I sat, fascinated by the power and grace of the ships. They were silver and deadly in the cold illumination cast by the two suns. The bridge of the Corsarius spilled yellow light into the void: I could make out figures moving about inside. And the voices on the com-mlinks changed subtly, grew charged with tension.
I watched Straczynski lift gradually out of formation. She hovered a few moments, apparently falling behind; and then her engines flared, and she dropped away.
She is going to take out a communications relay station, said the Monitor. Rappaport will follow directly.
"Monitor," I said, "We seem to have only four ships. Where are the other two? And where are the enemy defenses?"
Two frigates have re-entered linear space in a manner that allows them to approach from a different direction. One of the two, the Korbal, has been altered to put out the electronic "fingerprint" of the Corsarius. Hrinwhar’s defenders have scrambled to attack the intruders.
"All of them?"
A few units remain. But the light cruisers are gone!
I tried to recall the details of the raid on Hrinwhar, and was dismayed at how little I knew, other than that it had marked the first time the Confederates had seized the initiative.
Korbal and its companion vessel have already taken out a picket, and engaged in a brief exchange of fire with another frigate. This has given the enemy’s intelligence analysts time to draw false conclusions about the identity of their attacker, whom they now believe to be Sim. In addition, Ashiyyurean ships tracking the diversionary force have noted an anomaly in the thrust pattern of the vessel they think to be the Corsarius. They believe that Sim has engine trouble. Their great enemy seems to be helpless.
In the fragmented chatter of the ship’s intercom, I was able to pick up a running description of the action: "They are still pursuing Korbal toward Windyne. Korbal will stay in the sun to prevent visual inspection."
"Straczynski reports Alpha destroyed."
Alpha’s a communications relay station, designated on your display, said the Monitor. Sim hopes to cut off all communications between the base and its defenders.
"They’re not very bright," I said. "The Ashiyyur."
They’re not accustomed to this sort of warfare. It is one of the reasons they hold us in contempt. They don’t expect an opponent to be dishonest. In their view, Sim should come forward, without stealth, without deceit, and fight like a man.
"They don’t understand war," I grumbled.
A new voice, obviously accustomed to command: "Go to attack mode. Prepare to execute Windsong."
They would reply that the brutality of armed combat demands a sense of ethics. A person who cheats in matters of life and death is perceived as a barbarian.
"This is Corsarius: preliminary scan shows a cruiser in the area. It is escorted by two—no, make that three—frigates. Cruiser is Y-class, and is in geosynchronous orbit over base. Two of the frigates appear to be responding to Straczynski"
"Rappaport approaching Beta."
"Execute Windsong."
Acceleration pressed me gently back into my seat. The cloudscape fell swiftly away. Corsarius rose and arced toward the rings, and rapidly dwindled to a triangle of lights moving against the sky.
"This is Rappaport. Beta is dead. Communications should be out."
"We are now over the curve of the horizon, within view of enemy scans. Assume that Corsarius and Stein have been sighted."
"One frigate on intercept vector. No reaction yet from the cruiser."
Targeting information flowed across the screens: schematics of the incoming frigate appeared, rotated. I could hear hatches closing throughout the ship. Below me, all activity seemed to have ceased. I reached up and increased the flow of cool air into the cockpit.
"Cruiser getting underway."
"Corsarius will handle. Stein take the frigate."
The lights of Sim’s ship blinked out. We kept on: the enemy vessel appeared on the short range scopes, a black sphere gliding toward us between the stars.
White light flared on its surface.
At the same instant, we turned a hard bone-crunching left.
I’d belted myself down. But I got thrown around pretty well anyway, and I managed to crack myself in the jaw. There was a brief spurt of nausea, and I would have touched the headband for reassurance except that I didn’t dare let go of the webbing until we straightened out.
"Firing NDL," said the intercom. A shudder ran through the bulkheads, and lightning squirted toward the oncoming sphere.
"On track."
"Another incoming." We swung violently in the opposite direction, and dived. I left my stomach behind, and started thinking about terminating. Hrinwhar’s lunar surface rolled suddenly across my field of vision, rose to a vertical, and dropped away.
"We’ve got the cruiser cold!"
Those voices are from Corsarius, said the Monitor.
"Full spread!"
It sounded encouraging, but we got hit ourselves about then, and the Stein shook until I wondered how in hell it held together. On the bridge, the captain spoke almost casually to his officers as though nothing out of the way was happening.
A nuclear fireball, silent, blossoming, swept by us. Then: "We got the bastards. They’re tumbling."
"Damage Controclass="underline" report."
A cheer down on the deck. "Mutes have lost propulsion."
"Forward shield collapsed, Captain. We’re working on it. Have it back in a few minutes."
"Straczynski has engaged the other two frigates."
"Rappaport, proceed to Straczynski assistance."
"Scopes all clear."
"Landing party stand by."
"Rappaport underway. ETA Straczynski’s position approximately eleven minutes."
"The cruiser has broken apart." Another cheer.
"Captain, they’ve got nothing left to cover the heavy."
Through the plexiglass there was only black sky and pockmarked rock. On my screens, though, I could see it, an enormous illuminated barbell, its lights blinking out in a pathetic effort to avoid detection. It floated on tethers, within the spidery bays of its orbiting dock.
"Concur, Captain. No sign of tactical support."
"Acknowledged. Stein to Command. We have a heavy cruiser here. Permission to attack."
"Negative. Do not engage. Prepare to launch the assault teams."
Men and equipment were moving through the ship. Sim will lead the ground force personally, the Monitor said.
I listened to more exchanges, and then the landers were away. Now the two frigates, acting in concert, descended to attack. From my own visit, I recognized the cluster of domes set on the bleak moonscape.
A beam of pale light cut through the black sky. It appeared to be originating from a point north of the base. "Laser," said the intercom.
My displays locked on the source: a pair of dish antennas. We lobbed a plasma weapon of some sort in their general direction. The area erupted in a brilliant slow-motion conflagration, and the lights vanished.
After the ground assault had got well under way, we climbed back into orbit, where we were joined by Rappaport and Straczynski. It was a nervous time: we were now exceedingly vulnerable, and even I, who knew how it would all come out, waited anxiously, watching for the appearance of the enemy fleet on the scopes, listening to the reports coming back up from the landing force.
Resistance on the ground gave way quickly. Within ten minutes, Sim’s raiders had broken through the outer defenses, and entered the base proper.
"Monitor," I said, "how much of an advantage do the Ashiyyur have in close combat?"
You mean because of their telepathic capability?
"Yes."
Probably none. Experts don’t think they can sort things out quickly enough to be of any real value in a combat situation. It may be fortunate that their capabilities are only passive in nature. If they could transmit, project thoughts or emotions into the minds of their enemies, things might have been very different.