Lost Fleet Endeavour Chapter 1
Peace wasn't all it was cracked up to be and as far as Commander Anton Grisholm was concerned it was hard to tell it apart from war. The sounds of a bridge were as familiar to him as the lines on the back of his hand, the crisp reports a reassuring backdrop. Alert and eager to engage, in the finest traditions of the Alliance. They did their leader proud, and he was sure once again that the Hammer would prevail.
Grisholm was reassured all was well. A man not yet into middle age, with a wry twist of the lip and a sparkle in his blue-green eyes. His voice had the steady tone of one born on Benton, one of the original founding worlds of the Alliance and amongst the richest. They said Benton produced born leaders and he was determined to live up to that stereotype. Those unfamiliar with the way the Alliance did things might hold him young to command a Heavy Cruiser, but anyone who knew about the hundred years war would understand the speed of his promotion. Grisholm was a rising star in Second Fleet, and he was determined that peace wouldn't impede his career.
"Raiders are two light minutes out," the sensor-officer reported, "Turning to course 134 mark 050."
"The bastards are running," Lieutenant-commander Connors muttered sullenly.
"They ran two minutes ago," Grisholm corrected, "But they've done themselves a mischief by mining the Whidbey jump point. They have to head for the Agatti jump point, which means passing us at an oblique angle. Navigator plot course port 035 degrees, up 007 degrees, at time zero ten. Full thrust!"
The navigational officer hastily imputed the commands and automated systems took over, turning Hammer onto an intercept course. Human reactions were far too slow to handle a ship moving at twenty percent lightspeed, only computers could do that, but no machine was perfect, which is why human navigators were critical to the functioning of any ship. Directions were relative in space, so convention held all commands to 'starboard' were those towards the local star, and all 'port' turns were away.
"Intercept projected in fifteen minutes," Connors reported. Grisholm made a conscious effort not to wave a hand under his nose as Connors' breath wafted nearer, stinking of ship-brewed rotgut. Connors was a veteran first officer but had a serious problem with the bottle. An older man, with worry lines and the distinct green hair of Eire. The lower decks whispered the first officer had inherited that world's propensity for drinking, but Grisholm knew it was more than just a cliché. An old man, in a fleet where most men died young. He'd seen far too much and retreated to the bottle to forget the horrors he'd seen. If he'd turned up for duty drunk even once Grisholm would have had him court-martialled but the old man retained just enough control to time his binge-drinking so he'd be sober on watch. Perennially hung-over, but sober.
Grisholm distracted himself by examining the bridge. Sitting at their consoles the crew looked distressingly young, which was a stark contrast to the ship itself. Worn panels, frayed wiring, cheap welds and hurriedly screwed in panelling. Hammer was showing her advanced age, at nearly two and a half years old she was among the most venerable ships in Second Fleet and the rigours of age were taking a toll. The Alliance built ships quick and fast, and lost them just as fast. A ship that reached a year of service was considered veteran, two years was deemed decrepit and three… nobody knew because no ship had lasted three years within living memory. The results were vessels built for short lifespans, with parts never intended to last. Still a Heavy Cruiser was a Heavy Cruiser and Grisholm was sure she'd hold together.
The comms-officer called out, "Signal from the Raiders, they claim to be innocent traders out of the Free and Independent system of Kapti."
"Fecking liars," Connors growled, "Kapti is a Syndic system, we all know it."
"Possibly Syndic," Grisholm corrected, "The Syndicate Worlds have been bleeding systems for eighteen months, Kapti may have rebelled for all we know. Our information is scant and entirely of date."
"You don't mean to offer them clemency?!"
"Absolutely not," Grisholm snorted, "These raiders have been hitting shipping in Caddell system for weeks and we saw them mining the jump point. Syndic or not, I intend to blow them to atoms."
"Now you're talking," Connors grinned.
The holographic display laid out the tracks. Hammer had emerged from the Nantucket jump point six hours ago and charged across the Caddell system at maximum acceleration. An empty and barren system, with nothing to commend it, the kind of backwater left to rot during the war. The only value it held was three jump points, one to Second Fleet's base at Nantucket, one to the colony at Whidbey and a third leading to Syndic space via Agatti. Nobody would bother to come here save that Whidbey was not important enough to justify a Hypernet Gate, and so shipping would pass by occasionally.
Grisholm turned his attention to the raiders. A pair of Syndic, or possibly former Syndic, light cruisers. Lean and predatory craft, easily a match for civilian ships or destroyers. The war may be over but the Syndic CEO's didn't seem to have got the message. Attacks on Alliance shipping had continued unabated, running Second Fleet ragged protecting the border. Hammer was bearing down on the hostiles, five minutes to contact, coming in at an angle so their relative velocities would be under 0.2c, more than adequate for computer targeting. One Heavy Cruiser against two Light Cruisers, Grisholm counted himself in the superior position.
Grisholm ordered "Power weapons and build shields. Target enemy drive units and shield generators. I want a clean firing pass, none of that fancy First Fleet dancing. We cripple them on the first pass, then come about and finish the job!" The crew fell to it, preparing Hammer to engage. Ground pounders would never understand why ships didn't run at full preparedness at all times but the facts of space were stark. Light travelled at 300,000 kilometres a second, which meant one could see an enemy closing for hours, even days, before making contact. Keeping a crew at alert for days on end would leave them exhausted when combat came and systems burned out. So an experienced commander would sit patiently and wait while battle bore down, unflappable in the face of danger. Or so the tradition went.
The weapons-officer suddenly shouted, "What the hell?!"
"Report!" Grisholm jerked out of his chair.
"Hell-lances are failing across the board!"
"Get them back online!" Connors bellowed.
An operations officer cried, "Power junctions have overloaded on deck three, the old components couldn't handle the strain. We're losing power to all Hell-lances."
Grisholm felt his first stab of panic as Hammer's most potent weapons fell apart before even making contact. Hammer was too old, the Heavy Cruiser was falling to bits around his ears. One minute to contact, too late to make repairs. A lesser man would panic but Grisholm had served on many battle-damaged ships, he'd fought while corridors filled with fire and good friends got blown into space. He would not be defeated by a blown power junction.
Grisholm barked, "Retask all weapons onto the port enemy, I say again port only. We still have enough missiles and grapeshot to take one out. We'll pick them off one at a time, it will take a couple more passes but that's no issue. You've got thirty seconds, snap to it!" The bridge crew fell to it, working in furious desperation. Grisholm fixed his eyes on the icons, feeling sweat run down his back. A treacherous thought arose that they should break off and run, but he quashed it hard. The Alliance met their foes face to face, trusting courage and fighting spirit to carry the day. As Black Jack had taught them… no, best not think of the legendary officer. That was a distraction he didn't need right now.
Contact came and went before he even realised it, three ships passing at a significant fraction of the speed of light. The first Grisholm knew of it was the shaking of the decks and the wailing of damage alerts, signalling impacts across the hull. He pushed it aside for now, focussing on the enemy. One light cruiser was arcing about, thrusting against inertia to reengage, the other was tumbling away, helm control lost. Hell-lances would have gutted the foe but grapeshot had degraded their shields and the missiles had wrecked their drives. Syndic-built, whatever their current loyalty, designed to replace damaged components wholesale in a shipyard, rather than trust field-repairs. There was no way the raider could restore power, she was out of this fight.
"Immediate: come starboard 113 degrees, down 100, full military thrust!" Grisholm ordered.
"Damage report!" Connors demanded.
Reports rang, "Spot failures on the shields, impacts across upper decks. Seventeen deck in the Hell-lance projectors. Fire in compartment three, emergency bulkheads deploying. Comm-array took a hit, repair crews are on it. Power junction failures on decks two, three, four… five… six. By the Living stars, they're all going!"
"Get repair teams on them!" Connors barked.
"No good, it's not battle damage, it's a complete system failure. We've lost all power to the weapons!"
Grisholm froze at the dire news. Hammer's age had caught up to her, the venerable Heavy Cruiser had endured two and a half years of service only to fail at the last hurdle. Cascading system failures were the nightmare of any engineer, they'd be lucky if they could limp back to base. Weapons however were voracious in their power demands and placed immense strain on energy conduits, there was no way to repair them without a dedicated repair ship. There was no way the Syndics would allow them to fall back, even if Grisholm would countenance retreat, which he wouldn't.
"Immediate course change, port 010, up 070, full thrust!" Grisholm barked.
"We're running?" Connors gulped.
"I'm extending the engagement," Grisholm refuted, "Buying time to come up with a plan."
"We're unarmed, not much we can do."
"Give me a second," Grisholm hissed through gritted teeth.
He turned his full attention to the tactical display, analysing their course tracks. Both ships were arcing through space, thrusting in one direction but drawn sideways by inertia. Shedding velocity directly in a vacuum was damn hard, far more efficient to swoop about in looping curves. They were both headed back to the Whidbey jump point but the Syndics would hit them before they reached it. Even if they did reach the nebulous gravitational dimple it was surrounded by mines, no way through.
Grisholm knew what the legendary Black Jack would do, turn his ship right at the enemy and try to ram them. The odds of success were low, but they would have a chance to take the enemy with them. Grisholm was no coward, but the greater probability was Hammer being torn apart before making contact. Useless, utterly useless. Forget Black Jack then, what would Admiral Geary do? The thought made bile rise in his throat but he'd seen the records of Geary's battles, the stunning tactical victories won through manoeuvre and co-ordination, rather than blind aggression. Grisholm thought it dishonourable, but victory was victory. Geary would do something dazzling, something unexpected, something tricky. Then it hit him.
Grisholm ordered, "Navigation, ten seconds before contact I want to cut thrust thirty percent. Then come to port 020, up 000, using half our drive units only. I say again, half thrust only."
The orders were inputted but Connor leaned over to exhale, "We're playing dead?"
"I want them to think we're crippled," Grisholm confirmed, trying not to breathe in the halitosis.
"You.. you do see your new course puts us heading awfully close to the minefield?"
"That's what I'm counting on. Thirty seconds to contact, here we go."
Moments before contact Hammer cut thrust, radically altering her course through space. The Syndic vessel flashed past, spitting Hell-lances, missiles and grapeshot at where she had projected Hammer would be. Every shot missed but the Alliance ship suddenly cut thrust to half-power, simulating battle damage. The Syndics turned their shark-like craft about and began thrusting to intercept, believing they'd crippled the Heavy Cruiser. They couldn't have failed to notice she didn't fire back, they thought she was helpless and toothless, they were half right.
Grisholm tracked them with his eyes, seeing they were planning to intercept just short of the minefield. They didn't trust the automated weapon platforms; they wanted the kill for themselves. The Sub-CEO commanding the ship surely drooled at the promotion prospects for taking out a Heavy Cruiser, he or she wouldn't be content to sit back and watch. A fact Grisholm was counting on.
"Two minutes to contact," a worried sensor-officer called.
"Navigation, at time one-zero increase thrust to maximum," Grisholm commanded.
"Sir, that will send us straight into the minefield!" the young woman protested.
Grisholm corrected, "And then at time one-thirty cut all power to the drives!"
Connor looked at him like he'd gone mad but the order was given and Hammer accelerated hard, pushing her arcing vector headlong into the minefield. Grisholm hung on as the inertial dampeners fought to keep the crew from being laminated into the bulkheads, then thirty seconds later the drives cut out entirely. The course projection swung again, coming perilously close to the danger envelope but his eyes were fixed on the Syndics.
The sub-CEO had seen Hammer accelerating, but only moments after the change was made. Furious they'd ordered a course correction, determined not to let her get away. Again the cruel tyranny of lightspeed meant they didn't see her cut power for precious seconds, far too late to correct in time, but also too late to realise their new heading put them tumbling straight into the minefield. The Light Cruiser spun about, drives flaring, but inertia carried her into the danger zone before they could avert their doom. Drifting mines awoke, thrust them into proximity and then they detonated in a series of brilliant detonations that would put a power core overload to shame. Those mines would have gutted a Battle cruiser, they would have dented a battleship's armour, against a Light Cruiser they were more than enough to reduce her to atoms.
The icons winked out on the tactical display and Connors snarled, "We got the bastards!" The bridge crews let out a ragged cheer, thumping their consoles in relief. They'd come within an inch of death but won through with courage and daring. Grisholm himself felt drained, he sagged in his seat all strength spent. Not how he'd imagined this battle going, not at all, but a victory was a victory.
Grisholm ordered, "That's enough, get all non-essential crew onto damage control and plot a least-time course for the Nantucket jump point."
The crew fell to their duty, but Connors asked, "What about the other Syndic ship?"
"They're adrift and heading out-system at 0.14c, we can't catch up in our state and by the time we can summon another ship they'll be beyond help. Escape pods are their only hope, but all they can do is trust a cargo ship passes by."
Connor shuddered, "CEO's never waste money fitting enough escape pods for all the crew, and their cryo-sleep systems are lousy."
Grisholm shrugged, "They're Syndics, I don't care what happens to them, so long as they don't bother the Alliance. Besides we're going to be busy getting back to base and praying to the Living Stars that we don't fall apart in jump space."