AN AVERAGE 500-IRAL MERCHANTMAN CAN BE
DESTROYED WITH:
Percentage Certainty Shots at distance (c'lenyts)
0.5 1.0 1.5
50 40 104 308
95 76 203 650
And with the recovery rate of the new Schwanndor disruptors, it didn't take very long to get off a lot of discharges-especially with four turrets. Gorn-Hoff 380A-8s were powerful destroyers, and Brim had early on learned to respect their devastating capabilities.
He eased up on his turn as the enemy ships approached. Combat at Hyperlight velocities was a different sort of thing than fighting below the speed of light. For one thing, you couldn't go head to head. No computer in the known Universe could react fast enough to fire a disruptor at those closing speeds. Too, before you could turn around, your quarry had traveled a long distance away. Hyperlight tactics consisted almost entirely of speed control, stern chases, parallel fighting, and occasional dodging off at narrow angles-all generally in a forward direction.
Abruptly, the rear zone of Division Two was bathed in the painful glare of Hyperflares.
Only clicks later, disruptors flashed-from both sides-and space itself heaved into a wild confusion of pulsing explosions. Simultaneously, massive blasts glared among attackers and attacked alike.
"Got one of the bastards," somebody cheered from the jump seats. "First shot, too!..."
"For the price of I.F.S. Gallant," another voice snapped. "That was two explosions out there."
Brim glanced aft for a moment to see the little trawler veer out of line-blazing from bow to stem-then fall rapidly behind and explode in a wink of reddish-orange flame in the distance.
Scant clicks afterward, another searing flash of light came from behind.
"Oh, Sweet Gratz!" someone gasped. "Look at that! They got another merchant ship already!"
"Universe, lookit 'im burn."
"But he isn't pulling out of line, either."
"A miracle...."
"Come on, fella, get those fires out...."
Then a Hyperflare blazed into life so close to Defiant that the bridge filled with gasps of terror. Brim could see the little scout ship speeding out ahead from beneath Defiant's bow.
"Bandit at red nadir just coming on the bearing," one of Wellington's gunlayers said slowly. "Range 189.7, add opening. ..."
"I see 'im down there!" someone shouted. "Get the bastard Leaguer before he gets away!"
"Yeah, blast 'im!"
"Hold your fire, Dora," Collingswood cautioned in a quiet voice. "We're after bigger game than a scout."
"Aye, Captain," Wellington answered. Outside, Defiant's disruptors continued to sweep back and forth.
Off to starboard, Brim's eye caught a series of flashes. He looked up from the instruments to see hits landing aboard a familiar silhouette: S. S. Wakefield, the elderly starship in which he'd traveled from Carescria to Avalon on his way to the Helmsman's Academy. He'd eagerly learned everything he could about the graceful old liner during the week she took to make the trip-a surprisingly short time, considering her advanced age. By the harsh glare of the Hyperflares, the finish of her hullmetal was in the same state of disrepair that it had been eight years ago, but she was still moving along easily with the rest of the newer ships-as she had done when she once set a tram-something record. Brim couldn't remember what it was, but the gallant old ship had evidently been a first-rate liner in her day.
Now, she bucked and shuddered as bright flashes of hit walked forward along her decks-with devastating results. Huge chunks of hullmetal plate tumbled away into her wake along with her portside launches and a number of big E-containers that she carried as deck cargo.
Suddenly, the flashes concentrated on her unarmored bridge, which immediately disintegrated in a cloud of debris and glittering Hyperscreen shards. Moments later, the whole forward end of her deckhouse welled up in a great fountain of sparks and radiation-at the same moment that Defiant's deck kicked from the salvo discharge of her own big 155s.
A great light throbbed momentarily somewhere below and aft; then the hits on old Wakefield abruptly stopped.
"Got the bastard!" Wellington cheered from the console beside Brim. Her single, brilliantly placed salvo, however, was too late for old Wakefield. Bright green tongues of radiation flame were now vomiting from at least ten glowing holes in her side. Brim gritted his teeth-her whole interior must be burning-far too much for her ancient N-ray system to contain. Presently, the steady glow from her Drive crystals began to waver, and with great dignity she slowly rolled to one side, pulling up and out of her position in the wheel. Now clearly out of control, the old ship began to fall behind, her Drive guttering like a dying campfire. Suddenly, she pitched over with violent motion, skidded to starboard, then broke just behind where her bridge had been, bursting into a brilliant green fog of crystal energy and shredded hullmetal that collapsed in upon itself and quickly disappeared astern as if it had never existed.
Brim swallowed the lump that had formed mysteriously in his throat. Old Wakefield hadn't been much of a starship as modern liners went, but she'd probably weathered more galactic storms than any other vessel in service-and she had a special meaning, so far as be was concerned. It was, as he had thought so many times before, a tough xaxtdamned war.
Oil to port, another of the Gorn-Hoffs was boring in on a small, twin-crystal freighter: one of the slowest in the convoy. "Bandit to purple nadir," Wellington cautioned.
"Got a three-eighty coming on bearing," acknowledged one of the gunlayers. "Big deflection," he added.
Brim skidded slightly to port. "Better?" he asked.
"Tough shot in any case," Wellington answered through her teeth. Then, into her communicator: "Watch out, he's swerving!" Shortly afterward, the deck bucked three times in rapid succession as five of Defiant's big 155s fired.
"Missed the bastard!" a gunlaycr growled in disgust.
"Get the next one," Wellington said, "and don't get suckered into any more shots you can't make."
"Aye, Commander...."
Moments later, they were lining up for a try at another attacker when Brim swiveled in his seat and shouted, "Don't shoot!" On the instant, Defiant's Hyperscreens darkened when a familiar triangular shape angled past, completely eclipsing their intended field of fire. "Half speed, Nik!" he added hurriedly as Defiant began bumping violently through the starship's bled-off relativistic mass. The console clock pulsed rapidly from slow to fast and back again.
"Universe!" Wellington exploded angrily. "What is it that miserable zukeed is trying to prove? We thraggling near blew him to Rosfrew!"
"He's firing," someone yelled angrily, "at our target!"
"Voot's beard," one of the firing crew gramped, If I'd known he was going to do that, I'd have blasted him, too!"
Brim nodded in angry agreement. He'd recognized the ship, all right. I.P.S. Terrible, a T-class destroyer commanded by Jason Davenport, son of the Hon. Commodore Sir Hugh Davenport, now commander of the Nineteenth Heavy Cruiser squadron. Davenport had long ago made himself-and his prejudices-known to the upstart Carescrian Wilf Brim, It was clear that his son followed closely in his father's arrogant footsteps.
"There are plenty of targets to go around," Collingswood admonished in a quiet but firm voice. "The only thing important is to protect the merchant ships. Or had some of you forgotten?"
"Aye, Captain..." a number of voices grumped in chorus.
Defiant suddenly bucked as she took two glancing hits on her armored hull near B turret.