Valiant Dust

23

CSS Hector, Gadira II Orbit

Sikander had time to briefly lock eyes with Elise Markham as they both absorbed the import of Randall’s announcement. Then Panther’s ragged salvo arrived. Though badly damaged, the Dremish cruiser still had power for some of her main battery, and Hector could no longer actively dodge. She was merely a target moving in a ballistic arc, although her three-axis tumbling motion made her a somewhat complicated one, and the Dremish fire-control systems assumed that Hector could still perform evasive maneuvers and therefore did not aim exactly at where she was. Several rounds missed, fooled by the unexpected motion. Others did not.

One of Panther’s K-rounds punched into Hector’s port side, a brilliant lance of tungsten alloy. In the space of an instant, a spray of molten metal and jets of gas erupted from the bulkhead on the left side of the bridge. The wall crumpled inward and the deck buckled; a deafening roar blasted the room. Sikander’s visor slammed shut; he felt himself picked up and thrown down again, although his seat restraints held and he was not flung from his battle couch. Everything went dark; he heard and saw nothing.

When he could see again, he blinked and looked around. There was a large, jagged hole in the port side of the bridge compartment; a fiery orange glow gleamed through. Vapor streamed out of the bridge through the hole, the unmistakable sign of a hull breach. He wondered what compartment was between the bridge and the port-side outer hull and what was left of it, but at the moment his ability to picture the details of Hector’s internal arrangement wasn’t quite up to the task. Shattered control consoles and vidscreens dangled and sparked fitfully on that side of the room. There had been a couple of manned consoles on that side of the bridge, but they were simply gone. Only twisted, hot metal and torn scraps of armored suit remained.

Bridge hit, he realized. A bad one, although he’d been lucky. The weapon-control stations were at the aft end of the compartment, so he and the other Gunnery Department officers seemed to still be in one piece. His ears buzzed and crackled, and he was sore all over, but his arms and legs moved when he wanted them to and his suit remained intact. Already he could see Girard shaking himself and punching at his console, while Larkin—how had she been knocked out of her seat?—picked herself up off the deck and returned to her station. He looked over to Captain Markham to see if she was all right.

She was not.

Molten shrapnel from the hit that had breached the hull had cut through her battle station like a white-hot scythe. She’d been thrown against the far bulkhead in the wreckage of her restraints. A thick, charred line as deep as Sikander’s fist snaked across her back, her shoulders, her head. Her suit was torn open … but he doubted very much that Elise Markham had lived long enough to die of decompression.

Hiram Randall was luckier. He hadn’t been hit directly by the shrapnel, but he’d been struck by what was left of the port-side bridge displays, dislodged by the explosion. He slumped in his battle station, motionless. Whether alive or dead, Sikander could not say.

“Bridge! Bridge! Is anybody up there? Respond!”

Sikander shook his head, and realized that the buzzing he heard in his ears was what remained of the command circuit. Commander Chatburn shouted at him over and over again from his position in the auxiliary bridge. “Bridge, report!”

“This is Lieutenant North,” Sikander said. His tongue felt thick and clumsy, but as he spoke he began to rally; the ringing in his ears faded a bit and he felt his wits coming back into focus. “We took a bad hit on the bridge. Captain Markham is dead, and Mr. Randall appears unconscious. I’m the senior officer remaining here.”

“Good God,” Chatburn replied. There was a long silence. “What’s going on? Do you still have sensors and weapons? We’ve got a power outage here, we can’t see anything.”

“Heavy damage on both Panther and Streitaxt. Us, too, I guess. I don’t know what we have left, XO.”

“You’re certain about the captain?”

“Yes, sir.” Sikander couldn’t even bring himself to look in her direction. He turned his attention to the bridge crew, and keyed the all-bridge circuit. “Dolan, Reese!” he said to two of the hands manning the tactical displays. “Get a patch on the port bulkhead, we’ll need atmosphere in here as soon as we can get it!” Armored suits could stave off the effects of exposure to vacuum as long as the suit wasn’t breached in the wrong spot, but treating the injured would be next to impossible in a compartment open to space.

“Record in ship’s log, effective immediately,” Chatburn said over the circuit. “Peter Chatburn, Commander, Commonwealth Navy, assumes command. All stations report condition.”

Sikander ignored him. Chatburn already knew what he needed to know about the bridge, and he had other things to do. He unbuckled himself from his couch and stood up. “Mr. Reno, take the weapons console,” he ordered. “Attention on the bridge: I am taking tactical control.”

His legs were not as steady as he would have liked, but he made it over to Randall’s station and unbuckled the operations officer’s restraints. Randall’s suit indicators suggested that he lived, but his helmet was noticeably dented and Sikander could see a trickle of blood from his nose beneath the faceplate. He could do nothing for Randall at the moment, but he needed the tactical console; as gently as he could, Sikander lifted him out of the battle couch and lowered him to the deck. Then he strapped himself in, and took stock of the situation displayed on Randall’s station.

Gadira II gleamed half a million kilometers behind them, a golden crescent against the stars; in their weaving and maneuvering, the two cruisers had traced a ragged helical path around each other, climbing up out of orbit. Panther paralleled Hector about fifteen thousand kilometers distant, while Streitaxt drew back, turning her shattered bow section away from Hector’s guns. Where is the transport? Sikander wondered. The whole point of this affair was to interrupt Dremark’s attempt to land an occupying force. He scrolled and panned his display until he found General von Grolmann lurking out near the moon, Hala. Troop carriers had no business being anywhere near a ship-to-ship engagement, although Hector was far enough off now that Grolmann might be able to return to planetary orbit and resume her ground operations.

“Helm, get our spin under control, and bring us to new course one-nine-zero, down twenty,” Sikander ordered Chief Holtz. “We’re getting too far away from the planet.”

“Aye, sir,” the chief pilot replied. “I’m working on the spin, sir, but changing course is going to take a while. We have a lot of velocity in the wrong direction and not much acceleration ability.”

“Would it be faster to slingshot around the moon?”

“Yes, sir, by quite a bit. That would require … course one-three-five, as soon as I can stabilize our spin.”

“New course one-three-five, as soon as you can get us stabilized,” Sikander said. “Best speed you can put on, Chief.” He looked back to his gunnery officers. “Mr. Girard, damage assessment on Panther! Mr. Reno, same on Streitaxt! What do they have left?”

“One moment, sir!” Girard replied.

While Reno and Girard studied the sensor imagery of the Dremish warships, Sikander took a long look at his own damage displays. The Old Worthy had taken a serious beating. They’d lost a third of their K-cannons to direct hits or internal damage that disrupted power or fire-control systems. Casualties numbered fifty or more, the warp ring was inoperative, and they limped along at barely three-quarters their normal power generation. The engines suffered the worst damage, of course … but hull and armor integrity was good, and other than a distinct lack of maneuverability, the ship was still combat effective. Hector still had a little more to give, if he had to ask it of her. However, they could no longer dodge enemy fire worth a damn, with so much damage to the drive plates.

Sikander returned his attention to the damaged K-cannons. The number-one turret flashed red—that was Darvesh Reza’s battle station. Cascading system failure from the bridge hit, or direct hit on the mount? He knew he shouldn’t pay attention to a single indicator, not with the whole ship to worry about, but he quickly selected the local comm circuit anyway and called. “Number-One Mount, Bridge. Are you still there?”

To his surprise, Darvesh answered. “Bridge, this is Mount Number One, Chief Reza speaking.”

“Darvesh? My board shows your mount inoperable. Where’s Chief Valenzuela?”

“The last hit damaged the train mechanism, sir. Chief Valenzuela is directing repairs. We should be able to resume fire momentarily.” Darvesh paused. “Have we stopped maneuvering?”

“We’ve lost a lot of our drive capacity, but we’re still in the fight. Keep me posted on repairs. Bridge, out.” Sikander allowed himself a small sigh of relief. Darvesh had been with him for most of the last ten years; it was good to know that they hadn’t parted ways just yet.

“Report on Streitaxt,” Sublieutenant Reno announced. “She’s got most of her power and engines, sir, but her torpedo battery is gone, and she lost most of her forward armament. All she has left are aft-mounted K-cannons and lasers.” Sikander allowed himself a grim smile at the results of his handiwork.

“Report on Panther,” Girard said a moment later. “Power fluctuation and visible damage in the middle of the hull suggests that she might have lost most of her fusion plants. Her main battery is mostly intact, but I don’t think she has the power to use it.”

“She knocked the hell out of us just a minute ago,” Sikander said in a sharp tone.

“The capacitors for each mount must have been charged up before our torpedoes hit her. If they’re discharged now, it’s going to take her a long time to build up a sufficient charge for another salvo.”

“Good point, Mr. Girard. New firing orders: Focus all main-battery fire on Panther’s bow. Her torpedo battery is the last thing the Dremish have got that can kill us quickly. Wreck it, if you please.”

“Aye, sir! Shifting all main-battery fire to Panther, targeting her torpedo battery.”

The command circuit crackled in Sikander’s ear. “Mr. North, you are maneuvering. What are you doing?” Commander Chatburn asked.

“The battle has carried us a long way from Gadira II, sir. We are correcting our spin and setting course to slingshot around Hala and reestablish control over the planet’s orbital approaches. It’s going to take a while.”

“Belay that command, Mr. North. Set your course to disengage from the Dremish warships by the most expeditious route.”

Sikander shook his head, uncertain whether he’d understood Chatburn’s order. “Sir?”

“We’re crippled, and we are in no position to continue the engagement,” said Chatburn. “There’s nothing more we can accomplish in Gadira; the Dremish brought more ships to this godforsaken system than we did. Given that, we are responsible now for preserving the ship and its crew.”

“XO, Panther and Streitaxt are hurt worse than we are!” Sikander protested. “We’re in position to secure the planetary approaches and put their ground forces under our guns. The one thing we can’t do effectively is run away, given the damage to our drives!”

“Salvo!” called Girard. The ship shook with the power of the heavy K-cannons unleashing a fresh barrage of destruction at the Dremish cruiser. Sikander checked quickly to make sure Streitaxt was keeping her distance; the destroyer came to a parallel course so she could bring her aft batteries into play. Hector was theoretically protected against destroyer-weight battery fire, but given her limited maneuverability, Streitaxt could stand off at a much longer range and fire with impunity. Somebody on her bridge knew what he was doing, which was unfortunate.

“That is Captain, not XO, Mr. North,” said Chatburn. “I am now in command. Cease fire and disengage, is that clear?”

“Sir, just look at the Dremish ships. We have them!”

“Destroying Panther is not our mission, damn it! Our rules of engagement from Fleet Command specify that we are only to use force to prevent a Dremish occupation of the system. The system is now under occupation. The situation’s now in the hands of the diplomats or the battle fleets. We have done exactly what we were ordered to do.”

“Mr. Chatburn, the Dremish position can be reversed. If we hold the planet’s orbital—”

“Mr. North, this is not a democracy,” said the commander. Sikander could hear the icy anger in his tone even through the audio circuit. “I don’t know what traditions you may be accustomed to in the navy of Kashmir, but in the Commonwealth Navy, orders are meant to be followed. I will charge you with insubordination if you do not immediately cease fire and disengage.”

“Salvo!” Girard called. The hull boomed and shook with the fire of the K-cannons.

Sikander winced at the poor timing of the shot, but before he could reply, Magda Juarez spoke; the chief engineer’s station was part of the command circuit, too. “Commander Chatburn, the bridge still has power, but most of the sensor feeds in aux control are out. Mr. North has the best view of the situation. I recommend you leave him in tactical command until you can acquaint yourself with developments. May I suggest that you relocate to the bridge?”

“Hit!” Girard shouted. “I think I got Panther’s torpedo room, sir. No secondary explosions, but it’s the right part of the hull and a solid impact, not a graze.”

“Good work, Mr. Girard!” Sikander replied. He noticed that the vertigo-inducing motion shown in the bridge’s horseshoe-shaped viewscreen had slowed and leveled out. Chief Holtz was slowly gaining control over the ship’s attitude. “Split the battery again and engage both targets. Fire for effect!”

“All right, Ms. Juarez. You make a good point,” Chatburn said. “Is there a clear route from my station to the bridge?”

There was a brief pause as Magda considered the question; she had the best information on the damage Hector had suffered. “Yes, sir. Take the starboard-side passage on the third deck forward to the ladderway by Engine Room Two. Go up to the first deck and detour around the mess deck, it’s been hit bad. You should be able to take the ladder on the port side to Deck Two and reach the bridge. It’s depressurized but clear.”

“Very well,” Chatburn replied. “I’m on my way. And, Mr. North, this is a direct order: Cease fire immediately! I will decide whether to continue the engagement when I reach the bridge.”

Sikander punched at the arm of the tactical station in frustration, then punched it again. “Yes, sir,” he snarled, acknowledging the order. He looked back at his weapons team. “All stations cease fire!”

“Cease fire, aye,” Reno replied.

“Cease fire, aye,” said Girard. He leaned over his console. “Sir, Streitaxt is still firing on us. I don’t know if we should let up on her yet.”

“Mr. Chatburn’s orders,” Sikander explained. He leaned back at the tactical console, thinking furiously. The auxiliary bridge was at the aft end of the hull, just behind the main power plant. He wasn’t surprised that it had been knocked out by the torpedo hits in the stern; it was Peter Chatburn’s good fortune that he hadn’t been wounded or killed. In normal conditions it might take five minutes for someone to move from the auxiliary bridge to the main bridge. Given battle damage, destroyed or depressurized compartments, the circuitous route described by Magda … it might take Chatburn ten minutes or more to get to the bridge and assume tactical control as well as actual command. He has the right and the duty to do that, Sikander reminded himself. Junior officers simply didn’t have the option of ignoring their commanders just because they thought mistakes were being made.

Assuming that Chatburn saw no reason to change his mind and broke off the action, it certainly would save lives. It might also minimize the diplomatic fallout of an exchange of fire; damaged ships would be less provocative than destroyed ones. On the other hand, leaving Dremish troops on the ground and Dremish warships in control of the system would certainly lead to the establishment of a planetary government that Dremark could claim to be protecting. Maybe that was a question for the diplomats as well, but it seemed to Sikander that the arguments to follow (assuming a general war didn’t break out) would be a lot more effective if the Empire of Dremark failed to put Salem el-Fasi on the throne.

“Sir, what are we doing?” Angela Larkin asked him. None of the junior officers had access to the command circuit; they hadn’t heard anyone other than Sikander. “Are we going to finish this, or not?”

“It’s not a war yet,” Sikander said, somewhat grudgingly. He averted his eyes from the remains of Captain Markham. He noticed that the technicians working on an emergency patch for the hole in the port-side bulkhead had almost finished; they’d be able to restore atmosphere in just a moment. “Mr. Chatburn hopes that we can still avoid one. Breaking off the action is the best chance for that.”

“Begging your pardon, sir, but why are we breaking off? As things stand now, we’ve got twice the combat power of both the Dremish ships put together.” Larkin pointed at the pitted and blackened main screen, which showed the shattered shape of Streitaxt. “They’re the ones who ought to be running!”

“Tell the Dremish,” Sikander muttered—and then sat bolt upright. Why not do exactly that? He wouldn’t fire against Chatburn’s direct order, but the Dremish didn’t know that. By custom, nothing other than routine navigational communication went out from a Navy ship without the commanding officer’s direct approval, but he knew that Chatburn was going to be unreachable for the next ten minutes as he picked his way through the ship to get to the bridge. He just might be able to make a case for acting on his own initiative later. More important, it was the right thing to do; if it came at the cost of his career, then so be it.

“Communications!” Sikander said sharply. “Signal SMS Panther: Panther, this is Hector. I am holding my fire because I believe you no longer have the ability to threaten me, and I have no wish to inflict any more loss of life. You have three choices: First, retrieve your ground forces from Gadira II and withdraw your vessels to a distance of at least one light-minute from the planet. Second, instruct your landing force to lay down their arms, and power down and surrender your vessels for unlawful action against the recognized government of this system. Third, you can force us to continue this action, which will end in your destruction. Which will it be? Over.”

Sikander felt the eyes of the bridge crew on him. Behind him, Michael Girard let out a low whistle. Whether he was struck by the sternness of the demands or Sikander’s sheer audacity in issuing them at all was hard to say. No one else said a word. Panther did not reply, and Sikander began to wonder whether the damage inflicted on the Dremish cruiser had perhaps knocked out her communications, or whether the senior officer remaining might actually be on Streitaxt or General von Grolmann.

“Sir, signal from Panther,” the comm tech said. “It’s on your display.”

Sikander looked down, and found the lean, bearded visage of Fregattenkapitan Georg Harper gazing at him. He wore an armored suit with a closed visor; his helmet showed sooty black streaks on one side, although Harper appeared uninjured. “Hector, this is Panther actual,” Harper said wearily. “Under my orders, the forces of His Imperial Majesty operating in this system will withdraw to the distance you specify. Be advised that retrieving our landing force cannot be done in less than two hours, and SMS General von Grolmann will need to return to low orbit to recover her troops, over.”

Sikander thought over the request. He was inclined to tell Harper no, since he didn’t trust them to bring their ground operations to a timely halt … but the Dremish would have to be completely mad to risk the troop transport if she was under Hector’s guns. “Granted,” he told Harper. “We expect troops on the ground to hold their positions until retrieval. Any other movements will be construed as hostile.”

The Dremish captain’s face was stone. “This is a complete outrage. You understand that your reckless attack upon our forces is an act of war. Captain Markham will be called to account for her actions, I promise you.”

“Not by any human power, Captain Harper. I regret to inform you that Captain Markham is dead. Commander Peter Chatburn is now in command of CSS Hector.” Sikander met the Dremish captain’s eyes with an expression as hard as steel. “As for the question of war, that will be for our governments to decide. But I remind you, sir: You were warned. Hector, out.” He cut the channel.

Three minutes later, Commander Chatburn reached the bridge.