Extremis (35 page)

Watanabe looked as if he had swallowed a live stun baton. Sideways. “But Admiral, we can still keep them from pushing through the warp point into Agamemnon. It will cost us a bit to keep them from following us through the warp point in force, but once we do, we’ll have the time to get our line sorted out and—”

“All that presumes that we can turn and hold them when they’re this close on our tails.” She raised her voice. “Ops?”

Samantha Mackintosh looked up from her screens. “Yes, sir?”

“I need a hypothetical-evolution timeline for our formation: specifically, our ability to get through the warp point to Agamemnon and reform to meet the Baldies in good order on the other side.”

“Already calculated, sir.”

Which means the news is worse than I expected.
“Let’s hear it, Commander.”

“Admiral, the Baldy SDHs actually have better speed than we do now. Not much—only about two percent—but better. And their whole formation has the Desai drive. We’ve still got old-style monitors, sir, and half of our auxiliaries were pulled from mothballs. Most of those were slated for redesignation as target-practice hulls when the Baldies arrived.”

“Commander Mackintosh, you have informed me why the news is going to be bad. Now I need to know how bad it is.”

“Yes, sir. All metrics remaining constant, the lead Baldy unit will reach the warp point approximately two hundred seconds after our last one goes through.” Her voice lowered. “I don’t need to tell the admiral what that means regarding our ability to repel their attempts to enter the Agamemnon system.”

“You surely do not, Samantha.” Krishmahnta turned to Watanabe. “That’s it, then. We don’t even have enough time to turn and fight. They’ll be in among us while we’re still milling about, trying to get into our defensive formation. And with all the new forts still back in Penelope, we don’t have a ready defensive line to form up on.”

“We’d have to deactivate Agamemnon’s warp-point minefields, too,” considered Watanabe. “We’d be so mixed in with the Baldies when they come through that the mines would be equally deadly to both of us.”

“Right. But if we keep moving straight through the warp point, we can leave the mines operational. That will slow the Baldies down some more, maybe inflict a few casualties. Meanwhile, we deploy a sequence of delaying forces, just enough to ensure that we get all our hulls on the other side of the warp point to Penelope in good order and moving straight into a preplanned defensive formation.”

“With forts all around us.”

“That’s the idea.”

“Admiral, I’ll get Commander Mackintosh to start working right away on a—”

“No, Yoshi. Samantha has received her last assignment on this bridge. I want you to get her on a courier to Penelope—with a warning about what we’re doing—and out of harm’s way. Right now.”

“Sir?”

“Yoshi, we’ve been putting off her full-time transfer to Tilghman for too long. She has to take charge of the shipyards and second-phase emergency industrialization throughout the cluster. And don’t look so worried, Yoshi; I’ll find someone to handle ops just as well as Samantha.”

“Oh? And who would that be?”

“I don’t have the faintest idea. How about we promote the genius lieutenant you told me about? We could brevet him to lieutenant commander and give him a crack at the big show here on the fleet flagship.” Krishmahnta had meant it as a joke—but only partially: top-shelf thinkers were always at a premium in the command ranks, and in a fleet winnowed down by the casualties of almost five months of constant engagement, such minds were either already assigned or in deep denial and hiding.

Watanabe shifted in his seat uncomfortably. “Uh, about this lieutenant…you’re not serious, Admiral?”

“Well…maybe I am.”

“Sir, the lieutenant in question—he’s in combat right now.”

“We all are.”

“No, sir. I mean the ship he’s on—a carrier—is currently taking fire. It’s part of the screen that’s covering our withdrawal.”

Krishmahnta looked at Watanabe, trying not to look startled or disbelieving. “You’re not serious. It’s not—”

Watanabe sighed and nodded. “I’m afraid so, sir. The lieutenant in question is—

PSUNS
Celmithyr’theaarnouw
, Delaying Detachment Charlie, Further Rim Fleet, Approaching Myrtilus, Agamemnon System

Ossian Wethermere finished his update on the Baldy pursuit elements and made his way, datapad in hand, down to where Least Claw Kiiraathra’ostakjo, master of the CV
Celmithyr’theaarnouw
and commander of Admiral Krishmahnta’s third and final delaying force, sat brooding over the tacplot.

As Wethermere approached the con, Lieutenant Zhou caught his eye and glanced meaningfully at the distance the Orion staff was keeping from their commander. It was clear that he was not happy, and whereas human COs often showed their mastery by adopting a measure of stoicism that a Spartan would have envied, Orion COs achieved the same result—as well as some stress relief—by, figuratively speaking, biting the heads off of injudicious subordinates. It was rumored that, in ancient times, this rather messy form of decapitation had been a literal, not figurative, punishment.

Wethermere, undeterred, came to stand by the con and hoped that the Least Claw would, as Orions often did, show more restraint when interacting with humans than they did with their own kind.

Least Claw Kiiraathra’ostakjo eventually let his eyes slip sideways toward Wethermere, who stood ready to report, his arm in a sling and his head still wrapped from the injuries he had sustained in Suwa. With surgical stores tight, and his injuries modest, Wethermere had received medical care that would have been as familiar to the wounded at Antietam as at Agamemnon and Ajax. Oddly, Kiiraathra’ostakjo seemed to approve of that. “Visible wounds are the best testimony of a warrior’s spirit,” he had pronounced by way of welcoming Wethermere, Zhou, and Lubell to his carrier shortly before the Baldy fleet started pouring into Ajax. Although an Orion hull, the
Celmithyr’theaarnouw
’s crew and fighter complement were now almost one-third human; her own losses had been made up by orphaned TRN craft and crew—and whatever differences existed between the races, they shared a gnawing sense of loss and a burning desire to avenge their lost comrades.

Kiiraathra’ostakjo did not acknowledge Wethermere right away. Whether that was pride, or a mighty attempt at improving his mood before attempting to address a non-Orion, was unclear. “Yes, Tactical?” he asked at last.

“I have the sitrep and recommendations, Least Claw.”

“I do not remember asking for recommendations, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, sir. You did not. I simply prepared them in the event the captain had an unexpected and sudden need of them.”

“Prudent. Continue.” Which was also Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s way of saying,
You are free to share your recommendations, human—now that you have made it clear you are not trying to suggest that I need anyone to do my tactical thinking for me.

Wethermere checked his datapad. “The two Baldy SDHs that could still jeopardize the fleet’s evolution for fast warp-point transit to Penelope remain in pursuit. However, the rearmost veered off in pursuit of the battlecruiser
Kwajalein
, when she maneuvered to outflank the other Baldy dreadnoughts. The SDH on point, which seems a modified semi-carrier version, is still stern-chasing us.”

“Outcome of pursuit?”

“They are matching our speed and course, sir. They will arrive at the main body of the fleet in three hours. The leading edge of their van will be an hour behind them.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo growled.

Wethermere elected not to take that as a warning. “Lastly, we passed the Desai limit twenty minutes ago and are now coming abreast of the outermost planet in the system, the gas giant Myrtilus.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo nodded. “It is here that we must die, then. We will launch all fighters and stand with them within the planet’s own Desai limit. Our enemies will be compelled to cease pursuit and engage, lest we take them from the rear when they pass. They will, of course, with their vast superiority in fighters, and even greater superiority in armor and armaments, destroy us—but they will lose crucial time in their pursuit of Admiral Krishmahnta’s main van. With luck, the fleet will get through in time to hold Penelope firmly against their lead units.”

Zhou, at the engineering board, swallowed hard and blinked at the epitaphic quality of Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s pronouncement.

But Kiiraathra’ostakjo seemed to be waiting for something; he turned to look at Wethermere and then a slow, tooth-concealed smile cut an upward curve into the black fur around his muzzle. “Unless, that is, the lieutenant has a different option for us to consider.”

Wethermere smiled back: it was always a test with the Orions. At first they tested you to see if you were something better than a cowardly
chofak
(or, literally, “dirt eater”—which they often suspected of humans), then they tested you to give yourself a chance to prove that you could be a creature of honor who understood and embraced the dictates of something at least vaguely reminiscent of their code of
theernowlus
, and at last they tested you because—being their friend—it would be an insult not to give you the opportunity to acquire more honor and refresh your reputation in the eyes of others. So, with the Orions—one way or the other—it was always a test. How Wethermere proposed his idea was the first, but prerequisite test; the utility of the idea itself was the second and final exam. So he’d stick to his notes and the answers he’d prepared. “Least Claw, if we were to follow a conventional concept of engagement, what outcome would you foresee?”

“They will swarm us with their two-to-one fighter superiority while using their SDH to constrain our main hull’s orbital path so that we will be unable to retrieve or refit our squadrons unless we come under their fire. Once our fighters are gone, their remaining small craft will pin us in place so that the SDH may close and bring all its weapons to bear. We will be finished. There will be no survivors. But we will at least have given a good account of ourselves.”

Zhou looked like he might faint.

Wethermere considered. “So, if some of the alternatives I have prepared for the Least Claw seem—bizarre—he would not feel I was wasting his time or making myself so foolish that I am an embarrassment to his command?”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo smiled, clearly approving of Wethermere’s deft navigation of the social challenges implicit in publicly advising a vastly superior officer. “Since convention and common sense show us no path to victory, there is no dishonor in considering alternatives which derive from different sources of inspiration. What do you have in mind, Lieutenant?”

Okay, I’ve been given a passing grade on the first test.
Now Wethermere’s tone became more decisive, his syntax less ornately deferential. “Least Claw, how many energy torpedo external weapons packs do we have?

Kiiraathra’ostakjo nodded appreciatively. “The energy torpedo is a worthy weapon, possibly the best our fighters have, but not enough to make a difference. Besides, we will need something with extended firepower, given how badly outnumbered we are. The ET packs fire themselves dry after twenty launches. And this will not be a short dogfight.”

“Maybe it shouldn’t be a dogfight at all, Least Claw.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo smiled. “So you suggest—how do you humans put it?—going out ‘in a blaze of glory’? You suggest using a weapon that will destroy the maximum number of the
chofaki
, but when empty, shows them our throats and invites them to make a quick end of it.”

“No, after a very short engagement with their fighters, I suggest showing them our tails.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo was, for the first time, startled. His tone was only half joking when he began with a chiding, “A typical human response—to run. But here, we cannot run.”

“No, Least Claw, we cannot run—not at first. And never to retreat.”

“Then why run at all? Your words are riddles, Tactical. Speak plainly.”

“Very well, Least Claw.” The Orion’s injunction to
speak plainly
had given Wethermere even wider latitude with his manner of address and, ultimately, would shorten the time it took to lay out his whole plan. “Least Claw, the Baldies have hit us and we’re on the run already. They know this. They expect it to continue. They probably expect us to veer toward Myrtilus, deploy our fighters, and sell ourselves as dearly as possible. I suggest a slight change in that plan. As soon as we are within the Desai limit of Myrtilus, we scramble all our fighters swiftly and leave them behind, as if we are deploying them to make a desperate run at the Baldy SDH. They will certainly be convinced of this when they intercept us with their fighters and find that our birds are firing energy torpedoes—ordnance which would usually be reserved for use against capital ships.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo frowned. “Yes—but outnumbered two to one, and with a finite number of shots, our fighters would be quickly overwhelmed.”

“Naturally—which is what the Baldies would see also. They would also see that our fighters are about to be overwhelmed, and that this carrier is too far out of reach. So they will not be surprised by our fighters’ next, desperate course of action—our birds would have to try to lose the enemy squadrons by descending into the upper reaches of the atmosphere of Myrtilus.”

Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s surprise became horror. “Lieutenant—are you proposing that our fighters should dive into the atmosphere of a small gas giant? Are you mad?” And Wethermere could tell that, this time, the Orion inquiry was not figurative.

“Just a minute more of your indulgence, Least Claw. Firstly, where in this system do our drives have the most advantage over theirs?

“Inside the atmosphere of the small gas giant.” Kiiraathra’ostakjo’s rumble was a grudging concession.

Zhou had started nodding, though. “Sure, yeah,” he added. “The Baldies will be deep inside the Desai limit of a very intense gravity source. Their engine efficiency is going to plummet, and they’re already running so close to the red line on their tuners that they’re going to have almost no margin for error. As it is, their power curve is going to be fluttering around like laundry in the wind.”