The First Casualty

Chapter Six

“Captain, live message from the flag,” comm said.

“Put it on screen,” Mattim ordered.

“Squadron Fifty-three, the marines are in trouble,” the man wasn't smiling. “We are going to their aid. Together, we'll show those colonial amateurs how a real Navy fights. Squadron will stay in formation behind me, use only passive sensors. Good luck, men.”

The screen went dead.

“Not even a thank-you for us,” Sandy pouted.

“Suddenly he's spoiling for a fight,” Mattim mused.

Guns shook his head. “His stateroom's full of history books, real ones. Maybe too full.”

“General quarters,” Mattim ordered. “Today, we find out.”

Settled into his captain's chair, Mattim allowed himself a moment's reflection. Guns and Ding were visibly excited, ready to put years of training to the test. Ivan and Sandy hated the war, but they'd followed him. Followed me where we could all get killed. Am I leading them right?

His five years skippering the Maggie had seen the red Unity flag with its lightning bolt shoot through the sparsely populated colonial worlds. One by one, his ports got new harbormasters; his contacts changed from working folks to Unity henchmen who bought for monopolies and held their paws out for “donations” and “special considerations.” Mattim missed the traders and factory managers who took him home to meet the family. The Unity bullies' idea of a fun evening usually involved someone weak getting hurt.

Mattim suspected that boatload of Economic Reformers they blasted was crewed by Unity punks eager to cut out the middle man. At thirteen, Mattim had shipped out with his dad. This wasn't the same universe.

So now I'm heading into a battle to help people I've never met. Mattim, are you getting a late-blooming case of chivalry or whatever it is that causes a guy to get himself killed at midlife? Getting killed was low on his list of things to do today. Yet he wanted to charge through that jump, guns blazing, and save the poor doggies. This was crazy. I think they call it war.

On the flag's orders, the squadron passed through the jump at a few thousand meters per second. It should have been an easy jump, but the ships came out scattered. Despite the flag orders for tight communications, the admiral was quite liberal with irate orders to re-form. Sandy just shook her head. “This jump point is all kinds of flaky.”

Mattim had other worries; where were the colonials? Passive sensors drew a blank. “Must be under EMCon,” Ding concluded. “Don't use search radars and lasers, and no one can follow your signals back to you.”

“Sandy, do a visual search on every inch of space between Alpha jump and the marines. Somewhere are glowing engines.”

“They're decelerating engines away from us,” Sandy said.

“So maybe it'll reflect off the next ship in line. This armor reflects lasers. Maybe it reflects other things.”

“Optimist. Me, I bet they're in echelon toward us, reflecting away from us,” Sandy chided him, but went to work.

An hour later, Mattim got his first hint of what lay ahead. “Captain, comm here. We've picked up a message tight-beamed from the Ninety-seventh to the flag. It's probably in response to something from the flag, but we didn't get that.”

“I'll take what I can.”

His station quickly displayed the answer to the admiral's unknown question, ENEMY FORCE IS ESTIMATED AT 5 DDS AND 6 CCS, GUNS VARY FROM 6” TO 9.2”. ETA HERE IS 22 HRS 18 MNTS. THANKS FOR COMING.

“Let me guess, DDs are destroyers, CCs are any kind of cruiser. Right?” Mattim asked Ding.

“Yes, sir.”

“So how do they know? Ninety-seventh isn't emitting anything.”

“Ship makes a gravitational pulse as it exits a jump. The bigger the ship, the bigger the pulse. In their first action, the Ninety-seventh spotted five DDs, nine CCs and transports. No transports today. They're just here to pound the poor joes.”

“Sandy, you got anything?”

“Nothing. They're dark as space.”

“Sandy, we know where they came from and where they're going. Find them.”

Four hours later, she did. “Matt, I got 'em. Guns and I got those puppies. It's beautiful.” Ding was at Mattim's elbow a second later as they hovered over Sandy 's shoulder.

“Visuals was a waste. They heard us come in. They knew how to hide. So I gave up on eyeballs,” Sandy ran on. “Ships are big, but with that big gasbag's gravity well, I couldn't get shit out of the gravity anomaly detector. So I tried electromagnetic. There the gasbag helped. It's emitting across the spectrum like the biggest radar ever turned on.”

“Yes,” Ding cut in, “but they'll be operating in stealth mode. You won't get any radar bounces off them to pick up.”

“Right.” Guns grinned. “That's what Sandy went looking for. Those turkeys are a hole in the radar return.”

“Look there.” Sandy pointed. “Five holes, then six bigger ones. Five destroyers, six cruisers. You can hide, but you can't hide the hole you're hiding in.”

“God damn,” Ding breathed slowly. “She's got them.”

“Wait 'til the admiral hears this,” Sandy crowed.

“We're under radio silence,” Ding said.

“They heard us come in,” Mattim snarled. “What you want to bet they've been following us visually? Once we flip, we'll be brighter than a star. If the admiral has a battle to plan, he'll want to know this. Comm, get me a tight beam to the flag.”

“You got it, Captain.”

“Sheffield to Reply .”

“Sheffield, you are under EMCon One. Use of tight beams toward the enemy is not permitted. Cease your transmissions at once.”

Mattim went doggedly on. “This is Captain Abeeb.”

Again he got the same lecture, only louder; Mattim gritted his teeth. “We have located the enemy electromagnetically.”

“You couldn't have” was followed by the same lecture, now at the top of someone's lungs.

Mattim cut his comm. “Guns, I need advice on how this Navy way works. So, what is this shit from flag?” Mattim regretted his loss of control. Still, it felt good at the moment.

“I didn't recognize the voice, but you can assume the admiral approved cutting you off. I expect sensors on the flag is desperately trying to duplicate Sandy 's achievement and assuring the admiral since he can't do it, no accountant can.”

“No use trying again?” Ding concluded.

“No, ma'am. Late in my Navy career I concluded you can't teach pigs to sing, at least not those sporting more gold braid than you. Do merchant sailors learn a similar lesson?”

Mattim chuckled. “Last few years, it was becoming apparent I should. So far I avoided it.”

“Congratulations, sir. You will have to decide for yourself whether to follow my experience or your own lead.”

“Tight beam coming in, Captain, from the Aurora .”

“That's Buzz's ship. Let me see it.”

“Congratulations, Matt. No surprise Sandy did it. I've got a Navy type on my sensors. She swears it can't be done. I told her if Sandy did it, she can. I owe you all a round. When the boss lets us communicate, tight-beam me the full story. Burka out.”

“Captain, we got message traffic from all the reserve cruisers. Do you want to see it?”

“How many of them offer to buy the first round?” Mattim grinned at Sandy . She preened.

“Uh, all of them, I think.”

“Boy, Saturday night's gonna be fun,” Sandy crowed.

“Enough, Commander O'Mally. Guns, could having the enemy track help the others develop a firing solution?”

“No, Captain, we're hours away from a shoot.”

“Then no more communications until it's authorized. Guns, does this tell you anything about what the enemy's up to?”

“Yes, sir. We're in no danger, for the moment.”

“And how long will that good fortune follow us?” Mattim got ready for another educational experience.

Guns fingered the display. “They came out of the jump headed for a fast pass on die marines. About the time we jumped in, they sheered away. They're headed around ELM0129-4 and will meet us head-on over the marines. We'll have shoots twice an orbit until one of us breaks for a jump. They've rigged it so they can bug out without us observing them.”

Mattim chewed on his lower lip. “They're playing it safe.”

“For them, sir. They've got DD's. If they put two in polar orbits, they'll know if we cut. We won't know the same for them.”

“That assumes,” Ding cut in, “they've got someone as tactical-trained and professional as one of our war college grads. They are colonials.”

Guns said nothing; Mattim took a deep breath. “XO, they've been fighting among themselves for fifty years. Just because newscasts call it 'childish squabbling' doesn't mean smart folks haven't been learning. I'd expect some pretty canny behavior.”

“Yes, sir” came from both the XO and Guns.

There was little behavior of any kind from the flag. Over the next eight hours Mattim rotated his crew to chow and a free hour. The hostiles were just disappearing behind the gasbag when the admiral finally ordered a full sensor sweep.

Mattim ignored the huffy communications between the flag and the 97th. The admiral demanded to know where the “so-called” enemy fleet was. The ground-pounders sarcastically voiced their joy that the admiral could see his way to visit. Mattim passed Sandy 's search methods to the other ships. Two had duplicated her find. The others were grateful as well as impressed.

Mattim listened in on the gunnery net as Commander Howard sketched the enemy's probable past and future movements to the other gunnery chiefs, including the Reply’s and the Significant's . “We should encounter hostiles in sixty-seven minutes, just as we pull away from the marines. However, note that if the skunks make a fast, fuel scoop orbit, they will arrive over the moon just as we do, in fifty-two minutes. I'm betting on a scoop and shoot.” Guns found no takers. And Mattim began to suspect his gunnery officer was more of a jewel than he could have hoped for.

The admiral did nothing that Mattim had hoped for, neither revising his simple orders of “Follow me” nor informing his captains how he proposed to fight the coming battle. It was as if he still didn't believe his enemy was in-system. Or maybe out of sight, out of mind.

Or maybe just out of his mind.

“Ships coming out from behind the gasbag,” Sandy reported in a low, controlled voice. “They are low and fast. Guns, I think you won your bet.”

“Yes,” he said, “skunks are climbing out, using lots of delta V. I suspect they did a fuel scoop. I have three cans and six cruisers, including two Revenge-class super heavies.”

Guns whistled. “I thought the grunts were just seeing willies under their beds. Other four look like six-inch conversions.”

“Thank God for minor favors,” Ding breathed.

“Cans look to be falling off to their unengaged side.” Guns frowned. “I'll concentrate on the skunks we've got. Sandy , if it wouldn't be inconvenient, could you look around for those other two DDs? They aren't much, but a chance appearance at an inopportune time could be most unpleasant.”

“Got you, Guns. I'll keep up the search.”

“Thank you, Commander.”

“We ready for this?” Mattim asked Ding, hunting for what he'd forgotten ... what could cost him his ship.

“As ready as we'll ever be, sir.” The young woman grinned like some carnivore stalking prey. She was actually excited by the prospects before them. Well, maybe if I'd spent the last ten years of my life training for this moment, I'd be excited too.

He hadn't. He wasn't.

“Guns, XO, when do we put spin on the ship?”

Ding deferred to Guns, who pulled a handheld calculator out of his pocket. The Navy seemed to go in for obsolete technology. “We're closing at six-hundred-twenty-thousand klicks an hour. Those nine-point-two-inch monsters could hit you at forty thousand klicks, but I doubt it. I'd start spinning at forty-five thousand, sir.”

“Thanks, Guns. Sandy , range to ... what do they call them ... skunks?”

“Yes, sir,” Ding assured him.

“Just passing fifty thousand, Skipper.”

“Bos'n, inform the crew we're putting spin on the ship in five seconds and give them a countdown.”

“Yes, sir.”

Mattim leaned back in his chair and got ready for the ride of his life. His Maggie had been built the way you expected a ship to be built. The screens that showed you what was out there faced out. In a Navy ship, the damn screen was on the inside. You went around all day with your back to space. As the ship began to spin, the ship's 2-gee acceleration pulled him “down”; the spin firmly put his back in his chair, cuddled up like a kid in his dad's lap watching a vid. Of course, this vid was about killing people—and it was interactive.

“Crew,” the XO reminded the bridge party, “do not lean forward if you can avoid it. You've got a big supply of burp bags. If you have to lose it* don't be bashful. You'll probably see me or the captain use the bags. It's all just part of a battle in space. You'll get used to it.”

She sat down beside him. He gave her a smile; she was loosening up with the crew. With a bit of work, she'd fit just fine on the Maggie . Then he leaned over, whispering, “You've never been in a fight. How do you know?”

She didn't even blink. “Fleet exercises, sir. They say if you've been in a couple of them, battle holds no surprises. I sure as hell hope so.”

“Skunks, forty thousand klicks. Two lead ships opening fire on the flag,” Sandy drawled. “One must appreciate their tastes.”

“Guns, you mind telling me what's going on? Better yet, you got any problems with this going out to all hands?”

“No, sir.” Guns mashed his comm link, “All hands, this is the chief gunnery officer. The skipper asked me to keep you informed as to what's happening. When I get too busy to talk, trust me, you'll be too busy to listen.” There was a chuckle on the bridge. Mattim suspected it ran the length of the ship.

“The colonials have opened fire on the flag at extreme range. That's plain stupid. They're wasting energy, heating up their lasers and just helping the flag let off a little steam. Since we're head-on to each other, that means that by the time they pass us, their lasers will be hot and inaccurate. Ours won't be. Gunners, put on the kettle.” That got a cheer.

Guns was good. This might become a regular battle drill.

“Range to skunks, thirty-five thousand klicks,” Sandy reported.

“The old gunner's mate who taught me my trade,” Guns went on, “liked to sucker them into close range, say barroom length. Battery that gets the most energy out has a beer bust on me.” Another cheer, this time accompanied with yelps from the crews of the secondary batteries.

“Okay, two beer busts, one for the hottest six-inch turret, the other for the best four-inch crew.” The cheers were unanimous again.

“Skunks at thirty thousand klicks ... now.”

“And the flag's opened fire.” Guns continued his play-by-play. “The rate of fire from the colonials is slowing. The flag's steaming a bit. That water will pass down the line to us, causing the end of their lasers to bloom. Ours, on the other hand, will be fresh and cut right through it. If your shipmate's fallen asleep, don't bother waking him yet. We got a long minute or so before we'll do anything.”

Mattim studied the screen. The two heavy cruisers were applying a slow and deliberate fire to the enemy's two super-heavies. The light cruisers on both sides were out of range.

“Skunks passing twenty-five thousand.”

“Well, crew, the Topeka has weighed in with her six-inchers. The range is long, but it looks like she's making some hits. The enemy flag is switching fire to the Topeka . I imagine our flag's glad of that. By the way, if you've got anybody snoring near you, you might want to wake them up. We're about a minute 'til showtime. Just enough time to wash their face and brush their teeth before things get exciting.

“Oh, I've got a note here from the crew of turret A. They say they've already picked out the bar for their bust and the rest of you can quit worrying. What do you think of that?”

The gunnery circuit was awash with boos.

Mattim checked the live mikes in each turret. While Guns' verbal horseplay might be taking the edge off the raw terror, the crews were going about their duties as they'd been trained, dialing in their gear, verifying that, while the Target was available, they had it locked in their sights. They were as ready as ninety days of training and drill could make them.

“Lead skunk is at twenty thousand klicks.”

“Folks, at this point we will be signing off. Showtime is in just a few seconds. I hope you enjoyed the preliminary and will stay around for the postgame review. This is your chief of gunnery signing off.” Guns shook himself. “Damn, that was fun, I got to do that more often. Tommy, show me your plot.”

Around the bridge, the crew was grim but determined. Mattim tightened his seat belt, tightened his gut, and studied the screen, measuring the flow of the battle.

“Sir,” the XO put in, “their two big R's are going down the line, switching fire from one ship to the next. I can damn near tell you to the second when they'll take us on. Mind if I jink ship to put them off?”

“XO, you've got the conn. Helm, stand by for orders. Ding, coordinate with Guns. Let's not jink him out of a hit.”

“Right, Captain. Guns, I'm going to bounce ship, ten meters per second high for three seconds, then ten meters per second sideways.”

“Hold those bounces for five seconds,” Gun muttered.

“You're on.”

“Fire!” Guns shouted. Lights dimmed as energy poured from the ship. A green arrow on the main screen reached out from the green dot that was his ship to touch the enemy flag. The red triangle glowed yellow in a corner. Was that an actual hit or wishful thinking by the computer? Mattim didn't ask.

“Bounce,” the XO said softly, “up ... right... NOW!”

The extra twist did wonders to Mattim's inner ear. He isn’t sure where he was going. A red arrow flashed from the enemy flag to him. He felt nothing.

“We'll cease bouncing for forty seconds, Guns. They're taking forty-five or more to recharge,” Ding reported.

“I suggest bouncing in thirty-five. I'll fire the next salvo at thirty.”

“You're on.”

Mattim listened and did not interrupt. In theory, his ship could get a salvo off every ten seconds. Why was Guns holding back? He'd ask later.

An eternity ticked by, one endless second at a time. Then the ship's lights dimmed. A second time, a green line reached out for the enemy. Again the triangle turned yellow. Ding ordered a bounce to starboard, and Mattim's inner world twirled. He wondered how the green kids in his crew were taking this. A diminutive guard by the hatch reached for a burp bag.

Ding bounced them two more times before the enemy cruiser lashed out at them. Another miss. But Guns was laying it on heavy now. Every ten seconds, another two-second salvo. Mattim had enough of the overprocessed pablum on the main screen. He tapped up gunnery on his own board, selected the main battery, and found himself staring at the gun pictures of one of his six-inch lasers. It showed nothing but stars twisting by.

A pip at the upper edge drew his eye. In a blink, a streaming comet appeared. Quickly, the pip tracked the ship across the screen. The laser was recharging; nothing happened. Mattim risked a breath as the pip whipped back to the top.

When the comet reappeared, it was already transfixed by spears of light from the other guns. One blinked off just as this gun shot out its own spear. For two eternal seconds, Mattim did not breathe. Light, passing through the gossamer swirls of steam from the ships ahead, shone like a golden road. The comet rode transfixed at the end, more steam boiling off her.

Then beam and comet were gone. Mattim shook himself; something like this could mesmerize. His job was to fight the ship. “Sandy, where are those tin cans? Now would be a good time for a missile run.”

“They've dropped below the enemy gun line, sir. They're just... damn! They're coming in, jinking like mad.”

“And their missiles are worse.” Ding interrupted her own bouncing to add to their problem.

“Secondary batteries, prepare to take the destroyers under fire as soon as they come in range,” Mattim ordered. “Hit them hard and hit them often.”

“Captain, please belay that order,” Guns snapped. “I'm targeting cruiser engines. I need the energy.”

“Secondaries, hold your fire. XO, what about our own engines?”

“We're about to do a fleet flip, but the flag hasn't ordered one.”

“Flip us. I'm not risking Ivan's engines.”

“Aye, aye, sir. Helm, use thrusters to rotate us around our center. Do it... now.” Hands flying over his board, Thor echoed his orders, a few seconds before he followed them. Mattim's stomach lurched, twisted, and left for points unknown as the spinning ship flipped end over end.

In the process, a lightning bolt passed where their engines would have been.

“Damn good, Colin, Thor.” Mattim applauded. “Damn good.”

“Forward batteries, fire.” As the enemy line passed, the forward batteries had been masked. For the last minute, only the aft and amidships guns had done anything. The forward battery came back with a vengeance. The red triangle glowed yellow on the board again, but Guns was shouting. “We got him up the kilt, we got him up the kilt. Sandy , is he slowing? Tell me, girl.”

“There's a crazy wobble in his course, as if he's missing on a few of his engines. I think you got him, Guns.” The cheer at that announcement damn near shook the entire ship.

“Those cans are closing,” Sandy continued. “Fifteen thousand klicks.”

“All power to the secondaries,” Guns shouted. “Lay it into them.” Now it was the turn of the twenty secondary guns. The crews of the four-inch lasers turned to with a will. Each destroyer had ten missiles, any one of which could vaporize the Sheffield .

“Hold course,” Ding ordered. “Let's give them our broadside for a while. Slow rotation by half, the big guns are out of range, and we want to be steady for those buggers.” The colonial DD's closed to ten thousand klicks, dodging and jinking all the time. Finally, they launched three missiles each and turned away. Four streaked for the retreating line of Society cruisers—two headed for the Sheffield .

“The admiral's still headed away,” Sandy called.

“But they'll have to start decelerating soon to get into orbit around the gasbag, and those missiles will be waiting for them,” Ding warned.

“What about the ones headed straight for us?” Mattim asked.

“That's another matter,” Ding muttered. “Guns, can you take care of those little buggers?”

“Trying, XO. They're a bit uncooperative.”

“Keep trying. Helm, take the spin off the ship. Now, when I tell you, I want you to turn into those missiles. Counter-measures, you got the icemaker powered up?”

“Yes, ma'am,” came the answer.

“Icemaker,” Mattim echoed. Had another critical part of his education been glossed over?

“Right now, those missiles are homing in on us, aiming for the middle of this nice long target. 'Course, we're throwing steam off. That messes up their picture, but they're smart enough to accommodate it.” Ding stared hard at the main screen. It was expanding, showing only the Sheffield and two missiles in ever greater detail.

“In a moment, I'm going to turn close on to their course and spew ice chunks and decoys to port. They should mistake them for us and keep heading for the middle of it. With luck, one of those ice cubes will do a job on their warhead. Guns, in a moment I'm going to need you to check fire.”

“Charging the damn missiles. Way to go.” Guns didn't look up from his station. “I never did like turning tail. Ready on your order, XO.”

“Helm, steer for the missiles, thirty degrees to port of their reciprocal. Guns, check fire, check fire. Countermeasures, Jezebel One, Jezebel Two.”

“Yes, ma'am's” echoed from the comm links as an entire ship did the XO's bidding. On screen, the green dot that was the Sheffield swerved into the paths of the oncoming missiles. A white shadow grew to one side. The missiles stayed on course.

“Good,” Ding breathed softly, the hint of a smile crinkling her lips. Was this the moment a naval officer lived her life for? Damn, I'd settle for a well-done bargain where we both win.

What Mattim did was settle into his chair, look unconcerned for the bridge crew, and struggle to keep his heart from racing. The gunfight had been wild and fast and over. This waiting could kill a man. “Sandy, you got any passive sensors on those beasts?” he asked.

“Visual only. They're head-on. Not enough of a shift to notice.”

“Let me know the second you get any,” Ding whispered, eyes locked on the main screen. For a long moment, there was nothing. No one breathed on the bridge, probably on the whole ship.

“First missile, range opening to port. She's going to miss us to port,” Sandy yelped.

“Put missile on visual,” Ding ordered. Half the main switched to a live view of space. A missile moved across it, tail now plainly visible—and offset—from the nose. “A miss,” she breathed as the missile entered the ice field. A moment later the missile started shredding parts as it hit first one then another bit of ice. At their relative speeds, it didn't take much ice to rip its thin skin to shreds.

“Second missile is close, but it's a miss,” Sandy said. It was passing close down their port side, but it was a lot luckier with the ice. Unscathed, it began a skewed U-turn.

“Guns, it's yours,” Ding shouted. “Crew, prepare for maximum acceleration. Ivan, your engines good for five gees?”

“Zero to five in twenty seconds, Commander.”

The turning target suppressed its jinking program. Eight secondary batteries reached out for it, crisscrossing space around it. And threw it. The missile was suddenly an expanding ball of glowing gas. Then nothing.

“Guns,” Mattim breathed, “I think we owe a lot of people a beer bust. Like the entire crew.”

“I think you might be right, Skipper.”

Whatever the crew thought of the idea, they were too blown to do more than let out the breath they'd been holding. Mattim's knees were shaking; he felt like collapsing. Since he was already sitting, he settled for swallowing hard and tackling a long list of things left to do. “Well done, XO, very well done.”

“Thank you, sir.” Now that the battle was over, Ding looked pale. She made no effort to rise either. Someone's teeth were chattering. One of the guards. Ding sent him to sick bay.

“Captain has the conn. Thor, get us headed back to station. I imagine the admiral's disappointed that we're out of line. Sparky, any traffic from the flag?”

“We've been getting a steady flow of message traffic, each sharper than the one before. I'm only required to pass messages along to you within ten minutes. Allowance for if you're in the head and stuff like that. The first one was four minutes ago.”

“Thanks for not jiggling our elbow. Anything I need to know?”

“No, sir, just get back in formation.”

“Pass it to my day cabin. I'll use it for bedtime reading tonight. Captain off.” He turned to Ding. “You'd think the bastard has better uses for his time.” Mattim shook his head and got back to business. “Sandy, where are the hostiles?”

“Decelerating, sir, pulling back into orbit.”

“And our guys?”

“Decelerating, too.”

“Helm, put us on course to rejoin the squadron.”

The prodigal son was not welcomed back. Mattim suspected the admiral would have relieved him where he sat, but there was no one on board who didn't share in his high crimes and misdemeanors and no way to transfer anyone. The squadron decelerated, facing backward as they accepted ELM0129-4's powerful tether. To Mattim, it looked like the Sheffield was now the head of the line. He doubted the admiral shared his view.

With things reasonably settled down, Mattim released half the crew for a quick chow. Many needed a change of underwear or to clean up from burp bag overflows. The mechanics of orbits guaranteed them time. Gunners went about lavishing care on their lasers the way few had ever shown a significant other.

While some of the damage control crews carried sandwiches to the gun crews and engineering, the hull and armor team waited for the course to settle in, then sent squat robots out to examine the one large gash in the Sheffield 's armor. Insulated lines began showering a mist into the hole, slowly packing it with ice, less dense ice, but armor nevertheless.

Mattim got his team on net. “Guns, great going. The enemy flag will remember us. Engineering, solid performance. Sandy , you were wonderful on sensors. Okay, we done great. We've got an hour before we meet those bastards again. What do we need?”

“Guns is ready” was all Commander Howard had to say.

“Sensors are undamaged. I've got a couple of antennas that have been shaken up a bit by all the jostling, probably bum connectors, but I don't see us fixing them any time soon.”

“Skipper”—Ivan's gravel voice had somehow gotten even lower—”we've done a lot of bouncing around, changing acceleration and the like. It's been a major drain on our reaction mass. I also don't think the stuff we last took on has anywhere near the density required by Navy specs.”

“How far down are we, Ivan?”

“Forty percent. Normally I wouldn't worry, but if we have a few more hours like the last, we could end up limping back.”

“Assuming we were in one piece.” Sandy scowled.

“Guns, suggestions?”

“Book says you must refuel at fifty percent, 'barring unavoidable circumstances,' whatever those may be.”

“Comm, send to flag, Sheffield at sixty percent fuel state. However, reaction mass is not at required density, request fuel scoop.”

“Yes sir, sending.”

“If we're all heading for fifty percent, why hasn't Smiley laid on a fuel scoop pass?” Mattim asked.

Once again, his XO seemed reluctant to offer an opinion. “Guns,” she said.

“Skipper, data would seem to indicate he's made up his mind, one more firing pass, then we head for the jump.”

“Bit obvious, aren't we?” Sandy drawled.

“I fear so,” answered Guns. “Possibly to our detriment.”

“Comm here, Captain. Flag says maintain station. Fuel state not critical.”

“Why am I not surprised? Thanks, comm.” Mattim leaned back in his chair. “Any suggestions?”

Heads nodded on the bridge. The net was silent. “Okay. I'm the captain of this ship and ultimately responsible for its safety. I read that somewhere. Helm, captain has the conn. Break from formation and do a fuel scoop pass. Use whatever fuel is necessary to get us down and back in one hundred seventy degrees of orbit.”

“Laying in course. We'll need some three gees deceleration, sir.”

“Give the crew five minutes warning.” Mattim again tapped his comm link. “Comm, flag will be sending us more of the same messages. Pass them to my day cabin ... uh, unless he threatens to shoot us. Pass that one direct to me.”

The fuel pass was smartly done. The flag, while frequently sending its displeasure, stopped short of shooting. As they climbed up, Sandy studied her boards.

“Skipper, I think I've found one missing destroyer.”

“Where?”

“She's on a high, elliptical orbit. Active on radar and lasers. She's got us and squawking. What she knows, the rest of those bastards know.”

“Pass it along to the flag, if they'll let us get a word in edgewise. Comm, put this on a broad beam. Make sure all the squadron picks this up.”

“Yes, sir. Sending.”

Mattim leaned back in his chair. “So, they know where we are and we got no idea what's up behind this big ice ball. Ding, Guns, any ideas of what you'd be doing?”

“They put on a lot of acceleration during that firing pass,” the XO mused slowly. “They'll be high this time around, probably diving for a scoop sun, maybe? Guns?”

“Agree with the high part. Not so sure about the scoop. That would depend on their fuel state. They seemed to be coining up from one last orbit. Unless he's neurotic about fuel, I'd skip it this pass. Captain, sorry we can't be more help. The skunks will be high and either coming down to our orbit or diving for a scoop.”

“If they're high, when will Sandy catch them?”

“After the rest of the squadron. Remember, we're low.”

“Hate to depend on the flag for anything.” Mattim rubbed his jaw. “Comm, send to Aurora on tight beam. Mattim to Buzz. We're low, let us know when you topside folks spot something.”

“Sending.” There was a momentary pause. “Buzz says he'll look sharp.” They waited. Damage control reported all repairs made. Even one of Sandy 's cable runs was replaced. Things were looking up. “Comm here. Aurora sends 'Hostiles in sight,' and passes their sensor picture to us.”

“Sandy?”

“Got it. They're high, heading for our level. That's strange. We ought to be getting an angle on their bow at this distance in orbit, but they're keeping straight bow on to us.”

“No change in formation. The three cans are a bit further ahead, six cruisers behind in line. One of the cans is radiating. Just what you'd expect,” Ding concluded.

“Matt, I'm not so sure,” Sandy cut in. “This is all radar returns. Nobody's using gravity sensors.”

“How soon until we get a look?” Mattim asked.

“Should acquire the picture in ninety seconds.” Sandy answered. They waited. As the enemy line swung into sight, Sandy went active. “I got 'em—radar, visual, and gravity. They may be head-on to the rest, but they ain't to us. The two big bastards are in front acting like destroyers, and they got another cruiser with them! The cans are in rear formation this time!”

Mattim mashed his comm link. “Send our board to the flag.”

“Doing it, sir.”

“Any reply?”

“No, sir.”

For five long minutes the squadron continued in line ahead, the Sheffield playing catch-up.

At forty thousand klicks, the enemy's lead ships did nothing as a destroyer would. The flag's targeting lasers came on, sweeping past the lead ships to concentrate on the six in line. “He doesn't believe us,” Sandy muttered. From their perspective they could see the lead cruisers swinging around, keeping their narrow face to the squadron.

At thirty thousand klicks the Reply opened up on the lead “cruiser” in line. The two leading colonial “destroyers” were at less than twenty-five thousand klicks when they pinned the Reply in their combined beams. Hit, the Reply threw water like a fire hose and twisted out of line—toward the enemy.

The other cruisers of the squadron tried to take the new target under fire, but it took time to change firing solutions, especially at maximum range. Thirty seconds later, all three colonial cruisers snapped out at the Reply . Again she shed steam. It looked like her wobbling might jink her out of the lasers' paths. It didn't. The Reply burned.

“Guns, we in range of a target?” Mattim snarled.

“Not as close as I want to be.”

“Get their attention.”

“Fire.”

Lights dimmed. Arrows reached out from one electronic icon to spear another. Mattim steadied himself for the shock of return fire. The closest enemy was a light cruiser; it did not respond. For the last few seconds, it had been firing at will. Now it fell silent. Mattim checked the chronometer. Thirty seconds since the heavies last fired.

The enemy line lit up. It reached out, pinned the Reply in its focus, slammed it with all the power of bitter humanity. The flag expanded, gas shooting off in jets and streams.

Then it blew.

Chunks of hull rode the expanding gas out toward the stars. The explosion turned out and in and then was gone. Where a ship and six hundred people had been—nothing.

“Guns, pour everything we've got, mains and secondaries, into that cruiser. Get her attention. Don't let her do that again.”

“Roger, Skipper. Can you get me more power?”

“Ivan, we aren't at high gees. Feed the guns.”

“I got backup cables to the midship batteries. I'll feed them off ship's power. Next time they recharge, I'll switch.”

“You hear that, Guns?” Mattim checked to make sure.

“Got it. Just a second. Just a second.” Light stabbed out from the Sheffield , reaching for the other ship as it turned its weapons on the Significant .

“Damn, they're going to do it again,” Mattim snarled.

“Ivan, give me the juice,” Guns shouted.

“On the way.”

The four-inch lasers reached out, raking the cruiser, boiling off patches of the surface ice. When next Sheffield's six-inchers spoke, they stabbed at the already warm ice. Slush streamed off into space, leaving fantastic patterns in the cruiser's wake.

“We better start jinking,” Ding said.

“Do it. XO has the conn,” answered Mattim.

They dodged left as the cruiser fired—at them. Light streamed harmlessly by to port. Mattim hoped Pringle was grateful for the help.

“Good call, Ding.” His voice broke. He swallowed hard.

Now the XO danced with the enemy cruiser. She'd hold the Sheffield steady on a zig while their battery unloaded energy. Then, as the tenth second since the enemy last fired approached, she'd jink. Three times she dodged the lancing light. Three times the Sheffield slashed and cut at the

enemy's frozen armor. Some of what streamed behind the cruiser was not steam or ice.

“We've peeled her,” Guns shouted. Ding ordered a dodge-up, but no fire came. As she turned to the helm to order a second jink, the enemy battery stretched out to them.

The Sheffield shuddered, but held to her spin. By the time Thor started the jink, the fire ceased. “Damn,” Ding snapped. “Guns, when's your next volley?”

“Soon as we're charged.”

“Hold the one after that for closest approach.”

“Will do.”

Four long seconds passed. The four-inchers slashed out every two or three seconds. Then the big lasers spat. As soon as the light blinked out, Ding started talking.

“Helm, port thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Low thrusters, one one thousand, two one thousand. Starboard thrusters, one one ...” The enemy cruiser's lasers passed harmlessly to starboard. Two tried to track in to where the Sheffield was, but winked out as they touched ice.

“You did it, Commander.”

She didn't seem to hear Mattim's praise. Her eyes were locked on the hostile cruiser as they closed the final distance. They couldn't be more than three thousand kilometers out. “Helm, prepare to rotate ship. Keep nose to hostile.”

“Aye, aye, Commander.”

“Guns?”

“Ready.”

“Helm, rotate now.” As they passed, the Sheffield spun on her central axis, keeping her armored hull between the enemy and the vulnerable engines. The enemy spun too—a second too late.

One of the four-inchers stabbed into the giant bell of a rocket engine. With power no longer equally applied, the ship wobbled, presenting more of its vulnerable rear. Two six-inchers stabbed into engineering spaces. Out of control, the ship cartwheeled.

“Sweet Lord,” Sandy breathed.

“Have mercy,” Ding finished.

“Check fire, check fire,” Guns shouted. “Recharge and switch fire to the target I designate.” The next four-inch reached out for the nearest cruiser -the enemy flag.

It was rotating, covering its engines from the one surviving heavy cruiser. A Sheffield four-incher nipped an engine, but the resulting spin twisted the flag's fantail away. When the six-inchers spoke, it was to ice and steam. Mattim checked their first target. Its twisting was slowing, as was the defensive spin. It coasted, struggling to put things right before risking power. Its guns were silent.

Our flagship blown to pieces, one enemy light cruiser wrecked. Quite a battle. Now let's get the hell out of here.

That seemed foremost on everyone's mind. All the ships were flipped now, falling backward away from each other. Fire was desultory. Maybe lasers were hot, maybe engineers had chewed their nails enough, watching reactors dip deep into the red. Maybe a lot of things. A breathless peace hung between the ships as they receded out of range.

“Message from the Significant , Captain. Assuming command. All ships make best speed for Beta jump. Sheffield , appreciate taking the pressure off me. You are best fueled, and best shooting. Continue rear guard station. Independent movement authorized. Godspeed and good luck. Pringle -ends.”

“Gee, thanks,” Mattim breathed.

“Should I send that reply?”

“No, comm, send 'Thank you and good luck to all.'“ Mattim went quickly on to what had to be done for what lay ahead. “Ding, Guns, Sandy, Ivan, we've done such a good job we get to stay in this hell a bit longer.”

“I keep telling you, boss.” Sandy was not smiling. “All get for doing a good job is a worse one.”

“Point taken. Captain has the conn. Thor, put us in line behind the squadron. Ivan, Guns, how do things look? Can you join me in my day cabin for a few minutes?”

“Yes, sir,” they answered him. Mattim stretched; it felt good to be alive. “How long before we see the colonials again, Sandy ?”

“Thirty-five minutes or so.”

“Ding, I want coffee and sandwiches in my cabin for us.” “Quartermaster, have a runner lay down to the galley and get us sandwiches and a couple pitchers of coffee.” “Aye, aye, ma'am.”

Sergeant Mary Rodrigo had forgotten how good a warm shower felt. By the time she got back to the supply truck, it was loaded. There were hostiles in the system, but their rocks had landed well away from the base, deceived by the noisemakers her platoon had put out. The Navy pukes had finally got the colonial ships off the marines' backsides. It was a good time to sleep ... so she did.