The Lost Stars (18 page)

“Yes, Kapitan.”

Marphissa glanced at Bradamont. “Now?”

“Forty seconds,” Bradamont replied. “The information has to reach the Syndic warships too late for them to change their actions.”

Exactly forty seconds later, Marphissa tapped a control.
Manticore
's identification broadcast lit off, telling the universe that the warship
was—

“Kommodor?” the communications specialist asked, bewildered. “Our unit identification says we are . . . Alliance.”

“Alliance-flagged,” Marphissa said. “Not the same thing. Listen to Kapitan Bascare.”

“Activate main propulsion unit two, full thrust,” Bradamont ordered, then tapped Marphissa's comm controls. “Units of the Syndicate Worlds, this is Captain Bradamont of the Alliance fleet, commanding a chartered warship on official Alliance business. You are to cease threatening activity immediately.”

“Missiles have launched!” The warning came just as Bradamont finished speaking. Seconds later,
Manticore
lurched in response to a significant increase in her acceleration, the inertial dampers not quite masking the effects of propulsion unit two coming on line at full power.

Then Bradamont's last words struck home and everyone on the bridge but Kontos and Marphissa stared at her in disbelief. “Stand by!” Kontos said sharply, bringing everyone's attention back to their duties.

There were twenty-four missiles inbound. Their targeting solutions had been badly thrown off by the sudden increase in
Manticore
's acceleration, but the missiles' targeting systems could compensate for that to some extent. “Come port one four degrees,” Bradamont ordered. “Down six degrees.”

“The Midway Flotilla is altering vectors,” the operations specialist said. “They are on an intercept with the Syndicate heavy cruisers pursuing us, Kapi— Kapitan . . . Bascare.”

Marphissa, her gaze darting from one point on her display to the next, noticed that Bradamont's small vector change had placed the pursuing missiles into a stern chase, coming in from directly behind
Manticore
. That meant the relative speed of the missiles had been reduced as much as possible, making them easier targets. A small thing, but an important thing.

“Wait!” Kapitan Toirac, glaring at Bradamont, had started up from his seat. “We can't accept orders from this—”

“Shut up!” Marphissa snapped, her patience with her former friend exhausted.

“I will
not—”

But Toirac did stop speaking, his face rigid. Marphissa leaned back enough to see that Kontos had drawn his sidearm and had the barrel planted on Kapitan Toirac's spine. At that range, Toirac's survival suit wouldn't stop a shot, and Toirac knew it.
Sometimes the old ways may be the best.

“Incoming,” Bradamont prodded, her eyes turned away from the small tableau. She gave no sign of what she thought of Syndicate command procedures.

But Bradamont probably was not impressed. Angrily refocusing on the engagement, Marphissa authorized the hell-lance weapons that faced aft to open fire, watching as the particle beams lashed out at the oncoming missiles. Two, then three, then four missiles were knocked
out.

That left twenty.

Bradamont had been watching the missiles, counting the time since their launch, watching the display to see remaining endurance data based on the precise capabilities of the Syndicate missiles. “It's a lot easier to estimate this when you know exactly what the missiles can do,” she commented to Marphissa. “All main propulsion units to zero thrust,” she ordered.

Marphissa and Kontos both swiveled to look at the engineering specialist, but he had already moved to implement the command. “All main propulsion units at zero, Kapitan.”

“Maneuvering thrusters pitch up one seven eight degrees.”

The thrusters fired, pushing
Manticore
's bow up and over until the bow pointed back down the opposite way the ship was still traveling. With her heaviest armament now facing the oncoming missiles,
Manticore
's hell lances knocked out several more.

“All main propulsion units at maximum,” Bradamont ordered.

The engineering specialist hesitated only a fraction of a second. “All units at maximum.”

Manticore
moaned as pressure on her hull built rapidly. Her main propulsion, facing in the direction the ship was still going stern first, was braking her velocity at a rate that caused danger warnings to pop up on displays. Those not seated had to brace themselves as the forces of deceleration leaked past the overloaded inertial dampers.

“How long can she hold it?” Bradamont murmured to Marphissa.

Marphissa studied the hull-stress readings climbing quickly into red zones. “Ten seconds at this rate. No more.”

“That's enough.”

The missiles, accelerating for all they were worth for the point where
Manticore
would have been if she had kept accelerating all out, now found themselves having to swing onto much shorter intercepts as
Manticore
decelerated as quickly as the heavy cruiser could. The turns required of the missiles to do that were extremely tight. Far too tight for the structure of the missiles to withstand in most cases. As the missiles slewed about, many of them broke apart under the stress.

Six survived, but their radical maneuvers had brought them, for a few crucial seconds, to nearly a standstill relative to
Manticore
.

Hell lances stabbed out again, nailing every surviving missile.

“Reduce thrust on all main propulsion units to two-thirds,” Bradamont ordered. The strain on
Manticore
eased immediately, the stress warnings hesitating before they began shading back down into safe territory.

“All of the Syndicate ships are changing vectors,” the operations specialist said. “Kapitan, the Syndicate flotilla is heading for the hypernet gate.”

“A smart move,” Marphissa remarked, feeling satisfaction that shaded into disappointment. The heavy cruisers pursuing
Manticore
had veered off and were moving quickly to join up with the Syndicate battleship once more. “Unfortunately. They're not staying to fight.”

The Alliance warships were storming toward the Syndicate warships but, according to the projections on her display, would not get within weapons range before the Syndicate flotilla could use the gate to escape. “Why couldn't Black Jack catch them?” Marphissa muttered to Bradamont.

“The plan was to get rid of the flotilla,” Bradamont murmured back. “With or without actual fighting. We successfully tricked Boyens's ships into firing onto an Alliance-flagged warship, giving Admiral Geary grounds for shooting back. But if CEO Boyens chooses to avoid contact, Admiral Geary can't force it. This trick will force the Syndicate Worlds' flotilla to leave, though.”

Still feeling disgruntled, Marphissa checked the track on the rest of the Midway Flotilla, which was coming on a slightly curving intercept aimed at the heavy cruisers hastening back to the Syndicate battleship. The odds in a heavy cruiser–to–heavy cruiser fight hadn't gotten any better. “This is Kommodor Marphissa to the Midway Flotilla. Ensure that you remain out of range of the Syndicate weapons unless one of the Syndicate ships tries to defect to
us.”

“What are the chances of that?” Bradamont asked as she altered
Manticore
's vector again, bringing the ship on track to join up with the rest of the Midway Flotilla.

“They could be good,” Marphissa said. “It depends on how many snakes are aboard each ship, how alert they are, how loyal to the Syndicate the officers and crew are, and a lot of luck. But if the Syndicate flotilla is going to use the hypernet gate, there's little time left for anyone to try a mutiny.”

“Kommodor—!” the communications specialist began, then stopped abruptly, looking puzzled.

Marphissa had barely begun to look that way when an urgent alert on her display began pulsing near the Syndicate battleship. “A Syndicate light cruiser just blew up.” It took her a moment to realize that she had said those words. “What happened?”

“There has been no firing from the Syndicate flotilla except the missiles launched at us,” the operations specialist confirmed.

“From the signature of the explosion,” the engineering specialist said, “it was a power-core overload. There were no precursors, no warning signs. It just overloaded.”

“How can that happen?” Marphissa demanded. “There are safety interlocks, physical and in the software. There are passwords, there are sequences that must be followed, there are automatic corrective measures. How could a power core overload without any warning?”

“Kommodor,” the communications specialist said, her voice subdued. “I think I know. Just before the light cruiser exploded, we received a message broadcast toward us by directional beam. The message ID tagged it as from CL-347. All I heard was
freedom or
—and then it cut
off.”

Marphissa covered her face with one hand, aware of the silence that had fallen on the bridge. She took a long moment to compose herself, then lowered the hand and looked around. “The snakes have a new trick. Or the Syndicate CEOs. They would rather destroy a ship than let the crew escape.” There was no need to drive the point home. Everyone already hated the snakes and the bosses. This incident would only reinforce their determination to fight to the death rather than surrender.

“The Syndicate flotilla has entered the hypernet gate,” the operations specialist said. “The star system is free of Syndicate military forces.”

Bradamont nodded to acknowledge the report. “The operation is complete.” Her voice sounded subdued as well, the death of the light cruiser having cast a pall over any desire to celebrate. “Kommodor, to whom do I return command of
Manticore
? You or . . .
?”

Kapitan Toirac stiffened at the question but stayed silent. Kontos, standing behind him, had holstered his sidearm, but Toirac couldn't see that.

Perhaps, despite everything that had come before, Marphissa would have hesitated to take the final step. But not after watching that light cruiser be destroyed. Her mood left no room for further tolerance of someone who could not, would not, fulfill his responsibilities.

She tapped an internal comm control. “Kapitan-Leytenant Diaz, come to the bridge.”

It only took a little more than a minute, but seemed far longer, before Diaz appeared. “Yes, Kommodor?”

This was not a moment she had sought. Marphissa had to steel herself as she stood up to face Diaz. “Kapitan Toirac, for failure to carry out your responsibilities you are relieved of command and of all duties. Kapitan-Leytenant Diaz, you are promoted to Kapitan and will assume command of
Manticore
effective immediately.”

Diaz, his expression aghast, then saddened, glanced toward Toirac. He nodded and saluted. “Yes, Kommodor.”

“Kapitan Toirac, you are confined to quarters,” Marphissa said, fighting to keep her voice from quavering.
Why did you force me to do this?

Toirac got up and stomped off the bridge without a salute or other acknowledgment of Marphissa.

“I'll make sure he gets there without any . . . difficulties,” Kontos said. “By your leave, Kommodor.”

“Yes. Go.” She watched Kontos go quickly after Toirac to make sure he didn't attempt any mischief, then faced Diaz again. “You know why I took this action. Take
command
of this ship, Kapitan Diaz.”

“I will.” Diaz glanced at Bradamont.

“I relinquish command to Kapitan Diaz,” Bradamont said.

“Thank you, Kapitan . . . Bascare?”

“Bradamont. I am Captain Bradamont.”

Marphissa placed one hand on her shoulder. “She is Black Jack's, sent to assist President Iceni and aid us in getting rid of the Syndicate flotilla. Captain Bradamont will be leaving
Manticore
soon, but she will remain in this star system when Black Jack's fleet leaves because Black Jack wants everyone to know that he supports the freedom of Midway Star System.”

She could feel emotions on the bridge wavering.

“An Alliance officer?” Diaz asked, doubtful.

“One of Black Jack's officers,” Marphissa corrected, her voice firm. “One of his battle cruiser commanders.” They all understood the significance of that, their expressions taking on grudging respect.

“Kommodor,” the senior specialist asked, his voice hesitant, “she will not command
us?”

“No. It was necessary this time, to place the Syndicate flotilla in the position of having fired on a ship under Alliance charter and with an Alliance officer in temporary command. That gave Black Jack justification to destroy the Syndicate flotilla, which unfortunately escaped. But she is not here to command us. Captain Bradamont is here to mark Black Jack's commitment to our freedom.”

“Why would Black Jack require justification for whatever he wanted to do?” the operations specialist asked.

Marphissa almost snapped back at the bold question, but Bradamont forestalled her. “Because Admiral Geary, the man you call Black Jack, is not a Syndicate Worlds CEO. He does not do whatever he wants. He follows the
law.”

That impressed them. They were still wary, but the worker specialists looked at Marphissa and nodded, then the senior specialist stood and saluted. “We understand, Kommodor.”

As Marphissa and Bradamont left the bridge, Bradamont sighed. “I get the feeling I'd better stay confined to my quarters as well.”

“I'm sorry, but you're right. It will be safer.”

“I can't complain. If there were a Syndic officer on an Alliance warship, she or he would face the same attitudes.”

“I'll find out whether President Iceni wants you picked up by a freighter on a regular supply run or sent on a Hunter-Killer or other warship.” Marphissa said. “Until then, I'll post a guard outside your stateroom. I hope you understand.”