Yurahk gawked at his display as the telemetry from his missiles went dead. All of it went out, from every single bird, in the same instant, and that was impossible. Starquest herself could scarcely have killed that many missiles simultaneously, yet that was the only possible explanation for the sudden cessation of telemetry.
He had no idea how it had been done, but he felt ice congeal in his belly, and he punched up his com.
“Flight, this is Lead. Come to three-five-three true, speed two thousand—now!”
One or two of the acknowledgments sounded surly, but he wasn’t surprised by that. Nor did their obvious unhappiness at “running away” deter him. Despite endless hours in simulators, none of his pilots—nor he himself, for that matter—had ever flown combat against first-line Human systems. That might make some of the others overconfident, but Yurahk was responsible for their survival. Not just because they were his pilots, but because their shuttles were irreplaceable, as valuable now as superdreadnoughts once had been. And because that was true, he sent them skimming back to the north and safety while he pondered what had just happened.
But for all his caution, he’d ordered their retreat too late.
My second drone acquires the Enemy shuttles but remains below them, hiding its already weak signature in the ground clutter, as I consider its information. Were my magazines fully loaded, obliterating the Enemy craft would be simplicity itself, but my anti-air missile levels are extremely low. At the same time, the shuttles remain very close to the ground, below the horizon from my present position and thus safe from my direct fire weapons, but—
“What’s happening?”
My Commander’s voice demands my attention. I have now had ample time to conclude that he is a civilian and not, in fact, a member of any branch of the Republic’s military. This conclusion has no bearing on his status as my Commander—the voice—impression imperatives of my creche-level restart are clear on that point—but his lack of training will require simplification of situation reports and makes it doubly unfortunate that he is trapped in Cargo One rather than on Command Two. Were he at his proper station, my neural interface could transmit information directly to him, yet I feel a certain relief that I cannot do so. He is as untrained in use of the interface as of any of my other systems, and the interface can be dangerous for an inexperienced user. Moreover, the fuzzy confusion still wavering in the background of my thought processes would make me wary of exposing my Commander to my potentially defective gestalt.
Yet without the interface, I must rely solely upon voice and visual instrumentation, both to report to him and to interpret his needs and desires. My internal optics show me that he has risen once more and walked closer to the display. His expression is intent, and I realize he has noted—and apparently recognized—the shuttle icons which have appeared in it.
“The Enemy is withdrawing,” I reply.
“Withdrawing?” my Commander repeats sharply. “You mean running away?”
“Affirmative, Commander.”
“But if they get away, they can come back and attack the steading again—or attack somewhere else. Somewhere too far from here for you to stop them!”
“Correct,” I reply, pleased by how quickly he has reached that conclusion. Formal training or no, he appears to have sound instincts.
“Then stop them!” he directs. “Don’t let them get away!”
“Yes, Commander.”
I have been considering and discarding options even as my Commander and I speak. Absent proper missile armament, there is but one practical tactic. It will force a greater degree of temporary vulnerability upon me and impose a severe drain on Reserve Power, and it may provide the main Enemy force an accurate idea of what it faces, but it should be feasible.
Yurahk shifted com channels to report what had happened, and Commander Tharsk himself took his message. The flotilla CO was clearly shaken, and Yurahk split his attention between flying and his commander’s questions as he did his best to answer them. And because he was concentrating on those things, he never noticed what was happening behind him.
Unit 1097-SHV of the Line shut down his battle screen in order to channel power to his counter-grav. The Mark XXXIII Bolo had been designed with sufficient counter-grav for unassisted assault landings from orbit, but Shiva didn’t need that much ceiling this night. He needed only twelve thousand meters to give him a direct line of sight on the fleeing shuttles, and he pivoted to bring his undamaged starboard secondary battery to bear.
Lieutenant Janal cried out on Starquest’s command deck as his sensors peaked impossibly, and Humans as far away as Landing cringed at the fury unleashed across the heavens. Seven twenty-centimeter Hellbores, each more powerful than the main battery weapons of most light cruisers, went to rapid fire, and the javelins of Zeus stripped away the darkness. No assault shuttle ever built could withstand that sort of fire, and the deadly impact patterns rolled mercilessly through the Melconian formation.
Nine-point-three seconds after the first Hellbore fired, there were no shuttles in the air of the planet renamed Ararat.
7
A minor malfunction in Secondary Fire Control has caused Number Four Hellbore’s first shot to miss, requiring a second shot to complete target destruction. This is embarrassing but not critical, and has no significant impact upon projected energy consumption.
I descend at the maximum safe rate, however, for my counter-grav systems are energy intensive. Even with Battle Screen and Main Battery off-line, free flight requires no less than seven-two-point-six-six percent of total power plant capacity, but without reactor mass I have no power plant, and even so short a flight has reduced my endurance on Reserve Power to only nine-point-seven-five hours at full combat readiness. As I cannot replenish my power reserves until sunrise, which will not occur for another eight-point-eight-six hours, I must be frugal in future expenditures, but the shuttles’ destruction has been well worth the energy cost. The Enemy has lost a major striking force, and, still more valuably, the shuttle commander’s report to his mother ship has provided me with much information. I have not only discovered the position of the Enemy’s main force but succeeded in invading his com net by piggy-backing on the command shuttle’s transmissions, and I consider what I have learned as I descend.
I am not surprised by my ability to invade the shuttles’ com net. The Enemy’s obvious underestimation of the threat he faces made the task even simpler, but a Kestrel-class shuttle’s computers are totally outclassed by those of any Bolo, much less a Mark XXXIII. What does surprise me is the ease with which I invaded the far end of the link. The AI of an Imperial heavy cruiser, far, far inferior to a Bolo, should have recognized my touch. It would be unlikely to prevent me from gaining initial access, but it should have detected my intrusion almost instantly and sought to eject me. More, it should have alerted its command crew to my presence, and this AI did neither. The destruction of the shuttles has terminated my invasion by removing my access channel, yet there is no sign the Enemy even realizes I was ever there.
I am puzzled by this… until I study the data I have obtained. The brevity of my access—little more than twelve-point-three-two seconds-precluded detailed scans, but I have obtained five-two-point-three-one percent of the Melconian cruiser Starquest’s general memory, and what I find there explains a great deal. After over fifty standard years of continuous operation without overhaul or refit, it is amazing that her AI continues to function at all. Despite all Starquest’s engineers have been able to do, however, her central computers have become senile, and the failure of her AI to prevent or recognize my access was inevitable in light of its deterioration.