Claws That Catch

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

“That is a bold statement, Captain Spectre,” Ship Master Korcan said. “However, a Dreen brain-ship outclasses this vessel by nearly ten to one. Our odds of survival…”

The two were viewing the battle from the Thermopylae’s CIC, a massive room that looked like an auditorium with a two-story screen on the far wall.

Humans and Hexosehr didn’t, frankly, know much about the race that had built the Thermopylae. The Mrreee sentient which had commanded it called them the Karchava. The massive dreadnought had been captured from the Dreen and converted to Human and Hexosehr use. This, however, would be its first taste of combat with a regular crew. And most of the crew was playing catch-up figuring out the systems. So it looked to be a trial by fire.

“Never tell me the odds,” Spectre said, leaning back in his command chair and interlacing his fingers behind his head. Technically, he had another similar compartment next door from which to command a fleet. And technically he shouldn’t be sitting next to the commander of the ship, looking over his shoulder. But the Hexosehr didn’t seem to mind about that sort of thing and the Karchava had installed a control point right next to the commander for some reason. With the massive Karchava chair replaced by a human control position, he figured he might as well use it. Korcan had been a corvette commander previously. A highly decorated one, but only the commander of a corvette. Stepping up to temporary command of the Thermopylae was a big step. Sometimes two brains could be better than one. And it gave him a chance to have this conversation more or less face to face, given that the Hexosehr didn’t have eyes. “Did the Caurorgorngoth turn away in the Battle of Orion?”

“No,” the Hexosehr commander replied. “But the Caurorgorngoth was dying and far from outclassed even then. We are a brand new ship. Perhaps letting this one flee would be the wiser choice?”

“Okay, call it a human thing,” Spectre said, regarding the blinking red icon of the Dreen flagship calmly. The Hexosehr had managed to comprehend the Karchava systems well enough to change the color of the icons and the information readouts next to them. Fortunately, the rest worked really well. If humans ever met the Karchava, Spectre suspected they’d be people to get drunk with. “If so much as one ship escapes this system, the Dreen will know what happened. If not even their brain-ship returns, they will have only dread. I’m not the commander of this ship, Korcan, but I am your senior officer. And as your senior officer, my orders are to engage more closely…”

‹Karchava dreadnought, identified as lost Unit 24801, approaching on course for warp point. Signals analysis indicates control by Species 27264.›

Engage all weapons.

‹Forward systems inoperable due to Organism 8139 infestation. ›

Recall all fighter systems. Engage enemy combat unit.

‹Dispatched.›

“It is not deviating,” Ship Leader Korcan said.

“It’s trying to escape the system,” Spectre said.

“And we must prevent this,” Korcan said. “Entering our maximum engagement range. We should have been taking fire from the brain-ship before this. Their range is greater than ours.”

“Be thankful for small favors,” Spectre replied.

“Permission to open fire?” Korcan asked.

“Your ship, Ship Master,” Blankemeier replied. “I’m just along for the ride.”

“Very well,” Korcan said. “Main Gun Control.”

“Aye, sir,” the gunnery officer replied.

“Target the brain-ship. Open fire.”

“Dude, we need, like, those cool Death Star uniforms,” Gunnery Petty Officer Third Class Sherman Zouks said. He had the helmet of his ship-suit latched up and was looking at the gun board dyspeptically. “You know, black, shiny?” He dropped the helmet and hummed some ominous music. “Doom, doom, doom…”

“Man, you would bitch about anything,” Gunnery PO Second Class Santos Braham said. He’d latched down his helmet and had his feet up on the gun board. “Here we are running the biggest fricking gun in creation and you’re all ‘it’s not the Death Star!’ Puhleeeaze. Just hope like hell these suits are good enough to — ”

“Mass Driver Control, Gunnery.”

“Mass Driver Control, aye,” Braham said, his feet slamming to the floor.

“Initiate Main Gun Fire Procedure.”

“Main Gun Fire Procedure, aye,” Braham said, looking over at Zouks. “You got the book?”

“Got it memorized,” Zouks said, pulling down the gun fire manual and opening it to a marked page. “Main Gun Fire Procedure Step One: Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen.”

“Warm Capacitor Banks One Through Fourteen, aye,” Braham said, pressing the series of buttons. “Warming capacitors.”

“Step Two: Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One Through Fourteen colored purple.”

“Ensure Capacitor Warm State by verifying indicators One through Fourteen colored purple, aye,” Braham said. “Capacitor seven orange.”

“Crap,” Zouks said, flipping to another page. “Contact faulty capacitor crew and determine status of capacitor…”

“Come on, work you son of a bitch!” Gunnery Petty Officer Second Class Salomon Shick shouted, hammering the carbon-fiber casing with a wrench.

“Cut it, Razor,” Gunnery Petty Officer First Class Colton Shafer said, grabbing the wrench. “Cracking the case would definitely put this thing off-line. Grab the manual.”

“It’s always something,” Shick said, pulling down a thick tome. “I just fricking ran a diagnostic on this fucker.”

“Then we’ll run one again…”

“CIC, Gunnery.”

“Gunnery, CIC.”

“Main gun is temporarily off-line.”

“Main gun temporarily off-line, aye.”

“Oh, how truly good,” Korcan said. “I apologize for this lapse, Admiral.”

“Don’t sweat it,” Spectre said. “Unless I’m reading this board wrong there’s a passel of bandits headed this way, too.”

“Fighter control.”

“Fighter control, aye.”

“Determine optimum launch time for counter-fighter mission. Tell the dragonflies to get ready.”

“Why is my gun not working, PO?”

Gunnery Master Chief Daniel Todd strode into Capacitor Seven’s compartment like rolling thunder. Master Chief Todd was the chief in charge of the Main Gun. As such, by both historical custom and lawful regulation he “owned” the gun and was responsible for ensuring it was good to go at any moment. Since it was the Thermopylae’s main weapon, the chief took that responsibility very seriously. He was less than enthusiastic that at the precise moment when his gun was needed most, his gun was kaput. There were questions of manhood involved!

“Diagnostic is good on our end, Master Chief,” Shafer said, flipping through the manual. “The capacitor is warmed and ready to discharge. But main gun section is getting a fault.”

“Found it,” Schick said, sliding out from under the capacitor. “Communications relay is screwed.”

“And do you have a replacement communications relay, Petty Officer?” Todd asked, taking a sip of coffee.

“It’s stored in Compartment Nine-Nine-Two dash One compartment inventory, Master Chief,” Shafer said, looking at the computerized inventory.

“Engineering, Guns,” the master chief said, tapping his internal communicator.

“Go, Guns.”

“I need a comm relay, standby number.”

“Ready.”

“Two-One-Six-Niner-Foah-Two-Fahv-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory.”

“Two-One-Six-Nine-Four-Two-Five-Three-Six-One-Two Dash Alpha, aye. Compartment Niner-Niner-Two Dash One inventory, aye.”

“And I need it A mothergrappin’ SAP.”

Spectre took a sip of coffee and regarded the discussion going on at the base of the CIC auditorium with interest. Three beings were involved: an Adar, standing nearly nine feet tall and wearing spandex shorts and a Hawaiian shirt; a Hexosehr, a race that looked a bit like a blind otter and disdained clothing; and a human, the lieutenant commander in charge of the Gunnery section. The three-way conference looked like it was about to become an argument.

“Do you think I should intervene?” Korcan asked.

“Your ship,” Spectre said.

“Not until they come to some consensus, then,” Korcan replied. “I would know what they are discussing, however.”

“And I think we’re about to,” Blankemeier said as the threesome made its way up to the commander’s position.

“Sir,” Guns said, looking at his Hexosehr commander and trying to pointedly ignore the human admiral sitting beside him. “The fault in the main gun has been detected. Capacitor Seven is functional, but it’s in bad communication with the main gun control. All it is is a comm relay. Local controls indicate that it is in full preparation for discharge. I wish to fire before repairs are completed on the relay.”

“And there is disagreement,” Korcan said. “Ship Technician Caethau?”

“The personnel making the judgment that the capacitor is ready to fire are undertrained,” the Hexosehr engineer replied. “I have Hexosehr personnel on the way to verify the fault.”

“Time?” Korcan asked.

“No more than seven treek,” the Hexosehr replied.

“Human terms, Caethau,” Korcan reproved. “This is a human ship. Fifteen minutes. If the fault is as determined, time to repair?”

“Another two treek,” Caethau replied.

“Adar… Monthut?” Korcan said.

“Fire,” the Adar said. “This is a battle. If you wait for everything to be perfect, you’ll never fight it.”

Korcan thought about it for a moment.

“Concur,” the Hexosehr commander said. “Lieutenant Commander Painter, you have my permission to fire.”

“Permission to fire, aye,” the human said. He turned and looked down at the guns position and made a gesture. “Firing, sir.”

“Override on Step Two, aye,” PO Braham said. “Override on Step Two.”

“Guess we’re going to have to fire without seven, then,” Zouks said. “Step Three: Pre-energize power runs.”

“Pre-energize power runs, aye,” Braham said, pressing the controls. The room began to hum as if filled by a billion bees. “I hope like hell this step works. Got purple on all power runs.”

“Report main gun prepared to fire.”

“Report main gun prepared to fire, aye…”

“ALL HANDS, ALL HANDS. STANDBY FOR MAIN GUN FIRE.”

In the end it was as easy as pressing a button. And the dreadnought, as wide as a human supercarrier was long and nearly a kilometer in length, a construction beyond any human endeavor save the Great Wall of China… shuddered. Seemed to almost stop in space…

“Yeah!” Shick shouted from under the capacitor. The discharge, despite heavy shielding, would have fried everyone in the compartment if they hadn’t closed up their armor. It especially would have fried the technician fumbling around underneath it. “That’s what I’m talking about!”

“Capacitor recharge nominal,” Shafer said.

“And this baby is still up! Charge you bastard, charge!”

The penetrator was not just a chunk of random metal. The optimum design had been found on the Karchava engineering database and slavishly copied. At the core was a long, pointed, chunk of heavy metal, in the case of this penetrator depleted uranium. Of all heavy and hard metals it was the most available to humans since it was made from reactor waste that had been reworked to remove all trace of radioactive particles.

Out from that it was simple steel. A lot of steel. Enough steel to make a World War Two destroyer.

The outer layer was a thin sheaf of carbon monomolecule. It was there to prevent significant damage from micrometorite hits. Like a diamond, the penetrator was hard but fragile. Even a very small pebble could, potentially, crack the penetrator before it hit its target. And that would be sad.

Accelerated to a small fraction of light-speed, the titanic dart gained a boost of energy from Einstein’s famous equation, raising its potential kinetic energy to right at the output of every nuclear weapon on Earth at the height of the Cold War — several exajoules of energy.

When it hit, a significant fraction of that astronomical energy was transferred to the Dreen brain-ship.

The penetrator hit on the nose of the brain-ship, slightly to starboard. Most of its mass converted to plasma immediately, the inertia of the impact carrying the blazing ball of hell deep into the vitals of the ship. Bulkhead after bulkhead was vaporized as the gaseous fire burned through everything in its path. The plasma ripped through seventy percent of the weapons controls on the starboard side, devastated starboard fighter systems, which had yet to launch, and tore apart thirty percent of the ship’s environmental systems.

But at its core, in a way worse, was the massive dart of depleted uranium. The impact mostly vaporized the steel around it and, due to simple physics, the plasma front could outstrip the speed of even the relativistic dart. But the harder, stronger, heavier metal remained intact for a few moments, blazing at the heart of the plasma ball.

That is, until the plasma expended its last joule of energy. Leaving the dart to fly ahead of its wavefront and smash further into the interior.

Depleted uranium is very strong but it is also, again, fragile. As soon as it hit a major obstacle, a primary support beam for the ship, it broke apart into a thousand pieces. And like flint and steel, when uranium hits even itself hard enough, it sparks. Then, like magnesium, it burns.

Thousands of chunks of white-hot uranium crashed into the depths of the brain-ship like a flaming shotgun blast.

‹Mass driver impact. Significant damage to environmental, starboard fighter support, starboard fighter bays… ›

The sentient didn’t need its child to tell it that the damage was significant. It could sense the ship screaming. It was tied into the depths of its creation, as much the brain of the ship as the brain of the task force. The ship’s pain was its pain, and it had just had the equivalent of a flamethrower hit it on the shoulder.

But the hit had missed the heart and the brain.

Close to range for secondary weapons. Roll to engage from port when in range. Launch all remaining fighters.

“Ooooh, that’s gotta hurt,” Spectre said. He was looking at the long-range viewer repeater on his own console. The Karchava apparently didn’t have Star Trek viewers, either. The system was a near twin of the one on the Blade, the only difference being even better jitter controls and the fact that with the circumference of the dreadnought and the larger individual telescopes it hosted, it was the largest telescope ever built. The resolution was just awesome. And he’d never seen a better image to resolve than the one of a Dreen brain-ship spouting fire.

“Reports indicate serious damage,” Korcan said. “The brain-ship is streaming air and liquids.”

“You just blew out its whole starboard side,” Spectre said. “Serious is a bit of an understatement. I mean, it gushed plasma along a third of its length. I’m surprised it’s still operating at all. That gun is bad news.”

“Alas, it takes time to charge.”

“Commander, reaching optimum engagement range for fighter launch.”

“Launch fighters.”

“Tallyho!”

The midsection of the Thermopylae hosted thirty fighter bays, fifteen to a side. When it was captured, the Karchava fighters were long gone, replaced by Dreen organic fighters.

Now it hosted a new version of organic fighter, the Cheerick dragonflies.

Perhaps it had been some constraint that was still unknown to the Alliance or perhaps it had been simple oversight. But the Dreen had maintained one fighter in each bay.

When the dragonflies were boarded it became immediately apparent that the Alliance need not be so sparse in their allocation of resources. Dragonflies could maintain themselves for quite some time on minimal resources and there was more than enough room to pack them into the hangar bay. They could, in fact, be stacked on top of each other.

Thus, when the fighter bays opened up they opened all the way up, not only opening their hatches but their internal clamshells and evacuating the hangar bays. Instead of thirty fighters the ship could disgorge eighty-six shielded, laser-eyed, giant-chinchilla crewed dragonflies.

Colonel She-kah knew that she could not, however, control them. From reports they had already gotten from Che-chee she knew there was a way to train other than by flying in space. But up until they reached this system, all she could do was occasionally train her males when the ship rested or was moving from one node to another.

Thus, they were not the crackest cavalry in the galaxy. But they were eager.

“Follow your icons, males,” the Cheerick Mother said. “As soon as you see the enemy, though, you are on your own. Teams stay together. Fight well. Re-ka, you shall stay on my tail and not leave it. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Colonel,” the young cavalryman said.

“Let us do battle.”

“We’re taking long-range fire from the Dreen fighter group,” the defensive systems officer reported. There had been a faint shudder through the ship, barely noticeable in CIC. “Permission to open fire.”

“Fighter control, time to dragonfly engagement range.”

“Colonel She-kah has ordered her fighters to hold their fire until they are closer,” Fighter Control relayed. “They’re planning their initial sweep at under a light-second. Fighters have been vectored up and away of direct path. Most of them followed the vector. About fifteen seem to be totally lost.”

“We’ll collect them later,” Korcan said. “Defensive Systems, open fire.”

“Open fire, aye.”

The angle of retreat and the fact that the brain-ship had only been able to launch from its port side meant that the majority of the Dreen fighters were to starboard of the Thermopylae.

All along the starboard side, plasma cannons, lasers and mass drivers swiveled forward and began to belch incandescent hell at the oncoming Dreen assault.

“Colonel!” Re-ka shouted. “The ship is on fire!”

“They have opened fire against the Dreen fighters,” She-kah replied over the full circuit, trying not to sigh. Males were always so excitable. “You can see the fighters firing at the ship as well.”

“The icons are moving around…” Re-ka replied. “I cannot really follow them.”

“They are evasively maneuvering,” She-kah said. “Which is why we are waiting to fire.”

“Twelve bandits destroyed,” Defensive Control reported. “Continuing to engage.”

“Discontinue engagement when the dragonflies make their pass,” Korcan said.

“Discontinue for dragonfly pass, aye.”

“Minor damage to the starboard forequarter,” Damage Control reported. “Mass drivers nine and six out of action. No casualties.”

“Tough ship,” Spectre said. “That much fire from fighters would have made a hash of the Blade.”

“She is a tough ship,” Korcan said. “And another species lost her to the Dreen. And then the Dreen lost her to the Blade. Any ship can be defeated.”

“Point.”

“Colonel She-kah, formation approaching one light second from the forward portion of the Dreen fighter group.”

“Roger,” She-kah said, squinting. The icons she was watching were still jiggling around, indicating that the Dreen fighters were maneuvering. But she could not for the life of her see them, yet. She knew that the cavalrymen could not engage simply on the basis of the icons. They were going to have to see their enemy. She had not realized that a light-second was so far. “We are going to continue to close before firing.”

“Main gun charged,” gunnery control reported.

“Fire as you bear,” Korcan said.

“Main Gun Fire Procedures.”

“Main Gun Fire Procedures, aye.”

While the Dreen fighters were still invisible, only appearing as icons or the occasional flash of plasma guns, Colonel She-kah could clearly see the massive Dreen brain-ship. The monstrosity, ten times the size of the Thermopylae, seemed as large as a planet and they were starting to take fire from it.

The fire became momentarily wide and sporadic as the massive ship gouted fire from every port in the forward section. Chunks, still burning, broke off and drifted away into space. But the massive dreadnought continued forward, still apparently under power.

“Colonel… I see…”

Colonel She-kah had also not considered the speed with which something very hard to see could suddenly become much more visible and much much closer at astronomical speeds.

“All dragonflies open fire!” she shouted as her helmet suddenly became a mass of red icons.

The only thing that permitted the dragonflies to get any hits in at the closing speeds was the fact that it was a target rich environment. Over two hundred Dreen fighters remained from the battles deeper in the solar system and they had been joined by another eighty from the survivors of the first hit on the brain-ship. Nearly three hundred fighters were approaching the Thermopylae in a, for space, very small formation. Which Colonel She-kah had piloted her functional fighters right into the middle of.

The only thing that was statistically improbable was a mid-space collision, but Cavalryman Tre-trak managed even that, impacting his dragonfly directly on the nose of a Dreen fighter, despite its best attempts to dodge the idiot.

Everyone in the interpenetrated formations was dodging wildly, with the relatively small space so filled with plasma and laser bolts it momentarily gained something resembling an atmosphere. Both fighters could maneuver in three dimensions with rapid axis change, something that Colonel She-kah had not really realized until necessity taught her very very fast.

From She-kah’s perspective, the encounter was a confusion of spinning stars, fleeting shots and way more plasma than she ever wanted to see again in her life. She was unsure if she’d hit anything but as the dragonfly formation passed the Dreen formation, both groups turning and sending Parthian shots at the other, she could see drifting and smashed Dreen fighters. Along with far too many dragonflies.

She could also see the enemy headed towards their ride at a very fast clip.

“Follow them!” she shouted. “Section leaders, report casualties.”

“Permission to reengage Dreen fighters,” Defensive Control asked.

“As long as you don’t hit the dragonflies,” Korcan replied. “Fighter Control?”

“I would not use the term ‘control,’ sir,” the lieutenant commander, a former FA-18 pilot who was itching to get these medieval idiots to learn real air-to-air tactics. “Dragonflies appear to have taken out eighteen Dreen fighters for a loss of seven. One of those may have been a mid-space; the encounter was too confusing for our computers to really keep track of. Definitely don’t know who got what. Some of the Dreen losses may have been blue-on-blue and ditto for the dragonflies.”

“Clearly we must get this simulator Che-chee has developed,” Korcan said. “Order the dragonflies to decelerate and pursue.”

“Colonel She-kah’s on it.”

“Why are we still not catching up?” She-kah snarled, then waited impatiently for the response. This thing about “light-speed lag” was still confusing. It seemed to her as if the controller on the other end was dawdling.

“Colonel, you had a high relative vector to the Dreen formation,” the combat controller said, trying not to sigh. “They’re decelerating to engage us but you’re still not even headed back to us, yet. Your velocity was too high for your accel to get you going in the right direction, yet. You have to keep decelerating for a while. I’d recommend random maneuvering as well. You’re well into the engagement basket of the brain-ship.”

“I noticed,” She-kah snapped.

“Maneuver, you young idiot,” She-kah said as a plasma bolt from the brain-ship passed by.

“I’m trying, Colonel,” Re-ka replied. “But I’m getting very confused.”

Everyone in the formation was. The best they could do was try to figure out which way the various icons were pointed and try to follow them, not an inherent Cheerick skill. The only thing in view from their perspective was the brain-ship and the torrent of fire pouring out from its midsection. The dragonflies had gotten so scattered on the pass through the Dreen fighter group many of them were out of sight of each other.

“Fighter control, can you turn off all the icons but one?” She-kah asked.

“Aye, aye,” the controller replied a few seconds later. Damn this lag thing! “Which one, Colonel?”

“Mine. I need to rally my force. Wave the banner high, Fighter Control.”

As the Dreen fighters approached the Thermopylae its fire became more accurate, taking out more and more of the fighters.

However, the Dreen fighters had a functional engagement range of nearly two light-seconds, nearly twice the distance from Earth to the moon, and they were highly maneuverable. It was impossible for the guns to track on them and ensure a hit at that range.

But the Thermopylae had a lot of anti-fighter guns. The belching battlewagon simply filled the space the fighters were passing through with lasers, plasma and chunks of iron.

It didn’t mean the ship wasn’t taking damage of her own, though.

“Gunnery Control, Plasma Nineteen,” Petty Officer First Class Malcolm Charles shouted over the internal communications circuit. “Nineteen is toast. Compartment is evacuated. Gun’s total slag. Dockyard job.”

“Roger, Nineteen,” Gunnery Control replied. “Initiate Damage Control shut-down procedures and evacuate the compartment. Casualties?”

“Negative,” Charles replied. “Blow-out panel initiated and shielded us. If I ever meet a Karchava I’m gonna kiss him right on his bulgey forehead. Initiate shut-down procedures, aye.”

“Roger, Nineteen. Gunnery Control, out.”

“Okay, Colonel, you’re headed back for us,” the combat controller said patiently. “Looks like your formation is getting in good tune, too.”

“Where are the Dreen?” She-kah asked. “Give me icons back.”

“Single icon for the near center of the formation, Colonel,” the controller said. The lag was much less this time for some reason. “You got it?”

“Up and to my left,” She-kah said. “When we have to… slow down, whatever the word you use is, give me the order. Keep only my icon on my other fighters. Let them follow me this time.”

“Roger, Colonel, will do.”

However, while the Dreen fighters had good “space legs,” a range of over seven hundred million kilometers or nearly five times the distance from Earth to the sun, the initial battle had taken place deep within the system. They had been dispatched, initially, to try to screen the ground combat assault force and got to within an AU of the local star.

Now, with their carriers dust, they had to push their way back out to cover the brain-ship. And while they had high accelerations, they had to decelerate to slow to the velocity of the human flagship. All of that took fuel.

By the time the majority of the fighters approached the Thermopylae they were, in human terms, “bingo.”

That didn’t mean they were useless. The power system for the plasma guns was independent of the drive. It did mean they were relegated to either keeping up with the still accelerating battlewagon or maneuvering.

Being Dreen, they chose following the battlewagon, eventually most of them settling into a nice predictable straight line.

“Majority of the Dreen fighters have stopped maneuvering,” Defensive Control said. “They’re just following like they’re on a string.”

“I take it you’ve used that to our benefit?” Korcan asked, looking at the damage report. “If you can.”

Spectre sighed, winced and leaned sideways.

“Rotate the ship,” he whispered.

Korcan let loose a stream of quiet clicks, the first sign of emotion he had given in the entire battle and far too quiet to be noticed in the CIC.

“Conn, CIC.”

“Go CIC.”

“Rotate the ship to engage fighters with upper and port batteries.”

“Rotate ship, aye.”

“Should have done that earlier,” Korcan said.

“We’re all learning,” Spectre said.

“I have been a ship commander before,” Korcan said. “Not one as large as this, but a commander nonetheless. You should not have to tell me.”

“You were in stasis for a long time,” Spectre replied. “It’s not quite like riding a bicycle.”

The Dreen fighters dispatched from the brain-ship still had fuel and were maneuvering wildly through the incoming fire from the Karchava battlewagon. With most of their brethren toast, they were the only remaining attackers pounding fire into the now rotating Thermopylae. But they, too, were following the dreadnought like beads, jinking around, yes, but nonetheless following a mostly predictable path.

A path that lead directly to the dragonflies, which were now closing at their maximum of one thousand gravities of acceleration.

“Colonel, begin deceleration,” the combat controller said. “They’re headed for you, now, and you’re going really fast at them again.”

“Roger,” She-kah said, thinking “slow down” at the dragonfly. She could see the Thermopylae now and by looking where the fire was headed and the icon she could figure out more or less where the enemy was. But she still couldn’t judge distance. “All dragonflies slow. Form box formation around my position. We will charge them as cavalry should.”

The last fighter battle was, in direct contrast to the first, the slowest space battle in the history of the galaxy. And extremely one sided.

The Dreen continued to pour fire into the Thermopylae even as the decelerating dragonflies closed. The dragonflies began firing as soon as they came in view of the Dreen, continuing to slow until their relative speed was barely faster than humanity’s Space Shuttle, in astronomical terms the walking speed of a very old and decrepit man. The dragonfly lasers were strong enough to penetrate and destroy a Dreen fighter with one blast and, inaccurate as they were, they had time to fire multiple blasts into the fighter formation before they passed.

One by one, in pairs and in groups, the Dreen fighters came apart under the hammer of the dragonflies. There were thirteen left, though, as the dragonfly formation passed. This time, Colonel She-kah didn’t even need control to handle the reassembly. She reformed her fighters, accelerated back to the Dreen formation and closed on them at what was, even at normal air-breathing fighter speeds, dead-slow.

Closing at the speed of a World War One biplane, at ranges that were not much more than those paper-airplanes fought from, the Cheerick fighters simply could not miss.

As nine dragonflies concentrated their fire on the last remaining Dreen, Colonel She-kah let out a yell of triumph.

“Fighter Control, Dragonflight. All fighters terminated as far as I can tell.”

“Roger, Dragonflight. You should be good on fuel for a bit. Stay out there. Conditions are going to get a bit frosty around here.”

“Okay, I thought the Thermo was tough,” Spectre said, shaking his head.

The Dreen brain-ship had taken four solid hits from the mass driver and still it headed for the unreality node. It wasn’t going to make it, unless Spectre was much mistaken, and even if it could it was unlikely to be able to go into unreal space. But it was still plowing along. It had started to decelerate but apparently there had been some damage to engines because at its current rate it was going to overshoot the node.

But it was still coming.

“If we continue on our current course and speed we’re going to practically ram it,” Korcan said. “Conn, prepare to yaw the ship to maintain fire by main gun on the target. Yaw will be to port to engage their port side.”

“Prepare to yaw port, aye.”

Yaw the ship to engage with starboard batteries. Fire all guns as they bear.

The two battlewagons, one massive and one monstrous, began to twist in space, slowly, oh so slowly. Like the Karchava dreadnought, the brain-ship’s main guns were forward, four massive meson cannons each with more power than the Thermopylae’s single mass driver. Those, however, had been taken out early by the space spider infestation. While they had been mostly crisped by the mass driver impacts, the damage was done. The main arsenal of the brain-ship had not been a factor in the battle at all.

But arrayed along her sides were weapons nearly as powerful. Multiple hundreds of terawatts class directed weapons, plasma cannons to dwarf anything made by humans or Hexosehr, mass drivers nearly as large as the Thermopylae’s.

Crippled as she was, the brain-ship was still Goliath to the Thermopylae’s David. But as with Goliath and David, the Thermopylae had one thing going for her; she was more maneuverable.

“Main gun charged.”

“Wait to fire until we bear,” Korcan said. “The brain-ship is maneuvering. We do not want to take too much fire from her secondaries. But I want a shot right… here…” he said, marking a spot two thirds of the way back on the massive dreadnought and centerline. “This is the best guess we have for the location of the sentient. It is the location of the controller on other Dreen ships. If we can fire a round that penetrates to the controller…”

“Worth the shot,” Spectre said. “But for what we are about to receive…”

“Target maneuvering counter to our maneuver,” Combat Control reported. “They’re trying to get their starboard side to bear. We’re trying to fire into their port.”

“We’re slightly out of plane from them,” Korcan said. “Conn, maneuver downwards as we skew. Continue rotation.”

“Dreen secondaries firing,” Defensive Control reported, just as there was a shudder through the ship.

“Damage control’s going to be busy.”

The two ships continued to close, the Thermopylae circling the bull like a matador. But bulls don’t have plasma cannons.

“Can the mass driver take this?” Spectre asked as the ship rang like a tocsin to a Dreen mass driver strike.

“That is why there are mostly acceleration rings forward,” Korcan said placidly. “And most of the fire is hitting our flanks. Serious damage, but the mass driver still has over ninety percent operability. Good design.”

“Hope there are some Karchava left somewhere,” Spectre said. “I want to shake their hands. Or claws or tentacles or whatever.”

“I think I have a firing solution,” Main Gun Control reported. “Should hit the location you designated.”

“Fire.”

It was like pithing a frog. The enormous mass of the projectile hit the armor of the brain-ship low on its port side, penetrating upwards through the refractory material to blow all the way through the massive battlewagon.

And it missed the brain.

However, there are three necessities to any ship. A brain, the control section of a human, Hexosehr or Adar vessel, or the sentient controller of a Dreen battlewagon, which always has a redundant backup; the lungs, the environmental section that all spaceships need, and the heart, the engine room that all ships, space or otherwise, require.

It missed the brain. But it hit the heart. Most hearts don’t explode. Unless they happen to be already overloaded fusion cooling systems.

“Whoa,” Spectre said as fire began to gush out of the ship from every hatch along its entire length. “Nice secondar — ” He closed his eyes at the flash on his monitor and blinked. “What did you hit?”

“I think we just found out where the engine room is on a brain-ship, Admiral,” Korcan said. “Ops. Discontinue combat action. Divert all personnel to damage control. Recall the dragonflies. Our work is done.”