Marphissa readied a command for Manticore’s identification broadcast, ensuring that the broadcast was disabled and wouldn’t send anything until she activated it. The sensors in CEO Boyens’s flotilla would know Manticore without any official ID being broadcast. They had seen her hull too many times and knew every unique feature and mark it had accumulated in space. But the identification contained in the broadcast this time would give them a very unpleasant surprise.
Five minutes. “Everyone listen,” Marphissa said. “If Kapitan Bascare sends a message, she will use a different name and rank. She is here by personal order of President Iceni. Do not let that name and rank cause you to hesitate. Is that clear?”
Once again, everyone nodded. Everyone but Kapitan Toirac.
“Disable main propulsion unit two,” Marphissa ordered. “Ensure it does not light off when maneuvering orders are given, not until you are told to reactivate it.”
“Yes, Kommodor,” the engineering specialist said. “Deactivating main propulsion unit two. Unit two is deactivated.”
Marphissa looked at Bradamont. “Do you need this seat?”
“No. The weapons are yours. I can give whatever maneuvering commands are needed while standing here.”
One minute. “Shields at maximum, all weapons ready,” Marphissa said to Bradamont.
Kontos hadn’t moved, but his eyes were locked on Bradamont.
They exited the gate at Midway, the nothing outside of Manticore abruptly being replaced by countless stars and endless space. “I have command,” Bradamont announced. “Come starboard one seven zero degrees, down two zero degrees, maximum acceleration on main propulsion units one, three, and four.”
Manticore swung around and accelerated, her vector altering to head for the other ships of the Midway Flotilla, five light-minutes away.
“Boyens is still here,” Marphissa observed, as her display updated.
Bradamont nodded and pointed to another area relatively close to the hypernet gate. When they had left, the entire Alliance fleet had been two light-hours from the gate, but now a substantial force of battle cruisers and other warships orbited only ten light-minutes away.
“The Syndicate flotilla is maneuvering,” the senior specialist announced. “Heavy cruisers and Hunter-Killers. They’re coming around to an intercept.”
Bradamont nodded again. “When will they come within weapons range of us?”
The specialists exchanged glances. “We were not moving fast coming out of the gate, Kapitan Bascare, and with one propulsion unit disabled, we are accelerating at less than an optimum rate. The Syndicate heavy cruisers will be within missile range in seventeen minutes.”
“Good. How long will it take to bring main propulsion unit two back online?”
“Five seconds, Kapitan. Then another five seconds for it to achieve full thrust.” The specialist gave her a quizzical glance, wondering why an officer of such rank did not know such basic information about a ship built by the Syndicate Worlds. They had seen Kapitan Bascare practicing maneuvering Manticore during some of the transits through star systems while escorting the other cruiser and knew from that she was experienced in handling ships, making her lack of knowledge all the more puzzling.
Bradamont smiled slightly. “Sixteen minutes,” she told Marphissa.
Her confidence was so palpable that the crew, despite their nervousness as the Syndicate pursuit force lunged toward them, waited without question as the bubble on their displays marking missile-engagement range for the Syndicate warships drew steadily closer to Manticore.
“The Alliance ships are moving! They are… heading toward the Syndicate flotilla!” The operations specialist blinked at her display in disbelief, then grinned. “They are coming to help us? Black Jack is coming!”
Not the Alliance, Marphissa noted. Black Jack. She would remember that.
An alert pulsed on the displays, warning that the Syndicate warships would be within missile range in one minute.
“Steady,” Bradamont said. “Engineering, I will order main propulsion unit two back online in one minute and ten seconds. Is that understood? Wait for the command.”
“Yes, Kapitan.”
Marphissa glanced at Bradamont. “Now?”
“Forty seconds,” Bradamont replied. “The information has to reach the Syndic warships too late for them to change their actions.”
Exactly forty seconds later, Marphissa tapped a control. Manticore’s identification broadcast lit off, telling the universe that the warship was—
“Kommodor?” the communications specialist asked, bewildered. “Our unit identification says we are… Alliance.”
“Alliance-flagged,” Marphissa said. “Not the same thing. Listen to Kapitan Bascare.”
“Activate main propulsion unit two, full thrust,” Bradamont ordered, then tapped Marphissa’s comm controls. “Units of the Syndicate Worlds, this is Captain Bradamont of the Alliance fleet, commanding a chartered warship on official Alliance business. You are to cease threatening activity immediately.”
“Missiles have launched!” The warning came just as Bradamont finished speaking. Seconds later, Manticore lurched in response to a significant increase in her acceleration, the inertial dampers not quite masking the effects of propulsion unit two coming on line at full power.
Then Bradamont’s last words struck home and everyone on the bridge but Kontos and Marphissa stared at her in disbelief. “Stand by!” Kontos said sharply, bringing everyone’s attention back to their duties.
There were twenty-four missiles inbound. Their targeting solutions had been badly thrown off by the sudden increase in Manticore’s acceleration, but the missiles’ targeting systems could compensate for that to some extent. “Come port one four degrees,” Bradamont ordered. “Down six degrees.”
“The Midway Flotilla is altering vectors,” the operations specialist said. “They are on an intercept with the Syndicate heavy cruisers pursuing us, Kapi— Kapitan… Bascare.”
Marphissa, her gaze darting from one point on her display to the next, noticed that Bradamont’s small vector change had placed the pursuing missiles into a stern chase, coming in from directly behind Manticore. That meant the relative speed of the missiles had been reduced as much as possible, making them easier targets. A small thing, but an important thing.
“Wait!” Kapitan Toirac, glaring at Bradamont, had started up from his seat. “We can’t accept orders from this—”
“Shut up!” Marphissa snapped, her patience with her former friend exhausted.
“I will not—”
But Toirac did stop speaking, his face rigid. Marphissa leaned back enough to see that Kontos had drawn his sidearm and had the barrel planted on Kapitan Toirac’s spine. At that range, Toirac’s survival suit wouldn’t stop a shot, and Toirac knew it. Sometimes the old ways may be the best.
“Incoming,” Bradamont prodded, her eyes turned away from the small tableau. She gave no sign of what she thought of Syndicate command procedures.
But Bradamont probably was not impressed. Angrily refocusing on the engagement, Marphissa authorized the hell-lance weapons that faced aft to open fire, watching as the particle beams lashed out at the oncoming missiles. Two, then three, then four missiles were knocked out.
That left twenty.
Bradamont had been watching the missiles, counting the time since their launch, watching the display to see remaining endurance data based on the precise capabilities of the Syndicate missiles. “It’s a lot easier to estimate this when you know exactly what the missiles can do,” she commented to Marphissa. “All main propulsion units to zero thrust,” she ordered.