Then the surviving maces were through the Wyzhnyny formations. The Commo battle groups followed, their battleships wielding heavy beamguns. Firing torpedoes required complex shield topologies that made them more susceptible to destruction, so it was their corvette and cruiser outriders that wielded torpedoes. The smaller ships' safety lay partly in numbers, and partly in the Wyzhnyny tactic of focusing on human battleships.
Concentrating on battleships was a sound strategy for both sides. The Commos needed to destroy as many Wyzhnyny as possible, which meant maintaining fighting contact as long as they could-before the Wyzhnyny could gang up on them. Inevitably they did gang up on some of them, of course. The trick then became to disrupt the Wyzhnyny teamwork by throwing in maces. But meanwhile Commo ships were lost.
With the Wyzhnyny concentrating on the manned wings, the maces dropped their shields, generated warpspace, and disappeared. Their battlecomps had their orders and knew the drill. So far their losses had been modest, and they'd disordered the Wyzhnyny formations, disrupting their larger-scale coordination before the Commo battle groups struck. More ships died then, mostly Wyzhnyny, while the Wyzhnyny battle groups coordinated their fire as best they could.
From the bridge of the battleship Pyrenees, Axel Tisza saw the Altai caught in a crossfire from three Wyzhnyny battleships, her shield shimmering strongly with intercepted energy; her shield generator would soon overload. With a quick touch he turned two war beams on one of the attackers; another touch simultaneously ordered torpedoes engaged. Automatically his shield reconfigured, the torpedoes fixing on targets, and launching. A moment later a salvo struck the Pyrenees, and her outer shield layer collapsed. On the bridge, the lights flickered. Systems display windows showed generator status red and pulsing. Damage Control cut off the war beam, lessening the stress on the matric tap, in order to regenerate the shield layer. But there was too little time; another salvo struck, and almost simultaneously another. The lights flared and died, returning almost instantly as the emergency backup system responded. Klaxons clamored briefly before two more salvos struck, and the Pyrenees died. Axel Tisza hadn't even had time to see if he'd succeeded in saving the Altai and Charley Gordon.
Soong had. The two battle groups had been keeping pace. He saw the torpedos flash against the Pyrenees' shield, which seemed to expand, then disappear, the instant almost too brief to register. Jabbing he locked a monitor on her. Almost simultaneously, another window showed one of the Altai's three attackers lose her own overstressed shield, and her beam, as Tisza's first salvo struck; her generator, if not her matric tap, had blown. A second lost her shield a moment later, to torpedoes from the Altai's cruiser escorts. The third, seeing the Pyrenees shieldless, turned its beams on her. Sprays of molten hull metal scintillated where the beams had locked. Then the final blow struck-two salvos, from two Wyzhnyny cruisers-and the Pyrenees ripped apart.
For perhaps two seconds Soong stared, then he snapped out of it. He'd seen-at the Academy they'd all seen-just such episodes in virtuality many times, preparing for a moment like this. Which helped. But seeing it in reality, and knowing who commanded, the moment stabbed him deeply.
The Commo battle wings passed through the enemy ring, many of the Commo battleships with Wyzhnyny target locks still attached. Then the maces returned. In self-defense the Wyzhnyny turned their guns and torpedoes on them; the Commo wings dropped shields and escaped, most of them, into warpspace before the outer ring of Wyzhnyny could engage them.
This time the maces continued outward, engaging the outer Wyzhnyny ring, striking selected wings and ignoring others. And scarcely had they passed through the outer ring when the Commo battle groups reappeared in F-space at a distance, re-forming formations for their next assault-in which they would change tactics on the Wyzhnyny, keep them guessing and off balance.
When the confusion had peaked again, the human formations, superbly synchronized, disappeared into strange-space. Quanshuk stared after them. The bridge of the Meadowlands stank with musk and sweat. Almost at once, status reports began to scroll. Watching them, Quanshuk's guts shriveled.
After several minutes it seemed apparent the humans would not return. But the grand admiral did not at once leave the bridge. It would amount to abandoning the watch in a time of trauma. Besides, who could be sure? The humans might suddenly reappear.
This time, when the battle was over, Charley Gordon wasn't jubilant. Instead he "sagged" in sudden exhaustion. With the Commo escape into warpspace-that's what it had been, an escape-the battle master's bridge orderly wheeled him to his quarters, where Ophelia Kennah took charge. Ophelia: Charley's nurse, confidante, and best friend.
Alvaro Soong wasn't jubilant either, nor about to take his fleet back into that maelstrom. Reports were incomplete, of course. A host of data had been recorded by the Altai's sensors, and more had been forwarded automatically in real time from his hundreds of other ships. All to be processed-compiled, analyzed and summarized. Only shipsmind could manage it, organizing and prioritizing, then scrolling at a rate his staff could deal with.
But what he did know was he'd lost about a third of his battleships and personnel, including the Pyrenees and Axel Tisza. The Altai herself had twice been in serious trouble, and been bailed out.
Inevitably his maces had taken the heaviest losses. About half were gone, despite their evasiveness and layered shields. They'd fought the most, where the risks were greatest. Without them, Charley could not have maintained battle contact with the Wyzhnyny for nearly as long, nor done nearly the damage.
In numbers, Wyzhnyny losses had been much greater, especially of crews. But again, in terms of percentages, Soong's Commos had gotten the worst of it. As expected.
Nonetheless, given the relative numbers and firepower, Charley had performed another miracle. Soong wondered what the Wyzhnyny commander made of it. Was he shocked? Enraged? Dismayed? Or possibly pleased?
After ordering hot tea and honey for the bridge watch, he went to his channeling savant, to send a preliminary report to War House. A full debrief could wait. He'd emerge in F-space in the cometary cloud; F-space was a necessary intermediate between strange-spaces. Then, after pulsing updated orders to his fleet, he'd generate hyperspace, and debrief to Kunming. And tomorrow-next shipsday-they'd reemerge for a fleet review and memorial service.
Finally Soong retired to his stateroom. He'd just closed the door, the lock engaging behind him, when it hit-the nervous exhaustion, the loss, the shock-all at once. He sank shaking onto a chair, put his face in his hands, and for the first time since he'd learned of his mother's death, he wept. All those men. All those men.
It lasted perhaps thirty seconds. After another minute he stripped and showered, then poured himself a brandy, read for a few minutes from Innocent XV's Soul and Body, and went to bed. Where his last thought was of Ax. I wish, he told himself, there'd been time to get drunk together again, after so many years. Then he fixed his attention on his old roommate and rival, and sent a thought. "Maybe next time," he murmured aloud. The prayer of a skeptic. He wondered if there was anyone, or anything, "out there" to hear it.
Chapter 58
Envoy