March Upcountry

awkward to maneuver.

That was where the parasites came in.

Parasite cruisers and fighters could be packed into max-hull warships in terrific numbers. Once the starships entered a system, they could send out their cruisers and fighters to engage the enemy, but the cruisers were designed to be fast and nimble, rather than heavily armored, and lacked the ChromSten of starships. But this cruiser had come well within DeGlopper’s engagement range and was at the mercy of the heavier ship.

The CO of the Saint parasite quickly realized that he’d screwed up by the numbers. His initial launch started with a single missile, which had clearly been intended as a “shot across the bows,” but the rest of his broadside followed swiftly. Within moments, a half-dozen missiles came scorching towards the assault ship, and the next broadside followed seconds later.

“He’s firing at his launchers’ maximum cycle rate, Sir!” Segedin announced, and Krasnitsky nodded. The Saint captain was firing as rapidly as he could, using a “shoot-shoot-look” tracking system. It would take nearly four and a half minutes for the missiles to cross the distance between the two ships, which meant that at his current rate of fire, he would have shot his magazines dry before the first salvo impacted. It was exactly what Krasnitsky would have done in his place, because given the difference in the sizes and power of the two opponents, the cruiser’s only chance at this point was to overwhelm and destroy the heavier ship before they closed to energy range.

But that wasn’t going to happen.

“All right, let’s delta vee,” he told Segedin. “I want a max delta towards this Saint P-O-S. Take him, Tactical!”

“Aye, Sir!”

Radar and lidar had an iron lock on the cruiser, and despite the crippling effects of Ensign Guha’s sabotage, the tactical computers quickly finalized firing solutions.

DeGlopper was a four-hundred-meter-radius sphere. She was an assault ship, which meant she had to build in room for six shuttles, but that left more than enough room for missile tubes and ample magazines, and the missiles in those magazines were larger and heavier than any parasite cruiser could carry. Now all eight of her launchers began hammering fire at the Saint, and mixed in with her more dangerous missiles were jammers and antiradiation seekers.

It looked like a totally unfair fight, but DeGlopper’s tactical net was far below par. Most of her missiles were under autonomous control, which meant the transport’s computer AI couldn’t adjust their flight profiles to maximum effect. And it also meant her point defense was far less effective than normal.

“Vampires! I have multiple vampires inbound!” There was a series of thuds as the ship’s automated defenses reacted to the inbound missiles. “We have auto-flares and chaff. Some of the vampires are following the decoys!”

“And some of them aren’t!” Krasnitsky snapped, watching his own plot. “Sound the collision alarm!”

Some of the Saint missiles were picked off by countermissiles and laser clusters. Others were sucked off course by active and passive decoys, and the entire first salvo was destroyed or spoofed. But one missile from the second salvo, and three missiles from the third, got through, and alarms screamed as pencils of X-ray radiation smashed into the ChromSten hull.

“Direct hit on Missile Five,” Commander Talcott reported harshly. “We’ve lost Number Two Graser, two countermissile launchers, and twelve laser clusters.” He looked up from his displays and met Krasnitsky’s eyes across the bridge. “None of the damage hit any of the shuttles or came near the magazines, Sir!”

“Thank God,” the captain whispered. “But still not good. Navigation, how long to beam range?”

“Two minutes,” the Navigator reported, and smiled evilly. She’d successfully fooled the Saint captain for hours, playing the role of a panicked merchant skipper while he reviled her parentage, knowledge, and training. Now let him suck laser!

“Hit!” Segedin called. “At least one direct missile hit, Sir! She’s streaming air!”

“Understood,” Krasnitsky replied. “How are we doing on the computers?”

“Rotten, Sir!” Segedin snapped, euphoria vanished. “I had to shift resources to the defensive systems. Most of the birds are flying on their own at this point.”

“Well, this will be over soon,” the captain said, just as another salvo of Saint missiles came streaking in. “One way or another.”

CHAPTER TEN

Roger grabbed the arms of the command chair as another concussion rocked the shuttle like a high wind.

“This,” he remarked quietly, “is not fun.”

“Hmmm,” Pahner said noncommittally. “Check your monitors in the troop bay, Sir.”

The prince found the appropriate control and tapped it, turning on the closed-circuit monitors in the troop bay. What they revealed surprised him: most of the troops were asleep, and the few who were awake were performing some sort of leisure activity.

Two had electronic game pads out and appeared to be competing in something with one another. Others were playing cards with hard decks or, apparently, reading. One even had a hard copy book out, an old and much thumbed one from the look. Roger panned around, looking for anyone he recognized, and realized that he only knew three or four names in the entire company.

Poertena was asleep, with his head thrown back and his mouth wide open. Gunnery Sergeant Jin, the dark, broad Korean platoon sergeant of Third Platoon, had a pad out and was paging slowly through something on it. Roger scrolled up the magnification on the monitors, and was surprised to see that the NCO was reading a novel. He’d somehow expected it to be a military manual, and he spun the magnification still higher, curiously, so that he could read over the sergeant’s shoulder. What he got was a bit more than he’d bargained for; the sergeant was reading a fairly graphic homosexual love story. The prince snorted, then spun the monitor away and dialed back on the magnification. The sergeant’s taste was the sergeant’s business.

The monitor stopped as if by its own volition on the face of the female sergeant who’d summoned him from the armor fitting. It was a face of angles, all high cheekbones and sharp chin with the exception of the lips, which were remarkably voluptuous. Not a pretty face, but arguably a beautiful one. She was looking through a pad as well, and for a reason he wasn’t sure he would have cared to explain, he hunted until he found a monitor that would permit him to look over her shoulder. He panned the camera down, and felt a sudden rush of relief—although exactly why he was glad that what she was reading was the briefing on Marduk was something he didn’t care to consider too deeply.

Flipping back over to the original monitor, he zoomed in on the sergeant’s chameleon suit. There it was. On the right . . . breast. Despreaux. Nice name.

“Sergeant Despreaux,” Pahner said dryly, and the prince hit the trackball and panned the monitor off the name.

“Yes, I recognized her from when she crashed my fitting,” he said hurriedly. “I was just realizing how few of these guards I know by name.” He cleared his throat uncomfortably, happy, for some reason, that the captain couldn’t see his face.

“Nothing wrong with getting to know their names,” Pahner said calmly. “But what you might want to catch is their attitudes,” he continued, as another salvo slammed into the ship.

“We just lost Graser Four and Nine, and Missile Three. We’re down twenty-five percent on our countermissile launchers. More on the laser clusters,” Commander Talcott said. He didn’t bother to add that DeGlopper had also suffered severe hull breaching, since everyone on the bridge could feel the draw of the vacuum around them. The executive officer had just turned toward the captain, when there