Defiant

17

Kris blanched, fighting the flashback. The memory of going for ice cream for her and Eddy. Two men walked past her; they smiled. They had signs hung around their necks that said Kidnapper, but a ten-year-old Kris smiled and waved at them. They waved back. She kept skipping toward the ice cream stand.

When she came back to the duck pond with the ice cream, Nanna was dead, and Eddy was gone.

That was when Kris usually woke up screaming. It happened every night until Kris learned to sneak out to Mother's wine cabinet, Father's wet bar. The dreams came back after Grampa Trouble started her drying out. Judith, a miracle of a psychologist, had helped Kris go back to that day, relive it in all its horror… and recognize that there was no one there with signs around their necks. No one that even looked like the men who stole her brother, and with him her childhood.

Strange. Kris had attended parts of the trial. She'd even attended their hanging. Father had almost lost his chance to replace Grampa Al as Prime Minister by the tactics he used to keep capital punishment on Wardhaven's books long enough for those three to swing. Only with Judith holding Kris's hand had she been able to take the dream men's images back to that day and realize she had never seen them in the park.

There was nothing she could have done to save Eddy.

Kris bit her lip, willing away the old pain. Helplessness was the least of her problems today. With Judith, Kris had written the final page of her personal history of that horrible day. Nothing she could have done would have saved Eddy.

When the historians wrote about today, Kris's actions would be all over everything. She shrugged; the difference between ten and twenty-three. Between being the Prime Minister's bratty granddaughter and Princess Longknife.

The difference between me losing a brother to Peterwald and Peterwald losing a battle fleet to me. Kris grinned.

The worry time was over. Now was the time to do. On her board, two freighters went to maximum acceleration—charging the battleships. Around them, three runabouts joined in.

The freighters exploded in a cloud of rockets launched.

''Blast the freighters,'' the Admiral ordered.

''The orders are out, sir. We're trying, sir,'' the Duty Lieutenant said.

''Then why aren't they gone?''

''Too may targets, sir. There are rockets all over the place, sir, and the central defense command hasn't sorted them out and allotted priorities yet, sir.''

The Admiral shook his head. Every laser was slaved to the central defensive computer on his flagship to assure that the best use was made of all defensive guns … and that they didn't engage each other in fratricidal firing. A great idea, which was not working under the pressure of a sudden massive attack.

The Admiral mashed his commlink. ''All ships, engage incoming rockets on your own. Revenge will engage the large enemy ship closest to Wardhaven. Ravager will engage the one close to the jump point. The rest may have the small runabouts. Now shoot the damn things.'' Acknowledgments came in.

Killing the attackers was easily ordered. Not so easily done. The freighters were smaller than they appeared, just a long spine with bits of hull and structure here and there. The engine rooms aft seemed to be the largest target, and the Admiral assumed his ship's gunners would aim for them.

But the damn merchant ships would not hold still to be swatted properly. The triple turrets of the Revenge shot out, but the freighter had done some kind of rolling loop. In the meantime, it had launched more rockets in a growing cloud of metal headed toward the Admiral's command along several courses, some straight, some elliptical, some in spirals that changed with each loop. ''What are those things?''

''I don't know, sir,'' the Duty Lieutenant said. ''They do not fit any of the naval weapons in our database, sir.''

''Try Army weapons.''

''Yes, Admiral.''

A short pause. ''Most of them are not showing up, sir.''

Out in space, the first freighter had been hit, but the 18-inch Naval laser seemed to have gone through it without fazing it in the slightest. The other ship had been winged in one engine, but that was only making it a more erratic target. And its wild gyrations did not seem to slow its additions to the growing cloud of missiles. A runabout launched a volley of four rockets.

''Those are Wardhaven Army AGM 832s, intel says,'' the Duty Lieutenant reported. ''Obsolete, of little military value.''

''And the other ones?''

''Nothing from intel, sir, but my technicians identify some of them as even more obsolete Army designs, sir.''

''And if you tell intel to dig deep into its references of ancient Wardhaven Army rockets, I suspect they can identify even more of those out-of-date and worthless weapons headed at us. Maybe they can even tell us how to destroy them.''

''Yes, sir,'' the Lieutenant said and spoke into his commlink.

The lights flickered and dimmed in flag plot as the primary and secondary lasers drew on the energy of the ship's reactors. The Admiral tightened his seat belt. Saris spotted his action and did the same. The future governor of Wardhaven continued to pace about flag plot. The cloud of incoming missiles expanded, reached out for his ships. It was only a matter of seconds.

''Admiral, the two enemy freighters say they are abandoning ship and ask that you cease firing at them.''

''Have they quit firing at us? Are they on a course for us?''

''They don't seem to be firing anymore. They are not headed toward us. The Captain of the Revenge awaits your orders. There are escape pods exiting the ships, though they are not squawking on emergency channels, sir.''

''I wouldn't squawk if I were them either,'' Saris muttered.

''Keep blasting them,'' the future governor demanded.

The Admiral raised an eyebrow to Saris. ''Mr. Governor,'' his Chief of Staff said, ''that would not be advisable. We need to conserve our power to shoot the incoming missiles, not crewmen drifting in life pods.''

''So power up some more reactors,'' the governor demanded.

''Order the Captain of the Revenge and Ravager to concentrate on the incoming missiles and ignore the life pods. And tell those other ships to get those damn runabouts,'' the Admiral snapped. Another one of them launched a volley of missiles.

''Also, tell the fleet to stand by to maneuver. On my signal we will reverse course, slow to one-tenth-g acceleration, and begin evasion plan 4.''

''The order is given.''

''Execute.''

''Done, sir.''

The future governor of Wardhaven spun in place to face the Admiral, then kept on spinning, bounced off the Lieutenant's chair, and hit the overhead. ''What's happening?''

''We are evading missiles, Mr. Governor,'' the Chief of Staff said, reaching for the governor's leg. He missed. The Revenge twisted in space, sending the governor toward the port bulkhead and down. The Admiral caught his hand as he went by.

''Here, let me get you into a chair,'' the Admiral said.

''Why didn't someone warn me?'' the governor shouted, rubbing his head with one hand, his knee with another, and needing help to buckle himself into a chair at the battle board.

''Sir, the ship has been at Battle Condition Bravo for the last hour,'' the Chief of Staff said, his voice carefully even. ''All Navy personnel are trained to stay within reach of a handhold or belted into their high-g stations. It was in the briefing book you were given when you came aboard.''

''You expected me to read everything you left in my suite?''

''Only if you wanted to avoid circumstances like this. Now, sir, the Admiral is not giving orders to our ships to initialize their two cold reactors just now. Starting reactors drains plasma from the hot reactors to mix with cold reaction mass and heat it up to plasma temperatures. While that is happening, you actually get less power out of your reactors. If one of our captains feels he can start a reactor, that is his business. The Admiral does not believe it is his place, in the middle of a battle, to tell a Captain how to sail his ship.''

''You ordered them to slow down, bounce me off the ceiling.''

''That was part of fighting the enemy attack, Mr. Governor,'' the Admiral cut in, content now to explain himself. ''That is me fighting my battle, not me fighting a Captain's ship. Old Naval tradition.'' The civilian's frown showed he still did not get the difference, but then micromanagement was not an illness the Admiral had observed isolated solely to civilians.

He glanced at his battle board. Only two of the runabouts were still attacking, and one of them vanished as he watched. By turning his squadron nose on to the incoming missiles, he'd protected his vulnerable motors. Most of his captains had taken his intent if not his exact order and turned a bit more to get their engines pointed away from the incoming threat axis. That did have them boosting along vectors that would have to be canceled once this problem was resolved.

''What kind of damage can those missiles do to a battleship with our armor?'' the governor grumbled.

The Revenge shook slightly. ''I do not know, but I suspect Captain Trontsom will have an answer for us soon.'' There were other cracks and rattles as the cloud of missiles passed over the fleet. The last runabout was retreating when it was cut in half.

''Send to Avenger. ‘Miserable shooting. I expect you will do better next time or paint over your gunnery E.' Are we out of this missile shower?''

''Yes, sir.''

''Send order to squadron, ‘Reverse course. Resume 1.05-g deceleration toward High Wardhaven.' Lieutenant, have the flag navigator plot us a course correction and pass it along to the Revenge. Also have the Chief you relieved report back on duty. Then tell me what you can about these missiles. Chief of Staff, what's our squadron's condition?''

''Minor damage, sir. Reports are coming in. Some antennas, mainly. I would guess that some of the warheads were homing on emitters, infrared, as well as our general form.''

''Lieutenant?''

''They were old missiles, some of them twenty, thirty years old, sir. They must be the scrapings of Wardhaven's armory. The Chief of Staff is correct. They had several kinds of guidance systems as well as warheads: home on jam, home on emitters, home on heat, home on movement, and home on specific images. None of them were ever intended for use in space. The fact that they could be used here, cover the distances that they did…''

''Yes, I know, Lieutenant, intel is very surprised.''

The Admiral eyed his board. ''Saris, how bad is our heat problem?''

''The lasers generated a lot of heat, sir. Since we're only decelerating at one g, we aren't burning much reaction mass, and we can't work off all that much preheating reaction mass before we shoot it into the reactor. We've sunk about as much of it as we can into the fuel tanks, but they're starting to vent. Do you think we could stream the radiators?''

''Not with what I see coming, Saris,'' the Admiral said, tapping what his battle board now had labeled Enemy 1 and Enemy 2. ''Not unless we want to see our radiators blown to bits.''

Kris swallowed rage and helplessness as she watched Division 7 die. They'd failed what she never intended for them to try.

How would the other volunteers take this slaughter? She mashed her commlink. ''Do you understand now why the armed yachts and runabouts attack after the fast patrol boats have cut them down to size?'' she transmitted in between, ''Use your shield and use your head, / Fight till Every One is Dead.''

There was general silence on net back at her. Was she losing her volunteers in that dead quiet? ''Horatio, Custer, your assessment,'' Kris said on net for all to hear.

''The missile launchers achieved my intent,'' van Horn said with maddening coolness. ''The hostiles showed us what they had. We scored some hits. I counted about fifteen. We trimmed some of their secondary batteries. Some of their sensors. Reno did what was expected, and we'll have rescue vessels out to pick up the survivors' life pods in a couple of hours.''

''It may have done a bit more,'' Penny said from behind Kris. ''Is anyone else getting a rise in the infrared from the targets?''

''I have it, too,'' Sandy said. ''Their lasers aren't as efficient as ours. They're generating a whole lot of heat, and it has to go somewhere. They tried feeding it into their reaction mass fuel tanks, but they're a lot closer to empty than their boss man would like them to be. I'm betting he'd love to stream his radiators out behind him right about now.''

There was a cough behind Kris; she turned to Moose. ''Ma'am, I'm getting more reactor signals than I was a minute ago.''

''More reactors?''

''I'm getting it, too,'' Sandy said. ''My folks are scratching their heads. How can battleships have more than two reactors?''

''If they're built with three. Four,'' Moose said.

''Four reactors?''

''Did anybody get a good readout on the main battery that they brought to bear on the freighters a couple of times?''

''My people did,'' Sandy reported. ''But we thought it was some kind of mistake.''

''My readings show triple lasers discharging,'' Moose said. ''Not twins. What did you get?''

''Triples,'' Sandy said softly.

Kris called up the specs on the largest battleship in human space, the President-class. Designed to fight the Iteeche Noble Deathship, it had three 18-inch turrets strung around its forward hull. Three more around its bulging amidships, and a final three aft where the hull again tapered. All were buried under meters of ice except when they popped up to fire, and all were evenly spaced at different intervals around the hull's circumference.

And all the turrets held just two lasers.

That gave the Presidents a whopping eighteen monster lasers.

If you put three guns in each turret, you had twenty-seven of them. Kris gulped. ''That would take a lot of power.''

''I'm showing four reactors on each of those ships ahead of us,'' Moose said. Penny nodded.

''Ah, Kris,'' Penny said. ''We intercepted a message from the flag ordering fire against the Reno Task Group. It was in a code very much like the one Sandfire used, so we cracked it a lot faster than I expected. He named two ships. Revenge and Ravager. In a later signal, he identified the Avenger!''

''Friendly bunch,'' van Horn said dryly.

''No hidden agendas from the Peterwalds,'' Sandy said.

''So what kind of ship do you get with twenty-seven big lasers and four reactors?'' Kris asked.

''I'm trying for measurements, now that we had Reno's ships somewhat close to it,'' Moose said. He sent a scale drawing to Kris's board. The President-class weighed in at 150,000 tons of steel, ice, and electronics. The picture he put over it was big.

''It could be nearly 300,000 tons, ma'am.''

Kris let out a low whistle.

''And aren't the bigger they are, the harder they fall?'' Tom said, but he was a mite pale around the freckles.

''Anything built by men can be blown up by women.'' Penny grinned.

''Then it's time we start breaking a few things,'' Kris decided. ''Task Force Custer. Will you please lob more missiles their way. Start easy. Let's see how they react to them. Then pick up the pace. We want to heat them up before Squadron 8 punches some big holes in them. Squadron 8, rig your 944 missiles to home on heat. If Custer is kind enough to overheat the secondary battery for us, no reason we can't knock them out on our way in.'' That brought a cheer on net.

''Nelly, work with Moose. I want to know exactly where those four reactors are in those ships. As I see it, we got twice as many targets to aim for now.''

There were more cheers as the computer replied, ''Yes, ma'am.''

''Custer 3 through 6, you have your targets,'' van Horn ordered. ''You heard the princess, let's heat them up for Eight to knock them down.'' On Kris's battle board, Custer sprouted missiles. Behind her, Moose talked to Nelly, the computer's voice coming not from its usual place at Kris's neck but from his own computer. Kris eyed the situation.

In five, maybe ten minutes, she'd commit her tiny command to its first test. She might be planning to take a second bite out of this apple, but she wanted her first one to be big and whoever was running that show to know he'd been bit.

''Here comes trouble,'' the Duty Lieutenant announced just as the relieved Chief came through flag plot's aft hatch. ''The first enemy group is launching missiles, Admiral.''

''Tell me about them.''

''Can't we just shoot the enemy ships launching them?'' the future governor asked.

''They are staying five thousand kilometers outside the range of our 18-inch lasers, Mr. Governor,'' Saris answered for the Admiral.

''Then go after them,'' the civilian said simply.

''Sir, we are decelerating into High Wardhaven's orbit to begin our ordered planetary bombardment,'' Saris said, choosing words a child might understand. ''If we deviate from our course, we very likely would miss that orbit. At this stage of our approach, we could even end up crashing into the planet.''

''Oh,'' came very softly.

''Believe me, sir. They want us to juggle our approach,'' the Admiral assured the future governor. ''No doubt those are small, say thirty, forty thousand-ton ships. You can horse them around in orbit easy. Our planet killers are 325,000 tons of power. We have solid ice as our defense. We can take what they can dish out.'' The Admiral tried to sound full of confidence. He was … as far as it went. He did not mention the deficiencies in heat management that still bedeviled the squadron. The yard had been so sure they could solve the heat buildup problem from all the extra weapons they'd slapped on the Revenge-class ships. If not this week then next week. Well, maybe the week after.

They'd sailed, assured that it would not matter. There would be no fight. ''The whole Wardhaven fleet is at Boynton.'' So what was coming at them just now? Al Longknife's private yacht?

The Chief took a station. The Admiral noticed that he didn't relieve the man who'd replaced him but rather tapped the most junior tech. The youngster reluctantly made for the door, but the Duty Lieutenant had the makings of a good leader. He sent him instead to a spare jump seat. Good. An extra pair of eyes might come in handy, and the young man would talk about being in flag plot for the Battle of Wardhaven until the end of his days. Unfortunately, the Battle of Wardhaven was making itself into something much more two-sided than the Admiral had expected or wanted to fight. ''Talk to me, Chief.''

''The incoming missiles are AGM 832s. Standard Wardhaven Army issue. They have fully selective seekers. Their warheads may be high-explosive general purpose, sub munitions dispensers or armor-piercing. No way for us to tell until they hit. Sir, I notice that some of my sensors are offline.''

''The ships making for Jump Point Barbie turned out to be loaded with ancient missiles,'' the Duty Lieutenant said.

The Chief said nothing but eyed his board. ''The incoming wave is heavy, and it is deep. Sir, there is movement behind the missile ships. Four, six, uh, nine, twelve small blips are decelerating out of their shadow. I make twelve system runabouts. No, some of them may have full reactors. Some of them may have capacitors for lasers. Sir, there's a lot of masking. I can't say anything for sure about those boats.''

''Except there are twelve of them.''

''There are definitely twelve, sir.''

''How many PFs were put up for sale, Mr. Governor, by Wardhaven's temporary government?'' the Admiral asked.

''Ah, twelve.''

''Think that might be them?''

''They were ordered demilitarized.''

''Yes, it was on all the talk shows,'' the Chief of Staff said with a slight cough.

''Missiles to ding us. Fast boats to damage us with lasers, then a gun line to hit what is left of us. Not a bad battle plan.'' The Admiral smiled, letting his teeth show. ''Sadly for them, we are not your usual battle squadron, and, I suspect, they are a very old bunch of relics. But it is nice to know what the battle will be. Very nice to know. Finally.

''Lieutenant, send to fleet: ‘Prepare to repel missile attack. Withdraw unneeded sensors to protected positions. Prepare to repel fast attack boats armed with pulse lasers. Use main battery if necessary, but watch your heat budgets. Continue deceleration at one g unless I order differently.' ''

''It is done, sir, as ordered.''

''Good. Good. Keep me informed on how we're doing on those missiles, Chief.''

''They're tossing them at us. Our 5-inchers are starting to bat the leading ones down, sir.''

''Good, good. We can do this all day.'' But the Admiral kept one eye on the temperature of each of his battleships' fuel tanks. They rose higher and higher; all were venting. The more fuel he lost, the less options he had to maneuver in Wardhaven's orbit until his supply fleet arrived with Marines in two weeks.

Several of his skippers were already resorting to a third option for cooling their guns, switching their coolant into local secondary radiators that spread out around the twin laser turrets themselves. This got the heat out into space, but it weakened the ice around the turret… and it gave the turret a decidedly warmer infrared signature than the rest of the ice around it. Maybe we can't do this all day, but then, they can't have enough missiles to keep this up for an entire day, can they?

''How's your stock of missiles?'' Kris asked.

''It won't last forever,'' van Horn answered.

''What do the battlewagons look like?''

''Fuel tanks are venting. That's bound to cause the trailing ships' lasers to bloom,'' Penny said.

''I like that,'' Tom said.

''Some battleships are showing hot spots around their 5-inch batteries,'' Moose said. ''Lot more of them than I was expecting. Those mothers really are monsters.'' He sent a picture to Kris. Yep, they had at least twice the number of secondary turrets dotting their ice, if the hot spots were taken for them.

Kris studied her board, tried to do the three-dimensional math. Van Horn's four freighters were firing missiles from slightly aft of the battleships, letting them decelerate down on them. If Kris launched her squadron at the hostiles, she risked running into her own missiles.

''Nelly, give me a battle plan that puts the squadron at the edge of big laser range and gives us a solid run in with missiles ahead of us and behind us.''

''But none in the same space as us,'' Nelly added. Was there a chuckle in there?

''You go, girl,'' Tom said.

''Here is a schedule. We should break out now.''

''Divisions 1, 2, and 3, let's show the guy what we got. Phil, lead the way. Divisions 4, 5, and 6, form a line but stay back. Sandy, they're yours until I get back.''

''You're not taking them in with you?''

''Change in plan. I want to get an up-close look at those monsters. Try to spot something a 12-inch pulse laser might dent before I send them in.''

''Look for a miracle, huh?''

''Isn't that what we Longknifes always do?''

''Good hunting.''

''With targets that big, how can we miss?''

Kris waited until Squadron 8's boats were in a good starting pattern, random to all outward appearances, but, if the planned dance came together right, and if they weren't too badly damaged on the run in, it would have the boats paired up close and personal to each of the six battlewagons.

There were some big ifs in there, Kris noted.

Kris's screen blossomed as Custer fired off a major pulse of rockets, then darkened as a space opened up.

''That's our cue,'' Kris said. ''Initiate intercept orbit. Evasion scheme 2.''

PF-109 slammed from a steady one g to two g's while flipping over and aiming itself back at the moon. A moment later, as if thinking better of that, it flipped over and turned its deceleration into acceleration at an even wilder 2.25 g's.

Penny's announcement, ''We're in big gun range,'' was followed by another major change in direction, and Moose muttering, ''Damn, they did try to swat us with an 18-incher.''

''They did?'' Kris asked.

''Yep. Missed.''

''Nelly, was that part of your evasion assumption?''

''Of course, Kris,'' the computer answered patiently.

''Dang it all, where are they going, and why are we hanging around here, behind?'' came over the net.

Sandy expected it. At least Luna was talking before she charged in. ''We will stay right here, by my orders.''

''And if we don't?''

''I'll shoot you down like the dog you are. Don't I remember somewhere someone promising to follow orders?''

''Well, yeah, but there's orders and then there's being a yellow-bellied coward.'' That brought agreement on net.

''In a couple of moments,'' Sandy said, trying to keep exasperation out of her voice, ''I'm going to expect you to follow me in something that no coward would ever do. Just about the time those battleships get a good solid bead on Kris and her boats, we're going to parade ourselves inside their gun range. We're going to march right through the one hundred thousand klicks range they got to the eighty thousand klicks range that the 14-inch guns you would have if you were the ships you're claiming to be. You following me?''

''We ain't gonna po-raid along right behind you, are we?''

''No, I expect you to be in full evasion mode.''

There were several expressions of relief at that.

''We're going to draw their fire just long enough for Kris to get a good solid aim at her target, make her hit, then start to run away. Then, depending on how much wreckage she's left behind, we either run in ourselves, or run away.''

''Why are all you Navy types so pessimistic? We'll be running right in there behind her, collecting up all the strays and brandin' ‘em.''

And why are all you who never studied war such optimists? Sandy thought, but kept that to herself.

''XO, set us a course that will take us in to eighty K from the hostiles. Begin evasion program at one hundred-and-one K range.''

''Aye, ma'am.''

The 109 boat dipped, then zigged a bit, then zagged a lot, then did several minor dodges that left the hairs on the back of Kris's neck wanting something major. About the time she was ready to say so, the 109 slammed itself into a complete course reversal, then into a hard left. Then dropped like a rock.

''Missed us again,'' Moose chortled.

''I calculated that should fake them,'' Nelly said.

''You sure faked me,'' Kris said.

The 109 flipped, flopped, and spun. ''And they miss again,'' Moose drawled.

''What's their heat situation?'' Kris asked.

''Building up fast, what with 18-inch and 5-inch firing,'' Moose said. ''Their fuel tanks are all venting. I can spot all their secondaries. Their capacitors must be losing efficiency. Taking less of a charge, taking longer to take it. You got to like their problems, ma'am. They're either going to have to stream those radiators and risk losing them or start taking hits from our stuff getting through.''

Moose looked up. ''I wonder just how thick their ice is.''

''We're about to find out,'' Kris said as she watched the battleship secondaries fight their battle with Custer's missiles. Most of the missiles were homing on the heat of the 5-inch batteries. The fight was up very close and personal for those gun crews.

Smash the missile, or the missile kills you.

Beneath Kris, the 109 dodged and weaved, cut and turned as the 18-inch lasers tried to cut her in two. 18-inch turrets were not designed to track targets that turned on a dime, shot away at two, three g's, then swung around again. In most cases, the lasers were just laid and fired when the PFs looked like they were headed into that bit of space. Nelly's dance and the Foxer's confusion disrupted the gunner's plans time after time. Eighteen inches of blazing death reached out, but the mosquitoes they sought were never there.

''Whoops,'' came a voice on net.

''What happened?''

''They winged me,'' Heather reported. ''Opened my quarterdeck to space. Engine room is tight. Bridge is holding. Gonna have to put a bit less stress on the hull, though.'' With its longitudinal strength compromised, hard turns now risked having PF-110 bend in the middle like a wet noodle.

''You want to pull out?'' Chandra asked.

''To where? The other side of those bastards looks as close as any other safe place. ‘How Many of Them Can We Make Die!' ''

The 110 boat slowed; 105 boat dropped back. Chandra refused to leave the young skipper alone in the gathering hellfire.

Behind them, Horatio drew in range of the battleship's main battery, and their fire shifted to this new threat. But Kris had hardly a moment for a breath of relief; she was well in range of the 5-inch batteries, and Custer's last blast was pretty much done while Kris's boats were still looking at a long way to go.

The good news was there were fewer 5-inchers firing now, though there were still too damn many of them for Kris's taste.

''Squadron 8, let's give the 5-inch gunners something to worry about. Verify 944s are set for infrared. Salvo fire them now.''

From the bow of the 109 came the sound of rockets exiting the tubes.

The Revenge shook with yet another hit. The Admiral tapped his board, calling up reports on all six of the ships in his command. More secondary batteries were unavailable. Just offline, or wrecked by a Longknife rocket? The board did not have that information. What the board did show was that more and more of the 5-inch turrets still online were showing deeper and deeper yellow, headed for orange. Slow to charge now, and taking less and less of a charge when they did. Heat buildup was slashing the effectiveness of his massed weapons.

No. The Ravager was cooling down. How?

Right! Schneider was flushing his coolant through the main refrigeration coils of his armor, the old bastard. That was definitely not in the book. The kilometers of refrigeration coils running through the five-meter-thick armor were intended to cool that ice. Schneider was doing the reverse, using the ice of the armor to take off some of the heat now bleeding the efficiency of his offensive weapons suite. A desperate measure.

But today was a day for some truly desperate innovations.

''Lieutenant, send to all ships: ‘Flush reaction mass and other coolant through the main belt armor's refrigeration coils to cool it. Bravo Zulu to Schneider and Ravager for the idea.' Close your mouth, Lieutenant, and send it now.''

''Yes, sir.''

''That will weaken our main armor belt, sir,'' the Chief of Staff observed carefully, in his status as the Admiral's official second-guesser.

''Have we taken a hit that threatened to penetrate our belt?''

''No, sir.''

''Can we afford to lose any more of our secondaries? Lose any more of their efficiency? Wouldn't you like to slap down one or two of those mosquitoes buzzing toward us? I understand Princess Longknife commands one of them.''

''She was relieved of her command. Charged with actions unbecoming or something,'' the future governor pointed out.

The Admiral eyed his Chief of Staff, then the incoming attack. ''She is out there.''

''I would not bet against you on that one, sir.''

''Ships report they are cycling coolant through their ice, sir.'' A glance at his battle board confirmed the report. The secondaries were sliding back toward the green. Particular hot spots were cooling down around the ships' hulls, even as the entire hull took on a warm pink. Not that it would matter against patrol boats with pulse lasers.

Oops. What have we here? More missiles. Intel said nothing about the Longknife patrol boats having missiles on them. More things that didn't make it to the talk show circuit. The Admiral suppressed his grumble and tightened his belt… again. It would be interesting to see how the heat seekers on these warheads reacted to the lack of warmth around his secondary batteries … and the raised temperature of his armor.

''For what we are about to receive, may we be truly grateful,'' he muttered.

''My division has the two in the middle,'' Phil said, his voice low, hard, intent. His four boats were ahead of the others now. They'd go in first. ''We'll hold our fire until 25,000 klicks,'' he said. Maximum range on a pulse laser was 40,000 klicks. Twenty-five ought to punch a good-size hole.

Kris watched intently as the first four boats jitterbugged their way up to the line of battleships. Her board now showed the ships a fairly consistent pink. When the 5-inch twin lasers popped up to fire, they flared red, but when they dropped back behind their ice armor, most of that infrared signature vanished. Some of the incoming 944s were able to fix the turret position on the battleship's hull by spotting a bump or a mast. Something like that would let them triangulate on the turret. Most only saw a smooth expanse of ice. In those cases, the sensors either went looking for another major source of heat, or switched to another seeker. But the battleships had quit radiating most other signals as well. Most warheads just dug a hole in the ice.

A hundred-kilo warhead didn't dig much of a hole in four meters of ice. Some missiles did. Here and there, a 5-inch turret picked the wrong time to pop up and snap off a shot at one rocket… and drew the fatal attention of another. Or a search radar antenna stayed on too long and got slammed by a missile in terminal phase at just that moment.

And then there was the one missile that almost missed entirely… but clipped a rocket motor on the third battlewagon back from the flag. The warhead slammed into the huge bell-shaped rocket engine just where the electromagnetic coils were that kept the plasma demons under control. For a split second, tortured matter at 100 million degrees kelvin got loose.

It wasn't long, but in those brief moments, jets of raw energy ripped off another engine, smashed several electric generators, and might have done further damage if good damage control hadn't brought things under control. The battleship slowed in its deceleration, fell out of line, and quit firing.

It was at that moment that Phil's four boats rolled past, firing paired pulsed lasers at the wallowing ship and its sister. Kris measured the results. Fifteen lasers fired. Fourteen hit. Four paired hits slashed into the damaged ship.

And the battleship righted itself, started firing back, and kept right on decelerating.

''Damn,'' Phil growled through gritted teeth. ''Twenty-five K and we might as well have thrown snowballs at them!'' There was a pause as Phil's boat went through wild gyrations, but less fire was headed his way. ''Our pulse lasers just don't pack enough punch to dent that belt.''

''I hear you, Phil,'' Kris answered. ''Division 2, we're next. We'll go in closer. Nelly, what kind of really wild dance have you got for us?''

''Go to 6B on your mark, Kris.''

''My mark is … now.''

The 109 had been a mad hatter before. Now she was a crazy dervish, twisting, turning, never going in a straight line. Never going more than a few seconds before changing directions hard up, down, right, left. Forward, more missiles were mixed with Foxers as the 109 fought her way closer and closer to the second to the last ship in line.

''20,000 … 18,000 … 16,000. I'm at 15,000 klicks. Are you with me, 108?''

''Not yet, not yet. Almost. Now.''

''Fire on mark. Now.''

There was no sign that the four reasons for the 109's existence had been expended against a battleship, either on the bridge or, when Kris turned up the visuals, along the hide of the battleship. No …

Yes. There was a steaming gash aft, right about where Moose said the reactors were. Two long, steaming slashes.

But… no burn-through. No flaming wreckage.

Forward, Kris could hear Kami firing more rockets, as they shot past their target, but as for any apparent effect…

Nothing.

''This is Division 2, here. We turned armor to slush at 15,000 kilometers, but we didn't get burn-through. Repeat, 15,000 kilometers just doesn't cut it.''

''Hear you,'' Chandra said. ''Babs, you and the 104 go in to 10,000 klicks. See what that does. Heather and I are three, four thousand klicks behind you. We'll go closer if that doesn't work.''

''You'll be all alone,'' Kris pointed out.

''I have Custer's incoming missiles pushing up my derriere. The thugs have to be paying as much attention to them as they are to me,'' Chandra said. Kris wondered if she believed it.

''Squadron 8, send some 944s back to support Division 3. All you can spare,'' Kris ordered. They had a second attack to make; they would need them. Right now, Chandra needed them, too.

From the bow of the 109 came the sound of more missiles launching out of their tubes.

The 104 and 111 boats flipped and cut, turned and twisted, as they made their final approach on the flagship. Behind them, missiles came at all six battleships. Some fire went for the missiles. Most went at the boats. Main battery now concentrated on Horatio just about to come in range with their supposed 14-inchers. The part of Squadron 8 that had completed their run had mostly been ignored. Now, as missiles came back from them, the battleships took them and their missiles under fire again.

It seemed like mighty thin help, but it was help. All the help they could give Division 3.

''Fifteen … Thirteen. Fire when I say … ten. Laser's fired … Nothing! Damn it! Nothing! What are these ships made of? Solid ice?''

''Maybe,'' Heather said. ''Let's find out, Chandra.''

''I have nothing better to do,'' the Navy mustang answered as if the wealthy debutante had invited her to go mall crawling.

''Think five thousand will do them?'' Heather sounded as casual as if that might be the price of a dress.

''Easily. Nelly, do the numbers. Assume five meters of armor against two of our pulse lasers in close proximity. Two more close by.''

''You could burn through four meters. Not five,'' Nelly said.

''Maybe we ramble a bit closer. Hey folks, keep those cards and letters coming.''

''Yes, we need all the spare missiles you can afford.''

''Back them up,'' Kris ordered.

''Div 2, you'll have to do it,'' Phil said. ''We're out of position. Our missiles won't get there before it's over.''

''Division 2 and 3, support Chandra and Heather,'' Kris ordered. Beside her, Tom's mouth was a hard line. She was depleting his boat.

''Do it, Kami,'' he ordered.

''On their way,'' came a cheerful voice.

''Eight thousand,'' Chandra called. ''What's our mark?''

In the background, almost forgotten, the song hit its refrain: ''How Many of Them Can We Make Die!''

''That does it for me,'' Heather said, as cheerful as if she'd spotted a sale.

''Then we fire on die.''

''Six thousand.''

''How many of them can we make … die!''

''Set those last two ships!'' the Admiral shouted. ''They're going to ram Ravager.''

The Duty Lieutenant repeated the order. More missiles were inbound. Would this battle never end?

Being belted in and at two g's kept Kris in her seat. Lasers were blowing missiles out of space all around the two attacking boats, Foxers were promising course changes to right, left, up, down, and taking laser hits, but not the two boats. They rolled over the second ship in line, firing simultaneously. At Heather and Chandra's cry of ''die,'' their lasers lashed out through ice and steam and wreckage to slice into the stern of the battleship right at the reactors.

Heather aimed her two forward lasers for the same spot, her two aft ones for a different spot. And Chandra did the same. Four pulse lasers cut into one spot of ice. Four more cut into another spot just aft of that.

And nothing happened.

For a moment, that was how it looked.

Then one of the 5-inch lasers caught Heather's boat and pinned it, a second sliced through it and cut it in half. As the two ends fell apart, a missile from Custer impacted on the stern of Chandra's 105 boat.

''Oh no,'' went as a groan through the 109.

The 105 spun, but now she spun too slowly, too much to a pattern. Five lasers caught her at once. She imploded like a star among them.

''No.''

''Something's happening on the battlewagon,'' Moose said.

Kris tore her eyes away from the vanishing remains of her friends. The battleship leaked plasma from a new hole that was not an engine. Slowly, like an rhino trapped on ice, it accelerated into a spin. The main engines swiveled to correct the spin, but one of them was hanging off at an angle … and blowing plasma in fits and bursts. Then a second hole opened up further forward. A jet of hot plasma shot out, slicing chunks of ice off, hurling them into space. The huge ship spun and rolled and began to come apart.

Pieces flew in all directions. One, easily twice the size of the 109, shot across space to slam into the nose of the flagship. Others blew out toward the line of ships behind it.

''Her reactors are going unstable. She's going to blow,'' Moose said. First one reactor did, gouging a huge hole in the long stern of the warship, then another did, then, in a blinding flash, the two remaining ones went, flashing the entire ship into a radiant white ball of fire that quickly dissipated to sparkles and then darkness.

''Good God … have mercy,'' Tom prayed.

''On them,'' Penny added.

''And on us if we don't pay attention. Nelly, is the squadron still in full evasion?''

''Yes, Kris.''

The ten surviving boats sped away from the battle line. The energy they'd put on the boats during their attack run in was already decelerating them quickly toward Wardhaven. They'd have to make major corrections to get themselves into a proper orbit, but those would wait until they were well out of 18-inch laser range. The battleships didn't seem interested in them, now. The incoming wave of missiles from Custer held their full attention. Most were being shot out of space. Many of the rest were just hitting ice. A few did damage on secondary batteries. There was another spectacular hit on an engine of the last ship in line, but damage control kept it from being anything but highly visual.

The attack of Squadron 8 was spent.

Worse, Kris felt wasted.

She'd given it everything she had. Everything her shipmates had. They'd tried everything.

Only two boats had succeeded.

It had cost Heather and Chandra their lives. For a moment the sight of Goran and the kids waiting on the pier for Mom to come home came at Kris. She willed it away.

Kris had ten more boats. The enemy had five more battleships. What price could she ask her shipmates to pay?

Could they destroy those monstrous battleships at any less cost?

The bridge was quiet as the enemy ships receded on the aft screen and Wardhaven grew on the forward one.

''I did it,'' the Admiral chortled, standing to tower over his battle board. ''I beat them,'' he said, stabbing at the blips of the rapidly retreating patrol boats.

''You defeated them, sir,'' Saris agreed, also standing. ''We took the best they had, and it just wasn't good enough.''

''But what about that gun line?'' the future governor said, keeping his seat but waving at the rest of the Wardhaven ships now retreating back out of laser range. ''Aren't they a threat? Don't you have to blow them up?''

''They are nothing,'' the Admiral said, dismissing them with a wave of his hand. ''The freighters throwing missiles aren't throwing any more, are they, Chief?''

''None behind this last wave, sir.''

''Want to bet me the freighters have shot themselves dry? These last missiles are just there to draw our fire away from the patrol boats' attack,'' the Admiral said. ''And these other boats, the ones that are trying to look like fast patrol boats. I'll bet you a month's pay they are Al Longknife's yacht, and a few of his wealthy friends' toys as well. Maybe some have 12-inch pulse lasers. What can they hope to do to us after those 18-inchers on the patrol boats failed? As for those ‘battleships.' Chief, talk to me about how the reactors on those so-called battleships are fuzzy. You don't really have to. If they had real lasers on them, they'd have ducked in range while the patrol boats were charging in at us, got some shots off. No matter how old they were, how lousy they were, I'd have tried some shots then.

''They didn't shoot. They don't have anything to shoot. King Ray Longknife has spent too much time at masquerade balls if he thinks he can fool us with a few masks, some fancy feathers. Well, Longknife, sooner or later, the masks have to come off, the feathers, too, and then you're just left naked.''

The Admiral stabbed a finger at the blips of the ships hurrying back out of range. ''Those are nothing but feathers and glitter. The destroyers should have taken their chance to get in a shot when they had it. Cowards all,'' he spat.

''Lieutenant, order the ships to shoot down the last of the incoming missiles, then set a course for High Wardhaven. We will arrive right on schedule. Oh, and order all ships to stream their radiators. Let's get this heat off my ships. I want to be fully cooled when we make orbit. We are going to make things very hot on Wardhaven, and I don't want anything on my ships to delay us serving it up steaming and fast.''

''Yes, sir.''

The Admiral grinned at his Chief of Staff. It was good to know he could do the job he had promised his political masters he would do.