Keeper of the Sun (Starhold Series Book 3) Page 2

  It was the nature of this new conflict. Few outsiders had ever been in this part of the Renaissance Sector, the slice of the Milky Way which humanity had claimed as its own three centuries ago following the Diaspora of Humankind. The star Mannerheim was only ten light-years from the Jangsuvian Worlds, a starhold that had virtually isolated itself from the rest of humanity in the aftermath of the exodus from Earth.

  Odd stories about the Jangsuvians blanketed the Sector. Some people claimed they were involved in unnatural genetic experiments. Others swore that a deadly plague had ravaged their planets and turned them into zombie-like creatures. Pettigrew had his own pet theory: maybe the Jangsuvians had started most of the wild rumors themselves. Maybe they just wanted to be left alone.

  “Incoming plasma torpedoes! Fifty klicks and closing fast!” warned Tactical Officer Kuypers.

  As the energy torpedoes made contact with the shields of the Sarissan cruisers, most dissipated harmlessly, but not all. Some of the deadly weapons made it through, only to be cut to pieces by point-defense cannons or PD beams—but again, not all. Two warheads found the Tempest’s hull where most of their deadly force was nullified by the cruiser’s ablative armor—this time.

  “Plasma torpedoes—we should be honored,” said Swoboda dryly. “They’re breaking out the good stuff just for us.”

  Only two ships in Pettigrew’s small fleet had shields to fend off the enemy assault: the flagship and the light cruiser Octavia. His three destroyers and pair of frigates lacked the benefit of shielding, and in this particular exchange, they were taking some hits. The destroyer Raskova had already absorbed two torpedoes aft and the frigate Thora received a glancing blow to one of her dorsal particle beam cannons.

  “Raskova is reporting casualties… so is Thora,” announced Tempest’s XO, Sephora “Sunny” Nyondo.

  “Dammit!” Pettigrew growled. “This is on me. I should have known better than to try to dance with that battleship. We are outgunned and getting our butts kicked,” he declared, jabbing a key on his command console.

  “Pettigrew to strike force. Form up on Tempest and prepare a full missile volley. Slave your fire controls to Tempest tactical.” The Commodore swore he heard a tiny shriek of delight from Olivia Kuypers, the Tac Officer. The woman thrived on conflict and loved a good rumble, especially when she got to kill enemy ships.

  “After we launch missiles, all ships engage at full speed on course three-two-zero mark seven. We’re heading straight for that gas giant. Pettigrew out.”

  He hated the idea of running, but for right now, it would serve his purpose. Jangsuvian warships were typically built to be fast and maneuverable, but a battleship was a battleship. They were massive and deadly, and his current force was no match for one of the Goliaths. That was especially true now that the Jangsuvians had developed their own version of shields. The short-lived Sarissan-New Earther monopoly on shield technology was a distant memory.

  Nyondo checked her console. “Commodore, all ships are in formation.”

  Pettigrew nodded. “Acknowledged, Commander. Ms. Kuypers?”

  “Aye, sir—ready here,” answered the energetic redhead. Pettigrew couldn’t see her face, but he was certain she was wearing an expression that was one-part concentration and two parts feral anticipation.

  “A nice, even spread to cover our retreat, Lieutenant,” Pettigrew said. “Ready—fire all missiles!”

  “Firing all missiles, aye!” Kuypers’ fingers waved over her holographic console. “Birds away, sir!”

  As the tactical display showed hundreds of icons headed toward the enemy force, Chaz Pettigrew pointed toward Swoboda, who in turn signaled his helm officer.

  “Mr. Hayes, all ahead full.”

  * * * *

  By any galactic standard, Arazmus was enormous. With a radius fifteen percent larger than Sol’s Jupiter, the gas giant was truly the sovereign of an otherwise unremarkable star system. Even with all the power of twenty-sixth century pulse-drive engines, a modern spaceship could easily be pulled to its death if it strayed too close to the enormous world. If Chaz Pettigrew had his way, his ships were going to get very close indeed.

  The Sarissan fleet hurtled directly toward Arazmus as Pettigrew, Swoboda, Nyondo, and Kuypers stood around a small holographic display table in the rear area of the bridge for an impromptu conference. Before them floated icons of Strike Force Tempest and their pursuers.

  “Our drones are reporting nothing except the enemy fleet,” said Nyondo. “There is no supply base in this system, Jangsuvian or otherwise. It was all a trap.”

  “We know,” mumbled Swoboda, instantly looking like a man who had said something he regretted.

  Pettigrew gave Swoboda a sideways glance and then turned back to Nyondo. “You’re right, Nyondo—it was a trap. Central Command knew there was no base here all along. Only myself and the ship captains were told in advance, but we were under orders to keep it quiet for security reasons.”

  Quick flashes of confusion and then anger crossed Nyondo’s face, but she kept her bearing. “Then may I ask, sir, why are we here? Why send seven ships into harm’s way when Central Command knew there was no gain?”

  Swoboda started to say something only to be interrupted by Pettigrew, who was staring down at a datapad—partly to find some information, but mostly to avoid eye contact with Nyondo. “Ms. Kuypers, I see a note here in the sitrep that this planet is surrounded by a Forryan radiation field. I’m a little rusty on my particle emissions, Lieutenant. Care to enlighten us?”

  Kuypers had been casually leaning against the conference table with arms crossed. As usual, the spirited junior officer was eager to speak up, so when called upon she stood up straighter and changed the table’s holo-display into a slow-spinning image of Arazmus.

  “The Forryan field extends about two-hundred thousand klicks in all directions around the planet. It’s non-lethal to humans, but if we enter the field, it will play havoc with some of our equipment—especially the hyperdrive engines.”

  Swoboda glanced at Pettigrew and then back to Kuypers.

  “What kind of havoc, Lieutenant?” he asked suspiciously.

  Kuypers made a face as though she were considering how to phrase something in a way that a small child could understand it. “Well, sir, as long as we are within the Forryan field, it will be impossible to form any hyperspace bubbles around our ships. The effects of Forryan particles reach down to the hyper-atomic level. If we need to make a jump, we’ll have to use our pulse-drives to clear the field before we can translate out of the system.”

  “I see,” said Swoboda. “Thank you, Ms. Kuypers.”

  “Always glad to be of service,” she murmured, slumping back against the display table. It was the type of offhand quip that drove Swoboda crazy, but the lieutenant’s free spirit had grown on Pettigrew. Sassy as she was, Kuypers knew her job and performed it well.

  Pettigrew placed a hand on the captain’s shoulder. “David, going in there would buy us time.”

  “Time for what?” asked Nyondo.

  Pettigrew ignored the XO’s question, continuing to make his case to Swoboda. “A no-jump zone around the planet—if they follow us in, it could work out perfectly.”

  “What could?” asked the perplexed Nyondo, trying to make sense of their situation.

  “With all due respect, sirs,” Kuypers cut in, “if there’s no enemy supply base to destroy, then why don’t we just translate the hell outta here right now?”

  Before Swoboda could rip into his Tactical Officer for being insolent, the voice of Helm Officer Hayes cut in over a speaker. “Captain, the enemy force is gaining on us. ETA to intercept is now thirty-three standard minutes.” At the same time, Pettigrew saw Nyondo pressing one hand against an earbud, a concerned expression washing over her face. He knew that ‘XO hand to ear’ stance well and it was almost never good news.

  “One of our drones on the other side of Arazmus has gone dark,” Nyondo reported.

  Kuypers leaned forward
. “It could be the Forryan field.”

  “Let’s find out,” said Pettigrew as he started to move toward the front of the bridge, the others glancing at each other and then following in close order. Sitting down in his command chair, the Commodore summoned a comm panel.

  “Pettigrew to all strike force ships. We are going to follow the equator of Arazmus around the planet and then clear the Forryan field on the far side. I want all ships to hug the exosphere as close as possible. We may not be able to outgun that battleship, but I’m damned sure we can out fly her. Pettigrew out.”

  “Mr. Hayes—execute right zero-two-zero and follow the course I’ve laid in for you,” said Swoboda. “Put us on the atmospheric ceiling and surf the exosphere right around the planet.” Before the helmsman could acknowledge his orders, the captain added in a loud voice, “If there’s a problem, Ensign, I’m sure the XO would love to sit in the pilot’s seat for old times’ sake.” Humor had never been David Swoboda’s strong suit, but he was obviously trying to lighten the mood of the bridge. When he was captain of the Tempest, Pettigrew had often referred to Sunny Nyondo as the best shipdriver in the fleet.

  “No problem, sir,” answered Hayes in a self-assured voice. After checking the figures once again however, the pilot assumed a more modest tone, “Your course is cutting it a bit close, isn’t it, sir?”

  “That it is, Ensign,” smiled Swoboda. “That it is.”

  * * * *

  Twenty minutes later, both the Sarissan and Jangsuvian warships were skimming the upper atmosphere of the gas giant. The engines on every ship were straining to push concurrently forward and away from the monster planet as they fought against its immense gravity.

  “Commodore, with respect, you never did answer my question,” said Nyondo, who had moved to stand close to her superiors.

  “And what question was that, Commander?”

  The XO took a deep breath in frustration. “If Central Command knew there was no base, why did they send us here? And why did we knowingly enter a Forryan field with an enemy battleship nipping at our heels? Sir—what’s going on?”

  “You said it yourself—it’s a trap,” answered Pettigrew, noticing that Nyondo was doing that earbud thing again.

  “We’ve lost another drone.”

  “Let me guess,” said Pettigrew. “On the far side of the planet.”

  Nyondo nodded. “That’s right, sir. How did you know?”

  “Commander, did you get a chance to glance over the file on our opponent, the Delphic Sword?”

  Nyondo made a slight eye roll. Pettigrew had changed the subject yet again and it was visibly irritating her. “Ah, no, sir, I haven’t had a chance to do that yet.”

  “Sword’s seen a lot of action,” continued Pettigrew. “Battle of Sandouk, the Aboynei Blockade, at Tingshan—a very impressive record. In each case, I’ve noticed that her commander has been very aggressive. Just like here for instance: chasing us around the planet, following us right on the cusp of the gravity well. Extremely aggressive.”

  As he paused, Nyondo waited for him to get to the point. Instead, Pettigrew turned to the Tactical Station.

  “Lieutenant Kuypers.”

  “Sir.”

  “Slave the Octavia’s fire control to your board. Prepare to lay down every Scion torpedo we have simultaneously from Tempest and Octavia. I want a full spread to follow the firing solution I just sent to your station.”

  “Yes, sir,” acknowledged Kuypers as she surveyed the information on her console. “But, Commodore, if the bloodhounds dip into the thermosphere like you’ve plotted here—”

  “Lieutenant,” snapped Nyondo. “You have your orders!”

  “Aye aye, ma’am. It will be done.”

  Nyondo turned to Pettigrew wearing a new expression, one of comprehension. “You’re going to use the planet’s atmosphere to mask the torpedoes. It’s brilliant, sir.”

  “More like desperate, Commander, but we need to slow down that big ship somehow.”

  “Tactical ready, sir!” Kuypers shouted with gusto, now grasping the plan as well. Scion torpedoes were stealthy by nature and difficult for enemy sensors to lock onto. Traveling through the upper realms of Arazmus’ hydrogen and helium atmosphere would disguise them ever further, giving them time to sneak up on the Jangsuvian ships without enemy countermeasures striking them down.

  “Fire.”

  “Bloodhounds away!”

  Thirty-four Scion torpedoes leapt from the two Sarissan cruisers, furtive weapons the enemy did not detect as they dove into the upper regions of the gas giant’s sky. Long seconds went by as the torpedoes closed on their single target, the Delphic Sword.

  “Some of our hounds are losing target lock,” reported Kuypers in a discouraged voice. “The planet’s gravity is too strong. It’s pulling them off course.”

  “We can’t correct for that,” David Swoboda thought out loud. As the Sarissan torpedoes approached the enemy, one by one they disappeared from the tracking screen.

  Pettigrew was thinking ahead as he went back on the fleetwide comm. “This is Pettigrew. All ships veer off the exosphere to course two-five-zero mark eight and execute immediate change in formation to Vanguard One—repeat, Vanguard One.” The two frigates reduced their speeds to let Tempest and the others pass as they dropped into the rear of the new formation. The light cruiser Octavia now slid in beside the flagship, trailed by the destroyers.

  Behind Tempest, fifteen Scions slammed into the battleship’s shields, and a half-dozen of the torpedoes somehow managed to slip through unscathed. Sword’s point-defense grid took down two more as the remaining four torpedoes slammed into the body of the great warship, causing only minimal damage.

  One of the stray Scions raced past the battleship, swinging back outside of Sword’s shield radius. Its guidance system had apparently become confused and locked onto another target—one of the battleship’s escorts. Without shielding, the Jangsuvian frigate was an easy target for the renegade torpedo as it bashed into the engineering section of the smaller ship. Pummeled by the powerful blast, the Jangsuvians lost control and the frigate fell into a dive toward the gas giant. By the time its crew regained control, Arazmus had the small ship in its grasp. Fight as they may to free themselves, the frigate and its crew of over a hundred slipped further and further into the gas giant’s gravity well—and then it was gone.

  Another enemy vessel—a destroyer—had been too close to the battleship at the time of the Scion explosions. Suffering some modest collateral damage, it managed to stabilize itself within a minute. Unfortunately, as the destroyer’s crew was struggling to limit the damage, someone panicked, or maybe one of the officers gave the disastrous order—the truth would never be known. Seven life pods were launched containing an unknown number of occupants. They had no chance. The great Arazmus promptly sucked them downward into the abyss.

  All spacers lived with the fear of death in the back of their minds. Suffocation in the icy vacuum was a frequent nightmare for those who travelled the Black, but succumbing to the atmospheric pressure of a gas giant—to be crushed in a tin can—was a fate beyond horrific. Pettigrew found himself hoping that the enemy life pods had exploded under the intense pressure, which would have been the merciful alternative.

  There were no cheers of victory aboard Tempest. Those horrid deaths brought no satisfaction and only a slightly greater chance of survival for the Sarissans. The ploy had cost the Jangsuvians one vessel and some minor damage, but they kept coming.

  “Not very successful,” said Pettigrew.

  Swoboda shrugged. “Still, a good idea.”

  “Mmmm,” Pettigrew groaned as he second-guessed himself. I should have saved the Scions for a better opportunity, he thought as a new alert chimed on the Tempest bridge.

  “There they are, XO,” said Captain Swoboda to Nyondo. “Your drone killers.”

  As Strike Force Tempest rounded the horizon of Arazmus, four new Jangsuvian icons appeared on their sensors.

&nbs
p; “Sir, enemy contact confirmed at three points on the high port quarter,” reported Kuypers. “One cruiser and three destroyers at just under four thousand klicks. They’re moving toward us at two-thirds pulse. Check that—increasing to battle speed.”

  “Going to reach deeper into the playbook, sir?” asked Swoboda.

  “No need. They knew we were coming and they have our vector. No matter what course we take—up, down, or away—they’ve already built up enough speed to overtake us.”

  “You knew they were there, didn’t you, sir?” asked Nyondo from her station. “That’s why we moved into Vanguard One, to place the heavy ships in front of the escorts.”

  “I had a feeling your drones weren’t just dying of their own accord. Besides, you don’t set a trap without closing the back door.”

  As he looked around the bridge, Pettigrew saw a very good crew wearing a lot of perplexed faces. Nyondo in particular bothered him. Her merit and loyalty over the years deserved more than evasiveness and secrecy.

  “David, I need to tell them,” he said to Swoboda, who merely nodded and looked like a burden had just been lifted from his shoulders.

  “Everybody,” said Pettigrew standing in the middle of the bridge. “If your duties allow it, give me your eyes and ears.” Most of the spacers looked his way.

  “By sharing what I’m about to tell you, I’m violating a direct order from Central Command, but I suppose it really doesn’t matter at this point.” Pettigrew flashed the briefest of smiles and clasped his hands behind his back.

  “Last month, the Jangsuvians planted some dubious information with a reliable source in order to lure us into reconnoitering this system in force. Obviously, their goal was to lay a trap. Since Central Command had its suspicions about the authenticity of the intel, we decided to set a trap of our own, and Task Force Tempest has acted as the bait. As I speak, Admiral Wallenstein and Tenth Fleet are on their way here to ambush the ambushers.”