The Dark Wing Read online

  "Given the current situation, Admiral Bryant has assumed command at Pergamum. If Admiral Lord Ralston returns with any part of the Border Fleet, or if Admiral Carson arrives, flag command will pass to them. For now, the flag is aboard the Royal Oak. Admiral Bryant's revised orders for the squadron are as follows." A display of the system came to life in the middle of the table, and McMasters began to detail the projected line of zor attack.

  "This is their present position and concentration," McMasters indicated. "And this is where the admiral projects them to be in four to six hours." The display changed, showing the zor ships dispersed over a wider volume of the system, and much farther down into the gravity well. "Admiral Bryant believes that they will try to destroy the base, since they couldn't hold it even if they were able to capture it.

  "One and a half squadrons are being deployed within the asteroid belt against this contingency. In the meanwhile, the rest of us have as our primary mission to keep the zor attacker from coming in range."

  "Sir—" Cory DeWitt looked angry. "Are you suggesting that we're holding at least fifteen ships of the line back, while the rest of us try to protect a third of the solar system? We're outnumbered three-, four-to-one as it is, but without the squadrons deployed down in the well, it's—"

  "That's right." McMasters didn't look too happy about it either. "The admiral has issued a Class One alert, and we're expecting imminent reinforcement from Sha'en."

  "We could all be dead by then, if the commodore pleases."

  "These are my orders, damn it!" He rounded on her. "This is where we stand. What's holding the zor at the periphery of the system is going to be gone—disabled, destroyed or in our laps—within six hours. Doesn't take an Imperial War College tactician to figure that out. Admiral Bryant has concluded that the zor are targeting the base, and he means to protect it. We are to do everything in our power to help achieve that goal, and we have everything in our favor . . . except numbers. We're faster, smarter and more heavily armed. Also, every ship in this squadron has seen enemy action. There are some ships—some already destroyed in battle—for which this engagement is their first.

  "That may be why we were chosen to engage the zor out here."

  "Sir," Sergei said. "Does anyone have any idea about why the zor attacked?"

  McMasters looked across at him, leaning slightly back in his chair. " 'Why?' Who the hell knows," he added, more a comment than a rhetorical question. "Do you have some insights on the subject?"

  "No concrete information, sir, merely conjecture."

  "Out with it, Sergei."

  "Well, sir . . . it's reasonable to assume that they didn't just strike at random. Pergamum's a valid target, an important naval base, and they must believe that destroying it, or the fleet that defends it, would be a blow to the Solar Empire.

  "But why now, sir? Why would they strike at this particular time, unless there was something they wanted?"

  "No one understands the zor," Von Singh of the Harrison interjected, "much less what they want."

  Several others muttered assent. McMasters pyramided his hands in front of him. "Make your point, Sergei."

  "Sir, there are a large number of ships stationed here at Pergamum, or making a peacetime visit to the base. Many of these vessels are on maneuvers right now, and unavailable. Furthermore, yesterday most of us were eating canapés and making small talk with each other planetside at the Governor's Mansion. Us . . . and two fleet admirals. Do you think that the zor might have known who was here, and chosen to attack right here, right now, because of that?"

  "They'd need someone to spot that. A spy, or a coast-watcher."

  "Or a traitor, sir."

  No one had any response to this comment.

  Still, it seemed that Commodore McMasters was aware of the unease around the table, and added, "The ships within the orbit of the asteroid belt are under the command of Lord Governor Ewing. The Royal Oak is out here, with us. Until we get in range, all we can do is prepare . . . and wait."

  T-16 hours, 12 minutes

  1 February 2311

  1130Hrs Std

  Waiting, of course, is part of the job in His Majesty's Navy, but Sergei sometimes found the long periods of inaction at peacetime social engagements almost too difficult to bear.

  Sir Stefan Ewing's palatial mansion was located on an escarpment overlooking Pergamum's small capital city. Like nearly every other prominent building on the world, it had been shaped from a peculiar lavender-colored stone, quarried from the nearby Emperor Willem Mountains that towered over the capital's lush valley from scarcely a hundred kilometers' remove. Set out on the hillside and fashioned into a three-story edifice with rounded turrets at the corners, it looked like some sort of dream-palace at a distance. The luminous exterior of the turreted castle splendidly caught and reflected the rays of Pergamum's sun.

  In accordance with strict protocol, the Lord Governor of Pergamum had issued an immediate invitation to the newly posted commanders and their staffs, and in equal conformity, they had responded in the affirmative; now, after a short aircar trip up to the castle on the hill, they stood about in the lush courtyard, sipping cool drinks and exchanging pleasantries.

  Sergei had chosen to have his exec accompany him to this reception. The manual of naval etiquette indicated that he rated two additional officers in his entourage, since Ewing only exceeded him by one rank; but there was another difference that separated the two men: the patent of nobility held by the Lord Governor, a distinction that some officers of captain rank held—but not Sergei Torrijos. His exec, Chandrasekhar Wells, a quiet, soft-spoken native of Stanton—New India—a half-dozen years his junior, was the perfect company at a gathering such as this; Chan was personally ambitious, but not at the expense of loyalty to his captain, and trustworthy, with no more friends at court than Sergei himself (which was to say, none). In the rarefied social atmosphere of Lord Governor Ewing's reception, Chan could serve as Sergei's second pair of eyes and ears.

  Sergei and Chan had arrived on the aircar with Sir Bertram Halvorsen of the Mycenae, and Chan began to mingle with the other guests while Sergei and Bert stood together, admiring the quality of the governor's gardens and the strength of his drinks.

  "This is quite a setup," Bert said, sipping thoughtfully and looking around the enclosed courtyard. "These border governors really know how to live."

  "You're saying that the governor of New Chicago doesn't have a villa like this?" New Chicago was an oligarchy, and had been in the control of the same few families since it was first colonized.

  "Well, of course he does, but . . . that took years to get to. New Chicago's pretty much settled now: big cities, arcologies, industroplexes . . . But out here the Governor does what he wants, the way he wants it. Goes where he chooses—" Bert gestured with his drink and added quietly, "Taxes as much as he chooses."

  Sergei drew the conclusion Bert was aiming at, but shrugged. "The Ewing clan owns three or four seats in the Imperial Assembly. Certainly they're rich enough to afford a place like this."

  "How d'you think they got to be this rich? This palace was built with public funds—don't doubt it for a moment.

  "Well, it's a bit baroque," he added after a moment, nodding toward one of the corner towers, visible beyond the foliage in the garden, "but he does have a good eye for architecture."

  Too gaudy for me, Sergei thought to himself, but reflected that he was no expert on the subject. Not wanting to venture an opinion, he merely sipped his drink sagely, and exchanged greeting glances with Cory DeWitt of the Pembroke, who stood in quiet conversation with Terry DeWitt, her husband and chief engineer.

  Before Bert Halvorsen could continue, however, their host came into view, and noticing them, strode immediately up, exchanging a handshake with each of the officers.

  "Gentlemen," Ewing said, holding the handshake just a bit too long. "I hope you're enjoying yourselves?"

  "Very much so, my lord," Sergei answered, cutting off an opportunity for Bert to
be glib. "Captain Halvorsen and I were just commenting on your residence."

  " 'My lord' is hardly necessary, Captain," Ewing replied "At least in such friendly company. As for the house . . . yes, indeed, Felice and I have tried our best to make it comfortable.

  "So, tell me, Captain Torrijos . . . How have you come to be posted here?"

  "I think I'll get this refreshed," Bert said, looking from Ewing to Sergei, as if he'd caught some subtle signal that Sergei had missed. "If you gentlemen will excuse me," and he slipped away before Sergei could say a word to stop him.

  "I . . . the Lancaster has just completed a three months' cruise near the edge of Imperial space, my l—sir. Commodore McMasters' squadron has been assigned to Admiral Bryant's fleet for peacetime duties in the New Territories."

  "Policing, surveying, that sort of thing?"

  "By and large, sir. Fairly routine activity, really, though it is important for us to be here, to show a strong presence to the zor."

  "I've heard the admiral mention that rationale as well. What do you make of it, Captain? We hit them pretty hard at Scandia, and they sued for peace quickly after that. There are some who say"—Ewing looked from side to side, and lowered his voice, conspiratorially—"some who say that the zor threat has diminished enough that such a large presence out here in the New Territories is nothing more than a provocation."

  Sergei knew this line of argument: it was the main plank of the Commonwealth Party, the opposition group in the Imperial Assembly. Any naval officer with a gram of sense knew what the Commonwealth Party wished to do to the armed forces, if a lasting peace was achieved with the aliens beyond the Empire; it would eviscerate it, deprive it of funding, put a large percentage of personnel on the beach with retirement bonuses or half-pay. In short, it would do what civilian governments always seemed to want to do to military establishments as soon as the peace broke out.

  There was, of course, one basic flaw in this strategy.

  "I appreciate the commodore's concern for the sensibilities of the zor, but I believe that it is a bit early to assume that the threat is over."

  "We signed a treaty with them nearly two years ago." The governor's response wasn't especially combative, but it seemed clear that he wanted to see what Sergei's reaction would be; for his part, Sergei wasn't sure where Ewing was going.

  "The Treaty of Efal is only the latest one in a series of 'permanent' arrangements with the zor, sir. It was concluded over the objections of the Admiralty Council, and against the recommendations of a large majority of line and staff officers. The Treaty of Las Duhr was abrogated less than three years after it was signed, and we had nearly nine years of war after that, before the zor fleet was mostly destroyed at Scandia. I am unconvinced of the good intentions of the zor as yet, sir."

  "But each time the zor break a treaty with the Empire and fight with us, we push them farther and farther back, is that not correct? Pergamum was captured more than thirty years ago, and now it's twenty parsecs inside the Imperial volume. Surely even alien minds must realize that they are fighting a losing battle. They simply cannot win."

  "I . . . am not sure that they think in those terms, sir."

  "We have no idea what terms they think in, Captain. Certainly no one in the Navy seems to know."

  Or the Government, Sergei thought to himself, but didn't choose to add it to the conversation.

  "Torrijos, I have a great deal of admiration for officers such as yourself. Your experience as a commander is considerable, and your record commendable. But if the zor cease to be a threat . . . Well, there are more planets to govern than alien enemies to oppose."

  "Sir?"

  "Pergamum is still—essentially—a naval preserve. Even though the border is almost seventy light-years away, the presence of the Border Fleet here makes this more of a military world than a civilian one, but a . . . prolonged peace may well change all of that." Ewing looked around again, as if someone was listening in. "By the time Pergamum applies for representation, the people who helped bring that condition about will have benefited from their circumstances.

  "I'm looking for the right sort of officers now. There won't be anything to offer for a time, but in six months, or a year perhaps . . ." He let the sentence trail off, as if he were trying to tantalize Sergei to tell him more. "Even if the fleet relocates, there will still be vessels on assignment here. His Majesty's Government will need someone to command them."

  "Commodore, I—"

  "Nothing to offer," Ewing repeated. "Nothing yet. Think about it, Torrijos." As if suddenly noticing someone else across the garden, Ewing turned and, without another word, strode away, aiming for another group of officers.

  T+7 hours, 36 minutes

  2 February 2311

  1118Hrs Std

  Sergei kept one eye on the forward monitor while he and Chan went over departmental reports in the ready room. When the first flashes of weapons fire and the first glint of ship hulls became visible on extreme magnification, the captain of the Lancaster and his second-in-command went back on the bridge. The acting Admiral of the Fleet was already hailing them while Sergei took his seat and Chan relieved the gunnery officer of the watch.

  "Yes, my lord," Sergei said, answering the hail.

  "You have your deployment orders already, Captain, so I'll just wish you good shooting. The carriers up ahead have already taken heavy damage, so you may have fighters seeking cover while they try to reach the Cambridge; Captain Schaumburg is already trying to take them on. I want as many of them saved as possible, but for God's sake don't take any unnecessary risks!"

  "Aye-aye, sir. Lancaster out." He swung toward the comm station, not taking his eyes off the forward screen. "Arte, hail the Gustav Adolf and tell the commodore we're coming into position. Chan, go to battle ready; report on weapons and defensive fields."

  "All hands batten down, prepare for battle," Chan said to the shipwide. He looked at his displays. "Torpedoes armed and ready, Captain. All gunnery stations status green; absorption fields, distributors and travelers all report status green."

  Pam Fordyce, his chief gunnery officer, came onto the bridge and took her station; Chan Wells moved to stand behind the helm officer.

  "Helm, report on bogeys."

  "Nearest bogeys are eighty thousand kilometers down-range. Two Eclipse-class vessels, bearing three-five-two degrees and zero-one-seven degrees, both negative one-zero degrees from the plane of travel. The Imperial vessel . . ." The helmsman examined the transponder code carefully. "The Imperial starship Anson is engaged with them. She appears to be heavily damaged."

  "Comm, hail the Anson. Lancaster to the rescue," Sergei said, noting the positions of the Harrison and Odessa on his flanks. "Chan, pick us a target."

  "Aye, sir," Chan answered, studying the pilot's board. The comm officer nodded to Sergei.

  "Anson, this is the Lancaster. We read you as heavily damaged; prepare to get under way."

  There was a burst of static, coincident with a barrage from one of the Eclipses. "—copy." A voice emerged from the noise. "We're at about thirty percent, Lancaster, and I'm not sure . . ." Another burst of static. ". . . have enough energy to maneuver and still keep defensive—"

  The comm channel dissolved completely into noise. The comm officer worked the board, but shook his head.

  Then there was no time for careful analysis. Combat between space vessels was nothing like a vid, all noise and disruption; internal gravity prevented crew from being thrown from their seats by a violent enemy broadside, and it took a considerable amount of time for gunnery attacks to do anything more than build up absorbed energy in defensive fields. Ships fired from gun-mounts and torpedo tubes located all over the hull, targeting from all directions.

  On attack, the objective was to overload the enemy capacity to absorb incoming fire, a slow process that would eventually lead to shutdown—or even catastrophic failure—of defensive fields. On the other hand, every ship defensive field had a complex structure like a crystal
, that could be detected, analyzed, and—if struck just right—penetrated by a single shot, piercing the defensive field all the way to the enemy ship's hull. The enormous force and heat of an incoming shot could be devastating against bare metal.

  On defense, ships engaged in combat committed a large fraction of their power to radiating absorbed energy from their defensive fields. Due to the pseudo-crystalline nature of the fields, however, incoming energy was not always evenly distributed throughout the field, so a properly functioning defensive system was equipped with externally mounted devices—distributors, to carefully realign the field's lines of force as energy poured into it, and travelers, to equalize areas of energy absorption within the field itself. Thus a ship receiving incoming fire only from forward, starboard and above could redistribute that energy port, aft and below, greatly increasing the radiation capacity of the ship's field.

  The activity of these devices, along with constant, semi-random maneuvering of ships engaged in combat, made analysis of a field's structure vastly more complicated; gunnery sections had to predict the structure that would be present when a precise hit struck, and the best gunnery officers combined a flair for the tortured mathematics of field dynamics with an intuitive feel for the pattern and flow as it swirled in their e-m and gravometric displays. In a way, top gunners were a throwback to more primitive times, when a master siege engineer used his intuition and experience to compute azimuth and distance, trusting more heavily to indefinable factors than the primitive instrumentation of the day. Good captains learned to trust their gunners, even if they mistrusted their rather unscientific methods.