THREE
That night, none of the command staff slept well. The night shifters—officers and noncoms alike—continued to labor over the reports from Vandal; they looked at them more than dozens of times, broke them down into sequences, then single frames, compiled data and summed up the results. To be thorough, four analyst teams were formed, working simultaneously. It wasn’t just them who didn’t get a wink of sleep. Even at this time of night, the station’s crew crowded in clubs, canteens, and dimly lit cabins, watching those fragments of the battle that were made publicly available, and talking quietly of the strike force’s destruction.
The grand admiral was no exception. He was sitting in the very heart of a gigantic station, separated from the crew by armored walls of the military command section, and watching the looped holo over and over again. He was most interested in the seconds between the first shot and the annihilation of the battleship.
The longer Farland stared at these images the more depressed he became. The bitterness of defeat quickly turned into sadness, and this in turn gave way to despair that sprouted overwhelming feelings of helplessness. For the first time in his life, Theodoreginald Farland—a man of success, moving up the Fleet ranks with the proverbial speed of light—felt … insignificant. So what if he had several hundred warships and tens of thousands of people under his command if he wasn’t able to stop an Aliens’ attack?
When he couldn’t take it anymore, he resorted to alcohol just like most of his subordinates. The only difference was that under the console he kept a bottle of really old whiskey from the Central Systems. A gift from his father on the occasion of his commissioning. It was distilled properly, on a planet with an oxygen-rich atmosphere, in real oak barrels imported from Earth. What it was distilled from, he couldn’t—and didn’t want to—know. It was enough that this whiskey tasted exquisitely and knocked him down hard, without condemning him to the special form of torture known as a hangover.
He took a cone-shaped decanter and removed its umbrellalike stopper. An ancient craftsman had tried to form the glassware into a futuristic spaceship. And almost succeeded. The grand admiral picked one of the glasses seated in the lining of the drink cabinet, looked at it against the light, huffed at it, and finally wiped a tiny spot. The glass was equipped with a microscopic antigrav, so he didn’t have to worry about the lack of a flat surface on the console—it hung a couple of inches above the shining metal and lowered slightly only when Farland filled it with some amber liquid, but even then it stayed seemingly afloat.
After the fortieth replay, and the third round of whiskey, an orange icon flashed on his side display. Farland didn’t notice it at first, but when the blinking caught his attention, he immediately tore his eyes away from the myriads of missiles, put the recording on pause, and activated the comlink. However, he enabled the sound only.
“Farland,” he growled, and held his breath.
“Grand Admiral, this is Lieutenant Wagner from the communications section.” The duty officer sounded normal; his voice was flat, devoid of any tension. Hopefully, the news isn’t bad at all, Theodoreginald thought. Hopefully, the Aliens didn’t attack again. “I’ve just received an interstellar request to open a quantum link. Colonel Rutta wants to talk to you, sir.”
Farland breathed deeply. Not yet, but … He might hear of the next damaged probe any moment now. Over the past forty-eight hours, another six monitoring stations in the farthest recesses of the Inner Rim had fell silent.
“Put him through,” he said, instinctively reaching to his uniform collar.
After a moment’s hesitation, Theodoreginald gave up buttoning his uniform. He’d known Franciscollin for years, so he didn’t have to pretend to be a dull, devoid of all feelings, star-studded clone-of-a-bitch.
Where just moments ago were the alien shields covered with plasmic spheres appeared a bridge with a chair and the colonel sitting in it. Even though the lights at the command post were dimmed, and no people to be seen, Rutta immediately activated the force field, separating his console from the rest of the bridge.
Taken aback by the way his friend looked, he began uncertainly, “Grand Admiral—”
“Come on,” Farland interrupted him. “Nobody can see or hear us. There’s no need for this.”
Franciscollin made a wry face. Time spent in the military changed him into a stickler—whenever he saw a superior, he recognized the proper manner of address out of respect. Even if he’d known them since childhood. He was surprised to see Grand Admiral Farland, the commander of the whole metasector, in a nonchalantly open-necked uniform and with a glass in his hand. On the other hand, just a moment ago he’d knocked down a stiff drink too—hoping that he would free himself of the burden. Except he did it in solitude, taking care not to have any witnesses of his weakness.
“But—”
“Come on,” Farland repeated, waving his hand dismissively. “We’ve known each other since … since … since time immemorial.”
“For sixty-five years,” Rutta said.
“Yes. A very long time. This whiskey is almost as old as our acquaint—as our friendship.” The grand admiral, already tipsy, lifted his glass to a silent toast.
The colonel just nodded.
“I’ve just received the final report,” he said as Farland tossed off a shot of whiskey. “That’s why I wanted to talk to you right after leaving hyperspace.”
“This report … it doesn’t add anything new, does it?”
“We’re not dealing with a worst-case scenario, true,” Rutta admitted, “but it’s not too good either.”
“My boys have come to a similar conclusion—” The grand admiral glanced at the displays, checking yet another of the constantly incoming documents, then helped himself to one more shot of whiskey. “Go on.”
“Spectrum analyses show that it was this close to destroying their shields.”
“How close?”
“Nineteen percent.”
“Only nineteen?” This information electrified Farland. He put his glass over the console. It looked much worse in the transmissions from Vandal. “If these nukes—”
Rutta cut in, “Unfortunately, the bastards traced them unmistakably, as if they were afraid of them. When it got really hot, they concentrated their barrage fire on the torpedoes in order to destroy them before the detonation as far as possible. Hence such a high hit rate when it comes to our kinetic rods.”
“As if the Aliens were afraid of the torpedoes, you say …” the grand admiral mused.
“That’s how it looks,” Rutta confirmed. “I don’t know why yet, but it can be a very valuable tip for the future.”
Farland nodded. That had to mean something. But what? Such torpedoes were usually used to depressurize ship plating. Khumalo had sent them in the second wave, just after the hail of kinetic rods, hoping that these weapons supported by the turbolasers would have overpowered the liner’s force field. The Aliens, however, had gone the vole. They’d been willing to sacrifice their shields so as not to let a single nuclear torpedo near them. Intrigued, the grand admiral typed several commands, instructing the system to analyze the data concerning one specific moment of the battle. The results were in line with his expectations. From a tactical point of view, the Aliens were better off destroying more rods than torpedoes. The total force of the kinetic attack was more than double compared to the destroyed nuclear torpedoes. This was probably the only illogical behavior of the enemy observed during all the attacks.
“Maybe their nuclear weapons are much more powerful than ours?” he thought aloud.
“I doubt it,” Rutta countered. “A warhead this size can’t accommodate a teraton nuke.”
“That’s true.”
Rutta leaned toward the holocamera.
“The tactics used by the Aliens shows that they know a lot about us. They strike precisely at the most critical parts of our ships, plus they don’t give a damn about weapons that can’t hurt them. It’s almost like they know all the specifics. Meaning, they also know the warheads’ force.”
“So why—”
“I don’t know. I don’t know yet, but this discovery can turn our situation. On Vandal we were really close to success …”
“Success?” the grand admiral snorted. “What kind of success? For all the gods’ and godlings’ sake! We lost more than five hundred men and nineteen warships. Just like that, in a heartbeat. And for what? To check the performance of some … some …”
“You’re wrong,” Rutta protested. “Learning what the maximum performance of the liners’ force fields is, we have achieved our objective. And Khumalo knew what he’d signed up for,” the colonel added. “If the Admiralty don’t ignore our reports, his sacrifice will save—”
Farland raised his hand as if he wanted to silence him.
“Before we talk about the new orders, I’d like to ask you something. Tell me honestly, just between us, what you’d do in my position.”
“I’d order an emergency evacuation of the compromised systems and begin—”
“Wait!” the grand admiral interrupted him. “Suppose retreat is not an option.”
“What do you mean, not an option?” The colonel was surprised.
“Suppose the Admiralty don’t want to surrender even the tiniest piece of the Inner Rim.”
“It’s just plain stupid.”
“I know, but … consider it anyway. Purely hypothetically, of course.”
“Hypothetically, my ass! Be straight with me. Xiao told you—”
“Not Xiao.” The grand admiral shook his head with resignation. “It’s a direct order from the Council. We’ve got to stop the enemy at all costs. ‘Not one step backwards,’ Chancellor Modo said.”
Rutta paused for a long moment. He checked something on the displays of his console, typed further commands, and studied the incoming data again. Finally, he raised his head.
“I’m sorry,” he said, “but I don’t see any other way out.”
Farland replied with a crooked smile.
“Okay, let’s try a different approach,” he suggested, activating the holoprojector. An enormous map of the Inner Rim appeared between them. “I’ll sketch out the plan and you’ll tell me what you think. Whether there’s something wrong with it. Can you do that?”
“No problem.”
“Let’s start with the basics …”
A few gestures and icons flashed around some of the stars. First green, then blue, and in the end red, most numerous. “These are our colonies, industrial installations, and the ships at the metasector headquarters. We keep watch over a hundred and thirty-six colonized systems and almost two thousand ones which aren’t worth exploiting.
“To sum it up: we’re still protecting one hundred and eighty—” He did some mental arithmetic, subtracting lost outposts. “One hundred and eighty-one planetary colonies and three hundred and twenty-six orbital installations, of which two hundred and ninety-one don’t have propulsion allowing them to make a jump. According to the latest records our metasector is inhabited by six billion, one hundred and fifteen million, three hundred and sixty-five thousand, eight hundred and sixteen civilians. Not counting those who lived in the colonies we’ve already lost.
“These territories are to be defended by eighteen battleships and one hundred and seventy-five cruisers, over half of which are older generations. Also, we have more than three thousand destroyers, frigates, and corvettes. The bulk of landing craft and patrol ships at our disposal don’t count in the slightest, because they’re useless in space battles with the Aliens.”
“I’m well aware of all of this,” Rutta assured the grand admiral with a tone of urgency.
Farland was silent, but only for a moment.
“Let’s create nine strike teams of similar firepower. Each will comprise two battleships, eighteen cruisers, and three hundred smaller warships, depending on their class and armament. I’m going to form them into three task groups and deploy them as follows—”
The grand admiral touched another virtual key and the red icons started to gather in Belt S.
“Why don’t you send them closer?” Rutta asked.
“Redeployment of such a large force with logistical and tactical backup will take us about three standard weeks. At the same time, we’ll lose all remaining inhabited systems from Belt V and about one-third from Belt U.”
“I see.”
“If your calculations are accurate, and I’ve got no reason to doubt it, two strike teams should deal with four enemy ships. To neutralize the alien liner’s shields, I’ll need to carry out a coordinated attack of one battleship, four cruisers, and a hundred, maybe a hundred and fifty, destroyers, but I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks. Therefore, each task group will consist of three task forces. Two will fight with the Aliens, the third will be on standby in case something goes wrong.”
“Did you evaluate the effectiveness using the rates from Vandal?” the colonel asked, because in his opinion the calculations were off somehow.
“No.” Farland smiled triumphantly.
“No?”
“Not only you’ve been busy, my friend. I thought hard about how Khumalo wanted to break the defense of these clones-of-bitches, and I found one very big mistake in his tactics. Look.”
The first moments of the battle of Vandal reappeared on their displays. This time, however, the Fleet’s attack looked different. The destroyers were in the second line, behind the battleship and cruisers so that the Aliens couldn’t fire at them directly. This maneuver gave their crews time to launch extra hundreds of kinetic rods. The Aliens had to focus on defense, concentrating their fire on the myriads of incoming missiles, and the Federations’ warships survived almost unscathed until they could open fire themselves.
Rutta checked the readings hastily.
“You’ve increased the effectiveness up to ninety-four percent,” he said, making no attempt to conceal his satisfaction.
“Now think what we would have been able to do if we’d put up two of my strike teams against these four liners,” the grand admiral said. “And fired two hundred nuclear torpedoes instead of twenty,” he added, entering new data.
Another, even more impressive simulation showed the hypothetical clash of four latest-generation battleships and thirty-six cruisers with the backup of kinetic rods fired from more than five hundred destroyers, corvettes, and frigates. The onslaught smashed first the alien shields, and then the liners. This time the battle ended with complete destruction of the enemy, although the Federation’s losses were significant too. Two battleships evaporated, the other two were badly damaged. As many as seven cruisers also were history, and another fifteen needed major overhauls, but—interestingly enough—almost all escort vessels survived.
The colonel, focusing on the foreground, didn’t notice their massive retreat. Farland had everything figured out. The destroyers and the rest of the smaller vessels made subspace jumps immediately after firing the last missiles, so that the liners would have nothing to shoot at when they went past the main formation again.
“Any comments?” the grand admiral asked smugly.
“Only one,” Rutta said calmly. “What will you do if they don’t fight back?”
“Why wouldn’t they?”
“They are not fools, and they’ve proven it more than once.”
“That’s true, but—”
“No buts, Theo. If you redeploy in such a way, you’ll have two options. Or, you’ll have to leave your strike teams in Belt S to react to further attacks with a delay. If my math’s correct, your strike teams will appear in the attacked systems about six hours after the Aliens. Taking the fight to them won’t be easy. If you block the jump zone, they will do their bit in front of your eyes and then disappear into subspace.”
“We don’t know if they have the technology to—”
“We’re talking about beings who have equipment we can only dream about. Do you really think they haven’t discovered subspace travel?”
Farland glanced at him furiously, but finally, he nodded.
“You’re right,” he said angrily. “We can’t rule out this possibility, so I’m going for option number two. We’ll follow them.”
“To get them, you’ll have to go at full throttle. For a day, maybe even two. And this will have a negative impact on the effectiveness of subsequent actions. You’ll lose about thirty percent of the shield power.”
“The remaining seventy percent will still be enough to beat the Aliens.”
“Yes, but at the cost of more than double losses,” Rutta said, initiating a simulation. “And we just can’t afford it.”
The grand admiral watched the unfavorable version of events with his eyelids half-closed.
“Any other comments?” he asked.
The colonel nodded.
“It would be more advisable to deploy these strike teams on the most valuable of the compromised systems and wait for the enemy there, but this in turn generates other problems. The Aliens may ignore the systems defended by the Third Fleet and storm into our space, unhampered …”
“I’m beginning to understand why the Inner Territories’ headquarters so eagerly complied with my request for their best analyst,” said the grand admiral, reaching for his glass.
“You’d have me agree with everything you say?”
“No, my friend. This is not a drill, it’s a war, and my mistakes can have catastrophic consequences. That’s why I’m asking you for help, not the sycophants. Just speak your mind, would you? Nobody likes being criticized, but I’ll get over it.”
He poured himself another glass. “And if I don’t, props or no props, you’ll have nothing to worry about. I’ll have you posthumously rehabilitated, like all other pesky advisors.”
They both laughed.
“What else can go wrong?” Farland asked.
Rutta entered some additional data to run a new simulation. This time ten bulb-like ships appeared opposite the strike teams.
The grand admiral straightened up and watched the holoprojection with an intent gaze. When it finished twenty seconds later—and after there was nothing left of his strike teams but the clouds of debris—he started adding extra teams furiously and ran simulations until all of them pitched into the fray. Success, finally, but at what cost!
“Just one battle will strip you of all the battleships and almost three-quarters of the cruisers,” Rutta concluded, as the computers spit out rough estimates. “You can’t afford it.”
“Even if this Pyrrhic victory will mean the end of alien invasion?” Farland asked.
The colonel looked at him with pity.
“Do you really think that these ten liners are all they have?”
The grand admiral shook his head slowly, as if with disbelief. “Are they just scouts?” he croaked, remembering the reports about further monitoring stations that had been lost.
“Yes, my friend. In my opinion, we haven’t seen the real invasion fleet yet.”
“What’s your advice?”
“I’ve already told you.”
“If we withdraw from the Inner Rim, we’ll take this war to the Inner Territories,” Farland said.
“Yes,” Rutta admitted. “But by implementing my plan, we’ll gain time. The Admiralty will be able to redeploy the remaining fleets. Maybe it’ll even get down to building the fifth-generation ships, which we’ve been hearing about for several years now.”
“What about the Council’s order?” the grand admiral asked.
Here’s where the rub came. They could convince the Admiralty, sooner rather than later, but politicians weren’t soldiers—they would remain unswayed by even the strongest arguments. For them, the ships and crews were just numbers in the statistics. The only exception was an election campaign, when politicians begged citizens for votes, but it was still sixteen years away.
“I’m sending you some documents.” The colonel looked his friend in the eye. “Read them carefully and convene a briefing at oh seven hundred standard time. By then, I should already be on site.”