“Then we jack the pressure back up and lower the oxygen when we know we’re going into combat.”
“And lose air. It’ll be tricky as well because if we fluctuate air pressure and particularly nitrogen content we could cause the entire crew to get the bends. The environmental officer is trying to work something out.”
“I think they called it robbing Peter to pay Paul, chief.”
“That’s how I see it, sir.”
“Bridge control status?”
“We’ve run some more wiring into the launch control room but our long-range scanning array is wiped out. We’ll have to rely on Intrepid and Kagimasha for that data. Helm control, combat information, navigation, and damage control stations are now fully operational.”
“A damned fine job,” Jason said. “Chief, we couldn’t have pulled it off without your skill.”
“Hell, Captain, I just want to get out of this scrap alive; three months and I’m up for retirement.”
“I’m just glad you didn’t retire before this cruise.”
“I wish the hell I had,” the chief replied, and Jason laughed in commiseration.
“I think we all kind of wish that at the moment, chief.”
He turned and looked over at his old comrade.
“Doomsday, how are our planes?”
“Twenty-three pilots left, not counting you, sir. One of the marine shuttle pilots and his co were both checked out on Ferrets so we do have two backups though it’d be murder to send them out against Kilrathi fleet pilots. Five Sabres, eight Rapiers, and seven Ferrets left.”
Jason had been mulling that one over and now had to make a decision.
“All right, Doomsday, you’re promoted to wing commander.”
“Just what I always wanted, sir,” he said dryly. “They live about as long as new pups.”
“You’ll also continue to run the Sabre squadron. Round Top takes over the Ferrets,” he paused for a moment, “and Tolwyn runs the Rapiers.”
“I don’t like that, Jason.”
“I didn’t expect you to, but the kid proved himself out there, he dumped four of them and saved Intrepid’s butt from a torpedo strike.”
“I wish we had Mongol.”
“Well, we don’t,” and he thought of all the fresh young faces now gone: Mongol, Flame, Ice Wind, Nova, Eagle, Talon, Thor, and Odin, all the heroic young names, now dead.
He looked up at the chronometer which was ticking off the time.
“It’s an hour to scramble and rendezvous. The galley’s promised a hot meal for everyone, and the crew’s to eat at their posts. People, we’re going to get out of here, we’re going to get home, just remember that, and tell your people that as well. It’s time for the service, so let’s get out on the deck and look sharp.”
He rose up from his chair and walked out of the makeshift bridge, his staff following. Out by the airlock the crew was waiting, both the living and the dead. The bodies were wrapped in nothing more than the standard fleet navy blue bodybags and covered with bed sheets. Some of the forms were at least recognizable as having once been human; those lost on the bridge were far smaller bundles. For those who had been vaporized or blown into space, the old fleet tradition of “burying” their uniform served as a substitute. How the damage control and infirmary team had ever dealt with the task of cleaning up from the blast was beyond Jason.
Their bodies were now lined up by the airlock.
Jason walked up to the line of corpses and turned to face those crew members who could be spared from damage repairs to attend.
He was at a loss for what to say, though he had attended far too many of these services in the past.
“We don’t have time to say much,” he said quietly, “and I don’t think our comrades would want us to take that time right now. When all of this is over, perhaps then we can gather together again and do this properly.”
He turned away from the crew and faced the line of bodies. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a copy of the Bible and read the 23rd Psalm. Finishing the prayer he lowered his head.
“You were our shipmates, and our friends. Though it might sound strange to say it, I want to thank you for us who still live, both here, and across the Confederation, for it is through you that humankind will live, will endure to final victory, and will finally achieve peace.”
“Sleep well, my friends, until that day when space shall give up her dead.”
He came to attention, saluted, and the haunting refrain of “Taps” echoed through the ship. Details of marines stepped forward and as gently as possible picked up the bodies and stepped up to the airlock field, pushing them through one after the other. With the ship running stern first, as the bodies hit the atmosphere outside they tumbled away into the green blue ammonia soup sky and disappeared. Colonel Merritt came forward after the last body disappeared, and stepped up to a helmet and jump boots which Jason knew were symbols of all the marines who had died in the assault. He saluted and then two sergeants picked up the tokens and pushed them through the airlock as well.
Jason turned back to face the crew, standing ramrod straight.
“We pull out of here in thirty-seven minutes. Now let’s get the hell out of this system and kick some fur butt on the way!”
Stunned, the Emperor lowered his head, motioning with a wave of his hand that the messenger was dismissed.
How could this be, how could this ever be? Just what had gone wrong?
Five carriers of the home fleet gone, sixteen support ships gone, nineteen troop transports and four legions of the guard annihilated down to the last warrior. Rusmak and Gar, two of his finest commanders and both of the royal line dead as well.
How could this ever be?
Who was to blame?
And the family, the vast extended family of the imperial blood, what would they now say and do with the bulwark of their home fleet gone? He could well imagine the casualty lists. So many sons of the royal blood would have been lost and the family would look for blame.
He thought for a moment of the various factions, each jockeying, pushing, positioning to destroy its rivals.
A klaxon sounded in the distance and he stirred from his contemplation.
A screen sparked to life, an action which would be permitted only in an emergency.
“My lord, forgive the intrusion.”
The Emperor looked at the commander of the palace guard who stood at rigid attention, head lowered.
“Go on, then.”
“Sire, the enemy carrier. It has lifted out of the atmosphere.”
The Emperor, furious, said nothing.
“Sire, it is accelerating rapidly with ram scoops fully retracted and making a course which will intersect with Kilrah within the hour. Prince Thrakhath advises that this might be a suicide attempt to crash into Kilrah.”
The Emperor nodded. Outside of a close circle of the high command and the warriors directly involved in the fight, not a single individual living on Kilrah knew that a human strike force had penetrated into the heart of the Empire.
“Thrakhath’s fleet?”
“Moving to intercept.”
“No alert is to be sounded,” the Emperor said quietly.
“Sire?” The commander hesitated.
“Go on.”
“Not even for those residing within the Palace?”
He paused. If a strike should indeed get through, the likely target would indeed be the palace compound. Tens of thousands who might survive in the shelters would die. But to even admit that danger was this close? And the home fleet smashed? He could face a coup before the day was out.
“No one is to know. I want to speak to Thrakhath on a secured scramble line.”
“As you desire, my lord.”