.
of 348 mps, too fast, too fast, as the countdown dwindled from seven … to six …
“Gravfighter outside safe approach parameters,” the LSO announced, the voice cold and unemotional. The green light above the opening flashed red.
Allyn’s heart was pounding. Oh, God, no …
“Abort,” the LSO voice continued, impassive, “abort … abort …”
Spaas’ Starhawk appeared, but too far to the left, much too far to the left, and coming in too fast. His ship was dead; he couldn’t abort, couldn’t fire a ventral singularity to warp his course into a vector that would miss the rotating landing bay and the underside of America’s huge cap beyond.
The incoming fighter almost made it. …
Spaas’ gravfighter clipped the trailing edge of the entranceway. Sparks erupted, and then the Starhawk’s starboard side disintegrated in peeling, fragmenting metal. The port side flipped into an out-of-control tumble, vanishing off the right side of the screen. The light above the bay flashed red.
Allyn could feel the ship crews around her sag as Spaas died—no one could have survived such a crash. They sagged, they turned away. She heard someone nearby mutter, “Shit …”
Allyn said nothing. Gripping her helmet tightly, she turned away and started walking toward the recovery deck elevators.
She had a report to file, a debriefing to endure.
She felt exhausted and bruised, and every step dragged at her like death.
Squadron Ready Room
TC/USNA CVS America
Outbound, Eta Boötis System
2022 hours, TFT
Gray stared at the ready room repeater screen, unable to tear his eyes away. It was one thing when a squadron mate bought it in a clean, silent flash of light out in space, quite another when you watched them zorch in for a trap and miss the sweet spot by a matter of scant meters.
He didn’t like Spaas. In fact, he’d detested the guy—an arrogant bully, a womanizer, as much the elitist hypocrite as his partner, Collins.
He’d still been family.
Numb, Gray ran through the members of the Dragonfires, startled to realize that where twelve had launched from the America out in the local Kuiper Belt early yesterday morning, only four, counting himself, were left. Sixty-six percent casualties was devastating for any military unit; when the unit was as small as a squadron to begin with, with members practically living in one another’s pockets, the sense of family was keener still … even when you couldn’t stand the bastards.
He wondered if the Dragonfires would be disbanded, the survivors sent as replacements to other squadrons.
The hell with it, He found he didn’t care right now one way or another, didn’t care about anything.
But an audio alarm caught his attention, and he switched the display screen to tactical.
God. That was all they needed now. The Turusch battlefleet was emerging from behind Eta Boötis, swinging past the planet and accelerating toward the retreating carrier battlegroup. The rest of the Black Lightnings were still trapping in Bays One and Three, and it would be several more minutes before America could resume acceleration.
Things were about to get damned tight.
CIC, TC/USNA CVS America
Outbound, Eta Boötis System
2023 hours, TFT
“Lead elements of the enemy fleet now at eighty-two thousand kilometers, Admiral,” Hughes reported, her voice as matter-of-fact, as coldly professional as any AI’s.
“How long until the last of the fighters gets aboard?” Koenig demanded.
“Two more coming in at Bay One, three at Bay Two. Make it one minute twenty.”
Koening considered this. Over a minute until the America could accelerate. How close would the enemy fleet get?
Given their known acceleration capabilities, it looked like the battlegroup would be able to escape … just. The enemy might pursue them out of the system, but a running stern chase was pretty futile, especially when the fleeing vessels would be jigging and changing acceleration routes from moment to moment in order to throw off the enemy’s targeting computers.
“Comm! Make to Spirit of Confederation,” he said. “Have them lay down a barrage astern. See if they can discourage those Trash jokers.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
The view of the stars projected on the CIC viewalls darkened, returned, darkened again.
“Enemy has opened fire, Admiral,” Hughes pointed out. “KK projectiles and particle beams.”
“Right. Any damage?”
“Shields are holding, Admiral.” A pause. “Cruiser Montreal reports damage to targeting sensors and primary fire control.”
In the tactical display, the green icon representing the Spirit of Confederation was slowly turning, rotating ninety degrees until she was traveling sideways, her port broadside facing the enemy.
As on board the America, Confederation’s primary weapon ran along much of her kilometer-length and pierced her broad shield cap forward, a large-bore railgun that could accelerate one-ton kinetic-kill rounds to speeds of hundreds of kilometers per second. That was not her only weapon, however. Like an eighteenth-century ship of the line, she possessed an impressive broadside, turret-mounted weapons that could fire in every direction except directly forward, where they were effectively blocked by the shield cap. By rotating ninety degrees along her line of flight, the Spirit of Confederation brought about two thirds of her broadside weapons to bear. With the enemy now just half a light second astern, the battleship began hammering away, pouring immense volumes of fire into the narrow corridor just ahead of the Turusch vessels.
Koenig turned his attention back to the last of the fighters still coming aboard.
“Come on, people,” he murmured, half aloud. “Come on! …”
Tactician Emphatic Blossom at Dawn
Enforcer Radiant Severing
2023 hours, TFT
Tactician Emphatic Blossom watched the combat display, an emotion roughly equivalent to human anger beating behind its optical organs. A tentacle tip coiled and uncoiled reflexively, nervously. If it didn’t know better, if it had not felt the reassurance and calm emanating from the Mind Below, it would have had to assume that the Sh’daar didn’t trust it, didn’t trust the Turusch.
Abyssal whirlwinds! Emphatic Blossom at Dawn was a trained and experienced master tactician! It knew combat, knew how to lead an enemy into a trap, knew how to spring an ambush, knew how to hammer at the foe until nothing in the kill zone was left alive! The Sh’daar Seed’s orders of the past g’nyuu’m simply made no tactical sense whatsoever.
The Turusch fleet had been badly mangled by the enemy fighter attack, true … and there’d been a very real possibility that the Radiant Severing itself would be destroyed. That, however, was a part of combat, a part of war. Emphatic Blossom and every Turusch warrior on board the Severing was ready to sacrifice its life if that sacrifice would bring a decisive victory.
But no! The Seed had ordered, had demanded that the Turusch battle fleet abandon its prey, break orbit and withdraw toward deep space. And Emphatic Blossom had obeyed … as it must. The orders were from its own Mind Below, as inescapable, as relentless as Blossom’s own decisions.
And so the Turusch battle fleet had withdrawn,