March Upcountry

the ideal universe of The Book, there were supposed to be seven lieutenants a line company, but that happy state of affairs was rarely found in dreary reality. It was especially hard to find in The Empress’ Own, which had even higher standards for its officers than its enlisted men.

In general, the need for an executive officer and “chief of staff” for a company commander was seen as overriding the need for a platoon leader, so Third Platoon was officerless. Its platoon sergeant, who normally would have been in the meeting, was busy getting it prepared for whatever the CO decided to do, and the navigator was on the bridge, bluffing the oncoming cruiser which was looking more and more like a Saint parasite.

“I don’t want anyone to have any doubts,” Krasnitsky went on. “We might win, and we might not. Usually, I’d say we could take a single cruiser—we’ve got more missiles, and heavier, and we’ve got him licked on beam armament.” He paused and stared at the deckhead for a moment. “We’ve got all the normal advantages of a tunnel drive ship. We aren’t mass-limited; the drive only cares about our volume, so we can afford to mount ChromSten armor, which he can’t. That right there is a major factor, since it will shrug off some of the missiles that get through, whereas ours will all hammer him. And we’ve got more internal volume, so we can absorb more of the damage that does get through.

“The downside is, we’re in sad shape. We can hardly accelerate at all, and our sensors and targeting systems are screwed. We’re a damned big target, too, so it’s not like they’re going to miss. All the normal disadvantages of a TD ship, with a few extra thrown in. So we’ll take damage, no question. Even if we win, we’ll be in worse shape than we are now.”

He paused again and looked around the compartment. The Marines, combat veterans all, looked grim but determined. His own people, none of whom had actually been through a ship-to-ship action, looked a bit white, but focused. The prince’s chief of staff was trying very hard to look as if she had any idea at all of what was going on. The prince, though . . . The prince was a sight. It was obvious that, whatever else he’d taken at the Academy, no- win simulations hadn’t been on the program. As the briefing had gone on, his eyes had just gotten rounder and rounder. . . .

“What about punching the assault shuttles?” Pahner asked, leaning a chin on one fist and looking so calm he appeared almost disinterested. Krasnitsky had dealt with some cool Marines in the course of his career, but the commander of the prince’s bodyguard was obviously one of those rare people who simply got calmer when disaster loomed. The Fleet officer was willing to bet that the Marine’s blood pressure and heartbeat were so low they were dropping off the scale.

“I’d suggest loading them,” Lieutenant Commander Talcott, DeGlopper’s XO said, “but don’t punch them. Putting their additional armor between the Prince and incoming fire would be good, but you’d have a helluva time making the planet without us from here.”

“Have we received any transmission from the other ship?” Eleanora asked.

“Not yet,” Krasnitsky said. “Lag. The soonest we can expect to receive a com is sometime in the next half hour, and they’ll be receiving our own message about the same time. And before you ask: we’re the Nebula Lines freighter Beowulf’s Gift, out of Olmstead. We’ve had a tunnel drive failure, and we’re looking for a port to await a repair ship.”

“Whether they believe it or not,” snorted Lieutenant Gulyas, the Second Platoon leader. Since Marine companies were designed to operate independently, which meant their COs needed their own de facto staffs, he also wore the “hat” of intel officer.

“Indeed,” Lieutenant Commander Talcott said. “Just as much as we believe them.”

“There’s no reason for them to suspect us,” Captain Krasnitsky pointed out. “With our phase drive damage, we can’t make any sort of acceleration, and the damage also masks our tendril signature. Frankly, we do look like a damaged freighter. They’ll practically have to do a hull map to tell the difference.”

“By which time,” Sublieutenant Segedin declared, “we’ll have them locked up and ready to blast.” The acting tactical officer seemed to be looking forward to the action. Nervous but ready, like a racehorse at the starting gate. “The good news is how long they waited to fire up. They have to be assuming we’re a merchie, so they’ll come calling for us to heave to or follow them to the planet. We’ll play along, but not decel. The closer we get to the planet, the better.”

“We’re down one missile tube,” Talcott commented. “The local server was flattened by the power surges, and we’re out of spares, but that leaves us seven. And all the laser mounts are online. Fire control is . . . spotty. But it should hold for a short engagement.”

“So the ship blasts the cruiser,” Prince Roger said, twining a golden strand of hair around one finger. “Then what? How do we get back to Earth?”

“Then the port submits, or we drop kinetic weapons on it, Your Highness,” Pahner said flatly. “And after that, we wait for a ride home.”

“And if the carrier comes back?” Roger was surprised at how calm he sounded. He looked at the piece of hair in his hand as if in surprise, and then patted it back into place. “I mean, the cruiser had to be dropped off by a carrier, right? And a carrier has collapsed armor and even more missiles than we do. Right?”

Pahner and Krasnitsky shared a look, and Pahner answered.

“Well, Your Highness, I think we’ll have to cross that bridge when we come to it. It could just be lying low somewhere. But,” he glanced at Segedin, “what about other ships in the system? Other cruisers or destroyers?”

“Right now, we don’t detect any,” the acting TACO replied. “But if the cruiser hadn’t lit off its drive, we never would have detected him, either. There could be a carrier or another cruiser—or a hundred little fighter bastards—out there, and we’d have no idea.”

“Okay,” Pahner said, “we’ll cross that bridge when we come to it, too.” He turned to the Marine lieutenants who were making notes on their pads. The electronic devices would convert the entire meeting to text for reading, but the notes brought out the highlights. “Get the assault boats prepped. Full loadout. When we hit orbit, we should be prepared for a hot drop on the port.”

“Are we talking an extended fight here, Sir?” Lieutenant Sawato asked. The First Platoon leader was the senior lieutenant and de facto operations officer for the company. If there was going to be an extended fight, it would be her job to ensure that the plans were in place to support it.

“No.” Pahner shook his head. “We’ll call on them to surrender. If they do, we’ll drop on them like a ton of lead. If they don’t, we’ll hit them with kinetic strikes, then drop on them like a ton of lead. We’ll work up a full mission order around that in the next few hours. Take this as a warning order. “

“Will that be strictly necessary, Major?” Eleanora asked. “I mean, you’re the Bronze Battalion, not an enforcement company. It’s your job to protect Prince Roger, not to retake planets from people like the Saints. If we hold the orbitals, can’t we just wait for reinforcements to arrive and handle the situation on the ground?”

Pahner looked at her woodenly for a moment.

“Yes, Ma’am. I suppose we could,” he said finally. “But, frankly, I think it’s important that whoever has taken over the system understand that when you dick around with an imperial base, all it gets you is bloody and bruised. More to the immediate point, we might end up hiding on the ground. I’d prefer that base be neutralized if we do.”

“You mean if the cruiser’s support ship comes back?” Roger asked.

“Yes, Your Highness. Or if it’s still around somewhere,” Pahner replied shortly.

“Will His Highness be on the assault?” Krasnitsky asked in a diffident tone.

“Yes!” Roger said quickly, his face lighting at the thought of getting off the ship.

“No!” Pahner and O’Casey spoke simultaneously, and it was difficult to say which sounded more emphatic. They looked at each other, then at the prince. The two of them flanked him like lions at the gate, and O’Casey leaned out over the table to fix his eye, since he was steadfastly looking across the table at Captain Krasnitsky.

“No,” she said even more firmly.

“Why not?” Roger asked, wincing inwardly as he heard his own whining tone. “I can carry my own weight!”

“It’s too dangerous,” O’Casey snapped. “The very idea is ludicrous!”

“If we’re performing an assault, Your Highness, I can’t have my troops guarding you at the same time,” Pahner pointed out in her support.

“My troops,” Roger said petulantly. He hated the tone, but he didn’t know how