Engaging the Enemy (45 page)

“Gives us longer in effective range,” he said. “But we're down to fifteen percent of the beam charge.”

“We'll hope the other group didn't leave someone behind to catch us on the way out,” Ky said.

“Trouble behind,” Lee said suddenly. One of the pursuing ships had gone to maximum acceleration, disregarding the danger of mines, and its beam stabbed at their unprotected stern.

Before it had a good lock on them,
Bassoon
decelerated and rotated into their rear; its shields were up, full strength, and the searching beam flared on them.

“Got your back,” Pettygrew said.

“Thanks,” Ky said. “Do you have anything to throw at them?” She certainly could not launch the remainder of her mines while he was back there.

“We're dumping what we have…if we're lucky…”

Ky looked again at the scan. Her sustained beam attack was burning its way through that enemy's shields; they showed flutter on the scan, but the ship was moving out of her most effective range now, and reserve charge was down to 40 percent. A brighter flare of shields, then the intense blossom of explosion. Almost immediately the ship behind them slowed, its icon also showing rapid deceleration and
Bassoon
's shields no longer flaring with attack.

“It's not the whole ship,” Jessy reported. “Just the insystem drive unit blew, I think. I don't think we can blow the whole ship on this course with the power we have left.”

“Cut it, then,” Ky said.

Ky felt her muscles loosening slightly, and in the same moment realized she was drenched with sweat. The worst threats were gone, she hoped, though the enemy's ability to perform calibrated microjumps meant that one of them could still attack her group, if they could get back outside the jump radius before she did.

She gave orders for her weapons crews to rotate, catch a quick meal, and insisted that the bridge crew eat as well. She contacted the other two ships, making sure they understood what to do next. Then, leaving her bridge crew to watch the scans, she herself settled in with the scan data to analyze what had happened from start to finish.

It took longer than she expected to locate the brief disturbances in the flux that revealed the enemy's arrival and those first few hours of cautious approach. The precision of their movements suggested considerable practice in multiship maneuvers and warfare as well as excellent communications; Ky chewed on her lower lip, comparing what she saw with what she remembered from her classes at the Academy. Basic tactics for space warfare had been much the same for decades, based on the limited utility of ship-to-ship communications unless a handy ansible was available or the ships were within a light-second or so of each other. Shipboard ansibles changed that. If Zavalos had not been able to contact her synchronously, she would have been at a worse disadvantage.

Four hours later, they reached the minimum jump radius. The enemy had not pursued with insystem drive, somewhat to her surprise. Though they had destroyed two ships and seriously damaged a third, they were still outnumbered and considerably outgunned. Ky did not relax until all three of “her” ships went into jump, emerging six to ten light hours farther from the primary. With the shipboard ansibles, it was easy to locate each other.

“We're not going to the mapped jump point,” Ky said. “They know where it is; they could expect us to rendezvous there, and ambush us. We're going here—” She transmitted the coordinates. “A messy jump shouldn't matter that much; jump duration is only forty-three hours. Be sure to come in at low relative velocity.”

“And then what?” Argelos asked.

“Then we head for Ciudad. I'll give you the routing in the next downjump period. Jump on my mark—” She counted down, and
Vanguard
moved into jump as smoothly as ever.

“S
ecure the ship for FTL transit,” Ky said to Hugh. “Set regular watch schedules; be sure offwatch gets some sleep. You, too. I'll want a tally of expended munitions, any wear or damage reports from the batteries, as well as a supply list for our next port.”

“Yes, Captain,” he said. He looked rested and almost relaxed; she supposed he had been able to sleep a little, as she'd told him to on the run out to this jump.

“You have the bridge,” she said, and stood. Her vision wavered, and she was instantly furious with herself. It was her own fault she hadn't slept…she realized suddenly that Hugh's prosthetic arm had steadied her. “Thanks,” she muttered.

“Get a good rest,” he said softly. “We're safe now.”

That echoed in her head all the way to her cabin, where she made herself undress and shower before falling across the bed. Safe
now.
Safe now, when she'd finally made a sensible decision, but not safe at all before, when she had trusted the wrong person yet again. Though this time not for the reasons she'd mistaken before, not because she felt the least sympathy for Andreson.

She wanted to roll over, bury her head in the pillows, and not come out until…until what? Until things were all fixed again, until the past returned? That was ridiculous. The past wasn't coming back. Nothing she could do would bring her parents to life again, or any of the others who had died. Nothing she could do would restore the family homes, offices, ships. Nothing she didn't do would accomplish that, either. It was impossible. What she did and did not do could not matter to them. Despair weighed her down, smothering darkness. Why even try? No one understood, really. Stella thought she was crazy to attempt to form an interstellar force. Probably the rest of the family would agree, if any more of them had survived.

She had thought she was making progress. Those first months, just staying alive had been a triumph. The plan she'd made at Lastway had seemed huge but still possible. The letter of marque had given her the right to arm a ship…and then she'd imagined an alliance of privateers forming a real interstellar navy. Could it have worked? Maybe—but the first attempt had been a disaster; nobody would listen to her ideas now. Now her enemy knew she existed, knew she was dangerous, knew she knew who he was. She had brought more trouble on Vatta instead of protecting the family interests.

Just like her childhood. Just like all the times she'd tried to do something useful or helpful and instead it had all blown up in her face. Only now it wasn't scoldings and sighs and rolled eyes: now it was human lives. She hadn't been able to convince them the threat was imminent; she had made things worse.

“How many ways are there to screw up?” she asked the overhead. No reply, and then, from a mix of memories, she seemed to hear Rafe's mocking voice, telling her she hadn't begun to plumb the depths of error yet. That was a daunting thought. She wondered idly what Rafe would do in her situation, and then where he was and what mischief he was up to. At least she had not trusted
him
—much, anyway—though she fell asleep remembering their last conversation, and dreamed of storming in to scold his parents for treating him so badly.

Grace Lane Vatta stood in the row of Vatta family members huddled inside a portable all-weather shelter to one side of the gaping hole where Vatta headquarters had once been. The tangled debris had long been hauled away, the basements cleaned out, the cracked foundations excavated and replaced. Today, an entirely unauspicious day of cold slashing rain, was the formal ceremony of beginning anew, laying the cornerstone of the new building. It could not be put off for better weather, since too many dignitaries had the date on their crowded calendars. A second shelter held the press corps, ready to swarm out when the ceremony began.

Now workmen in dripping rain gear eased the huge block of Modessar granite into place, aligning the holes drilled in its base with the reinforcing stubs in the foundation, the whining of the crane's winches hardly muted by the steady drumming of rain on the plastic roof. The stone, shiny with rain, looked thunder-dark this stormy morning, but the names of those who had died in the attack glittered on the two sides that would be exposed, incised deeply and then imprinted with gold leaf. It had cost an enormous amount, and some had complained, but Grace had been adamant, harder than the granite. “The dead paid more,” she'd said, and the others had given way.

Behind the family were the dignitaries: the new President, the new provincial governor, the new mayor, the new Commandant of Spaceforce, the same Commandant of Spaceforce Academy, the CEOs of major banks…Grace felt itchy, but decided it was just her arm-bud. MacRobert was back there, along with the rest of the security detail, and she knew where all her weapons were.

When the stone had finally settled, and the masons had checked the alignment in all dimensions, the workmen detached the cables and drew back. The family members stepped forward, into the rain. Reporters poured out of their shelter, but the security detail held them back. Lights flared, and the mutter of voices stilled as Jo's children walked up to the cornerstone with the bottle of wine.

Helen stood on one side, Grace on the other, as the children recited the lines they'd been taught and smacked the bottle against the hard granite. Glass shattered; wine red as blood mingled with the rainwater and Grace felt for a moment the same black rage that had taken her when the attacks were new. The moment passed; people started talking, scurrying back to shelter as the rain came down harder. The crane moved off with a dismal clanking of treads; official staff with official umbrellas helped dignitaries back to official cars.

After the ceremony, back at the Stamarkos town house where a lavish buffet ran the length of the formal parlor, Grace stared at the well-fed, gossiping crowd with disgust. How could they eat now, of all times? She backed into the quietest corner of the room.

“It was supposed to be a happy occasion,” MacRobert said in her ear. He offered her a glass of something colorless; she shook her head. “Proof of Vatta's resilience.”

“Proof of the guilt some people feel,” Grace said. “They fawn on us now—”

“Inactivity drives you crazy,” he said. “But you will survive this convalescence.”

She turned to look at him. “You know too much about me.”

“So I should. Shall we go somewhere?”

“I want to know where Stella is and what she's doing. And Ky.”

“Ky,” said MacRobert, “is no doubt being every bit as difficult as you are. By the way, did you know that our new President is planning to offer you a high-level position in Defense?”

Grace blinked. “He is?”

“Yes.” MacRobert said nothing more, just looked at her.

“It's a control issue,” Grace said.

“Well, yes,” MacRobert said, tugging at his ear. “He's not crazy; he wants you where he can watch you. Still…”

“How high-level?” Grace asked.

“My, is that ambition I hear in your voice? I can't discuss it here; the place isn't secure enough, and no one else—well, almost no one—has the clearance. I don't know about you, but nothing on that table appeals to me. Tea in a quiet place, however…”

“Sounds like an excellent idea,” Grace said. Her dark mood had disappeared.

“That's what I told him,” MacRobert said. She almost stumbled at that, but MacRobert had her gently by her good arm.

“You mean—? Damn it, Mac, you are a very canny fisherman.”

“It's all in the lure,” MacRobert said, easing her past two gesturing politicians without putting her arm-bud in danger.

Ky woke sixteen hours after she went to sleep, feeling dull and miserable, and knowing she needed to conceal that from her crew.

“I slept too long,” she said in response to Hugh's greeting. “But I'm fine.”

“I have those reports,” he said. “In brief, we sustained no damage or major wear to any battery, and no injuries. Quite remarkable, under the circumstances.” His expression was, she realized with a shock, admiring.

“It was a mess,” Ky said. “We were lucky to get out alive, and I was an idiot ever to sign up with that woman.”

He shrugged. “What's done is done, and she's dead, and you got the rest of us out alive. And some of them are dead.”

“We ran like rabbits,” Ky said, eyeing him. Was it really approval?

He grinned. “Like fanged rabbits, Captain. And it was the only thing to do.” He leaned closer. “Cheer up. I know what you're feeling—you wanted to do better. But you're alive and you'll have another chance.”

His mood was infectious; Ky felt a tentative surge of confidence returning. “I certainly hope so,” she said.

“That's the spirit.” As if he were her father or uncle or something.

“Um…did I remember to tell everyone how well they did?”

“Yes, Captain, you did. Right after that first jump, and again later—but you were dead on your feet by then.”

“Good.” She'd managed some duties well, then.

“You commended Captain Argelos and Captain Pettygrew, too, in case you're wondering.”

“Better.”

“I'd suggest something to eat—”

Appetite returned in a bound. When had she eaten last? Long before she'd fallen into bed. “Yes,” she said. “What meal is next?”

“Pirate stew,” Lee said over his shoulder. Someone else snorted; Ky looked around and realized they were all unreasonably gleeful. Well, they were alive, and no enemy could reach them in FTL flight.

“Fried pirate,” Ky said; there was a general chuckle. “Make that two,” she added.

By the end of that shift, she had visited every compartment on the ship, spoken to everyone, conveying the message that the captain was awake, alert, sane, and confident. Everyone seemed to believe that, even though she herself wasn't as sure. Was it sane to think she could still pull long-term victory out of what now seemed a trail of bad decisions and defeat?

The alternative looked worse…if she backed off now, the pirates would have no effective opposition. No, crazy as it looked, she had to keep trying, until she succeeded or they killed her. With that decision made, she settled in to use the days in FTL flight to best advantage.

They needed an organization. They needed strategy and tactics and operational doctrine and logistics and all those military things that had seemed simple and clear-cut at the Academy, laid out in the texts with neat diagrams and clear explanations. She called in everyone in the crew who had served in a military unit of any kind.

“Tell me everything you can about your organization,” she said. “Not the secret stuff, of course, but the plain vanilla of it: how was it organized? Who made what decisions? Who could countermand that decision? We're trying to combine people who have different organizations. Yet functionally, they do much the same thing—fight ships in space from ships in space. So if I can figure out how it overlaps, make it easier for people from other organizations to combine and work together—”

The first startled resistance melted away as she explained, showing them the skeleton table of organization she had drawn up, based on Slotter Key's Spaceforce. “You mean we call the officer who buys supplies the procurement officer and you call him the supply officer?” asked Jon Gannett.

“Exactly,” Ky said.

Hugh leaned over to look. “Well, if you take away the labels in the boxes, it looks pretty much like ours.”

Jon Gannett nodded. “Like ours, too.”

“So creating a combined table of organization won't be as bad as I thought,” Ky said. She glanced around the table; they were all looking at the diagram, and after a moment looked up to meet her gaze. “Next,” she said, “we have to come up with tactics that work.”

“We could just do something stupid again, wait for them to pounce, and then surprise them by suddenly becoming brilliant,” Martin said. That got a chuckle.