But he hesitated, his attention still drawn by the fiche. No. This still did not make sense, as his mind occamrazored away.
Very, very odd indeed.
But he was now very late for the banquet...
Perhaps later.
The convoy slid through hyperspace, eighteen troopships, with only two picketcraft as forward escorts.
They were unaware of the two sharks lying in ambush, only light-minutes away.
"Like a school of cod," Berhal Flue, commanding officer of the rebel destroyer Aisling, said to his brother berhal, Waldman, aboard the DD Aoife. "Blinded by the sun and swimming happily into the shallows toward the net.
"Or," he corrected his analogy, "toward the spearman."
‘Tactics, sir," Waldman asked. He was one class-year junior to Flue, despite their common rank as berhals.
"As we agreed," Flue said. "Hit them and split the formation."
"One pass and gone?"
Flue hesitated.
"Most likely. But stand by for emendation."
"Sir? I think it most unlikely that this convoy is almost completely unescorted. Perhaps we might lay doggo until it passes, make a full globesearch to make sure there are no surprises, and then hit them from the rear?"
"My orders stand, Berhal," Flue said shortly. "If they sense us, they could scatter. We have an opportunity here to strike the first great victory for the rebellion. And for our names to ring across our home worlds forever."
Waldman, like most Honjo, had less interest in glory than in honorable survival and profit, but he made no further protest.
"At your timetick," he said, and turned away from the screen.
The crew of the Aoife was already at general quarters waiting for the command.
Ship-seconds ticked away... and zero flashed.
Both destroyers went to full drive and "dove" on the convoy.
Aboard the Imperial ships, alarms yammered, and the two picketcraft shot between the attackers in a useless if brave attempt to at least slow the convoy's attackers. They were instantly obliterated.
And then the wolves were among the sheep, and the "flock" split, fleeing in all directions as rebel ship-to-ship missiles sought them out. As the destroyers swept through the disintegrating convoy, both skilled captains brought their warships close enough to the Imperial spaceships for chainguns to be employed, even if for only a few nanoseconds.
The Aoife and Aisling cleared the far side of the convoy.
Four troopships no longer existed; three others had taken crippling hits.
"One more sweepthrough," Flue ordered. "Then take individual targets and we'll destroy them in detail."
Waldman again thought of protest. This was not only against common sense, but against Sten's direct orders. When he had sent them out on their roving commission, with instructions to create as much havoc as possible, it was with the dkect command to never take a chance. "You have fast ships," Sten had said. "But that gives you no license to sail in harm's way. We are only four—the Bhor units are still forming and unready for combat. Fight hard—but come back!"
Before Waldman could decide whether to say something, the rear-lagging escort appeared onscreen.
Four Imperial light cruisers, and eleven heavy destroyers.
Honjo screens flashed a warning.
There was neither time nor need for Flue to shout orders. Both rebel destroyers went to emergency power, set irrational zigzags into their computers, and set final orbit for the prearranged RP.
Weapons officers launched Kalis as a rearguard action.
And the Honjo sailors prayed.
One destroyer flameballed as it took a solid Kali hit, and the bow of one light cruiser vaporized.
But prayer wasn't valid—or whatever gods controlled this sector of hyperspace were more interested in slaughter.
The Imperial ships counterlaunched.
Both destroyers sent out a barrage of Fox countermissiles. But there were too many launches.
Waldman flashsaw: Screen A: Imperial Kali closing on the Aisling... Flue's onscreen face, eyes widening... prox detectors howling.
And the screen to the Aisling went blank as the tightbeam severed.
‘The Aisling is hit, sir," Waldman's OD said, completely tonelessly as he'd been trained. "Wait... wait..."
Waldman ignored him.
"Nav! Orbit! I want a collision course with the Aisling's last position."
"Sir!"
"Wait... wait..." the officer of the deck monotoned. "Clear screen. No sign of Aisling, sir."
"Thank you, Mister. Powerdeck, I would appreciate it immensely if you happen to have a few extra PPS hiding back there."
"Missile closing," Countermeasures reported. "Impact... seven seconds... countermissiles failed to engage... four seconds..."
And the Aoife swept through the near-empty vacuum where the Aisling had been. Near-empty, but full enough to confuse the Kali's controller, as she lost contact with her missile and manually detonated the bird.
A miss. An Imperial officer at Central Tracking tonelessly reported the Aoife was still intact. Still under drive. A second launch went out.
But it was too late. The Aoife, tail between her legs, outran first the missiles and then the pursuing destroyers. The Imperial cruisers were far "behind" in her "wake."
Seven ship-minutes' battletime.
Imperial casualties: Two light escorts destroyed. One heavy destroyer destroyed. Four troopships destroyed. One light cruiser crippled beyond repair. One troopship abandoned and blown up after survivors were evacuated. One slave-towed to a shipworld and then scrapped as hopeless. The other two would require long months of repair before returning to service.
Almost fifteen hundred Imperial sailors as casualties.
Seven thousand trained Imperial soldiers were corpses.
Against:
One rebel DD destroyed.
Two hundred and ninety-three Honjo rebels dead.
A smashing victory for the Empire.
Sten gloomed back from the memorial for the Aisling's dead. Christ. He was very glad that Berhal Flue was an exploded corpse on an endless orbit to nowhere. Because, if he had survived, Sten would have had him shot.
He had been tempted to relieve Waldman as well, and would have if he wasn't concerned about losing whatever support he had on the Honjo worlds.
Instead, he declared the dead Honjo martyrs to the revolution, announced that a new warship would be named the Flue, and ordered medals and bonuses in all directions for the sailors of both ships.
Privately, he told the officers of the Aoife, the Victory, and the Bennington, and his Bhor officers-in-training that if anyone else fancied himself a General Kuribayashi they should so announce it now, and he would save them the bother of having to cut their own bellies after an appropriate amount of suicidally-brave resistance. Sten would be delighted to perform that duty right now and avoid the summer rush.
He made particular emphasis to the Bhor. They had a strong interest in self-preservation, as did any trading culture. But there was that species fondness for berserker rages, and Sten wanted no more memorials for a while.
He put that aside.
Ran his strategies once more. Was there anything more he could do at the moment, beyond what plans were already in motion? He thought not. Recruits from the Cal'gata clusters would be slipping secretly into the Wolf Worlds shortly, and Sten was braced for the howl of outrage when he began stripping veterans from the Bhor escort ships and his own vessels for training and command cadre.