“Enemy are deploying point defence units,” the tactical officer said. Colin nodded, unsurprised. The chances were good that quite a few missiles would expend themselves uselessly, but that was a given in any battle. “They’re powering up…”
His voice broke off as new red icons flickered into existence. “Admiral,” he said, his voice filled with sudden — unprofessional — horror. “Multiple contacts! Multiple hostile contacts!”
Commodore Brent-Cochrane couldn’t resist the thrill that seemed to dance through his entire body as his small squadron powered up its drives and prepared to flicker into the Greenland System. He’d taken the risk of keeping the flicker drives on standby, even if it did shorten the lifespan of the drives by several years, knowing that success would lead to forgiveness. The angry memos from the Imperial Navy’s Engineering Department — which seemed to spend most of its time inventing reasons why vital and costly repairs should not be carried out — would wash off his back like water, if he succeeded. His own engineers — who were on the ships and therefore deserved to be heard — had been more tolerant, but even they had warned that he couldn’t do it for long. If the rebels didn’t take the bait, he would have some explaining to do to the penny-pinchers back on Earth…
But the rebels had taken the bait! He raised a mental glass in a toast to Captain Quick, Percival’s aide, knowing that her calculations had saved his position — and boosted it beyond measure. If he managed to bring Admiral Percival the head of the chief mutineer, or even destroyed the rebel superdreadnaughts, no one would be able to stand in his way. Admiral Percival would be disgraced and Brent-Cochrane would be in a good position to step into his shoes. His patrons back on Earth — the two families who had hoped that his parents would bring them together — would see to that. He rubbed his hands together with glee as he settled back into the throne-like command chair. It was time to wreak havoc on the rebels and save the Roosevelt planet, guaranteeing him the support and patronage of the most powerful Family in the sector. They’d drop Admiral Percival like a hot rock.
“Commodore,” the tactical officer said, flatly. “All ships are ready to power up.”
Brent-Cochrane grinned, unpleasantly. “Then by all means,” he said. “Take us into the fire.”
His ships were already moving through space at a considerable speed when the flicker drive engaged, sending a wave of nausea through the ship. Brent-Cochrane felt, for a second, as if he’d been punched in the belly, but he swallowed hard and stood up, studying the display that had appeared in front of him. They hadn’t got it quite right, he noted thoughtfully, but they’d certainly got close enough to shock the rebels.
“Transmit a demand for surrender,” Brent-Cochrane ordered. He didn’t expect the rebels to comply, but Percival had insisted, claiming that the rebels were too cowardly to put up a fight if they found themselves staring down the missile tubes of nine superdreadnaughts. He’d enlisted the aid of a staff psychologist to prove his case, yet as the psychologist wasn’t travelling with the squadron, Brent-Cochrane tended to disregard his opinion. It sounded a lot more like Percival was trying to cover his ass. Besides, a person who could lead a mutiny and then overwhelm and capture nine superdreadnaughts was clearly not a coward, whatever else he was. “And then prepare to fire.”
He settled back in his command chair, watching as his crew moved smoothly about their work. It had been painful and unpleasant — he could smell the stench of vomit from somewhere behind him — but they’d come out of the flicker on a direct course for the enemy superdreadnaughts. Whatever they did, there was no way in which they would be able to avoid engagement, which left one final question. How long did the rebels have before they could flicker out and escape?
Colin fought hard to maintain his composure, although part of him was relieved that the shoe had finally fallen. He’d sensed something was wrong and yet he’d done nothing… silently, he cursed his own error in not ordering them to fall back from the planet while they had the chance. The enemy commander had trapped them, almost perfectly. Whoever was commanding the enemy fleet was on the wrong side.
He pushed that thought aside as he contemplated the tactical situation, tossing options around in his head. His crew could handle the incoming missiles from Greenland. Luckily, the orbital fortress seemed to be holding its fire while the enemy fleet waited for Colin’s surrender, although that wouldn’t last. Colin had heard rumours about Household Troops firing on targets just to ensure that the Imperial Navy didn’t have a chance to capture them. All of a sudden, those reports seemed alarmingly creditable.
The enemy commander, unless he had another trick up his sleeve, hadn’t timed it just right, although given the problems with coordinating operations across light years, he’d done better than anyone could reasonably have expected. If Colin chose to continue towards the planet, even accelerating, he would be forced into a close-range action against the orbital fortresses, one where his ships wouldn’t have the advantage. If he broke away from the planet, they would certainly be committed to a missile duel with the enemy superdreadnaughts… which, if they managed to run them down because of their higher velocity, would have a chance to bring them into energy range. And if that happened, the rebellion was finished, along with the superdreadnaughts. The enemy commander, intentionally or otherwise, had caught Colin between two fires.
Just for a second, Colin felt indecision creeping up on him, but remaining where they were would be the worst choice of all. “Signal the enemy ships,” he ordered. “Tell them” — his lips twitched in delight — “hell no!”
“Aye, sir,” the communications officer said. Whatever the Empire might say about fair treatment, or even forgiveness, they all knew better. The Empire would either execute them on the spot or dump them all on a penal world, with no hope of escape. “They’re not responding.”
The display sparkled with bright red icons. “I think they have responded,” Colin said. Absurdly, a stray thought ran through his mind, reminding him of the lessons on human-alien interaction back at the Academy. Most of them had been about how important it was to teach the aliens that humanity was the superior race and any resistance would bring death, but some had been genuinely interesting. Aliens often had different ways of communicating than humanity, yet some ways of communication had been universal. Opening fire, for one, was a pretty good way of conveying threatening intent. “Helm” — he tapped his console for a moment, designating a new course — “alter course as specified.”
“Aye, sir,” the helmsman said. If he had doubts about the wisdom of the course, he didn’t show them. Colin wouldn’t have been surprised if he had. In order to avoid fire from the superdreadnaughts, he was flying alarmingly close to the orbital stations. The wave of incoming missiles the fortress had launched might have been battered down, evaded, or survived, but there were would be more coming at them soon. “We are altering course… now.”
Colin nodded. Whoever was in command of the enemy ships would know, now, that he intended to fight. The only question remaining, therefore, was brutally simple. Could his ships survive long enough for them to power up their drives and escape?