize.

Nathan’s gaze turned hard and he released the radio key.  Without a word, he put on his helmet and began to check the tightness of his straps.  Following his lead, the COB and the XO did the same.

Now speaking over the suit-to-suit circuit, Edwards observed wryly, “As signs go, that one’s pretty damn unambiguous.  You in agreement there, XO?”

Wright said nothing.  He simply turned to lock eyes with Edwards and gave a single curt nod.

Nathan saw it and nodded back.  “XO, prep for battle.  Ready all weapons for release, evacuate the hull, and shift to Charlie Stations.  Let’s send them a message of our own.”

15:  “DEATH FROM ABOVE

August 16, 2046; USS Sword of Liberty (DA-1), 0.48 light-years from Earth, 0.033 light-seconds (10,000 km) from alien formation; Mission Day 529

“Attention
all hands!  The ship is at General Quarters, Bravo Stations.  Now shift to General Quarters, Charlie Stations.  Now shift to General Quarters, Charlie Stations for battle.  The ship anticipates imminent combat maneuvering and damage.  All personnel will move to Charlie Station pods immediately.  All personnel unable to do so will report to the Commanding Officer on the bridge.  Now shift to General Quarters, Charlie Stations.”

The ship’s voice—that of a stern, but caring matron who had only the crew’s best interests at heart, whether they wanted to do as she said or not—issued her commands all over the ship and then repeated herself.  The
Sword of Liberty
’s second pronouncement of the call to Charlie Stations was spoiled, however, by the roar of moving air as each section’s atmosphere was pumped out, leaving behind a near vacuum to minimize the progressive damage a hull breach or blowout might cause.

The crew had no need of the air, suited as they were, but it was missed nonetheless.  Its removal made reality of a situation that had been only a simulated potential outcome before this.  And not only did the dwindling rush of atmosphere isolate each crewmember from one another, it also isolated a future of limitless possibilities from a present along a single, dreaded course.

Nathan felt the confining skin of his suit swell and stiffen slightly in reaction to the drop in pressure, but he had little time to savor the sensation.  There was simply too much to do, and after months of preparations and idle time spent wondering how things would go, suddenly there just did not seem to be enough time to do what must be done.

Under his watchful eye, the bridge crew shifted to Charlie Stations.  Their consoles and screens went dark and hatches slid open beneath each of their acceleration couches.  The couches fell back and the hatches slid shut over their occupants, entombing them within the armored allocarbium structure of the ship itself.  The four watches went first, then Edwards and the XO.

Nathan checked a series of telltales on his one remaining active screen.  When it showed twenty-eight green lights and only seven amber, his crew safely ensconced within their pods with only himself, the absent diplomatic team, and poor Diane Rutherford missing, he initiated his own descent.

His couch stretched out and fell backward into its recessed alcove in the deck and then confined him to darkness as the hatch closed over him.  As soon as the hatch clicked shut, the interior of the pod closed in, its inner membrane swelling to squeeze him tightly.  The space between the walls of the pod and himself and his couch were now filled with a force-dampening gel, an all-encompassing cushion which, it was hoped, would allow himself and the rest of the crew to withstand a greater g-load and the violent shocks of combat.

A specially shaped screen settled over his helmet’s faceplate and Nathan was suddenly awash in information, visual data similar to what he could see on his regular screens, but now presented in a three dimensional, comprehensive format.  The Deltan drive-star was an immense, false color sphere, almost filling the area in front of them.  Along one polar axis, arbitrarily designated “south”, a lance of pure energy flowed outward—their thrust corona, instant death if approached too closely.  And orbiting blithely around the drive’s equator was the constellation of four ships, the Deltans themselves.

Nathan goggled at the imposing whole, of the cosmic forces they were about to challenge and his resolve shrank for a moment.  Feeling himself begin to shirk from the task at hand, he gritted his teeth and forced his doubts to the back of his mind.  Nathan blinked, re-orienting himself to the combat virtual reality, seeing it not as an implacable whole, but as a series of tasks.  Take on one, complete it, then move on to the next.  Then repeat.  And so on.

His nerves calmed and he flexed his hands, finding his chair’s familiar armrest controls even through the confining sluggishness of the force gel.  They were comforting in their assured lethality, a system he could have faith in, even when his faith in himself began to falter.

He keyed his mike.  “XO, comm check and sitrep.”

Wright’s voice came through his helmet speakers loud and clear.  “Lima Charlie, Captain.  I have sat comms with all intermediate control stations as well.  Railgun power is at 85% and rising, combat rounds to the autoloader.  Laser power supplies are at 60% and tuned.  Missile launch coils are charged and holding, and missiles 01-86 are warmed, spun up, and internal warhead and drive capacitor banks are fully charged.  Radiator loading is at 38% and reactor power is at 45%.  Ready to answer all bells.”

Nathan smiled.  “Bells” on an engine order telegraph were how steamships ordered up speed changes.  It warmed him to hear Wright invoke such an archaic way of describing their readiness.  Hopefully some of the spirit of those old steam-powered cruisers and their “Tin-Can Sailors” would be with them today as they initiated the first space battle in man’s history.

“Very well,” Nathan answered back.  “TAO, Captain, I hold us in visual of all four alien vessels.  I’m feeling a little exposed.  Launch pattern Oscar Four and then get ready to hit the deck.  We’ll be maneuvering closer to the drive star and heading for the Junkyard to head off any direct fire from the other three ships.”

LT Simmons, in CIC as the Tactical Action Officer, responded promptly.  “Aye aye, sir.  Oscar Four initiated.  Be advised:  tactical reaction time is estimated at a tenth of a second now.  If we close the Junkyard, we’ll be increasing our exposure to their direct fire.”

Tactical reaction time was a term they had created to account for the peculiarities of long range space combat.  In space, there was no horizon.  Every target was within visual range of every other target, thus as long as they could see the enemy, the enemy could see—and fire—at them.  The only defense they had was distance and maneuverability.

They saw the enemy and the enemy saw them by either the light and radiation they emitted or the light and radiation reflected off their respective hulls.  To strike with a direct fire weapon like a laser or a railgun, you just had to point the weapon at the target and fire.  If the objective moved enough in the time between emitting its targeting radiation, aiming your weapon, and the weapon beam or shot crossing the intervening distance, the weapon would miss.

At short ranges, lasers could see, point, fire, and hit virtually instantly.  At longer ranges though, lightspeed lag and bearing resolution began to play a part.  At their range to the Deltan ships, light took 33 thousandths of a second to cross the distance.  Double that time and add in any processing time or physical aiming time and one arrived at a tactical reaction time of at least a tenth of a second.  Thus they had a tenth of a second to accelerate the ship out of the way if they were going to avoid being hit.  And since either they or the Deltans could easily account for continuous accelerations by leading their targets, that meant the
Sword of Liberty
would have to continuously change its instantaneous acceleration every tenth of a second.

This basically amounted to a very bumpy ride, and as a defensive strategy, it would only work if they remained well outside their current range.  Closing the Junkyard or any of the Deltan ships would render that lag even less effective.

Nathan considered all of that in an instant and answered Simmons.  “Roger that, Mike, but we haven’t got much choice.  If we stay where we are, we’re going to get targeted by all four.  Once the star blocks the other three, we can pull out away from the Junkyard and increase the time lag, but we’re going to have to get our hull dirty at some point.  At least they’re a lot bigger than we are and can’t maneuver as fast.”

“That we know of,” Simmons said, with a dubious tone.

“Understood.  Execute launch.”

In answer, twenty status symbols went from green to red.  Between the evacuated hull and the dampening of the pod’s force gel, Nathan could not hear or feel the opening of the missile hatches, or the launch of them on their inaugural and terminal journeys, but he focused on them just the same.

Twenty friendly missile tracks appeared around the
Sword
’s own track symbol.  Simmons called back.  “Initial salvo away.  Five missiles designated for each target, ripple warhead pattern.  Missile AIs are in autonomous mode.”

“Very well, TAO.  Break, Helm, dive for the star’s horizon and make for a 1,000 km high-v CPA to the Junkyard.  Flank acceleration.”

“Helm, aye, sir.”  Nathan could hear the glee in Andrew Weston’s voice.  Their destroyer was many times more massive than any fighter Weston had ever flown, but it also was stronger and more powerful as well.

Immense maneuvering thrusters flared out in cerulean brilliance, kicking the nose of the destroyer down toward the roiling, angry surface of the Deltan drive-star.  Then—checking that swing—the main drive erupted in light, thrusting the magnificent ship just to one side of their enemy, for a closest-point-of-approach of a mere 1000 km.

Nathan grunted and tried to breathe as the air was forced from his lungs.  He felt the gel pump to a higher pressure around him, focused on his extremities, much as a fighter pilot’s g-suit would do.  Unfelt in the discomfort of the sudden fifteen-g acceleration, a cocktail of osmotic stimulants and anti-nausea drugs were injected into him.  His vision cleared as his heart and diaphragm pumped harder, forcing the blood and oxygen back into his brain.

Trained pilots and astronauts could withstand up to nine gravities of acceleration in a sitting position, and almost twice that lying down and augmented by modern bio-engineered support systems.  Nathan and his crew were not trained to as great a degree, but they would make do.  They had no other choice.

Of course, though 15 g’s was quite high, it was nowhere near what the ship’s composite frame could handle.  The hull groaned and popped as its structure was put to the test, but it was only the cracking of prize-fighter’s knuckles as he entered the fray.  The
Sword of Liberty
welcomed the torturous thrust and begged for more, though more would surely render her crew unconscious or dead.