Virtues of War (57 page)

“Because,” Jack said, “below the Erebos Layer—below sixteen peets—we’re into the realm of dark energy. There’s a theory that a graviton burst in a sea of dark energy will cause the dark matter to collapse together and create a physical, massive object. Even if it’s tiny—and it will be due to the limited power of our torpedo—it’ll have such gravitational pull that far into the Bulk that the effects will reach all the way to the brane.”

“Meaning?”

Jack shrugged. “All the Centauri ships in the area will get knocked around and maybe busted up.”

“If nothing else,” Thomas said, “it’ll scare the hell out of them, distract them, and give us a chance to escape.”

Katja nodded. “I can see why the EF chose you guys to conduct this mission. I just hope I’m good enough to keep up.”

In the dim light of the display, Thomas gave her a slow, wry look. “Oh, I think Commander Brisebois thinks as highly of you as she does of me. She wouldn’t
dream
of letting you sit this one out.”

After a moment she caught his meaning, and smoldering anger flared. Not at him, but at the truth behind his words.

“Well, being reminded of that just motivates me even more to succeed—and come back alive. Then I can wipe that smug look off her face. Probably with my fist.”

Thomas’s expression was lost in the darkness as he leaned back in his chair.

“Breeze is a bit of a bitch,” Jack said.

Katja smiled. The boy had become a man.

A warning light flared on each of their consoles. Search radar. She fumbled to call up her EM array screen. Thomas was much faster, and he made his assessment while she was still sizing up the graphs.

“Nothing to worry about yet—just a single sweep. Probably random.”

“At this speed,” Jack said, “we’ll be in firing range in forty-five minutes. But if I light it up, I can have us there in ninety seconds.”

“Hold off, Pilot. Steady as she goes.” Thomas activated the ship-wide broadcast. “This is the captain—sitrep. We’re moving into range where our detection by the enemy fleet is becoming more likely. We will stay at ultra-low power for as long as possible—at most another forty-five minutes—but be ready to switch to full speed attack at a moment’s notice. We will waste no time. We get in, we deliver the package, we break for the jump gate. That is all.”

The skeleton crew had made sense back in
Normandy
—fewer people, less energy required—but as
Rapier
made another slight turn to further close on the enemy, Katja saw Breeze’s hand once again. This had been planned all along as a suicide mission.

Well, fuck her.
Katja checked the weapons systems again and watched the movement of the Centauri sentries in their defensive cloud, far off the port bow. The red symbols of the enemy force continued to track slowly toward the center of the 3-D display. After a few minutes another sweep passed over them, but still there was no hostile reaction.

Five minutes after that, the sweep returned, and began to pass over them every few seconds.

“Okay,” Thomas said, “we’re in sensor range. They’re gonna have us within a minute. Pilot, ETA weapon range at flank speed?”

“Sixty seconds.”

Thomas drummed his gloved fingers on the armrest, then he reached for his console. A push of a button and a single, burst transmission flashed out from
Rapier
, back to the Expeditionary Force.

Commencing attack.

Ten seconds later, the 3-D display lit up with a barrage of electromagnetic signals as the Terran ships flashed every radar and weapons system they had. All seven ships turned and accelerated toward the Centauri force. Symbols of long-range missiles raced out into the void between the fleets. Star fighters appeared, dotting the region around the EF. They didn’t attack the Centauris, though.

That was
Rapier
’s job.

For several long moments they waited for the Centauri ships to take the bait. But the enemy ships stood their ground. At first, only the robotic sentries moved to create a defensive swarm poised between the fleets. Small red symbols separated in waves from one enemy ship: Katja recognized the firing pattern of the battle cruiser.

“We’ve got to go! The Fleet’s going to get pummeled!”

“Pilot, set course for the center of the enemy force, flank speed.”

Katja was crushed back into her seat as
Rapier
rocketed forward from a crawl to a full sprint. The Centauri ships on the 3-D display moved quickly, and very soon she began to make out tiny flashes against the stars.

Sensor alarms flashed across her console and 3-D revealed several robotic sentries breaking away from their swarm to intercept. She saw the Terran star fighters suddenly charge the swarm, but
Rapier
’s attackers ignored the move and bore down on their new target.

“AA weapons free!” Thomas said. She designated the incoming sentries and gave all three turrets the green light.

Jack jinked right and left as missiles tried and failed to lock on. Katja groaned with the sharp g-forces—at this speed any vector changes that overwhelmed the inertial dampeners would splatter the humans in their suits.

The sentries flashed past with hardly a chance to fire any shots. They turned more sharply than any human could withstand, and picked up the chase, but
Rapier
’s speed was such that they couldn’t close within range.

The silver ships of the Centauri force loomed ahead, multiple flashes revealing their attacks on the EF. The Terran ships were holding off, she saw, and the star fighters had withdrawn from their melee.

Everyone was watching for
Rapier
’s launch.

“Coming into range,” Jack said. “Steady… now!”

Thomas slammed his fist down on the armrest.

“Fire!”

Nothing happened.
Rapier
continued to plunge toward the heart of the enemy force.

Jack pressed his launch button again. And a third time. His eyes darted across his console.

“Something’s wrong—it didn’t fire!”

The top and bottom turrets opened up as another robotic sentry did a high-speed pass. A sharp bang against the hull rocked the bridge. Katja stared up through the windows and saw one of the shining frigates turning toward them, guns flashing.

“Slow to attack speed,” Thomas shouted. “Reverse course!”

Rapier
banked hard and pointed back out toward deep space—straight into the pursuing sentries. Multiple bangs overhead rang in Katja’s ears as the sentries flashed by again.

Jack swore nonstop as he scanned his console, still jinking the ship. She looked at her own readouts. The torpedo wasn’t one of her weapons, but she brought up its status with a few quick commands. A red light flashed on the section where the weapon was attached to the hull.

“There’s an error with the clamp.”

“It won’t release,” Thomas said, looking at his own board. “We can’t launch.”
Rapier
shook violently as something exploded just outside the hull. More warning lights flashed. Katja tapped in orders to the turrets, instructing them to fire at will. There was nothing friendly nearby that they might hit.

“We’re out of range again,” Jack said.

Thomas stared at the 3-D, then gave Katja a long look.

“Reverse course. Steer for the center of the Centauri force.”

She stared at him. “What’s your plan?”

His face was grim, but settled. “We can’t launch the torpedo, but we can still detonate it.”

“What, while it’s still attached to the ship?”

“Yes.”

If Jack heard, he made no sign as he brought
Rapier
around again. Continuous turret fire and warning alarms punctuated the roar of the engines. Thomas gave her a little smile.

“We’ll be heroes,” he said. “That’s something.”

Her mind flashed to what her father would think upon hearing the news that his daughter had given her life to save the Expeditionary Force. Would he be proud of her? Would he finally speak well of her?

Probably not, she decided. He’d still find some way to criticize her, and she wouldn’t be around to set him straight.

And then she pictured Breeze being the one telling her father about the death, professing great sadness and then smirking as she turned away.

She shook her head.

“No way! I’m not giving that bitch the satisfaction.”

She unstrapped from her seat and pushed back toward the door. “I’ll release it manually. Just don’t get us shot.” He didn’t stop her, although he didn’t really have a chance as she thrust herself toward the airlock door, heaved it open, and pulled it shut behind her.

The honeycomb passageway had only dim, red lighting but it was enough to see by. She pulled herself along the rungs, listening to the thunder of turret fire as she passed their hatches. The ship dove and the bulkhead suddenly slammed up against her, knocking her from her handhold and clear to the far side of the flats. Ignoring the pain in her torso she scrambled aft until she reached the airlocks for the drop ships.

Habit made her slide up into the port-side chamber, but she paused as she saw stars through the tiny window in the airlock’s outer door. There was no strike pod waiting beyond—only the great abyss. She released two arm-spans of her suit’s tether, hooked on, closed her faceplate, and started the depressurization.

“I’m going external,” she said on her suit comms, trying to sound calm.

“Roger,”
Thomas responded, his voice anything but calm.

By the time the outer doors opened, all she could hear was her own rapid breathing. The view outside was a lightning storm of tracer rounds, missiles, sentries, and ships. She was in the smooth depression of the hull where her strike pod had once nested, the port engine just visible over the lip and the tail turret blasting away barely aft of her, almost close enough to touch.

She grabbed one of the notches in the hull where the pod had once clamped down, and pulled herself forward to peer out of the depression at the main hull. The top turret was twenty meters forward, double barrels tracking aft-to-forward as they fired on a passing sentry.

Enemy tracers struck down from starboard as another sentry strafed the ship. She ducked down, feeling the quick thuds of rounds hitting the hull. Her breathing was loud in her ears.

Not giving herself time to think, she pulled slowly up onto
Rapier
’s black hull, spotting the torpedo mounted on the centerline, less than two meters away. The weapon was dull grey, and secured on a hardpoint three quarters of the way down its body.

She looked down, and kept her eyes on the hull, willfully ignoring the flashes of light reflecting insanely off the smooth, black plates. Within less than a dozen leopard crawls she reached the torpedo hardpoint. A quick examination revealed the obvious source of the problem. Part of the mechanism had sheared. Metal fatigue, she guessed, combined with the extreme cold of the ultra-low power approach and the sudden accelerations of combat.

This wasn’t good.

“I’m at the torpedo,” she reported. “The clamp has sheared and won’t operate. Manual override won’t work.”

“Can you reach the hardpoint?”
Thomas said.

She looked down at the bracket that connected the clamped weapon to the hull.

“Yes.”

“Release the hardpoint itself—it’s magnetic. The torpedo can launch with the hardpoint still attached.”

“Are you sure?”

“Do it!”

The magnetic clamps were simple to operate, and she deactivated the first of the four nearest to her, port-aft. She gasped as the hull slid away beneath her. Her gloved hands swatted at the smooth surface but got no purchase. Suddenly she was free and clear, out of reach as
Rapier
dove away from her.

Her body snapped back as her tether reached its limit. She screamed in pain but managed to keep vague focus on the ship as it continued to dive. She was being dragged along behind, but as
Rapier
dipped her nose Katja drifted down toward the firing arcs of the tail turret. She swore and hauled herself in on the tether until she could grab the open doors of the airlock. The ship heaved again and she hung on for dear life.

“Dammit! Stop maneuvering! You knocked me clear last time!”

“Roger. No promises.”

She ignored the burning in her back and pushed off for the lip of the depression. She grabbed it and directed her flight forward over the hull to the hardpoint once again. She switched off the port-forward magnetic lock and climbed over the torpedo to repeat the process twice on the starboard side.

Then she pushed the torpedo with all her strength, and was rewarded to watch it lift slowly off the hull. Suddenly she noticed a thin cable up near the nose that kept it attached to
Rapier
.

“Hardpoint disconnected. But there’s still a cable forward.”

“That’s the control relay. Leave it and get back inside.”

Grabbing her tether she pulled herself down into the pod nest and back into the airlock. Just as she started to close the outer doors she risked a glance up at the battle.

The Centauri battle cruiser was in plain view, rolling slowly as it unleashed wave after wave of missiles at the Expeditionary Force. As the doors shut and blocked the view of the mighty ship, she allowed herself a smile. Nothing a few troopers couldn’t take down.

“I’m in!”

“Roger!”

As the airlock slowly pressurized, she was thrown against the wall, no doubt as
Rapier
turned back to her attack bearing. Soon the control showed green and she dove down into the honeycomb flats again. She flew forward to the bridge and crashed back down into her seat just as she heard Thomas shout.

“Fire!”

There was no thump of weapon release, but moments later she saw the torpedo pull out ahead of the ship. She watched its fiery exhaust for barely a moment before it shrunk to nothingness and vanished into the Bulk.

“Buckle in,” Thomas said. “We’re outta here!”

She grabbed her straps and hung on as Jack wrenched his stick over and pushed the throttles forward to flank speed. On the 3-D the blue torpedo symbol cruised toward the center of the red hostiles. She looked for the launch range radius line, but saw nothing. Then she noticed what range scale Thomas had reduced to.