Fully half of the remaining missiles made their objective the Control Ship, with the remaining split between the other three lesser targets. 264 missiles corkscrewed in toward the lead vessel, becoming over 1500 individual warheads, each one a step in a fiery spiral ending in immolation. The space above each target began to froth with the white globes of nuclear flame and the lobed spears of coherent x-rays as the warheads worked their way down toward the endgame.
The first few hundred beams flayed into the Control Ship and the museum vessels without opposition and very nearly ended things there. The critical weakness of the Patrons was also one of their greatest tools: stasis. The game-changing nature of the alien technology meant that the Patrons and their equipment could survive any shock, thermal load, or duration that the stasis machinery itself could survive. Short of a direct hit or the indiscriminate battering ram of transfer energy, the invading force would survive even this onslaught—provided they could stop the attack before those direct and indirect assaults pulverized or vaporized even the hardened areas of the fleet.
And that was the Achilles Heel of the device that enabled the Patrons to survive the vast distances between stars. Stasis made them slow. It introduced an unavoidable pause in whatever reaction they might take, and as mankind had exploited it twice before, they did so again.
The Control Ship erupted in apocalyptic fissures of light as beam after beam flayed it or stabbed deep, rending deck after deck, layer after layer of alien technology. Entire sections of the vessel were cut free to spin wildly away from the pseudogravity around the drive star. Patrons died by the dozens as the warheads worked their way ever closer.
Rear Admiral Calvin Henson smiled slightly, deeply satisfied but cautiously optimistic. He keyed his mike to the flag battle net, his link to his group’s commanding officers, as well as CRUDESGRU Two and the two allied destroyer squadrons. “All stations, CRUDESGRU One will remain on a southern approach, centered on the Control Ship. Group Two, detach and proceed at best speed to the opposite side of the drive star, make your approach out of the magnetic knot to the north. Your objective remains the Control Ship. Recommend detaching Sword of Industry as command and control relay to coordinate additional salvoes after you pass the limn of the star. DESRON Alpha, break east and engage the Polyp and the Junkyard. DESRON Bravo, make for the Cathedral and continue.”
Commodore Dan Torrance, his old XO from their mutually stolen bid for command of the Sword of Liberty, responded first. “Roger, Admiral. We’re headed for the backside and we’ll meet you again up front, hopefully with nothing but a debris field between us.”
“DESRON Alpha, aye.” A clipped British voice—Commodore Lawrence aboard HMS Conqueror.
“DESRON Bravo, will comply.” And this, a slight German accent—Flotillenadmiral Krueger of NAE Bismarck.
From within the confines of his acceleration coffin, Henson nodded as best he could. Almost all the first wave’s missiles were committed, with outstandingly destructive results and virtually no reaction from the enemy vessels. Yes, optimistic, but cautiously so. “Tactical teams, release second wave per the op plan and prepare for direct fire when within range, at ships’ discretion.”
All his subordinates’ voices together. “Aye aye, sir!”
Uncomfortably cocooned within her own “coffin” inside her stateroom aboard the Trenton, Lydia Russ fretted with the wealth of information she’d been offered by Calvin Henson. Despite her lack of a place within his tactical organization, he had seen fit to provide her with a direct view of the action, just as his tactical watchstanders saw it. The veering icons, lines, and splashes of color proved to be a three-dimensional mess, however. She silently complimented whatever training program enabled the tacticians and technicians of the aerospace navy to make any sense of the gobbledygook she had become privy to.
After a short while, though, she began to get the gist despite herself. All the available information appeared overwhelmingly lopsided toward man’s victory. And as she felt her body vibrate with the multiple ejections of the second wave of missiles, it only seemed as if it would shift even more in humanity’s favor.
She could not help thinking, however, that were she in gravity, she’d be listening for the other shoe to drop.
preparations undone
shift and jostle, whirl about
back where we started
are secrets revealed
<discontinuity>
Stasis vanished abruptly once more, and every remaining crewmember of the Sword of Liberty comically whirled their arms about as they adjusted to their new locations. Where before they had been armed and arrayed in defensive positions throughout the remains of the ship, now they were all back in the wardroom, in a circle, surrounding the broken pieces of their small arm weapons.
Nathan looked at his crew, silently checking their names off an internal truncated list, ensuring they were all there. His eyes lingered on Kris, across from him in the circle, until she locked gazes with him and he could see and feel that she was all right. He looked at the pile of guns and then turned to Dave Edwards. “They took the low-hanging fruit. Did they wreck all our preps though?”
Edwards shrugged, then pushed off from the bodies next to him and flew over to the ops console there in the wardroom. “Dunno, Boss. Let me check.”
Before he could query the system though, the entire hull jerked and flexed violently, scattering people and gun parts through the air. The debris filled the weightless room, sowing even more confusion and pain as the pieces collided and rebounded painfully off both person and bulkhead without discrimination.
Kris grinned even as she rubbed a fresh bruise upon her forehead. “Well, at least we woke up during another round of action rather than coming in after humanity was toast.”
LT Simmons steadied himself and responded, “Yeah, but that action seemed a little close and a little too strong. I’m glad our people are still giving the Patrons some effective resistance, but I’m less keen to wind up toast myself.”
Nathan grinned. “Mike, we’ve been on borrowed time for who knows how long. All I want is a chance to get out of here. Whether we make or not is in the hands of whatever higher power’s been watching over us up until now.”
Kris drifted near and she and Nathan snagged one another out of the air and held on tight and close. “Never knew you were quite so religious, Captain-my-love.”
“Hey, there are no atheists in foxholes. Or in this case, probably none captured by implacable aliens and thrown into stasis at will.”
Kris frowned. “Stick with the foxhole analogy. It’s pithier.”
Edwards turned away from the console and gestured to gain all their attention. “Well, whether angels or the incompetence of our captors is responsible, our preps are still good. They satisfied themselves with wrecking our obvious weapons. Auxiliary capacitors are still charged, maneuvering jets are still good, and the shuttle shows five by five. Plus, get this: I’m picking up encrypted comm chatter. I can’t decipher it without a key, but it means it’s not just missiles or mines out there. There are people.”
Nathan nodded. “That tears it. We make our attempt now. Everybody, we’re abandoning our defensive stations and leaving. These aliens thought they’d taken away all our weapons, removed every means we had of opposing them. But they didn’t count on our ingenuity, our resolve,” he looked over at Kris lovingly and continued, “or our sheer stupidity. Let’s do something stupid and suicidal and show our Patrons what it means to underestimate Earth.”