Charles Stross - Singularity Sky

Guidance pack degradation should still be under control by then, we should be able to do terminal targeting control.”

“Good,” Mirsky said shortly. Heading in on the Lord Vanek on a reciprocal course, the enemy ships might well be able to start shooting soon: but the torpedoes would get in the way nicely, messing up the clear line of sight on the Lord Vanek while threatening them. Which was exactly what Mirsky was hoping for.

There was something extremely odd about the two ships, he noted. They weren’t following any kind of obvious tactical doctrine, just accelerating in a straight line, pulsing with lidar as they came — homing in blindly. There was no sign of sneaky moves. They’d lurched out and begun pinging away like drunken fools playing a barroom computer game, throwing away the advantage of concealment that they’d held.

Whoever was driving those birds is either a fool or —

“Radar,” he said softly. “Saturation cover forward and down. Anything there?”

“I’ll look.” Marek gulped, getting the Captain’s drift immediately. If these two were hounds, flushing their game out of hiding, something would be drifting in quietly from ahead. Not mines dropped at peak velocity, but something else. Maybe something worse, like a brace of powered torpedoes. “Um, humbly suggest optical scan as well, sir?”

“It can’t fix us for them any better,” Mirsky grunted. “They know where we are.” Radar Two: “Sir, nothing on mass. Nothing within two light-seconds ahead or down. Small amount of organic debris — we passed through a thin cloud of it back at waypoint one, picked up a couple of scratches on the nose — but no sign of escorts or weapons.”

“Sir, we are all clear ahead,” said Lieutenant Marek.

“Well, keep looking then.” Mirsky looked down at his hands. They were tightly entwined in his lap, veins standing out on their backs, old hands, the fine hair at his wrists turning gray. “How did I get this far?” he asked himself quietly.

His workstation pinged. “Incoming call for you, sir,” it said.

“Damn.” He punched up the image. It was Commodore Bauer.

“I’m busy,” he said tersely. “Torpedo run. Can it wait?”

“I don’t think so. There is something very flaky going on. Why do you think they aren’t shooting?”

“Because they’ve already shot at us, but the bullets haven’t arrived yet,” Mirsky said through gritted teeth.

Bauer stared at his Flag Captain for a moment, wordless agreement written on his face. Then he nodded.

“Get us the hell out of here, Captain. I’ll tell the rest of the squadron to follow your lead. Just give me as much delta-vee as you can between us and those — whatever.”

Radar Two: “Time to torpedo closest approach, eight-zero seconds. Sir, there are no signs that wolf one or two has seen the fish. But they’re well within sensor range if they’re using something equivalent to our G-90s.”

“Understood.” Mirsky paused. Something was nagging at the back of his mind; a nasty sense of having forgotten something. That neutrino pulse, that was it. Neutrinos meant strong nuclear force. So why no flash? “Guns, load up twelve SEM-20s for tail drop at shortest intercept course. Assuming they come in from behind.” He glanced back at his screen, but the commodore had hung up on him without waiting.

“Aye aye. Birds loaded.” Helsingus seemed almost happy, twitching levers and adjusting dials. It was the nearest thing to pleasure Mirsky remembered the dour gunnery officer showing since his dog had disappeared. “Ready at minus one-zero seconds.”

“Helm.” Mirsky paused. “Prepare to execute plan bugout on my command.” An alarm warbled at the radar desk. “Beg to report sir,” began the petty officer on duty, face whey-pale:

“I’ve lost Prince Vaclav .”

Faces looked up in shock all around the room. “What do you mean, lost it?” snapped Vulpis, bypassing the operational pecking order. “You didn’t just lose a battlecruiser—”

“Sir, she’s stopped responding. Stopped accelerating, too. I can see her on plot, but there’s something wrong with her—” The radar operator paused. “Sir, I can’t get an IFF heartbeat out of her. And she’s reflecting way too much energy — something must have ripped the front off her emission control coating.”

“Helm. Execute plan bugout,” Mirsky snapped in the sudden silence that followed the report.

“Aye aye, sir, bugout it is.” Lieutenant Vulpis began flipping switches in a frenzy.

A fundamental problem with combat in space was that if things began to go wrong, they could do so with dizzying speed — and to make matters worse, catastrophe would only become visible to a ship that was so deep into the enemy’s powered-missile envelope that escape was nearly impossible. Mirsky had gamed this situation repeatedly with Bauer and the other fleet captains; plan bugout was the result. It was a lousy plan, the only thing to commend it being the fact that all the alternatives were worse. Something had just reached out across ninety thousand kilometers and bushwhacked a battlecruiser. This wasn’t entirely unexpected; they were here to fight, after all. But they hadn’t seen any missiles, only their own birds and the debris from the blowout drifting in ahead of them, and the fine drizzle of organic ‘dandruff’

from the enemy ships — and in active mode, the Lord Vanek’s lidar could pin down a missile at almost a light-second, three hundred thousand kilometers. If the enemy had a beam weapon of some kind that was capable of trashing a capital ship at that range, nearly two orders of magnitude greater than their own point-defense energy weapons, they were already too damned close. All they could do was turn side-on and go to emergency thrust, generating a vector away from the enemy before they could respond.

Radar Two: “Torpedo intersect in four-zero seconds. Wolves one and two still tracking on course, acceleration down to one gee.”

“Well, that’s nice to know. Mr. Helsingus, I would appreciate it if you’d be so good as to prepare a warm welcome for anything our friends try to send after us. I don’t know just what they threw at Prince Vaclav , but I don’t propose to give them time to show us. And if you gentlemen will excuse me for a minute, I have a private call to make.” Mirsky pulled on his headset and pushed down on the antisound lever. “Comms, get me the Commodore.” His earpieces clicked. “Sir?”

“Have you started bugout?”

“Yes, sir. The Prince Vaclav —”

The screech of the decompression alarm cut through his ears like a knife. “By the numbers, damn you!” yelled Mirsky. “Suit up!” He yanked off his headset. Officers and men dashed to the emergency locker at the rear of the compartment and pulled their gear on, stumbled back to man posts while their backups followed suit. The ops room had already cycled onto its emergency supply, along with all the main nerve centers of the ship, but Mirsky wasn’t one to take chances. Not that being suited up would count for much protection in ship-to-ship combat, but decompression was another threat entirely, one dreaded aboard any starship almost as much as fire or Hawking radiation. “Damage control, talk to me,” he grunted. A passing CPO held out a suit for him; he stood up and pulled it on slowly, making sure to double-check its status display.

“Humbly report a big pressure drop on A deck, sir. Critical decompression, we’re still venting air. Ah, humbly report there appears to be some damage to lidar emitter quadrant three.”

“You make sure everybody’s buttoned down. Guns, Radar, where do we stand?” Radar One: “Torpedo intercept in one-five seconds. Bogey holding course, due to pass inside our terminal engagement envelope for two-zero seconds in one-two-zero then drop behind.” Helsingus nodded. “All tubes loaded,” he reported.