The battle at the Moons of Hell

Michael forced himself to put the comm through to Mother. “Medics and crash bags, surveillance drone hangar. Quick, for God’s sake.”

And then, pulling another wad of suit patches from the nearest dispenser, he made his way out of the corner that had shielded him from the full fury of the slug’s passing, climbing over Warrant Officer Ng. A quick check confirmed that she was dead, and he started trying to seal endless gashes in suits, ignoring the stinging prickle of wound foam as his suit tried to stop the bleeding in his leg.

Even as he did that, medics erupted from the hatch.

In seconds, helped by Michael and Bienefelt, the worst of the casualties were shoved unceremoniously into crash bags, zipped up, and pressurized before being manhandled hurriedly down the hatch on their way to the ship’s tiny sick bay, the only part of the ship still with pressure inside its triple thickness of ceramsteel armor.

Numbly, Michael watched as the shattered remains of Ng, Strezlecki, Leong, Carlsson, and Athenascu were taken below. Their suits were so badly ripped that he knew in his heart that they weren’t ever coming back.

Finally, Maddox and Karpov, both clearly in pain and badly hurt but at least with suits more or less intact- Michael couldn’t begin to work out how-were helped down the hatch. He began to tremble as the awful shock of it all hit him as he stood there with Bienefelt amid the metal-splintered, flame-seared, black-blood-spattered wreckage of the hangar.

Michael was shaken out his trance by Ribot, his voice soft but firm. “Michael, this is the captain. Your people are in good hands now, so it’s time to do what you’re paid for. I want that slug crater over Weapons Power Charlie fixed before the next attack, so get moving. Main propulsion’s been shut down, but watch out for no-notice maneuvers. I’ll keep things steady for as long as I can, but Mother’s going to do whatever she’s got to do to keep us out of trouble, so make sure you’re well clipped on.”

“Sir.”

With a heavy heart but grateful that he had something better to do than stand around waiting for the ax to fall, Michael commed Bienefelt to follow him. At least, he thought, he didn’t have to wait for any damn air lock to open. There wasn’t one anymore, just a fucking great big hole. Wearily and more scared than he’d ever been in his life, he clipped his safety line onto a handy stanchion. With a deep breath, a kick, and a heave, he was safely past the ripped and torn remnants of the forward personnel air lock and out into the awful darkness, heart pounding and mouth dry.

“Command, Mother. 166 reports two hits. Moderate damage only, hull has lost integrity in two places; all combat systems nominal but unable to jump. Casualties. Three dead and twelve injured but none critical. Time to repair, ninety minutes maximum.”

“Command, roger,” Ribot said. Shit, shit, shit. Now neither of them could jump. This couldn’t go on. But it could and it would, and with a conscious effort, Ribot forced himself to face whatever would come next.

“Command, Mother. At pinchspace jump speed.”

“Roger,” Ribot said with a heavy heart. Too late.

With both 166’s and 387’s hulls ripped open, it was all academic now, anyway. The mass distribution model used by the nav AI to compute 387’s pinchspace jump parameters was hopelessly compromised by the gaping holes in 387’s hull. The ship was hours away from being jump-capable; any jump now would destroy it and kill them all. Ironically, they were safer staying put, where the chances of death and destruction weren’t quite 100 percent.

“Command, Mother. Rail-gun launch from Gore. Swarm of 48,000-plus decoys. Target 387.”

Good old Gore, Ribot thought. It finally got its act together. Better late than never. But what the Hammer was doing still didn’t make sense.

“Mother, Command. Why no missiles? Gore’s got missiles and plenty of them. Why doesn’t she use them?”

“Command, Mother. Uncertain. Only clue is given by the missile salvo from New Dallas. I believe it confirms orders to conserve missile reserves for the decoy assault, which is now their primary objective.”

“Makes sense, I suppose.”

Ribot pulled up the standard incoming salvo report. It was not good reading.

Shit, Ribot thought, get a grip, man. He was definitely losing his edge when he forgot that 387 and 166 weren’t just receivers but givers as well. For a few seconds he felt good about what his missiles might do to the Hammer ship. 387 and 166 weren’t just sitting there like sacrificial lambs waiting for the ax to fall. Ribot zoomed the holocam as far in on New Dallas as it would go, the ship’s size losing nothing in the process.

His feel-good moment didn’t last long. “Don’t think our missiles are going to hurt that big bastard very much.” Ribot’s voice reflected his pessimism.

“Can but try, skipper.”

As ever, Holdorf’s voice was bright with optimism, and not for the first time Ribot wondered how he managed it in the circumstances. Space warfare had often been compared to standing with one’s feet stuck in concrete boots, watching a homicidal maniac walk slowly toward you, meat cleaver in hand, with every intention of hacking you to pieces. And so it had turned out. Waiting as death rushed toward you was the hard part, the entire process made worse for 387 and its crew by knowing there was almost nothing they could do to hit back. How Holdorf always managed to sound so damn cheerful was a real mystery.

And then the holovid began to flash as, too fast to count, the missiles and decoys from 387 and 166 began to die useless deaths at the hands of the Hammers’ defenses. But just as Ribot gave up hope that any would get through, there was a single red-yellow bloom on New Dallas’s upper hull, a short-lived plume of ionized gas marking the impact point.

“Got the fucker! And it was one of ours.” Hosani’s voice rang with triumph. “Suck that, you Hammer bastard! They must be asleep over there.”

The combat information center team watched the holovid with furious concentration, hoping against hope that the missile’s shaped charge warhead had shot its plasma lance far enough into the huge ship to reach something vital.

But it was not to be.

The Mamba antistarship missiles carried by light scouts were too small and had too small a warhead to have any chance against a Hammer heavy cruiser. Even hitting the New Dallas had been a minor miracle. In seconds the bloom had darkened, and then just as quickly it died, leaving only a tiny hot spot on the ship’s hull. New Dallas continued on as though nothing had happened.

Ribot sighed in resignation. “Can’t win them all. Mother, tell 166 to close on me for mutual support. How long until the missiles from New Dallas arrive?”

“Command, Mother. Two minutes.”

Ribot grunted. Two minutes before they lived or died, assuming of course they survived Gore’s rail-gun salvo, which was due in-he did a quick check-less than a minute.

“Roger that. Tell-”

Ribot could only watch open-mouthed as Gore’s port side, flayed by the enormous power of FedWorld long-range antiship lasers, suddenly ripped open. It was almost as if somebody had taken a huge knife and cut the ship open from stem to stern. A huge plume of incandescent gas and debris spewed out into space as the shattered hulk began a slow spiraling tumble to nowhere, automatic distress alarms sounding frantically in Ribot’s neuronics until he commed them off.

Jesus, Ribot thought. Jaruzelska’s ships must have cracked the armor and hit a fusion plant. Big one, too. Main propulsion by the look of it. Great targeting considering the range.

“But we can win some,” Ribot said jubilantly. “Maria, tell the troops. I suspect they could do with some good news. And get the XO to confirm when she expects to have the drone hangar foamsteeled. I’m sure I don’t have to remind her that we can’t jump with it ripped open.”

“Sir.”