Starship Liberator Read online

  A few militia soldiers tried to resist, firing their small arms, but the Hok battlesuits proved impervious to anything but a lucky hit at a joint. The Hok shot their attackers immediately and left them for dead.

  Engels wondered why the militia didn’t get issued heavier weapons, something that would penetrate Hok suits. It’s not as if the Hok would ship troops all the way from another star system just to drop them into combat with soft gear. No, when you paid that much in energy and logistical resources, you made your units as survivable and self-sufficient as possible.

  The Hok separated out military from the civilians—or at least, uniforms from civvie clothing. Engels cursed herself when she realized that was the only discriminator. She should have traded, rations perhaps, to one of the refugees on foot, or even stripped one of the fallen. She yearned for something nondescript to wear.

  And now she had nothing to resist them with, not even her puny sidearm. If the briefings were to be believed, there was a fifty-fifty chance they would be herded off a short distance and executed, perhaps after being forced to dig their own graves. She began to mentally prepare herself to run, or to fake being hit and to lie motionless among fallen bodies, if it came to that. She hoped they wouldn’t administer killing head shots afterward.

  But it didn’t come to that. Two dozen or so military personnel were marched to a drop box. All were local militia except her.

  By itself, the drop box was a cheap one-way transport for sixteen Hok infantry from orbit down to a planetary surface. It could be dismantled for its materials or abandoned if necessary. It could also be recovered by a lifter and brought back to be used again, needing only new retro modules and parachutes.

  A lifter arrived as the prisoners approached the box, squatting atop it like a jealous spider. The Hok herded Engels and the rest inside, and as the door clanged shut she felt the container jerk upward.

  She hoped the damn thing was airtight. Maybe the Hok didn’t care.

  They weren’t immediately lifted into orbit. They set down after a few minutes and waited at least an hour. The air grew staler with all the people crammed in. Several militiamen took to banging on the door.

  The Hok ignored them.

  Eventually, their prison lifted again, this time hauling ass for altitude, she could tell. The air thinned and cooled as it leaked out of the indifferently sealed container.

  A few minutes later she felt the shock and sounds of docking, presumably with a Hok warship or military transport. By that time the humans were beginning to suffer from oxygen deprivation, yawning, gasping, some falling unconscious, hypoxic.

  Engels herself breathed deeply while remaining still and seated, determined to stay alive and conscious for as long as possible. She was therefore one of the few who saw the door open a crack. The end of a hose was shoved in, spewing gas with a faintly herbal smell.

  Since it made no sense that the enemy would take the trouble to sort out the military personnel and spend fuel to lift them into orbit only to poison them, she relaxed and breathed normally, feeling the lethargy of impending unconsciousness steal over her.

  Chapter 8

  Planet Corinth. Orbit.

  Admiral Braga suppressed a sigh of relief as most of his lighter vessels survived their strafing runs and rejoined him on the far side of the planet. For now, he could fall back and face the enemy reinforcements with something like cohesion.

  “Harassment mode, all ships,” he said, eyeing his three-dimensional holoplate. Not as useful as his flagship’s specialized holotank, it nevertheless showed him what he needed to know.

  As his battered fleet assembled, it arrayed itself for long-range sniping, a strategy designed to force the Hok to play his game. They’d either have to withdraw out of range, or fight. If they fought, they had two choices: attack Braga’s fleet, reducing their ability to attack the mechsuiters, or stand off and exchange distant shots with him. Either option would take the pressure on the friendlies below.

  Braga knew his efforts would probably fail in either case. The simulations showed a greater-than-ninety-percent chance the mechsuiters would be wiped out before Braga’s heavies joined him. It would take them seven or eight hours just to get here from their arrival point far out in empty space. Due to the physics of FTL travel, the larger ships had to emerge from sidespace farther away from the strong gravity created by stars and planets.

  “Set fleet vector anti-spinward, forty-five degree climb planetary relative,” Braga said. His battered squadrons rose and backed away from his adversaries circling Corinth in cautious pursuit. Now that he’d given up on trying to cover the mechsuiters, he had more freedom to maneuver.

  His ships did their jobs lobbing railgun shots and beams at the enemy. Braga called up a space-time curvature map, and he waited impatiently as software predicted the arrival point of his heavy reinforcements. He overlaid the diagram on a real-time long-range sensor plot—and he quickly found his worst fears realized.

  “They’re setting up an ambush,” he breathed as he took in two dozen signatures of enemy dreadnoughts and super-dreadnoughts, a force slightly larger than his own incoming task force of twenty-one. They waited at the predicted arrival point. Readings showed the enemy weapons were hot, the ships arranged in omnidirectional battle formation. They parked themselves at the optimum sidespace exit point.

  The accuracy of the enemy intel was disturbing. Certainly, they could predict arrivals as well as he could, but this ambush indicated they knew ahead of time there were incoming reinforcements. Or maybe he was just too damn predictable. Had he been the enemy, he would have assumed a capital fleet was coming.

  Worse, he couldn’t warn the arriving ships. In sidespace, no communication was possible, nor detection of anything except gravity. They might pop out in the middle of the Hok heavy fleet and be shot to pieces before they could even lock their weapons on.

  Standard military doctrine called for a fleet to always choose a random, non-optimal point of emergence. By staying away from the very best exit location, an enemy would have to get ungodly lucky to ambush arriving ships, which came through dispersed and disorganized due to fluctuations within sidespace.

  But the commander of Braga’s heavies, Commodore Downey, was an unimaginative, plodding officer. She had a reputation for conventionality and unwillingness to deviate from any obvious path. Braga wished mightily he could have replaced her with someone else, but she had too many political connections.

  Therefore, he’d assigned her to a position that seemed to align with her proclivities, rather than give her command of the advanced task force and taking the heavies himself. He’d expected her to keep her ships together and slug it out with anyone who got in her way. At the start of this operation, that stolid attitude had seemed advantageous, or at least not harmful.

  But the Hok had somehow gathered a superior force. They must have pulled units from systems up and down the front in hopes of smashing Braga and his mechsuiters here at Corinth. If they were also able to ambush his dreadnoughts and super-dreadnoughts, the battle would quickly transform from a severe setback into a military disaster for the Hundred Worlds.

  It might even be the beginning of the end, if the Hok crushed the best Hundred Worlds ground forces and wiped out a quarter of its fleet units in one battle.

  “May I help you with that, Admiral?”

  Startled, Braga looked up into the rubbery face of the Ruxin weapons officer, Zaxby. The alien was surrounded by its open, clear suit helmet.

  “Why aren’t you at your post, Lieutenant?” he asked.

  “I’ve been relieved. Watch change is already overdue. However, my species doesn’t need as much rest as yours, so I thought—”

  “Zaxby, stop annoying the admiral,” Captain Verdura barked across the bridge, very publicly. “Sorry, sir, he’s incorrigible. If he weren’t the best weapons officer in the fleet, I’d have canned him long ago.”

  The octopoid turned to the captain. “Canned me? Captain, is that an insulting
reference to seafood processing?”

  “No, it’s a reference to the gaps in your knowledge of Earth idioms.”

  Braga held up a hand. “It’s all right. He might be of some use.” He peered at the octopoid. “The pronoun ‘he’ is correct?”

  “Acceptable. My species actually changes genders during our life cycles. I am currently in a non-breeding phase, so it hardly matters.”

  “Fine, ‘he’ it is. Now, what did you want?”

  “I noticed you creating a predictive space-time curvature plot of our heavy reinforcements’ optimum exit location. I also noticed the fact our enemy has a great deal of force arrayed in ambush, assuming our ships arrive near there.”

  “You noticed?” Braga demanded. “This display is on my personal screen.”

  “Apologies, admiral, but my eyes are sharp and sensitive even at distances you humans find difficult to resolve. To me, it was obvious what you were doing.”

  Braga cleared his throat. “Very well. What do you have to say?”

  “Not only am I a superb weapons officer, I’m an aficionado of immersive wargaming strategy.”

  “This is no game, Lieutenant Zaxby.”

  “It most certainly is, Admiral. A deadly game we must win.”

  “Not at catastrophic cost to our forces,” Braga insisted.

  “I submit to you that losing this entire battle would be infinitely more costly than even the most expensive win. In any game, sometimes pieces must be sacrificed. It’s regrettable when those pieces involve loss of life, but this fleet must be preserved. One hundred twenty-eight mechsuiters and some thousands of militia must be balanced against a similar number of Fleet personnel. More importantly, your naval task force must not be thrown away. It represents twenty-six percent of Hundred Worlds offensive naval strength. And, if you can win the fleet battle, you can retake Corinth.”

  “What’s left of it…” Braga rubbed his eyes. “I know all this. What I don’t know is how to win. If we withdraw and head for the ambush fleet in an attempt to combine with Commodore Downey’s flotilla, the Hok ships at the planet will follow us and we’ll be no better off than before.”

  “Sir, with the discovery of the enemy heavies in ambush position, my calculations indicate your present strategy is likely to fail. You must—”

  “Zaxby,” Verdura interrupted, “leave the admiral alone! You’re off-shift, so go to your quarters! Sorry, sir, but he doesn’t know his place.”

  “Belay that, Captain. Keep our ships sniping. I’ll listen to the alien. Cosmos knows I could use some inspiration right now.” Verdura relayed his orders while Braga rubbed his eyes again. “Go on, Lieutenant Zaxby.”

  “Well sir, the calculus is elementary. If the Hok catch our reinforcements in an ambush, the battle, and thus the star system, will be lost. If they don’t ambush our forces, given Commodore Downey’s usual combat methods, it is likely she will fight a battle of attrition that will leave both sides combat-ineffective, a Pyrrhic victory at best. As we are also unlikely to win against our present opponents, it stands to reason that our only chance is to combine our forces and attempt to destroy one enemy group or the other.”

  “You make it sound easy, but—” Braga began.

  “Combining on the ambush fleet is your only option, sir. Then you can take command of all our ships and apply your expertise instead of letting Commodore Downey use our forces ineptly. However, I believe I have a way to improve our odds, to give the enemy a surprise.”

  “Like what?” Braga asked, his eyes narrowing.

  “I’ve been working on some unconventional weapons ideas, using materials we have at hand.”

  “Go on.”

  “If you’ll permit me, Admiral…” Zaxby reached across with two curling arms and ran his fingerlike sub-tentacles across the console. In a moment, new displays showed a weapon schematic.

  The admiral peered at it, puzzled. “That looks like a standard fusion mine.”

  “Correct, a weapon almost undetectable because if its stealth features. When properly placed, a mine is powerful enough to incapacitate or destroy a ship in one strike.”

  “They’re basically useless to us,” Braga said flatly. “Mines are very hard to employ. Space is too vast and getting the enemy to run into them, even using proximity fuses, is nearly impossible. Mines haven’t significantly influenced a battle since Alabaster Prime, eleven years ago.”

  Zaxby bobbed his oversized head. “Yes, sir, the problem has always been getting the mine and the enemy to intersect. That’s why we have railguns: to cause a projectile and an enemy ship to meet, violently.”

  “But railguns can’t fire mines.”

  “That’s not entirely true, sir.”

  Braga paused, staring at the alien. A few of Zaxby’s limbs churned impatiently as he waited for the admiral’s response.

  “Are you saying you want to fire mines as projectiles?” Braga asked. “Through the railguns?”

  “Yes, sir. Properly adjusted, our railguns could launch them into the paths of enemy ships.”

  “I saw a proposal about that a couple of years back…”

  “Yes, sir. I submitted it to Systems Development. It was rejected.”

  “Why?”

  Zaxby shrugged, a gesture he must have learned from humans. “Production and maintenance expense. It would require manufacturing and distributing a completely new kind of mine, as well as modifying the railguns. That’s production. As for maintenance… it’s very hard on the railguns.”

  “How hard? How many of our mines could a railgun launch before breaking down?”

  “Perhaps one, perhaps as many as five.”

  Braga sat back and stared in astonishment. “You want me to wreck half my weapons on this scheme? We’re out of offensive missiles. You’re going to leave us with nothing but beams!”

  “But sir, if it works, we could surprise the Hok and do significant damage to their ships, far worse than we do to ourselves. We might even destroy several outright. They won’t know what hit them.”

  Braga exchanged glances with Verdura. She gave him a tight nod, as he expected she would. Always aggressive, she wanted to hurt the enemy no matter the risk.

  “All right, Lieutenant Zaxby. Make whatever modifications you need to.”

  Zaxby input a series of instructions to the admiral’s console. “Done.”

  “Done?”

  “Yes, sir. I had the software package all ready to go. It is even now updating across all our ships, under your command codes.”

  “My command codes?”

  “From your console, sir…” Zaxby seemed smug.

  “Great Cosmos, but you’re an arrogant creature,” Braga exclaimed. “Hacking my console? That’s a punishable offense.”

  “These things have been said before, sir. Are you going to win this battle or send me to the brig?”

  Braga smiled. “I can see why Captain Verdura keeps you around.”

  “My incredible competence?”

  “No, because you make everyone else seem like models of naval propriety.”

  “I believe I’ve just been insulted.” Zaxby’s rubbery mouth imitated a smile.

  “You have, but if this trick wins us the battle, I’ll sing your praises.”

  “I had no idea you were a singer, sir. I myself have a complete set of recordings—”

  “Stick to the point, Zaxby!” Verdura rolled her eyes.

  Admiral Braga glanced at her. He began to wonder only now how much of this entire show had been a setup. Had Verdura encouraged Zaxby to make this entreaty? If so, it meant she was a cunning woman. If the idea had been shot down, she could have pretended it was entirely the crackpot idea of a crazy alien. On the other hand, if the new approach was embraced, she could claim credit.

  “Admiral,” Lieutenant Zaxby said, “the gunners now need only select Mine Launch Mode, and I will input the preprogramed target points.”

  Braga stroked his chin and examined the data. “These specs… the
mines won’t travel like normal railgun rounds. They’ll launch slowly.”

  “My program takes all that into account, sir. All you have to do is tell me what to hit and let me do the rest. All our railguns will be aimed and fired remotely from the flagship.”

  “From my console?”

  Zaxby squirmed even more than usual for an octopoid. “I have taken the liberty of using your codes to grant my station all necessary permissions.”

  Braga sighed. “Take your seat again, Mister Zaxby.”

  “I also have some ideas on tactics. If you—”

  “Why don’t I simply turn over command to you, Zaxby?”

  “Oh, yes, sir, that would be most efficient.”

  The admiral snorted. “Do you know what sarcasm is?”

  “Theoretically, sir. I do have trouble detecting it.”

  “My last suggestion was an example of sarcasm. Back to your station. You’ve done enough. I’ll take it from here.”

  Zaxby returned to his seat, displacing the officer there, and his tentacles began dancing over the board.

  Braga turned to Verdura, glancing at the main screens. “How are they reacting to our sniping?”

  “Sniping back, sir. They’ve sent light units down to provide overhead firepower for the ground battle, and they’re screening with their cruisers and battlecruisers. We need to get in closer to have any effect, sir. Their frigates and destroyers must be raining hell on our mechsuiters.”

  Braga stared at the readouts and graphics that showed him a synthesized view of the fleet battle. Every fiber of his being cried out to attack the enemy and relieve pressure on the planetary defenders, but he was clearly outgunned. He had to go with Zaxby’s advice and abandon them to their fate.

  Braga brought up his own displays and began running simulations, mindful of the chrono spinning as time bled away.

  He tried and rejected the idea of launching mines at the enemy in their current deployment. Due to the sniping, they were already evading constantly, and the stealthy weapons would only be effective if he could somehow lure his opponents onto a steady, predictable course.