Alarm of War (22 page)

Peled shrugged. “The AI can run the ship, sir.”

“Yeah, okay,” Gur conceded, “the AI can
fly
the ship from point A to point B, but the AI won’t
fight
the ship without the proper voice recognition codes, and those died with the Captain and the XO.” He nodded to himself, thinking it through. “I think they are going to be slow to react, Benny, and there is a very, very fine line between slow and dead.”

• • • • •

On board
The Emperor’s Pride,
Prince RaShahid nodded in satisfaction. The Victorian fleet had been destroyed as an effective combat force. Close to eighty ships had been destroyed, another twenty captured and twenty had scattered into deep space. The krait, in particular, had been astonishingly effective. The Emperor would be pleased.

This battle was over. The captured ships would be sent to the Dominion forces, as promised. The Emperor was, after all, a man of his word. But it was time for the Tilleke fleet to tend to long overdue business. He gave the necessary orders and the Tilleke ships turned to head towards the worm hole into Arcadia, with its vast resources of Ziridium.

• • • • •

  Grant finally found Cookie in the shuttle bay, where they had dragged the bodies of the Savak commandos.  The corpses were lined up in long, even lines, as if the orderliness of the process could somehow mask the evident signs of violent death.  The corpses were battered, blood-smeared and in some cases, dismembered from grenade blasts.  To one side there was a pile of weapons and small cylindrical tanks that Grant had not noticed before. 

    The Marines - the survivors - were standing around in small knots, gesturing and laughing raucously through the day’s exploits, riding the semi-hysterical high of someone who had just cheated death, but didn’t understand how.  More than a few bottles of brandy were being passed around.   Sergeant Zamir was nowhere in sight, having wisely decided to let his troops unwind without impediment. 

    Cookie, brandy bottle in hand, came up and took him by the arm.  “C’mere, Grant, I’ve got someone I want you to meet.”  She dragged him over to a line of bodies.  “This is Bob,” she said, pointing to the first body.  “Bob is having himself a bad day, a real b-a-a-a-d day.  I killed Bob eight times today, didn’t I, Bob?”  She took a hit from the bottle.  “Yes, I did.  Six times on the
London
, then that fucker in the escape pod.”  A frown knotted her brow.  “No, that’s not right; you killed Bob in the escape pod.”  Another swig.  “Then two more times here on the
Yorkshire
.”  She leaned over the corpse.  “Bad day, huh, Bob?” 

    Grant belatedly realized that all of the “Bobs” looked alike. He looked closer. Not identical, but close enough to be brothers. Each had black hair, heavy dark eye brows and a surprisingly small nose in a large, round face. Each was powerfully built, with barrel chests and broad, muscular shoulders. There were differences, of course, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.

Cookie pulled him down the line. “This is Tom,” she gestured to twenty or more corpses. The Toms were a different model. Sandy hair, narrow face and built like a long-distance runner.

“Bugger me,” he breathed. The rumors were true. “Crèche-born soldiers.”

Cookie raised her bottle in a mocking toast. “Hiram told me about them. Rumor was they are raised to totally obey the Emperor. And when they are just fuckin’ little babies, they do some sort of surgery to their brains to make them…something.” She waived the bottle dismissively. “No one seems to know just why, but they do the surgery alright, just look at the scars on Bob’s temples.” She hiccupped thoughtfully. “Nasty.”

Grant gestured to three other lines of Savak dead. “And those?”

“Dicks and Harries and ten goddamed Janes.” Cookie’s face lit in a slightly drunken grin. “Join the Marines, Grant, and you get to kill every damn Tom, Dick and Harry you meet.” She took another swig. “And Bob and Jane, too.” Her grin vanished, replaced by a look of utter bleakness. “They sure do know how to fight, though. Give ‘em credit for that. Fight until you kill ‘em.” She turned to Grant then, and for the first time he realized tears were streaming down her face.

“Oh, sweet Gods of Our Mothers, how are we ever going to get home?” she asked.

• • • • •

On the captured H.M.S.
London,
First Sister Pilot sat back, puzzled. She had ordered six of the ten captured ships to head for Victorian space, there to meet up with the Dominion forces. Three ships, the
Rutland, Kent
and
Yorkshire,
were apparently still getting organized. But they were taking a long time to do it.

Third Sister Pilot came to her and bowed. “Sister, I have one of the krait pilots on the communicator. She is very troubled and wishes to speak with you.”

The screen filled with the image of a Pilot. As old as First Sister Pilot, but a different model. She bowed and spoke: “I am Second Sister Pilot, 13
^th
Satori Crèche, Special Savak Commando. I command the krait vessel that attacked the Victorian war ship
Rutland
three hours ago.”

“The Emperor’s Blessings to you and your men, Sister,” First Sister Pilot said from the
London.
“You have achieved a great victory over our enemies!”

“I fear not,” Second Sister said. “My men transported onto the
Rutland,
and its navigation lights are on and blinking, but…” She stopped, biting her lip.

A cold knot formed in First Sister Pilot’s stomach. Something
was
wrong. “Speak, Sister! We have no time to waste!”

Second Sister Pilot swallowed. “They do not call me! They should have taken the ship by now, but they do not call me to bring the krait into their loading dock. “And…and-” she dipped her chin in confusion – “there are no bodies!”

And now First Sister Pilot understood. One of the first tasks for the victorious Savak commandos was to herd all the prisoners into the loading bay, then open the loading bay doors and expel them into space. The bodies of the enemy dead would follow shortly. When a ship was taken there should be hundreds or thousands of corpses floating outside within a few hours.

“No bodies? Are you sure?”

Second Sister Pilot nodded. “I have a close visual of the entire area. There are no bodies.” She threw up her hands. “There should be bodies!”

First Sister Pilot cut the connection, waving to get the attention of her bridge crew. “Third Sister, call the krait commanders who attacked the
Yorkshire
and
Kent,
tell them to scan the area around each ship and report if they see any bodies. Fourth Sister, locate any kraits in the area who have not already attacked a target and vector them in to these three ships. Hurry!” She turned to the last two of her beloved sisters. “Turn on targeting radar and make ready for missile launch!”

• • • • •

“Targeting radar!” the Sensors Officer shouted. “We have been acquired by targeting radar. Source is the
London.
”

“That tears it,” Captain Gur said. “Ready all weapons to fire on my command! Flash message to
Rutland
and
Kent
to commence firing as soon as they are able.”

Grant was sitting just behind Benny Peled and could watch the preparations. Between them, the
Yorkshire, Kent and Rutland
had a missile throw weight roughly equal to that of the
London,
and several more lasers. But the battleship’s anti-missile defenses would be formidable, designed to fight off an enemy flotilla made up of at least one battleship and several cruisers. A lot would depend on who suffered the first damage, for that would make them more vulnerable to the next round of fire, and that could quickly cascade into annihilation.

“Fire all missiles!” Gur ordered.

Grant frowned. Why not use the lasers first?

The holo display suddenly showed several lasers from the
London
lance out at the
Yorkshire,
then several more at the
Rutland.
Damage alarms sounded.

“Our missiles are away. Impact in two minutes,” reported the Weapons Officer.

“Laser hits on the forward magazine and laser turrets three and five,” called the Systems Chief, his voice high-pitched with tension. Everyone on the bridge froze for a moment, collectively holding their breaths. If the forward magazine exploded, the ship would be destroyed. The Systems Chief became aware of the sudden silence and looked around, abashed. “Uh…no fire and no explosion, but the automatic loader is jammed. Missile tubes eight through sixteen can’t reload.”

Grant winced. Half their missile tubes would stay empty until it was fixed. And two of their six lasers were down.

“Get a damage team on it!” Gur snapped. “Missile status?”

“One minute to target.”

“Chaff!
London
is shooting chaff and its automatic defense systems have engaged. Bird shot, lasers and zone blasts!” Bird shot was the name for a gun that shot thousands of small pellets at very high velocities. They spread out like a shotgun blast; one or two pellets could disable an incoming missile. Zone blasts were war heads that spread out to form a rough globe measuring several miles across, then exploded simultaneously, destroying anything within its center.

“More laser shots from the
London!
The
Rutland
is taking a pounding!”

“Weapons, why haven’t our laser batteries fired?” Gur demanded.

“Awaiting your orders, sir,” the Weapons Officer replied.

“Well fire, dammit! You think this is a bloody church social?” Four heavy lasers fired and automatically began recharging. It would be two minutes before they could fire again.

“
London’s
defense system took out all but two of our missiles. Can’t get a good reading on damage inflicted.”

As Grant watched, the
London
fired its lasers again, raking both the
Rutland
and the
Kent
. But why wasn’t it firing missiles? The
London
had forty missile tubes. Where were they?

• • • • •

“First Sister! The ship’s computer will not allow access to the missile system without the proper authentication code.”

This had not been anticipated. Once the ship was taken, they did not think they would have to fight with other Victorian ships before joining the Dominion flotilla. First Sister Pilot ran through the technical specifications for the weapons system. All of the Sister Pilots were bred to be engineers, and trained from childhood to memorize prodigious amounts of technical information. She had studied the Victorian weapons’ systems for months.

“The ship’s computer controls only access to the central firing system,” she told her fellow Sister Pilots. “Missiles can be launched individually from their missile bays. The lasers can be fired directly from their turrets. Go quickly! Open fire as soon as you can!”

• • • • •

Close up, the
London’s
anti-missile defense was awesome to behold. The
Rutland’s
missiles were blotted from the sky. The
Kent’s
salvo, coming in on the heels of
Rutland’s
, fared better, but only five missiles got through and the
London’s
armor shook them off. More lasers shot out on all sides, a score from the
London
targeted the
Rutland
while
Yorkshire
and
Kent
returned the favor. Then two missiles salvoed from the
London
and struck the
Kent
. Grant stared at the holo in morbid fascination.

“Lost communications with
Rutland
and
Kent
, sir,” Sensors reported.

“
London
is getting its missile system on line, but they must be firing individually. We took out one of her laser turrets,” Weapons chimed in.

“Sensors, have Merlin do a C2C with
Rutland
and
Kent
to get a damage report,” Captain Gur ordered. The C2C was a parallel communications system used by the ships’ computers, allowing them to exchange data directly with each other. It was usually used to maintain current data on each ship’s state of readiness, but could be used to communicate if a ship’s primary communications system was knocked out.

“More missiles inbound!” warned Weapons. “They’ve got five up now.”

Yorkshire’s
automatic defense system went into action, but it was not as robust as
London’s
. Four of the attacking missiles were quickly disabled, but the last missile stubbornly plowed ahead until bird shot detonated it less than a mile from the ship. The destroyed missile spewed hundreds of basketball sized shaped charges, a dozen of which struck the
Yorkshire
moments later, not far from the bridge. The ripple of explosions shook the
Yorkshire
and alarm sirens hooted, adding to the cacophony. The bridge crew exchanged worried glances.

The junior officer at Navigation shook her head. “It’s a blustery day, Pooh!” Grant just stared at her.

“We’ve got to take out
London’s
anti-missile system!” Commander Peled said.

“Can we land a boarding party of Marines on
London
? Give the Tilleke a taste of their own medicine?” Grant asked.

Peled shook his head. “The Tilleke have those bloody transporters, we only have shuttles.
London
would blow them out of the sky long before they reached her.

“Merlin reports heavy damage to
Rutland
. It’s lost its aft magazine and fires are reported on several decks. One anti-matter bottle is damaged, but holding. At least for now.
Rutland’s
Merlin estimates fifty percent chance of failure within the next three hours. Two hundred crewmen dead. Many wounded. Captain Sheffer is requesting we come along side to take off her wounded.”

A thought struck Grant. Far-fetched, but ridiculously simple.

“Commander,” he asked. “If you wanted to shut down the
Yorkshire’s
anti-missile system, what would you do?”

Peled shot him a puzzled look. “I’d just turn it off.”

“But how, exactly?”