Susan watched as the Wayfarer fleet closed on their enemies for the last time.
Every military craft was currently moving in formation toward the incoming threat; the evacuation ships were remaining behind to gather the last few faithful thousands from the surface. They would continue to do so until the engagement had been decided one way or the other. If her fleet could manage to turn aside the juggernaut bearing down on the planet, the evac ships would finish their mission and trundle along to a rendezvous point. If she and her ships were defeated, they would immediately run for the nearest resonance gate and hopefully find some new refuge within the Known Worlds, if such a place still existed.
In her heart, however, Susan knew that would not be a feasible option. The ships she was about to face were military grade, with weapons that could rend the evac ships like tissue paper and engines that could chase down even the fastest passenger transport. Unless she stopped the Outriders here, the Wayfarers would not be leaving this system alive.
That fact was not hers alone to notice. Around her, the bridge crew seemed to have fallen into a half-frantic work pace, as if they could prevent their destruction by simple determination. She was sure it was nearly the same on every other ship in the fleet, and she hoped it would not be merely misguided faith.
Not that she ever would have said those words aloud. She had better things to do than to demoralize the sailors who were counting on her. A glance down redirected her thoughts to those exact responsibilities.
The glowing forms of the Outrider fleet were outlined on her strategic projection. The number of identified cruisers had risen to thirteen, and the number of escort craft had increased to forty-two. At the center had been a ship that fit neither class. Slightly larger, it had enough tetherdrive capability and bulk to force her to classify it as a battlecruiser. Altogether, the Outriders seemed intent on pursuing a fairly direct course, with very little in the way of subterfuge. It was a refreshing change of pace.
Of course, it was entirely possible that they were not aware of how closely she was monitoring them. Every RSR from both squadrons—the Eyes of Judgment and the Divine Prophets—had been assigned to make the flight out to the approaching fleet and then return with updates on the enemy’s progress. It was a long trip, one that would cost her ships twelve hours, but the scout pilots had been glad to volunteer their efforts.
The reconnaissance by the Outriders had been relatively light by comparison. MSSR contacts occasionally flickered on the tactical screens of the fleet, but they were far enough out that simple formation changes could easily confuse their scans. Such uncertainty about the number and strength of her forces could work to her advantage if she could maintain it up to the point of battle.
If the Outriders still had contacts on the planet, they could easily be passing information as well, but she doubted that Bennett Securities had left itself with many clandestine ties by this point. The attempted assassination, combined with the boldness of their most recent attack, told her that the enemy was desperate enough to come completely out into the open. Whoever their government contacts had been within the Eris population, they were likely digging the deepest hole they could find to hide from reprisals if the merc fleet failed.
Susan shook her head as the fleet turned onto the intercept course. The odds were too uneven. She needed the enemy off balance. If the mercenaries could be knocked off their guard somehow, her smaller band of ships could take advantage of the fact. It would be even better if she could draw their rigs out and force them to exhaust their resources. How could she confuse them, baffle them?
A crooked smile invaded her face. There was a simpler way to phrase the question. What would Gabriel do? Moves began to plot themselves in her mind, and her smile grew wider as the solution took shape. The enemy wouldn’t know what hit them.
Gabe checked the timer for the fortieth time and grunted. It was a relatively innocuous action, one the rig interface had been conditioned to ignore, but it managed to express exactly the discontent he was currently feeling. Susan probably would not have understood, but then again, she wasn’t viewing things from the same perspective.
He and the rest of the CTRs were currently on a direct line intercept with the mercenary fleet. They had launched from their respective cruisers and the Concord, a wave of nearly seventy-two rigs that had then set out across the void toward their incoming targets. Susan had asked them to spread out to avoid being identified as a knot of sensor contacts, and the rig pilots had uneasily complied. The disadvantage of being so scattered was relatively obvious, but Gabe had to agree that stealth was needed for their current mission.
Susan had made their objectives relatively clear. They were to follow a flight of eight RSRs from Prophet Squadron to the enemy fleet. The RSRs, atypically, had been assigned the task of knocking out enemy MSSRs as they passed them. Unlike the CTRs, the scout rigs had been using electronic warfare to achieve their ends, thus avoiding the flashes of light and energy that a plasma rifle pulse would have given off.
Watching the little buglike RSRs go about their task had been eerie, to say the least. Each time a pair of MSSR scouts had been identified by the scout rig sensors, four RSRs had swooped in on them like locusts. Concealed by their own stealth armor and the RSRs’ ability to evade most standard sensor sweeps, the little rigs had struck the MSSRs without warning or mercy. They would close to nearly point-blank distance and fire streams of EMP waves, signal jamming, and other noisome emissions before abruptly pulling away. The enemy had no chance. Outnumbered and taken by surprise, their electronic defenses had been overwhelmed in an instant. The MSSRs had gone silent as their interfaces had fried, leaving the pilots either dead or trapped as a result.
Sweeping by those silent, unmoving corpses had disturbed several of the CTRs, some of whom had broken com silence to say so, but Gabe knew that it meant their little raid on the Outrider vessels would be just as much a surprise. It was a tactic that would help ensure the survival of his pilots, and so he felt much less regret at seeing those drifting rigs pass by than most would have expected. Besides, every scout they killed meant that one less report on the fleet would reach the mercenaries, and one less rig would stand against them once the time for the main battle arrived.
Nearly four hours had passed since the fleet had left Eris orbit, and nearly two since the CTRs had launched. As a result, the fleets had rapidly closed the distance between each other. At Gabe’s best estimate, only another couple of hours remained before they would be in gun range. His own little swarm of rigs, however, was going to be in engagement range in only a few minutes. That is, they would be if the Lord had helped them plot their course correctly.
As if summoned by his silent prayer, Prophet-Four sent a single narrow beam transmission to him. Rather than a voice, it was a single image file. Gabe nodded to accept the transmission, and a small screen opened to show him the magnified image of the enemy fleet, and Gabe smiled as he picked out their main target in the enemy formation. He forwarded the message out to the rest of his pilots and adjusted his course to match the path of the Outrider battlecruiser.
The Prophets broke off as the CTRs began to draw closer. While they might have done a good job shepherding the rigs to the fight, they were definitely not designed for an open engagement, and Gabe could understand their reluctance to participate. He cleared his throat and tried to remind himself that whispering would not make the signal any less strong. “Angel-One to CTR flights. Form up and accelerate to engagement speeds. Engage and destroy any patrolling MSSRs in your path, then proceed to sweep the enemy flagship. When your runs are complete, veer off onto a return course and head for home. Don’t linger if you don’t have to.” He smiled. “They’re going to be pretty mad.”
Bennett looked up when one of his watchstanders shouted in alarm. He was mildly surprised at the man; he obviously needed to institute some harsher disciplines for his crew members. When the man spoke, however, the reasons for his concern became suddenly, terribly clear.
“We have incoming contacts! Vector zero-one-one. Speed and size indicate a group of rig units.”
He blinked. Rig units, here? Perhaps it was a scouting force; his fleet had detected next to nothing of the sort in the past few hours, and he wondered at the clumsiness of the Wayfarer attempt this late in the game. At the very least, it would give his sentries something to play with. Bennett shook his head at the incompetence of his opponents. “How many, Lieutenant?”
“I don’t know, sir.” The watchstander began to look a bit desperate, and Bennett raised a speculative eyebrow. “Sir, we’ve picked up at least forty, but I can’t be sure—”
“Forty?” Bennett kept his voice low, still under control. It wouldn’t do much for efficiency if he revealed that the cultists might as well have punched him in the throat. There were barely twenty MSSRs currently deployed in his forward screen, and they were spread out to cover the entire fleet. If the enemy force had included any amount of heavy weaponry, his ships were about to undergo a brutal test of their armor and shields. “Signal to the carriers to begin rig launch procedures. Bring the escort craft up to cover us.” He paused, a sudden, horrible sensation stealing over him. He thought he could almost hear Elder Evans laugh. “What is their current heading, Lieutenant? Can we identify the target?”
“Sir. It’s us.” The officer’s voice grew very, very small. His words seemed to shake like a leaf in a windstorm. “They’re headed right for us.”
A double handful of MSSRs had managed to set themselves in front of the battlecruiser before the CTRs reached them. It was a brave, but relatively useless, gesture as Paladin Squadron bowled through them with plasma rifles blazing. Four of the ten MSSRs had died without landing a return shot. The remaining six had all taken damage, enough so that as the Reapers came in on Paladins’ tails, they left none remaining.
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By the time Angel Squadron came in, the path to the battlecruiser was clear. That was not to say that the remaining few rigs of the defense patrols did not throw themselves at them from the sides. Gabe watched as one foolhardy MSSR dove in at him from above. As the enemy rig settled in on his rear, plasma rifle flashing, Gabe simply rotated and set his sights on the MSSR. His shots were joined by two other Angels and even three CTRs from the Grapes’ squadron behind him. Together they tore the mercenary rig to pieces.
He heard a signal come in from Paladin Squadron. Derek’s voice was calm, though there was still a measure of almost vindictive excitement burning beneath the surface. “Paladin One-Five to Angel-One. We have a lot of signals coming off the target. This thing’s got rig bays. I can see them lighting up from here.”
“Reaper-Five to Angel-One. The flagship’s not the only one. At least five more of those cruisers are some kind of pocket carrier, and every single one is about to start launching rigs. Marking carriers.” Five of the other ships in the Outrider fleet abruptly lit up, and a glance confirmed the conclusion.
“Affirmative, Reaper-Five. Paladins, make your runs and provide screens for the following CTRs. Don’t let the MSSRs bunch up enough to be effective. Reapers, I want you on their tails to follow up. Be sure to pick out their sensor stations and make ‘em wail. Angels, we’ll be up next.” Remembering the firepower the Samar-class ships had displayed against the MSSRs, he signaled back to the CTRs behind him. “Grapes, how are the enemy escorts moving?”
“Grapes-Seven, closing in pretty fast, Angel-One. I estimate we’ve only got a couple of minutes before they’re on us.”
Gabe nodded to himself. The escorts had started on the edges of the fleet, but the little ships were still fairly quick. “Confirmed, Grapes-Seven.” He saw explosions mark the start of the first runs on the battlecruiser’s shields, and the frantic response of the ship’s larger cannon. “Let’s get in there and leave a mark, Angels.”
Bennett clenched his fists as the Maximum Security rocked softly under the successive barrages. It was almost enough to convince him that these cultists would give him some trouble in the coming battle. To have snuck more than seventy rigs into the midst of his fleet was an impressive feat—very annoyingly so. He wondered how they could have possibly found him so easily, given their disinterest in sending scouts. Perhaps the chancellor or Commodore Dubois had survived and collaborated with the scum. The thought made him snarl as the first waves of rigs flashed past.
It was no matter. Even with their daring raid, the Wayfarers would not accomplish much. Maximum Security’s defensive screens were military grade, and while she was no Directorate battleship, his flagship could endure any amount of strafing from mere plasma rifles. It would only have been a problem if he allowed them to continue their attacks unhindered, and his orders to the escorts, rig carriers, and escort carriers meant that his own forces would soon be sweeping them away soon. He forced himself to smile. It was all just a pitiful attempt to scare him with the merest hint of force.
Then the second rigs dove in, and the proximity alarms began to scream. He clapped his hands to his ears and tried to yell over the chaos. “Commander, shut off that alarm!”
The officer’s words barely reached him over the cacophony. “I’m trying! I can’t!”
Gabe started his run on the enemy flagship. He dove, the wind howling in his ears, toward one of the sensor stations the other rigs had marked for him. Firing as he came, he watched as plasma burst after plasma burst flared against the enemy’s defensive screens. When he came close enough that he was sure the proximity alarms had been set off, he pulled up and danced along the battlecruiser’s hull, still blazing merrily away with his Simo Haya rifle. A few plasma cannon tried to track him, but it was a futile effort. If he had made it difficult for Deliverance to track him in a CSR, it was almost pitifully easy to accomplish it now with this poor, beleaguered mercenary warship.
Paladin Squadron had already finished their runs and was already setting up for a return strafe on their way out. He saw the Reapers finishing their own assault and starting to curve around as well. Everything was going to plan.
Then another signal reached him from behind. “Prophet-Ten to Angel-One. We have large groups of MSSRs en route. They launched from Type 3s like the launch facility strike. Carrier rigs are joining them. Recommend abort firing runs. Repeat, advise abort runs and return to base.”
“Received, Prophet-Ten.” He considered the situation for a moment, and a second signal arrived on the heels of the first.
“Grapes-Seven to Angel-One. Grapes of Wrath Squadron would risk the MSSRs to hit that flagship.” The squadron leader’s voice turned ugly. “I had friends in CSRs before I joined up. I owe them one.”
“You’ll get your chance, Grapes-Seven. Today’s just a down payment on what he’s owed.” Gabe grinned. “Still, let’s make sure the message we send is clear, shall we?”
The alarms continued to shriek as Bennett watched his projections. MSSRs and escort craft were closing in from all sides, and his own rigs were already clustered at the rig ports waiting to be launched from the battlecruiser. His defensive screens were barely at half power, and it wasn’t likely to be long before the rigs would be too occupied with the rest of the fleet to worry about lowering them further. He knew his face had taken on a desperately predatory look, but he could not help it. They had to pay!
Already they seemed to be hesitating, as if deciding whether or not to leave. The two first groups of rigs had paused long enough to cluster together, though they were continuing to make evasive maneuvers to dodge cannon fire. The third was already halfway past, still blasting away with their pitiful plasma rifles as they worked their way back over his hull. He smiled as the fourth wave pulled up suddenly short; perhaps his efforts had finally convinced them of the futility of this strike. He would live to fight on, and their pathetic attempt at assassination would only end in their slaughter.
Then the sensors, overloaded as they were, picked up a wave of contacts flowing from the fourth group just as the first two started back across his ship for another strafing run. His eyes widened as he realized what those contacts had to mean, but by the time Bennett managed to open his mouth, the missiles had already struck home. Explosions lit up his forward defense screens, thermonuclear fire racing across them like ribbons of light. He felt, to his horror, the Maximum Security shake beneath his feet.
And on the projection, under the combined pressure of that fire and the plasma still being poured into them, the defense screens finally faded away to nothing.
Gabe whooped with exhilaration as the missiles hit home and the screens died. He saw his rifle taking small bites out of the armor, and felt a vicious little swirl of satisfaction as he clipped a plasma cannon turret, melting a bit of armor. The initial mission parameters hadn’t called for any actual damage to be done, but he was sure Susan wouldn’t mind. Any hit now would only weaken the behemoth for the fight to come. It was almost enough to make someone switch to an AWOR just to finish the job all at once.
Then he finished his run, and the Lord decided to remind him why Susan had urged him not to overextend his stay. Escort craft were swooping in, flanked by MSSRs that almost seemed vengeful. He keyed his transmitter. “Angel-One to all flights. Break up and return to base. Repeat, return to base.” Gabe followed his own advice and swung up and around in a tight turn. “Watch your tails. This could get a bit risky.”
Allen’s voice came over the channel. “Angel-Two to Angel-One. We wouldn’t want that, now would we?” A few chuckles came over the channel as the CTRs broke off their attack and headed for home.
Angel Squadron had ended up at the very rear of the formation, and as a result most of the fire seemed to be headed in their direction. Still, as he poured on the speed, Gabe began to wonder if he had left the last maneuvers too late. MSSRs began to close in, and both the escort craft and the nearby cruisers opened fire when they no longer risked hitting their flagship with a missed shot. Plasma fire began to scorch uncomfortably close, and he flipped onto his back to start returning fire against the enemy rigs that were attempting to catch up.
The CTRs’ speed advantage meant that the MSSRs wouldn’t be much of a problem soon, but the guns of the main fleet were a different story. Admiral Delacourt had proved that at a distance, even a cruiser gun crew could hit the broad side of a barn. If the mass of CTRs stayed together, they risked presenting a unified target for the Outriders; if they simply scattered, they risked being unable to find their way back to the Wayfarer fleet, which was still traveling quiet in an attempt to conceal their formation and numbers.
Of course, Susan had also planned for that little detail. Even as the shots from the cruisers were starting to get uncomfortably close, Gabe signaled Prophet-Ten. “Any time now, guys. Getting a bit hot out here.”
“Affirmative, Angel-One. You’ve almost reached the flare point.”
A burst of plasma fire, thick as a rig’s torso, nearly hit Gabe in the leg. He grunted. “Really, Prophet-Ten. We’re cutting it a bit close here.”
“Almost there, almost there… Now.” The statement was accompanied by a sudden burst of light that nearly blinded Gabe. He jerked reflexively, half turning to lessen the pain his sensors were telling the interface he should feel. The incoming fire suddenly cut off, as if the enemy fleet had been too stunned by the light to continue.
In a way, they had. The RSRs had occupied themselves by setting up a small wave of flares in advance of the enemy fleet. When the CTRs had started back toward home, they had released their drifting decoys and detonated them when they could cover the retreat. The sensors of the enemy fleet were suddenly awash with erroneous signals, overwhelmed by brilliant light and heat signatures, and generally prevented from maintaining any kind of a serious lock on the retreating rigs. It was a perfect end to a wonderfully effective mission.
Gabe sighed. Now all they had to do was follow it up with not getting killed in a couple of hours and it would have been a complete success.
Bennett watched as the flares faded and the rigs disappeared from his projections. The last of the proximity alarms had finally been quieted, and the defensive screens were already returning to life. Of course, that could not undo the scars the Maximum Security already bore—the holes in her armor, the damage to her guns and sensors, and the irreparable offense to her pride must remain.
He waited a long time before he could trust himself to speak, watching the escorts and MSSRs flounder uselessly ahead in a foolhardy attempt to find the retreating enemies. When he finally formed the words, they still came out cold and lethal. “Reform the fleet. Escort craft will make up a forward screen, and the MSSRs will continue patrols on alert status. I want any further incoming attacks caught before they reach the flagship.” Bennett tapped a few instructions into the console, adjusting the projected formation of the fleet to his satisfaction. “I expect the ships of the fleet to remain in this formation until contact. Any captain who does not fulfill his responsibility will be executed.”
Still cold with fear, rage, and shame, he turned to the watchstander who had made the initial report. “Lieutenant.” The officer snapped to attention, his face pale. “Your identification of the rig threat came late. It cost us precious time as we tried to respond.”
“My apologies, sir. I will strive to improve, sir.” The fear in the man’s voice was gratifying, but not enough. Bennett smiled.
“I am sure you will improve, Lieutenant. In fact, I will give you the best opportunity you can to provide us with better warnings in the future.” The officer’s shoulders slumped in premature relief, and Bennett felt his hatred climb higher. He turned to his bodyguard. “Load the lieutenant into the mass driver. He will precede the fleet into battle.” As the guards stepped forward and the officer began a frantic babbling plea for mercy, he smiled wider. “Make sure he can scream.”
As the man was dragged away, the bridge began to move again, as if the others were secure now that his appetite for revenge had been sated. Bennett shook his head. He was far from done, but fortunately for this band of incompetents, there was a fleet of cultists that would satisfy his need for vengeance much, much better first.