Christopher Nuttall - Democracy's Light

The Geeks at work , he thought, as he studied the images. They would have been incomprehensible to a layman — and he had to admit that he couldn’t have pulled as much from them as a fully-trained analysis team — but there was a surprising amount of detail. His analysts had estimated that the Independence -class superdreadnaughts had half again the firepower of a General -class superdreadnaught, but if they had managed to improve and perfect the fire control system, they might have twice as much firepower. There was no way to know, short of actually engaging them, but the Nerds had warned that the Geeks had made big steps forward in ECM and fire control systems.

He scowled. The real limit on warship size wasn’t anything to do with the flicker drive. With enough power, someone could push a planet through flicker-space, although in practice the gravity shadow would have made that impossible. The limit was how many missiles a starship could fire and control . An arsenal ship merely fired off a single mass of missiles, their dumb warhead mentalities focused on hitting one target, while using a handful of coordinating missiles to improve their targeting. The system was simple enough and easy to duplicate. The Geeks, however, had actually improved the targeting system for their superdreadnaughts… and that made them more deadly than ever. Even worse, if they had expanded the concept to the arsenal ships as well, they would have far more effective firepower than his entire fleet. The presence of the other Admirals, however, would tip the scales.

The data finished scrolling up the terminal and asked if he wanted to review it again. He shook his head and cancelled that request, choosing instead to forward the data to the other Admirals and the analysis section. It was a pity that they hadn’t been able to get any sensor records of the rebel fleet drilling — that would have allowed him to get a feel for how his opponent thought and acted — but they had enough. Judging from the records at the end, they could expect Admiral Garland within a day, perhaps longer. An entire fleet took longer to manhandle to a particular location than a single starship.

He keyed his communicator and smiled as the face of his tactical officer appeared on the display. “I’m forwarding you the data from the destroyer,” he said. “Use the laser links and warn Task Force 2 and Task Force 3 to remain firmly under cloak; I don’t want to see even a hint of their presence on my displays. Once that’s completed, I want you to study the records carefully and report to me in two hours to compare conclusions.”

The thrill of finally coming to blows with his opponent warmed him. “And send a classified signal to all ships,” he concluded. “I want them to prepare for action at a moment’s notice. Tell them not to worry about the expense, or the wear and tear on the equipment, not when the rebel fleet is finally on its way.”

He smiled. “We wouldn’t want to be inhospitable,” he said. He allowed, just briefly, his teeth to show. “We must prepare a proper welcome.”

Admiral Katy Garland tensed as the superdreadnaught reverted to normal space, gripping the handles of her command chair as the standard nausea rolled through her body before finally subsiding. The transit back to normal space had been fairly mild, by the standards of some of the transits back during the war, but it still make her body threaten to be sick. There were some who claimed that the feeling was purely psychometric, all in the mind, but in Katy’s experience, few of them were dedicated spacers. Spacers knew that the feeling was very real… and, under the wrong circumstances, that it could kill. They knew not to take it lightly.

“Emergence complete,” the helmsman said, from his position. Spacers underwent special training to control the effects of transition shock, but it was still an effort to speak coherently. If anyone ever managed to invent a way of tracking starships in flicker-space and setting up an ambush, one of the holy grails of the Empire, it would change warfare overnight. “The fleet has arrived and units are checking in now.”

“Launch probes,” Katy ordered, as the display started to fill up with the icons representing her fleet. It was still too soon to see anything orbiting Cottbus, but there was nothing hostile in their emergence zone, although Admiral Wilhelm would know about them almost at once. She hadn’t bothered with any attempt at stealth, even though it would have been probably futile with so many starships; she wanted him to know that she was there. “Tactical, check in with the fleet; I want them forming up into Formation Alpha, just like we practiced.”

That had been the result of a barely-civil ‘discussion’ between her and René Goscinny. The Minister for Foreign Affairs, to use his title from Gaul, had argued that the fleet should emerge within the designated emergence zone and approach Cottbus in a decidedly non-hostile manner. Katy, who doubted that anyone could view the approach of twenty-seven superdreadnaughts — to say nothing of their escorts — as anything, but hostile, had vetoed that idea. They might not have come to start a fight, but she didn’t intend to show any signs of weakness, or even respect. If Admiral Wilhelm had been capable of luring eight cruisers within point blank range and then opening fire… well, she didn’t intend to give him a clear shot at her hulls.

She glanced down at one of her blank communications screens and smiled to herself. Goscinny had wanted to travel in a space yacht, on the grounds that it would be far less threatening and much more comfortable than a superdreadnaught, but she’d nixed that idea as well. A civilian ship couldn’t hope to stand up to the firepower orbiting Cottbus and she didn’t want to lose Goscinny, who could be good company when he put his mind to it, to treachery from the planet below. He was currently sitting in his stateroom — which had more luxury than she’d ever had as a mere Commander — waiting for his chance to shine.

“The fleet’s responded, Admiral,” the tactical officer said. “There are no major problems. They’re forming up into Formation Alpha now.”

Katy nodded without taking her eyes off the display. Manoeuvring any kind of large fleet was a cumbersome process, even with the most capable and experienced crews in the galaxy, and she had to admit that she didn’t have experienced crewers. They’d improved considerably during their brief period of exercises and heavy drilling, but she would have preferred more time. Of course, as the Imperial Navy saying went, time was a commodity that was purchased in lives. There simply hadn’t been the time to drill her crews to perfection.

Formation Alpha took shape in front of her and she smiled. The formation wasn’t exactly threatening, but it was capable of repelling attack from any direction — although the probes had found no trace of cloaked ships anywhere in the vicinity — and easily being altered into a very hostile formation indeed. She was sending a message, she knew, and she was confident that Admiral Wilhelm would pick up on it. He could stand down and discuss the future, or he could fight… and she was ready for both. Her fleet would not be caught with its shields down or drives depowered, unable to fight or run.

“Formation accomplished,” the tactical officer said.

“Good,” Katy ordered. “Helm, take us towards the planet, quarter speed. Nice and slow. We want them to know we’re coming.”

She spared a glance at her communications panel, only to see nothing. Admiral Wilhelm probably wasn’t interested in talking, at least not yet. It was possible that his subordinates were running around like headless chickens, rather than daring to wake him up from a good night’s sleep, but she cautioned herself not to fall into the trap of assuming that he was out of play. She’d once had a commanding officer who believed firmly in sleeping as often as possible and had taken grave offence at anyone who woke him, but surely Admiral Wilhelm wouldn’t be like that, would he?