“If they’ve got a new way of foxing our scans, that might explain why they were hanging back,” Heris said.
“Dammit,” Ginese said, watching the main clump continue steadily toward Xavier, “you’d think they’d have the guts to chase us—”
“Too smart,” Heris said. “They know we’re outgunned. Well, no one said this would be easy. Is that another one lagging?” The icon indicated that it was the other killer-escort.
“They’ve slowed,” Koutsoudas said. “Gives them more maneuverability.”
“And more options for microjumps,” Heris said. “Wait—I see only four now.”
“Their killer-ship is missing . . . no . . . there it is, sneaking over to—oh, shit.”
Over to the yacht’s hiding place, and it would be coming in on their blind side. Its commander probably didn’t know the yacht was there, Heris thought. He hoped to conceal his ship in the rings, to catch them on the flank. But instead of ambushing a fox, he was going to scare a rabbit out of the brush.
It was already too late to help; their scan data’s lag meant that whatever was going to happen, had. Heris said nothing, waiting for the disaster she expected.
When the flare came, it wasn’t the yacht.
“They laid their own mines,” Ginese said, in a tone that matched her own surprise. “Faroe thought of that—”
“Kill,” Koutsoudas said, unnecessarily. That size flare had to be a kill, and the spectra matched the reference patterns. “Detonated their onboard stuff—I hope the yacht wasn’t too close.”
Heris felt a little jolt of satisfaction. She had picked the right junior officer to captain the yacht after all—and whatever effect Lady Cecelia had had on him, he’d managed to kill a bigger, more powerful ship. And the enemy’s advantage was eroding . . . from seven ships, any of them a match for hers, the Benignity commander was down to four, one with severely damaged shields.
Assuming the two that had vanished weren’t hiding cleverly somewhere. Instinct told her no, that they had either been destroyed, or had fled, damaged, into FTL. Not smart. Ships that entered FTL with major damage rarely emerged on the other end.
If only she’d been able to lay a proper array of mines around Xavier, she’d have a chance to win outright, with all her own ships intact. The sparse ring the shuttles had spread in equatorial orbit would only annoy the ships—might injure the assault carrier whose shields were down, but no more.
Still, they’d done better than she’d expected. In the long hours that remained of the inward traverse, they would have several more chances for the quick, darting attacks that gave her ships the best chance. Especially since the CH formation no longer had killer-ships to duel with them.
“We can’t let them alone long enough to repair their shields,” she said. “I want to change shifts now—” Two standard hours early. “We need the freshest reflexes we have.” She herself had been up and running too long. She didn’t even want to think how long it had been since she assembled the small group that had taken over the Vigilance. “I’m taking four hours, myself. You have your orders, Svatek.”
Chapter Seventeen
When Heris woke, she saw that the CH group had not wavered from its course; they had drawn back into a tight cluster where shields could reinforce each other, with the damaged assault carrier in the middle, and they could shrug off the fast, brief attacks. Paradox had missed sixty percent of its shots; Heris sent them a tightbeam ordering them to jump a safe distance away and rest for six hours. Faroe, on the yacht, offered to come help harry the enemy. Heris decided against it; the yacht’s weak shields and relatively light armament meant that it could be little help, but easy prey. If it bumped into any of the stray weapons now cluttering the scene, it would have no chance. Instead, the yacht could flit in microjumps, reappearing with different beacon IDs, distracting the CH crews from the real attacks, tempting them to waste shots on it. That was dangerous enough. And, in the end, the yacht should run as fast as possible to spill its scan records at the nearest Fleet base. She warned Faroe that one or more nearby jump points might be mined.
For the next six hours, Heris sent Vigilance in and out of FTL, harrying the CH group. With every run, the mess on scan worsened, until it was almost impossible to find a safe place to shoot from. Although her ship escaped damage, it inflicted nothing beyond temporary ablation of the enemy shields, and the CH group did not maneuver at all in response to the attacks. Typical of the CH approach: they expected to bull their way through to their goal. If she’d had their mass and firepower, she’d have done the same.
“Return no more fire,” Admiral Straosi said. “They’re trying to make us waste it—”
“We have plenty,” one of his subordinates said.
“If that traitor told the truth, and there are no more Familias ships to fight. We cannot count on that.” He admired the discipline of the enemy ships; they had wasted little of their capacity. Even the misses were close enough to give everyone a scare. His crews were exhausted; they were not used to such sustained fighting, and the loss of Zamfir and Cusp had shaken them. And then Snare . . . he still had no idea what had happened to Snare. It could have been as simple as miscalculating the location of ring components, but if that tiny little ship—yacht, the traitor had called it—was capable of blowing a killer-escort, then he had to be wary of it. At least he had not been fooled by the beacon changes, after the first few times.
“If we don’t return fire, they’ll just come in closer and closer until our shields fail.”
“To come that close, they’ll have to be in realspace longer. Then we return fire.” Then we blow them away, he thought with satisfaction. “They are gnats . . . mosquitoes . . . annoying, but not really dangerous. When they get greedy and sit still, we swat them.” They were dangerous, and he knew it, but even so he had no other options. Xavier was his target; he could not waste time chasing a Serrano around the system.
He did hope that Serrano hadn’t managed to find a way to lay mine-drifts out here somewhere. Or around that miserable planet.
“So—do we close in now?” asked Svatek after they’d made two attack runs with no return fire.
“No.” Heris munched on a sandwich. “He’s just conserving his weapons—he’s not helpless. He must wonder if we’ve got more ships coming.”
“If only Despite—” Heris shook her head at him, and he said no more. They had all debated the chance that Despite’s crew might mutiny and come back to help them—assuming that most of the crew, like the crews of Vigilance and Paradox, were loyal. But the hours had passed, with no sign of return.
“If our packet made it out, someone should be getting a poke about now,” Heris said. “That still means hours—more likely days—before other ships could arrive.” If some traitor at the other end didn’t suppress it. If a battle group or wave was ready to set off when the message arrived. She wondered again about her aunt. How much had she guessed of the enemy’s intention? Was there a worse problem somewhere else, that she committed so little resources to this likely target?