Starcruiser Polaris: He Never Died Page 2

   Twenty seconds to battle. He looked down at his targeting computer, his missiles homing in on his counterpart at the head of the enemy formation, choosing to take the toughest fight for himself. At the speed the two fighter wings were traveling, the battle would be over in a matter of seconds, only a single chance for both sides to make their attack felt. Both were fighting for the survival of their base ships, and both would yield no quarter. They couldn’t afford anything else, not given what was at stake.

   “Wing Commander Kowalski to Wing Commander Kani,” a familiar voice barked. “Leave some of the bastards for us.”

   “No promises, Joe,” he replied. “You’ll have to make do with the ones we don’t want.”

   “Or the ones too tough for you. Good hunting out.”

   Shaking his head again, he rested his hands on the thruster controls, ready to alter course at the touch of a button. The two men had been bitter rivals before, until his unexpected secondment to the rebel course, but somehow the war had dragged them closer together than he could have ever expected. Both had the same responsibilities, command of a sextet of squadrons, and perhaps that was the key to their improved relationship.

   Five seconds to go. Red lights danced up and down his control panel, the computer systems making absolutely certain that he knew what he was getting into, that he was about to lead his formation into battle. Projected evasive courses of increasingly dubious merit flickered on the screen, as though his navigation computer was attempting to flee the fight. He negated them all with the touch of a button, and settled down in his couch, waiting for the battle to begin.

   As one, both fighter wings launched their missiles, almost three hundred tracks appearing on the screen, the computer briefly struggling to calculate them all. His counterpart had kept it simple, two missiles for each opponent, one of them a little ahead of the other in the hopes that fratricide would win the day. A classic attack strategy, and rightly so. He’d chosen a tactic with a little more flair, sending his missiles out on either side to form an enveloping sphere, making it tougher for any warheads to intercept. There was a key difference in their approaches. Kani had faith in the ability of his pilots to get themselves out of a tough situation; his rival didn’t.

   “That’s it, people!” he yelled. “Break, break, break!”

   At the same instant, all of his fighters killed their engines, spinning around in a pre-arranged movement to take different vectors, then ramping their acceleration up to maximum again as they fanned out in all directions, splitting their hitherto-tight formation into disorganized chaos designed to confuse the enemy attack computers. The effect was astonishing, dozens of lights dancing across the stars, and for a moment, the ongoing swarm of missiles seemed to hesitate, as though uncertain of how to respond. Even now, the enemy commander could call them back in, go for a defensive play, and focus entirely on living through the battle in progress. He could do that, but something told Kani that he wouldn’t, that he’d go instead according to the manual.

   And that made it quite clear that the fighter was a hunter, and that its place was to attack, not defend. A philosophy he’d always held dear himself. The missiles swung around, the enemy concentrating now on the key figures in his formation – the Flight and Squadron Leaders, and primarily, the Wing Commander. Suddenly, he had eight missiles on his back, and nothing but raw speed to work with in his bid to escape.

   He flicked a control, boosting his electronic countermeasures to full, knowing it was likely a futile maneuver, then turned a stiff key underneath his controls, warning lights flashing on a dozen instruments in response. He’d deactivated all the safety systems, informed his computer that the well-being of the pilot inside was now secondary to the survival of the fighter. The acceleration surged through the ship, harder than before, and he struggled for every breath as the mighty force of his unchecked engine hurled him through the void, desperately attempting to outpace the approaching missiles.

   It was a race, pure and simple. The winner would be the one with the greatest acceleration and endurance, able to gather speed faster and more constantly than his rival. He tried to activate his warbook, hoping to identify the missile type, but the force pressing on him was too great. He could hardly move a finger.

   Astonishingly, the countermeasures actually worked for once, one of the missiles curling away as he approached. Seven to go. He threw his sensors to focus on the area ahead, trying to find something to use to get him to safety. All he could see was Titan, a few thousand miles away, and he was racing towards the atmosphere at dangerous speed. The course plot he’d prepared before the mission had him pulling up, but he stabbed a control to override the original plan, instead guiding the vehicle down, towards the planet, deeper into the atmosphere.

   The missiles surged after him, as though sensing that they would soon lose their prey. They were creatures of space, with no ability to cope with an atmosphere; his fighter, however, could at least live through a single fast pass, though his systems desperately flashed warning alerts that he was mistaken, that he should attempt to escape. He ignored then all, stabbing his overrides again until they were finally silent.

   Now the race was truly on, and the missiles gained ground quickly, desperately burning their engines to catch him. He glanced at a timer, knowing that the bulk of the battle was over, but there was nothing he could do about it now; all his attention had to focus on surviving the next few seconds. Titan, menacing ochre, loomed ahead, and he fired his thrusters once more to kick him down into the atmosphere, the missiles struggling to follow.

   One by one, they winked off the display, unable to cope with the changing environment, detonating harmlessly to avoid causing damage to any other craft. New warning alerts sounded, his outer hull temperature soaring above safe limits, and he urged one more pulse of acceleration out of his fighter to pull out of the atmosphere, burning into the safety of free space just as his engine died. He’d used the last of his fuel in the attack, but it didn’t matter now. The winner would pick him up when the fighting was over. Nobody would have time for him until then.

   He reached for a control, a smile curling across his face as the battle reports flooded in. His faith in the abilities of his people had not been misplaced; they’d taken thirty-one enemy fighters out at a cost of only twelve, and several of those had ejected. He was far from the only one in need of rescue when the fighting was over. The enemy formation had scattered, knowing they had taken their one shot and wasted it, trying to turn back into the Commonwealth force still sweeping through the rear, hoping to disrupt their attack.

   The enemy cruisers were still coming, though, three sleek shapes racing for Polaris and Regulus, their weapons charged and ready for battle. They’d be in firing range in a matter of seconds, and they had Commodore Curtis’ force both outnumbered and outgunned. Even with the assistance of the other ships, closing from the rear, the battle was going to be all too close.

   Then his smile returned, as his sensors picked up something new, another warp signature coming into the distance, three additional ships entering the system. The reinforcements had arrived, and just in the nick of time.

  Chapter 3

   Michael Curtis stood on the unfamiliar bridge of the Auxiliary Cruiser Castro, his eyes locked on the strategic display as the three ships under his command raced into the system. The plan had worked just as his father had hoped, the enemy forces lured out of the safety of orbit and into position for him to attack, catching them on an unexpected strike vector. He’d hoped that they might yield, might opt to concede defeat rather than continue to fight an unequal battle, but Admiral Hancock hadn’t even accepted another attempt at communication. They were going to have to fight it out, and it looked as though his formation was going to take the brunt of the battle.

   “Orders, boss?” Commander Ortiz, Castro’s Captain, asked.

   “Full defensive,” he replied. “Polaris, Regulus and the Commonwealth fighte
rs ought to be able to finish them off. We’ve just got to distract them long enough to give them their shot, and we’ve got it made. Maximum acceleration, and let’s get out fighters into the air, right away, flying escort.”

   “Aye, sir,” Ortiz replied, turning to issue orders to his crew. Mike felt strange just standing there, watching things happen, no longer having a ship of his own to command. He’d commanded Canopus for just a few months, for much of the time in the service of the rebellion, before losing her during the desperate fighting over the now-liberated world of Hyperborea, and as a reward, had been promoted to command the auxiliary squadron. He glanced across at his aide, his erstwhile Political Officer, Lieutenant Petrova, who flashed a gleaming smile at him in reply, warm and reassuring. Their relationship had evolved from the professional to the personal in recent weeks, his first serious involvement since the death of his ex-wife and daughter, a decade before. One more infamy of the Federation, one more slight to avenge. One of an ever-lengthening list.

   “We’re getting reports from all across the system,” Petrova said. “Rebel forces on Mars have taken the Governor’s Residence and declared independence from the Federation, and there’s striking in the streets on Titan. Fighting in some Earth-orbital installations, as well, and that’s the last step to victory. We might not need to destroy the shipyards, not if the workers decide to switch sides.”

   “What about Earth?” he asked. “Anything from the surface?”

   “Not a word, which means a total communications blackout. Which means they’re scared, Mike. They know the war’s almost over.”

   Frowning, he replied, “Then why are they fighting? Right now, they’ve got something to bargain with. I’m sure we’d offer at least a limited amnesty in exchange for a surrender, but if we have to smash them to pieces first, that won’t be on the table. What are they waiting for?”

   “There’s nothing left for them to fight with,” Ortiz replied. “One Starcruiser at Earth, and that’s only just out of the repair yards. We’re facing their last combat formation.” Turning to Mike, he added, “You know these people, boss. They won’t give up, even when they know they’re beaten. Their egos won’t permit them to concede defeat. Besides, while there’s life, there’s hope. And on that hopeful note, one minute to firing range. The rest of our ships will be joining us thirty seconds later. Damage controls are deployed and ready to go.”

   Reaching for a control, Mike said, “Castro to Trotsky. You read?”

   “Trotsky Actual here,” Acting Commander Schmidt replied. “We’re all set, Commodore. Formation tight, and we’re ready to execute the battle plan as instructed. Those bastards don’t stand a chance.”

   “Just remember that someone over there is probably saying the same about us. Watch yourself, Commander. It’s dangerous out there. Out.” Shaking his head, he said, “Commodore.”

   “Something wrong?” Petrova asked.

   “It doesn’t seem real. None of this seems real. And I don’t think it will until it’s all over.” Glancing down at the gleaming star on his shoulder, he added, “It feels like I pinned it on myself.”

   “You earned it,” she replied. “There aren’t many people in the rebellion with the experience to command a cruiser squadron.” Gesturing at the screen, she added, “Come on, Commodore. One more push and all of this is over.”

   “Yeah,” he said, turning back to the monitor. The enemy formation had pivoted to the side, taking the opportunity they had been careful to provide to pick off the weakest elements of the rebel fleet. It was unnerving to be sitting on a ship that, to all intents and purposes, was expendable. Losing one of the Commonwealth cruisers would be a disaster; losing either Polaris or Regulus would be a catastrophe from which there would be little chance of redemption, and everyone on these ships knew it. They had to finish this battle now, whittle down the enemy mobile forces to give them control of the system, but that didn’t make him feel any better.

   At least the ship he was riding had been designed to make defense its priority, with a full complement of particle beam cannons to intercept enemy mass driver salvos. In theory, it had a punch of its own, but one look at the specifications had convinced him that the only sensible course was to throw everything into blocking the enemy attack. Today, survival was victory.

   “Ten seconds, sir,” Castro’s helmsman, a seasoned veteran with Petty Officer’s stripes, reported. Most of this crew had been rebels from the start, joining Polaris at the first opportunity. The rest of the ships in the formation were a less happy story, a collection of political loyalists and malcontents, and an extensive purge had left them both short-handed, their personnel given only the briefest possible window to train. They were a glass cannon, but they only had to live through a single firing pass. Surely they could manage that.

   “Here we go,” Ortiz said, and the screen lit up with a riot of color as the enemy attack began, dozens of mass driver cannons working in unison to savage the rebel squadron, their particle defense beams firing pre-selected patterns into the sky in an attempt to knock them down, swinging from target to target faster than any human could manage, their crews working only to keep their mighty weapons operational, allowing the computers to work them to best advantage.

   “Fifty seconds, and we’re through,” Petrova said, moving to stand by his side. Mike yearned to bark orders, instructions to the crew, but that wasn’t his place. This was Ortiz’s ship, not his, and he knew how he would have reacted had some Admiral stepped onto his bridge and carelessly disrupted the chain of command. He wouldn’t do that to any subordinate, still less to a friend. His place was to monitor the battle, keep track of the whole squadron, see that they stayed on course.

   For the first few seconds, the defensive systems were able to keep up with the onslaught of kinetic projectiles hurled in their direction, a raging storm of debris fired through space at insane speed in a bid to punch holes in their armor. The three helmsman raced through a random evasion pattern, hoping to throw off the enemy gunner, trying for every advantage they could reap from the situation. Nevertheless, they were losing ground, and rapidly, the barrage approaching closer with every second, the distance still to traverse seeming an eternity.

   “Trotsky, you’re falling behind,” he said, grimacing. “Increase speed.”

   “Engine failure,” Schmidt replied. “We’re attempting to compensate.”

   Tapping a control, Mike ordered, “Ramone, bring your birds around to cover Trotsky. Don’t worry about pressing an attack of your own. You’d never make it through that hailstorm anyway.”

   “Roger that, Commodore, we’re on the way,” the fighter commander replied, the tactical display updating to show the fighters diving to the side, adding their particle cannons to the ongoing volley, bridging the gaps that were appearing in the formation as the rearmost ship slid back. Mike could have ordered the other two ships to match speed, but he didn’t dare. As it was, they’d be fortunate to make it through without suffering serious damage. Lingering in the battlespace was a risk that he didn’t have any justification to order. He could lose one of his ships, and they’d still win the war.

   Not that it was any comfort to the crew, to the technicians he knew would be fighting for Trotsky’s life while he watched. The battle almost seemed soulless, as though it was happening to someone else, far away. Aside from the rhythmic pounding of the topside mass drivers, there was no evidence of any abnormal activity taking place. For all appearances, the three ships were sliding through space, surrounded by an artificial aurora.

   One that grew closer with every second. The tranquility of the moment would be shattered beyond repair if any of the projectiles touched the hull, and Mike struggled to maintain his equanimity, knowing the colossal forces that were raging outside, almost close enough for him to touch. His eyes remained locked on the trajectory track, watching as the ships reached closest approach, finally beginning to pull away at last as they ga
ined ground. Trotsky was now three seconds behind them, and the flaming barrier was racing towards them, the enemy gunners belatedly realizing the vulnerability of the target, moving in to take maximum advantage of the weakness.

   Then, finally, the Commonwealth fighters dived into the fray, their fuel tanks all but exhausted from the constant surge of acceleration that had been required to get them into position in time to make a difference. A hundred missiles raced into the air, none of them destined to get even close to their goal, but that wasn’t the point of the attack. They simply had to act as a distraction, to buy even a little time for Trotsky to make it to safety, and the maneuver worked, the mass drivers briefly forced to break off their attack to hurl death into the air in front of the approaching warheads, blotting them out of existence at the price of a few desperate seconds, life for the men and women aboard the crippled auxiliary.

   Now Polaris moved into position, closing the trap behind them, and the race was over, the deadly mass drivers of the rebel fleet coming into play, pounding their payloads into key systems on the three Federation ships. They’d gambled on being able to break the auxiliary cruisers in time to turn their armament on the greater threat, and they’d lost. Immediately the momentum began to swing in the other direction, the firepower of the Federation squadron dedicated to defense, rather than attack, but it was obvious they were outmatched. The Commonwealth fighters nimbly advanced for another pass, this time spitting particle beams into the defensive salvo, ripping holes in the pattern to allow projectiles to shoot through without opposition.

   Tissues of fire erupted from the enemy ships as one projectile after another found their mark, the leading ship tumbling out of control from a catastrophic impact on her oxygen reservoir, air erupting into space in frozen fountains, her helmsman unable to compensate in time. The other two ships broke away, hoping to find safety elsewhere, but Polaris and Regulus were on the case, and the three Commonwealth cruisers advanced into battle in a dispersed arrowhead formation, eliminating their last potential avenue of escape.