The Terminal War: A Space Opera Novel (A Carson Mach Adventure) (7 page)

The fusion engines wound down with a decreasing smooth roar, and the ghostly pink image on the bridge’s main screen solidified into the familiar dark of space.

The Axis attacked here twenty-four Standard Salus hours ago. They destroyed the electronics factories of Palios Major—a key part of vestan manufacturing infrastructure. Given the lack of alarm, it was clear the enemy had already left, no doubt to seek more prey on another rim planet.
 

Babcock had been here before, shortly after the Century War when he had made the decision to live in Exile. He came here looking for components to build the original Squid, the first of his automaton companions.
 

The current model, the third incarnation of this particular droid creation, floated above his left shoulder and chirped at the sight of two distant green planets—Palios Major and Palios Minor, or just Minor as most people called it.

“Configure the command channel back to the main speaker,” Babcock said. “Saves me the trouble of repeating the commander’s orders.”

“You got it,” Tulula said.
 

“Lassea,” Babcock said, feeling slightly guilty over dishing out orders. Leadership didn’t come naturally after years of seclusion, but he was the most experienced on the ship. “Engage the gamma drive and thrust away from the formation. Let’s keep our distance from this little soiree.”

Sanchez, sitting at the ion cannon’s controls, zoomed his guidance screen toward Palios Beta. Small gray mushroom clouds peppered the western side of the planet, mainly focused around the densely populated industrial zone.
 

Babcock bowed his head and sighed. It didn’t take a genius to work out the signs of a lactern space-to-surface missile attack.
 

Tulula turned from the comms system. “Captain Steros from the
Chester
coming on screen.”

The
Chester
, equipped with four laser turrets and an ion cannon that was no match for the
Intrepid’s
, formed the left flank of the destroyers’ diamond formation, protecting the four quadrants around the capital ship.
 

“Steros as in the son of the former president?” Babcock asked.
 

“That’s the one,” Lassea said.

An image flashed up showing a round-faced man with intense light blue eyes and thin lips, sitting too close to his camera. The family resemblance was obvious. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree as far as Steros junior was concerned.
 

The small white orb-cam attached to the bridge’s ceiling slid level with Babcock. Its black eye swiveled toward him, and a small green light winked on. “Good morning, Captain Steros,” he said. “If we’re going off local time, of course.”

“You’re out of the formation. Thrust back to my flank.”

“May I remind you, we’re here for support,” Babcock said, masking his irritation at the abrupt response. “The
Intrepid’s
taking up a position to cover all Axis movements.”

Steros leaned closer and the screen filled with only his nose and narrowed eyes. “This is a CWDF patrol. You follow my orders. Return to your pre-jump position.”

Babcock guessed this would be the point where Mach told the young captain to take a walk out of the airlock. Babcock, however, decided to be proactive rather than reactive. “I’ve been observing horan maneuvers and picked up new attack moves. You won’t find them included in your training manuals.”

“You? What would an old freelance nerd know about modern space war?”

Sanchez grimaced and stepped toward the camera. Babcock extended his palm toward the big hunter to keep him at bay. They were clearly dealing with a person who enjoyed his lofty position as a destroyer captain—no doubt gained through his father. Steros wasn’t the first man to be drunk on the little amount of power he possessed, and wouldn’t be the last.
 

“Allow me to demonstrate,” Babcock said in a calm voice. He selected a file on his smart-screen and sent it over to the
Chester's
bridge. “Please, run the simulation on a holoscreen.”

“Where did you observe this?”

“That’s my business,” Babcock replied, not wanting to give away his location of exile on the planet Minerva. He planned to go back one day and had no intention of having his retirement disturbed by the CWDF. “You have my word that this is genuine.”

Steros’ features softened, and he sat back. “What am I looking at?”

“I coined this move a horan whiptail,” Babcock said. “The graphics aren’t perfect, but you’ll get the general idea.”

Over Steros’ shoulder, one of his crew opened the file, and a green sphere flashed to life. In the center of it, six CWDF Class-3 destroyers, like the
Chester
, fanned out in an extended line.
 

Six horan ships, featureless rectangles of barely visible dark-gray illudinum, and of similar firepower, faced them in a V-formation, their standard attack mode. A lineup designed to punch through the central area and spread the CW fleet, picking off ships individually.

The young captain twisted in his chair to observe.
 

“We’re in a diamond shape,” Steros said. “If they come at us like that…”

The simulation started. Three horan ships formed up in front of the gaps of the middle four CW destroyers.
 

“They’re almost in range,” Babcock said. “But you can see how their three ships are keeping four occupied. At this moment, it’d be too risky for either side to engage in a head-on battle. Now watch.”

The three remaining horan ships navigated down to the left of the destroyers.

“Standard flanking move,” Steros said. “What’s different?”

“This is the point where the horans facing our center fire speculative shots at the individual destroyers. Three bolts at both flanks.”

“The horans don’t fire speculative shots.”

Babcock smiled and pushed his glasses against his nose. “You need to think again. What’s your modus operandi when facing three incoming?”

“We move into a new formation to combat the attack or take evasive action. Depends on how much time we have.”

“You thrust into a diamond, and it gives them a concentrated area of fire. Thrust away and it makes it six on four in their favor.”

The simulation showed all three flanking horan ships change course and sweep beneath the CW formation, enabling them to use their vestan-produced ion cannons to fire at the hulls of the central ships.
 

At the same time, the other three Axis ships launched a head-on attack. The file ran through five different scenarios Babcock had programed—all replicating typical CWDF moves.
 

None produced a favorable outcome.
 

Steros turned back in his chair to face him. “This is assuming that our center doesn’t move, or we hit them first.”

“Out of range against an equal force? Does that match the conventional wisdom of CWDF battle planning?”

“What do you suggest?”

“I’ve calculated hundreds of ways to defeat their new strategy. Run the simulation back to the twenty-second point and I’ll show you the best.”

The young captain glanced to his left and nodded. The green sphere blurred and paused just after the point where three flanking horan ships were about to change course.
 

“There’s a small window where the horans crucially split their forces but aren’t in a position to jointly engage,” Babcock continued. “We turn their strategy against them by all thrusting away from their circling ships and attacking the ones designed to hold our center in position.”

“And by the time the flanking ships have got within range, we can turn our attention on them?”

“Exactly.”

At least Steros now seemed engaged. Fighting used to be relatively straightforward against the horans. The main Axis powers were driven by their superiority complex and firm belief that they were the kings of space battle. Humans were considered a new and inferior species.
 

During the Century War, they deployed aggressive tactics, often bordering on suicidal. Through strategy and guile the CW won, but the Axis powers were learning.
 

“You need to report this to Fleet Command,” Steros said in a softer tone. “And any other maneuvers you know about.”

Babcock smiled. “You can have this one on me. Keep the simulation and tell your bosses. Who knows, it might get you a promotion.”

Playing on Steros’ ego was an obvious way to go. Besides that, Babcock had no desire to please the head honchos on Fides Prime. His main focus was to survive, and the slippery Commonwealth career ladder meant nothing to him.
 

His interests were in the pursuit of science.
 

Steros cracked a half smile. “Very generous, Captain Babcock. I’ll be sure to pass on your information. Now, back to my original point—”

“You were going to tell me to maintain position in case we encountered horans, and they tried a whiptail move? I agree that proactively patrolling outside your formation would avoid them launching this type of offensive.”

“Err…yes. I’ll inform the commander of my decision. That’ll be all.”

Lassea held her hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh.
 

Sanchez relaxed back in his chair and smiled.
 

“Thank you, Captain Steros,” Babcock replied. “We’ll maintain course and keep you updated.”

The main bridge screen flashed back to a view of the Palios system. Babcock sighed and dabbed beads of sweat off his forehead with a white handkerchief. Conflict had never been his forte.
 

“What a tool,” Sanchez said, shaking his head. “I’d love to go five rounds with him in a fidian fighting pit.”

“Only an idiot refuses to change their mind,” Babcock replied. “He’s no idiot. Hopefully, my information will keep him off our case.”

The comms system pinged. Tulula read the message and said, “The commander wants you and Steros to join a virtual conference immediately. What do humans say about lucky days?”

*

Babcock knew why Tralis wanted a virtual conference to convey orders. They served together during the Century War, and the commander had always believed in using the correct chain of command. Any person who served in the Fleet understood it, but to people like Sanchez, it was official bullshit. That was another reason why Mach had made Babcock temporary captain. He needed a person who understood the nuances.

Laser arrays in the small, white-walled technology suite scanned Babcock’s body, creating a virtual image of him sitting at a table to transmit. The holographic shape of Tralis appeared first, inches to his left, dressed in his crisp dark blue uniform. Steros appeared seconds after to his right, looking a lot more attentive than their first meeting. In a real environment, all of them would be conscious about the lack of space.
 

“Thank you for joining,” Tralis said. “I’ll be brief. We’ve received reports of another attack on a border planet. I want the
Chester
and
Intrepid
to head for Erebus and intercept any enemy in the area.”

“Any information about—“ Babcock said.
 

“Do you have any information?” Steros interrupted. “What might we be facing, sir?”

Tralis glanced between them, maintaining a neutral expression. “Two lactern frigates deployed orbital bombers. We need a win, gentlemen. The Axis will continue to attack vestan interests until we show them we’re serious about the treaty.”

“Count on me to lead our mission,” Steros said. “If they’re in the vicinity, I’ll flush ‘em out.”

“Nobody leads,” Tralis replied. “I want you to work together. Captain Babcock has the advantage of experience, speed, and firepower. It’s to our benefit that he’s here to help, and we need to be a cohesive unit.”

Steros forced a smile and inclined his head. “Yes, sir.”

The junior captain clenched his fist.
 

Babcock didn’t completely blame Steros for appearing to have his nose put out of joint. Plenty of young guns wanted to make a reputation for themselves, and the
Intrepid
wasn’t an official part of the Fleet. In similar circumstances, a lifetime ago, he might have felt the same.

“Any questions, Captain Babcock?” Tralis asked.
 

“No questions. My crew will coordinate a travel plan with Captain Steros’ and head straight there.”
 

“Excellent. Report any contact immediately, and good luck.”

Tralis rose from his chair, and the laser arrays cut, ending the conference. Both holograms immediately vanished, returning the small room to its former plain white state.
 

Babcock made his way back along the corridor, thinking about the mission’s potential risks. The lactern frigates were an obvious one, but so was a man desperate to make an impression or stamp his authority at the wrong time. Babcock’s smart-screen lit up as he reached for the authentication pad to enter the bridge.
 

A message from Tralis:

Kingsley: do not mind him. He’s an impetuous little sod, but he means well. Keep an eye on him, and you won’t have a problem.
 

Babcock fully intended to do just that.
 

He didn’t trust Steros to be a reliable partner in action, but a plan was already formulating in his mind.
 

Mach’s mind rang with internal dialogue praising the lord of all that is merciful! For now, the nightmares were over. They’d been the worst Mach had ever experienced in an L-jump. And they just had to be during a weeklong jump. He thought they’d never end.
 

“Anyone else lose their minds?” Mach asked the darkness before him. He could feel Beringer’s and Adira’s presences near him, tucked away in the stasis pods.

The shuttle smelled of sweat and mildew, indicating the lids had opened—which also meant they were at their destination. Mach knew the shuttles would only open arrival to Vesta.

A yawn sneaked up on him, making his jaw click with the violence of it. His body ached, desperately in need of movement and real air. Though he remembered they would not get that on Terminus and tried not to think about having to spend the entire mission breathing from a bottle.